#used a reference from the in a heartbeat short

[iwikitty]

[featherandferns]

sugar (fic)

ex!jj maybank x ex!fem!reader | set in season 4 without the Blackbeard mystery! (non-canon) | inspiration

content warnings: mentions of/references to sex (m and f receiving; MDNI); drug use; unfaithful relationships

word count: 18k.

blurb: JJ comes back into your life - older, richer and different again from before. Can the past stay the past, and the two of you be friends, or is there too much history there to let it all lie?

Cinnamon Buns

“Where would you like these?” Someone calls out to you. You turn and take in the tray of mouth-wateringly delicious looking cinnamon buns that a volunteer holds. Smiling, you point to a far table on the grassy field. 

“Anywhere over there is good! Those look amazing, thank you so much!” 

You turn back to the task at hand: organising cans of tinned, chopped tomatoes. To your left is a stack of bags of rice and to your right, bags of pasta. It’s quick work as you separate them by flavour: garlic and herb; chilli; regular…In the background you overhear chatter of fellow volunteers. Where should I put this? Who had the plastic bags? This was your happy place. 

‘The Stirring Spoon’ is what you had called it. It was your passion project born out of daydreams. A collaborative, community effort, providing food to anybody and everybody, free of charge. It wasn’t a traditional food drive. Instead, it was like a potluck dinner that you hosted every Wednesday in the late afternoon, running into the evening. People brought whatever dish they had prepared, or any ingredients that they had going spare which you and a handful of other volunteers whipped up into mains and desserts. Tomato soup and lentil curry and meatball subs and rainbow brownies and chocolate chip cookies. You’d even managed to rope a few local establishments into it. Any leftover bakes that they had when the workday was over, or things that were just a smidge out of date by a day or two, you took and offered out. Today? Cinnamon buns that were baked yesterday at a humble cafe in the town centre, just shy of Figure Eight. Food health and safety laws were strict but you could stretch them for The Stirring Spoon. After all, you weren’t technically selling a product so no harm done. People were clued in about the supposed “risk”. 

You lift up a can of tomatoes and study the ‘best by’ date on the metal lid. A month in the safe zone. Perfect. As your mind flicks through recipes of what you could cook up, a voice stood out amongst the chatter nearby. It was like a siren’s call; distinct and damning. You could pick it out even when deaf. 

“I gotta delivery here for y’all.”

“What’s in it?”

“Fresh sorta stuff. ‘Tatoes and that kinda thing.”

“Over there, I’d say.”

As the footsteps approach you can feel your heartbeat quicken. It taps nervously in your ribcage like you’re sixteen all over again. Your focus remains on the task at hand until a slight shadow casts over you, and you know you can’t stall any longer.  Your hands freeze over a can of tomatoes. Looking up, standing in front of you, clear as daylight and bright as dawn, is JJ Maybank. He’s dressed in his usual attire of a worn-down t-shirt and shorts; his fingers and wrists decorated with metal rings and beaded bracelets. If you squinted, it’d be like no time had passed at all. He doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him and yet, he’s entirely changed. In his hands is a large cardboard crate of various fresh produce. You smile. 

“JJ.”

It comes out in a breath as though you’re seeing something supernatural before you. In a way, you are. How long has it been now? Two years? Nearly three?

His own surprise mirrors yours on his face. But JJ was always better at hiding his emotions, once he had a chance to catch them. It was like a teasing glimpse before he closed the curtains. His recovery is quick as a smile starts to show, and he says your name like he’s practised it everyday. 

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask.

“Brought some deliveries,” JJ says, hitching the box. “Kiara mentioned something ‘bout a community kitchen drive y’all do and we thought we could contribute and stuff.”

“Well, that’s nice of y’all. Thank you,” you reply. 

You shuffle some stuff out of the way on the pop-up table in front of you to make space for JJ’s box. It’s hard not to watch his arms as he lowers it down, the way the biceps flex and tense beneath the skin. It’s hard not to think of other times his arms have looked that way, wrapped around your body, tugging you closer. You blink the memories away. 

JJ’s hands slot into his short pockets. He rocks on his feet. “Looks like it’s a pretty popular thing, huh?v This food drive, I mean.”

You glance around at the bustling volunteers. Smiling, you say, “Yeah, I guess it caught on pretty quick. Could say the same about y’alls tackle-and-bait shop you got going. It’s the talk of the town ‘round here.”

JJ grins with visible pride and it isn’t until you see it that you realise how much you missed his smile. You wonder if he’s surveying your face and body the way you are his, as if looking for some inconsistency or change since the last time you saw him. 

“Yeah, it’s coming together pretty nice. Helps having a bunch of us working on it, though.”

“I bet,” you say. You’d heard the chatter on the island about the Pogue’s latest venture. The sneers of the kooks and the curiosity of the locals. Their bets and wagers on whether the business would sink or float. You’d wanted to wander down and check it out for yourself but you always chickened out. Truth was, you’d been avoiding JJ Maybank like the flu, and now here he was in front of you, putting all your quarantining to shame. Your eyes flit down at the crate and you gently rifle through the food for a distraction. Tomatoes and potatoes and bunches of fresh berries and fruit. 

“I, uh, don’t know if there’s much in there that y’all need but–”

“No, no, this is great,” you assure him, smiling. “It’s really generous of y’all. Every contribution is appreciated.”

“Happy to help. To be honest, it’s Kie and Sarah you should be thanking.”

“Yeah, I didn’t peg you as the gardening type,” you tease. 

“Well, only for the stuff that matters,” JJ grins with a wink. You consciously try to fight away the warmth running to your cheeks. Damn it, you weren’t sixteen anymore. “So…how have you been, then? Since we last…y’know–”

“Baby!”

It’s a reflex reaction to turn at the sound of Mark’s call. He comes bounding over with a wide grin. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and flour is dusted on his khakis. It’s a reflex to close your eyes when he dips his head to plant a kiss to your lips, too. You rub them together after as you prepare yourself for what might be the most awkward interaction you’ll ever go through. 

“JJ,” you say, turning to the blonde haired boy. “This is Mark. Mark, this is JJ. We used to���uh…Well, we used to hang out.”

“JJ - pleasure,” Mark says sincerely. He sticks out his hand and for a painful moment you genuinely worry that JJ might never take it. But he does, shaking it. 

“Likewise,” he says. 

You feel Mark’s spare arm slide around your back, his palm placing itself respectfully on your side. That was Mark: respectful. Righteous but not in an arrogant way. He was kind and caring without judgement, like the sort of Christian boy your nana would want you to bring home. The sort of guy who would bring your mother flowers and play golf with your father on the weekends. The kind of face you’d see flash on the television during the six o’clock news as the reporter relays a daring and heroic tale of saving orphaned kittens from a burning tree. 

“This is the guy that’s started the tackle-and-bait shop. Y’know, the one with the surf store and stuff,” you say to Mark. Realisation dawns upon Mark and he wags his finger at JJ. 

“Wait, wait, JJ as in JJ Maybank? One of the gang who found El Dorado?” 

You roll your eyes at the pure awe in his voice. JJ chuckles somewhat nervously and nods as he says, “yeah, uh, that JJ, I guess.”

“Holy shit! Baby, why didn’t you say!? Oh man, I read all about that. It sounded freaking incredible! I have so much to ask you, I mean-”

You place a hand to his chest and laugh, slightly embarrassed by his fangirling. “Baby, baby! Cool it a second, yeah?”

Laughing, you glance at JJ. And you catch it. That emotion he lets slip just before correcting himself. His eyes dart to yours in a second but they were looking elsewhere before. They were looking at your hand on Mark’s stomach. 

“Nah man, it’s cool. You guys should stop by sometime and I can tell you all about it. The other Pogues too, yeah,” JJ cordially replies. 

“Oh sick, man. That’d be great,” Mark beams. You smile at JJ and nod. 

“I’d love to see what you guys have done to the place,” you tell him. JJ smiles but it falters, like a flickering lightbulb that’s fighting to stay on. An awkward quiet passes and you clear your throat and glance around at the voluntary effort. “Well, I should probably get back to work.”

“No, yeah, course. I ought’a get back to the shop,” JJ replies. 

“Thanks for the stuff though. We really appreciate it.”

“You brought this?” Mark wonders, picking a strawberry out of the crate. He pops it in his mouth and hums happily. “Damn, those are some fresh strawberries.”

“Yeah, man. All from our local garden we got going.”

“This place sounds like the dream,” Mark tells you. You smile up at him. He takes the crate in his broad hands and lifts it easily into the air. Being sandwiched between two toned-up guys had you feeling as brittle as candyfloss. “I’ll take this over to Nancy. Nice meeting you, JJ.”

“Yeah, you too, man.”

You watch him wander off a moment before turning back to JJ. He offers you another smile. “I’ll come check out the shop soon,” you promise. 

JJ points at you, playfully warning, “you better!” before walking away. You watch him with every step he takes and the moment he’s out of sight your head drops. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your entire body feels as though it’s vibrating; your heart running laps in your ribcage. And the funniest part of all is the strange thought that races around your mind, he’s real. It had been so long since you’d seen JJ, let alone heard from him, that it felt like a daydream. The memories were so hazy now that they’d been painted over in sepia and you wondered if you’d imagined the whole thing. But no, here he was, knowing you and recognising you, and talking to you. The two of you back in Kildare, seemingly for good. 

“Baby! Can you give us a hand?”

The call drags you out of your thoughts. Your eyes fall onto your boyfriend. He stands a good head taller than most people. He’s almost lanky in build but not ungainly; broad shouldered and slim nosed. His eyes are those of an otter: nearly black with how brown they are; beady and shining, even from over here. There’s a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which is adorably boyish in contrast to his stubble on the jawline. He’s smiling at you in a way that all girls want to be smiled at. Unashamed in his admiration for you. It grounds you from the dizzying interaction with JJ and you walk over to him, ready to help out in any way you can. 

The rest of The Stirring Spoon passes without a hitch or unexpected visitor from the past. It’s as popular as always, with locals and tourists stopping by. The lentil and tomato soup that you whipped up disappears within the first half hour, alongside the nearly stale but still delicious cheese bread. Mark stands by your side the whole time, smiling as he serves. He whispers little jokes in your ear that have you giggling in the quiet periods of the food drive. Then came the evening rush, with people stopping by after work. The culmination of it all meant JJ was pushed out of your thoughts and back into the long-term store, where he’d been haunting before. That is, until you’re tidying up. 

“That JJ guy seemed nice,” Mark says from the table to your right. You look up from the plastic snack-bags you’re tidying away. “You said you guys used to hang?”

“When we were sixteen,” you reply. 

“How come you stopped hanging out?” he wonders. 

You look down at the bags and obsess over the colours of the labels as you debate how best to word your reply. What do you divulge to him? There’s an index of memories labelled JJ and you know not all need to see the light of day, let alone enter the mind of your boyfriend in scarring reenactments. 

“We just grew apart. He was going through some stuff, I think, and then he got really into that whole treasure hunting thing,” you tell him. It was true enough to not be a lie. Mark hums in thought. 

“That’s a shame.”

You quirk a brow, amused. “Why? Cause I could have cashed in on the gold too?”

Mark shrugs and you laugh. “What!? I’m just saying, some people are worth staying friends with!”

But that was the thing. You and JJ weren’t just friends. Shaking your head, you close the cardboard box of repacked snack-bags and carry it over to the table where he’s working. You held him wrap individual muffins in napkins before placing them in a large tupperware box. 

“Hey, y’know what’d be nice?” Mark says. 

“What?”

“If we took them over some leftovers. I mean, we made most of this stuff with the ingredients they gave us anyway. And there’s still some of those cinnamon buns going spare.”

You take pause and look up at him. He’s obliviously working away, head tucked down to look at the muffins. There’s an easy smile that’s permanently etched into his face, as if he came out the womb cheesing away. That wasn’t why you fell for him though. No, it was his kindness. His offhand generosity that came so naturally to him it was almost offensive. Pressing up onto your toes, you cup his jaw and press a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles quietly. 

“You’re wonderful,” you hum happily. “I think that’s a great idea.” 

“You go wrap up some cinnamon buns then. I’ll pack up some of these muffins for them.”

You do as he asks and soon enough, there’s a box of miscellaneous leftovers from your food drive. Mark drives. The sky is a delicate colour of amber and pink warning of soon nightfall. Colours like that always make you feel relaxed. It helps ease the nervousness of seeing JJ again. You weren’t sure why it was making you so antsy. It wasn’t as if you and JJ parted ways on bad terms. You suppose it’s just a bitter-sweet memory. All memories of JJ came with that sour coating now, like sherbet lemons on your tongue. You wonder if you’d feel the same way if Mark weren’t around. 

But he is, and you’re glad he is. 

Looking over to him, you reach out your hand to capture his, resting on his thigh. He glances over at you and smiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just happy, s’all.”

“That’s good,” he says, looking back to the road. Like something from a music video, he raises your interlocked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Means I’m doing something right, if you’re happy.”

It’s impossible not to do a double-take as you pull up to what was formally the Maybank property. It’s as if new life has been breathed into it. More than just a lick of paint, there’s two brand new buildings alongside a pretty sturdy looking pier and dock. There’s a handmade charm to everything that makes it all the more enticing and impressive. Mark seems to think so too because he whistles as the two of you pull up the driveway. You look to your left and see the Twinkie. A relic from your past, of memories half-naked, rolling around the back with JJ, sharing a blunt in a post-orgasmic haze. Your thoughts shut off with the engine. 

Mark takes the lead, his hand in yours, and carries the box of leftovers up to the house. You both wander up the porch and Mark knocks twice on the door. Your eyes look at everything, taking it in, admiring every detail, until someone opens the door. It’s Kiara. 

“Hey. Can I help you?” she asks your monolith of a boyfriend. You poke your head from around his body. 

“Hey Kie.”

“Oh my Gosh! Girl, where have you been?” Kie beams. The two of you embrace, laughing and smiling. “Wait - did you get the stuff I sent JJ over with?”

“Yeah, we did,” you say. “Thank you so much.”

“We actually brought this as a thanks,” Mark adds, offering out the tub. She eyes him almost with suspicion. 

“Sorry, I forgot to say - Kie, this is Mark. My boyfriend,” you explain. Kie’s eyebrows shoot up with that final word but she recovers quick. 

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” she says. She takes the box and glances through the plastic. 

“Just some leftovers we thought you might like. Muffins and cinnamon buns and things like that.”

“Thanks guys, you didn’t have to. We’re happy to contribute,” Kiara tells you. “In fact, me and Sarah were talking about maybe making it a regular thing. Like every Wednesday we bring some stuff from the garden, or fish that we’ve caught?”

“Oh my God, yeah, that’d be amazing,” you nod enthusiastically. “We can definitely figure out a system.”

“Perfect. I’ll put these inside. You guys want a drink or anything? I can show you around,” Kiara offers, opening the door wider in invitation. 

You glance over her shoulder into the room and then around the porch, behind you out to the water. You’re not sure why you were expecting JJ to just appear out of thin air in front of you. 

“JJ’s out on the dock, if you want to catch up,” Kiara posits, as if hearing your thoughts. You look at her and hold her gaze, and - unable to read what her expression means - nod. 

“I think I’ll go say hi. We didn’t get a chance to properly catch up,” you reply. You glance up at Mark. “You want to come with?”

“It’s alright. I’ll stay here and get the tour,” he tells you with a wink. You smile, press a kiss to his lips, and wander off with a wave to Kie, towards the dock. 

Feet thudding on the slabs of wood, the structure creaks as you walk to the shop. An American flag waves in the breeze. You run a hand along the thick rope bannister and glance down into the growth of plants and water weeds underfoot. I can’t believe they built all of this, you can’t help but think as you walk up to the wooden-slatted tackle-and-bait shop. As you walk into the store under the wooden ‘WELCOME’ sign, reggae music blesses your ears alongside the smell of incense. It’s jam-packed with miscellaneous water accessories: fishing gear, surfing gear, refreshments, you name it. There’s nobody behind the counter. You glance around and squint, catching onto a spot red through the window. JJ lies outside atop of a vintage cooler, feet crossed one over the other, arms tucked under his head. You can’t help but smile. Walking outside, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest. 

“Well, as far as customer service goes, this is pretty crappy.”

He snaps up to sit like he has the joints of a ken doll. You laugh as he blinks his eyes awake, laying them on you. 

“Oh shit,” he says, clearing his throat, running a hand through his hair. “When’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. You looked pretty comfy there,” you say, amused. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good nap spot,” JJ chuckles nervously, glancing down at where he just lay his head. He straightens his t-shirt and then looks back at you. His brows furrow. “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

“Came by to see the new place,” you reply, gesturing around you. “You offered.”

“Didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry.”

“No time like the present and all that.”

You’re acutely aware of how you’re avoiding mentioning Mark and how he’s currently being led around JJ’s former house and yard under Kie’s tow. 

“This is a pretty sick set-up,” you praise. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, huh?” JJ grins, getting to his feet. “Here, you want a beer? We’re technically closed for business anyway.”

Laughing, you shrug. “Sure. Why not.” 

Cracking open the cooler, he reaches in and retrieves two ice-cold cans. One is tossed to you and you catch it, and a feeling of deja vu rings through you. JJ, younger, just as handsome, throwing you a can of beer at a kegger. He leans against the cooler and you against a wooden pillar. Cracking cans and the fizz of beer, and you take a refreshing sip. A comfortable quiet comes and the two of you catch one anothers eyes. You smile. 

“I don’t think I said earlier, but it’s really nice to see you again,” you tell JJ. 

He smiles, small and reserved. “Thanks. It’s nice seeing you too. Even if it is with Joe America over there.”

“Joe America?” you snort. “Come on, he isn’t that bad.”

“No, no, he seems…uh, he seems nice.”

“He is nice.”

“I believe it.”

“Well…good.”

That marked the end of that conversation. You take a sip of your beer and sigh, looking out to the view of sunset over the marshland. 

“I wish you could’ve seen it,” JJ suddenly says. You look over to him with a frown, confused. “El Dorado, I mean. South America. It was beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning out there.”

“Really?” you say, smiling. 

“Hell yeah,” he grins. “Like there was colours out there that I didn’t even think existed without, like, LSD, man.”

You laugh and he does too and you’re glad whatever awkwardness that just came passed quick like a seastorm. 

“I still haven’t gone farther than Charleston, so I guess I’ll have to live vicariously,” you lightheartedly remark. 

“Yeah, well, turns out there’s a pretty big world out there,” JJ grins. 

“Glad one of us got to see it,” you hum. 

“Nah, you’ll see it too. All of it. Even Paris.”

The city’s name hangs heavy in the air. It was more than just a throwaway comment. It was a secret message, as if JJ was speaking in code. I remember it. I didn’t forget. You wash down the adrenaline with another sip of beer. 

“But no place like home, huh?” JJ says, clearing his throat. 

“Probably helps now that John B ain’t a fugitive anymore,” you muse. JJ laughs, nodding. 

“Yeah, yeah, no, for sure.”

“Well, I’m glad you found your happiness, JJ,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you found yourself out.”

“Ain’t we all?”

The two of you watch one another for a moment. His resting smile lingers on the edges of his thin lips. His round, soft cheeks that add to a boyishness about him that his jawline doesn’t allow. You always liked JJ’s hair though. A mop of blonde planted atop of his head with sun-bleached highlights and deep-sea lowlights. But he’s taking you in too. You can’t take the weight of his stare after a while. Taking a deep breath, pushing away from the beam, you ditch your half-drunk beer atop of the cooler. 

“Well, I better get going.”

“You sure? I mean, we can hang out a bit longer, if you like?”

You smile politely and shake your head. “I’m not the one driving, so…”

JJ looks over your shoulder and spots Mark. “Ah. Didn’t know Dollar Store Chris Evans was here, my bad.”

“JJ! Don’t be mean!”

“I ain’t being mean! If anything, that’s a compliment,” JJ defends. You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll see you around though. It’d suck to go back to being strangers again when we’re both in the same place for a change.”

Despite the innocence of the offer, something in your gut tells you that you shouldn’t agree. You should set a boundary there, draw a line, and leave it in the past. So, really, you have nobody to blame but yourself for saying “I’d like that” with a smile in farewell, before walking back across the dock to your boyfriend. 

Salted Chips

JJ had always been in your life. However, in the past, he was more of a background character, like an NPC in a videogame that creators constantly add in like an Easter Egg. The kind of character you’re curious about, in terms of their past and their present, their wants and their fears, but the kind you never have the privy to get close to in that way. He’d be at parties, at the surf break, at the shops or at school, but he wasn’t in your life. Until he was. 

Fate came in the form of a seating plan for history class. 

You and JJ were classmates. Table buddies. At first, the conversation was nonexistent. Sometimes JJ wouldn’t show up to class at all, either bunking off or playing truant in the bathrooms to light up a joint. But sometimes he’d come to class, usually escorted by Pope, and you’d share an uncomfortable silence as you worked through the hour. But then came an assignment that needed to be done out of class, and numbers were exchanged and words were shared outside of ‘what did he say’ and ‘what’s the homework’ and ‘what answer did you get for five?’. At your prompting to start on the project, JJ offered up the Chateau to work at, John B’s house that was a renovated fishing shack on the marsh. 

To stimulate inspiration for the poster the two of you had to create - outlining the history of the American Civil War - JJ had offered up beers and a blunt, and you were glad to take him up on the offer. If you’re going to be doing schoolwork at the weekend, you might as well get something out of it other than mind numbing boredness. It seems you saying yes to JJ’s “gifts” put you in his good books. It’s as if you could see the moment his opinion of you changed. From there, it was as if the two of you had always known the other. Conversation came easy, banter even more so. Time spent together stretched outside of the classroom and instead into lunch breaks and evenings and weekends. He’d seek you out at keggers and hang with you at the beach. Somewhere in the roots of you friendship grew an attraction from the fondness. You noticed it in his lingering glances, his drifting gaze from your eyes to your mouth to your body. Later, you heard it in his words, finding innuendos in smalltalk, catching compliments like falling stars. Eventually, both slightly intoxicated, it came to a head, about three months into this natural-forming friendship. 

“Yo!”

You turn around, beer in hand, startled by the interruption. It’s JJ. He’s wearing a cap, squishing down his beautiful locks of blonde; the muted green pairs well with his t-shirt. His combat boots sink into the ground, damp from the rainfall earlier in the day. Everything smells piney and fresh. You lift a finger to your lips to coax him to be quiet. His brows quirk up, a bemused smile gracing his gorgeous face. God really does have favourites, it seems. 

“You good?”

“Sh! You’ll scare them,” you whisper. At his cocking head, confused, you fervently gesture for him to come over. He does. His presence by your side is almost overwhelming. The buzz from the liquor makes it difficult to keep your itching hands to yourself and your inhibitions at bay. “You see them?”

“See what?”

“The birds.”

“What?”

“Look, here,” you mumble. You lean close to him so you can point clearly with your finger, just along his line of vision. A whiff of JJ’s scent dusts your nose. He’s warm like he creates heat. Through the canopy of leaves, you can make out a single branch of a tree. In the nook, against the trunk, is a nest, and inside is a bunch of baby birds, cawing out for their mother, hungry, blind. You’d left them some salted chips on the floor, crumbled and scattered, in case the mother wanted to steal some to take up and gift. She probably wouldn’t, but something about their cries made you feel the need to do something, and it wasn’t as if you could offer up your beer. 

“Woah.”

“You see ‘em?”

“Yeah,” JJ breathes. “That’s sick, how did you see them?”

“I heard them first,” you tell him, keeping your voice low so as to not frighten them. “Needed some air.”

“The smoke from the campfire botherin’ you?”

“I swear to God, it targets me,” you sincerely reply, making JJ laugh. You finally retract your finger (still sticky from the Smores made earlier) and turn, looking up at him. He looks down at you. Some strands of hair stick out from under his cap, pressing against his forehead. His brows are almost permanently slanted, eyes bright in the dusk of the evening. His shark tooth necklace sits against his chest. JJ’s lips quirk at your staring. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re so pretty,” you say, shaking your head, smiling. The alcohol has given you too much confidence, it seems. Loose lips. His eyes widen in momentary surprise but he catches it, covers it well. Then, comes his mask of confidence. He gives you a cocky smile. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he suavely replies. 

“Nah, I mean it. You’re really something, Maybank,” you smile, doubling-down. In for a penny and all that.  

His smugness fades into something more real. He doesn’t seem to know how to take compliments like that. Then, strangely, something like panic tugs his brows together. “I’m not very good at this sorta thing.”

Your frown of confusion seems to spur him on. 

“Being honest. Real. I’m…I’m pretty fucked up, y’know?”

“The best people are,” you murmur, meaning every word. 

“Nah, I mean it, though. I’m not…I don’t wanna hurt you.” JJ says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you get the sense that he’s never said it before. Maybe only thought it on dark nights, when you’re so alone with your thoughts it’s maddening. Smiling, shaking your head, you lift a hand to his cheek. Your heart hiccups at how he relaxes into your touch. 

“I don’t think you have to worry ‘bout that,” you whisper. 

You’re not sure who moves first, whether it’s him or you, but you end up a hair-width apart at the lips. His breath is hot as it fans onto your lips. Risk comes like a lightning rod and you take it, pushing onto your toes, connecting your lips with his. His hand finds yours and squeezes. That small gesture, as innocent as it is, tells you that you’re crossing this boundary together, from friends into something more. 

Pistachio Pastries 

The smell of coffee rouses you from sleep. You hum sleepily into your pillow, nuzzling in the scent of your boyfriend: peppermint and sage. A heavy palm gently pets your hair. 

“Wake up, sleepy,” Mark murmurs. 

You grumble in protest and he chuckles. The bed dips and the duvet lifts as he climbs back into the cocoon of warmth. Rolling over, you tuck yourself against him. He always slept in pyjamas. It was adorable. Nothing cheesy: just a simple shirt and flannel bottoms. His arm hooks around your waist and holds you against him. You swear to God, you could hide here forever. Mark was safety and security. Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car. 

“Wednesday again,” he says, stroking the skin of your back. “Kiara messaged the Instagram page today. Said one of them will drop off an order around one-ish.”

“Sweet.”

An alarm blares from Mark’s phone and he cusses, breaking apart from you to retrieve it and turn it off. You take the opportunity to sit up and grab your coffee. The steam tickles your nose as you blow on it. Routine. Mornings spent in the mini home Mark had made in his parents backyard, in their old shed. He brought you coffee in the morning and you brought him tea before bed. You’d be asleep by ten and awake by eight. Your shifts at the smoothie shop typically followed a Monday through Friday routine, with the exception of midweek, with Wednesdays reserved for The Stirring Spoon. Weekends passed in a blink. Then, you reset to continue with the same thing again. 

But that’s okay. Routine is okay. It’s reliable. Monotonous in a way that assures certainty. Besides, you liked your job, and your coffee, and your Stirring Spoon. But maybe it might be nice to stray from it all, just for a change. 

You carefully place your coffee back on the side table and look over to Mark. He’s scrolling on his phone, lips set in a line, brows tugged together in vague concentration. A thrill runs through your body at the thought, as you press several kisses to the skin of his neck. You feel him breath beneath you. Then a kiss comes to your forehead, quick like a grandparent to their least favourite grandchild. 

“Baby,” you hum, lifting a hand to rub your finger along his jawline. 

“Mhm?”

“Do you have any, like…things you wanna try.”

He takes a moment to think, looking up from his phone. A smile comes to his face and he looks down at you, and your body burns with anticipation. “Surfing. Was never that good at it but I’d like to try it again, y’know?”

It fizzles away like water atop of a dying flame. “Oh. Yeah, no, yeah…that’s…you should do that.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

“Well, I just meant more…in the bedroom. Like anything, I don’t know…” Your face burns like you’re a nun stumbling across a Playboy magazine. “Kinky?”

“Kinky?”

“Not like oh my God, kinky. Just…I don’t know…”

He quirks a brow, smiling at you in a teasing sort of way. “You got some kink you’re not telling me about?”

“Maybe,” you tell him, hoping it comes out seductive. 

“I don’t know,” Mark sighs, resting his head back against the wall. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and you lick over your lips. He grins, like something dawned upon him, and he dips his head suddenly to press his lips to yours. “Wanna know what I’ve always wanted to try?”

“Mhm,” you say, lifting your hands to cup his face and keep him near. Yes, your body practically cries. Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

“Well,” he stalls, kissing you again. You chase his lips, shortening in breath. “I’ve always wanted–” another kiss “-to try-” another kiss “-doing it in the shower.”

It’s hard not to deflate completely with disappointment. 

Wow, yeah Mark. Kinky. 

But when you open your eyes, you come face to face with a nervous, sweet, caring Mark. A Mark who always makes sure you feel good and safe. A Mark who would never walk past an elderly man struggling to cross the road. A Mark who would donate a twenty dollar bill he found on the roadside. And you can see it in his eyes, this burning passion, this shock at his own words, because for him, that was like confessing to watching gangbang porn in a Church. So, you plaster on a smile, feigning excitement. “No, yeah. That’d be fun. We should totally do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grin, kissing him again. He sighs, pushing back against you. Your body sparks up again. The feel of his hands on your sides is like static energy. “We should try it now.”

“Now?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, kissing at his lips desperately. “Good way to start the morning, huh?”

“Maybe,” he says. He pulls away slightly, guilty as he adds, “but it’s been a while since I cleaned the bathroom. And I promised my mom I’d help her out today, and I gotta be good to go in like ten minutes so…”

“Oh.”

He kisses you fleetingly on the lips and then tosses the bedsheets off his lap. You watch him get up. “But maybe soon? Like Friday?”

Routine with scheduled sex. 

“Okay,” you say through a false smile. You sink against your pillow and watch him put on his slippers. The moment his back turns, you drop the expression. You’re so disappointed there doesn’t feel much point in trying to get off by yourself now, either. You don’t seem to fix your frown quick enough before he turns back around. 

“Oh, hey, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mark frowns. He lowers down so his eyes are level with yours. You pout like a child as you look at him. He pushes some hair off your face. “I swear, if I weren’t about to go help my mom, I’d be all over you right now.”

“Mhm.” Maybe you are being a bit selfish. He’s helping his mother for God’s sake! Smiling, properly this time, you jokingly warn, “I’m gonna hold you to that, Mark.”

“You better,” he winks. He kisses you before leaving the room, into the bathroom. Sighing, you roll on your back and blink up at the ceiling. You practise your mantra - Mark is good. Mark is good for me. Mark is good. Mark is good for me - and you get up to start your day. 

The Stirring Spoon is a good distraction from your whining libido. It’s hard to think about fucking when you’re comparing shapes of pasta. And yet, you still find a way. Because as you stack packets of spaghetti, you try and recall the last time you and Mark had really good sex. Not sex where it’s soft and nice and satisfying. Sex when you feel like you might cry or scream, just to cope with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Sex when you’re actually scared that you might have a heart attack from how fast your heart’s beating. Was it ever like that with Mark? Was it ever like that with anybody else?

Yes. 

“Hey.”

The very boy who just popped into your mind like a vision stands before you, crate in hand, smile on face, as if you manifested him. 

“JJ.”

“You good? You were looking at that spag pretty hard,” he asks, amused. 

“No, yeah, I’m good,” you say. You drop the pasta like it’s incriminating to what you were thinking about. Don’t tell JJ about the hot sex I was thinking about with him, pasta, please. “What’re you doing here?”

“Delivery from Kildare County Kitchen,” he says, dropping the crate down onto an empty spot on the table. “Some of Cleo’s less deadly version of her gumbo; a few sandwiches that Sarah whipped up; and some fish me and John B caught the other day.”

“Damn, that’s quite the haul,” you say, glancing into the crate and surveying its contents. “Thanks, JayJ.”

As you retrieve the items and lay them out carefully and neatly on the table, JJ shoves his hands in his short pockets and looks around the yard. “So. Loverboy here?”

“He’s busy today, helping his mom.”

“Ah. You short of a helping hand today, then?”

“Why? You want to help?” you say, half-joking. But JJ shrugs. 

“I’m not doing much. Why not?”

“Don’t the others need you back at the shop?”

“There’s five of them, I think they’ll manage,” JJ replies sardonically. He claps and rubs his hands together. “Where do I start?”

“Um…” You stand upright and scan the area, checking what looks the most chaotic. As if on cue, the local bakery van pulls up. “Oh, sweet. Delivery. You can help me unload and log inventory.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two of you walk over to the van, side by side, hands kept politely to yourselves. Small talk sits on your tongue but doesn’t make it into the world. 

“Morning Mr Parker,” you call. 

“Morning, darlin’,” he croons in his southern accent. “You too, Maybank.”

“Good to see you, sir,” JJ nods. 

“What you got for me today?” 

“Some good stuff, I’m not going to lie to y’all,” he grins over his shoulder before opening the doors to the back of the van. Mr Parker pulls out a tray of sealed baked goods. JJ steps in and takes it, and as he holds it you crack open the lid to peer in. 

“Pastries?”

“Pistachio pastries,” Mr Parker says proudly. His takes off his cap and brushes a hand through his short grey hair. “My wife got a bit carried away. People in this town don’t have that fancy of taste buds.”

“Maybe not on the Cut,” JJ mumbles, making you smile. 

“Well, be that as it may, glad I can contribute something to your little venture,” Mr Parker tells you. He squeezes your shoulder sweetly. “Y’all doing a good thing, with this here Stirring Spoon.”

“Thank you,” you say, overwhelmed by the simple praise. “Well, we appreciate any contribution, especially pistachio flavoured ones.”

With that, the three of you get to work carrying the four trays of baked goods to a spare table. Bidding Mr Parker farewell, you and JJ take pause against the table. 

“I think I’ve earnt a break.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour.”

“Time flies by when you’re having fun, and all that,” he says passingly as he cracks open one of the bakery tubs. He grabs one of the pastries and tosses it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. “Holy shit. These are so good.”

“JJ, you’re not supposed to eat the–”

“--try one.” A pastry is shoved into your mouth. You glare at him but bite, and holy shit this is really good. It must read on your face cause JJ grins. “Yeah, right? So good.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble. The two of you smile at one another like you’re stealing cookies from a jar. 

“You remember that time we got high and raided Pope’s dad’s fridge?”

You laugh and nearly choke on the flaky pastry. “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that.”

“You were like a fucking racoon,” JJ sniggers. 

“You were the one that got me high in the first place.”

“I didn’t fucking drug you! You wanted to try it!”

“Yeah, I did,” you grumble, unwilling to accept responsibility for completely draining the Heyward fridge. 

“You’re cute when you’re high.”

You glance up at him. His smile is coy, like he knows he shouldn’t have said that. Because he shouldn’t. Rolling your eyes, you play it off as best you can. “Cute whilst I’m stuffing my face with questionable cheese?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shrugging. “You’re cute all the time though, so guess it’s not very hard for you to be even cuter high.”

“JJ, stop it.” Your tone is gentle but firm. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” JJ says. “Captain Vanilla.”

You hate how he isn’t completely wrong. “That’s not his name.”

“It’s just too easy,” he shrugs, playful as always. “The guy is a walking textbooked ‘good guy’.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” you mumble, picking out another pastry and studying the way it’s rolled. 

“Nothing, I guess. Just find it funny.”

“Funny how?”

“That you’d go from me to him.”

You glance up from the pastry to meet his gaze. “We never officially dated, JJ.”

“Same difference,” he shrugs. “But hey - you know you. You know what you want.”

“Exactly…” 

You do know you, don’t you? It sounds like such a crazy thing to question. But the older you get, the more you think you don’t know a thing about yourself. What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? What do you want out of your future? What do you want out of a relationship? Journeying back to the morning, your mind replays the scenes like a horror movie. The worries of when the last time you felt passion in the bedroom feeds into worries of when the last time was that you felt passion, period. Oh no: it feels like an existential crisis might be coming on, about thirty years too early.

“Hey.” You snap out of your spiral. JJ forces a smile. “Just wanna know that you’re still living, not just secure. Y’know. As a friend.” 

Funnily enough, that does little to cheer you up. 

Croissants

JJ’s skin is warm against your cheek. Your face rests on his bicep, using it as a makeshift pillow, as you lay skin-to-skin, body-to-body. One of your legs is hooked over his, and his palm rubs large, mindless patterns against the sweat-sticky skin. The room is bathed in moonlight, the curtains drawn closed, and you can hear the sounds of the marsh from outside the Maybank residency. You wonder if JJ might have fallen asleep. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and you can’t see his face from here, to tell if his eyes are open or shut. But then he sighs and you smile against his arm. 

“Tell me about your family,” you request in the quiet of the room. 

“What about them?”

“Anything, really. Like about your mom and dad; if you have any siblings,” you murmur. 

“Not much to tell,” JJ replies in a hum. 

“Still. Tell me anyway.”

“Tell me about yours,” JJ deflects. You crack a smile. 

“Alright,” you relent. “I live with my mom and my dad. She’s a waitress and he’s a mechanic.”

“You got any brothers or sisters?” he asks, his thumb massaging your upper leg. 

“I did,” you say, your voice turning softer. “An older sister.”

“What happened?”

Your lips press together. An image flashes into your mind like a jumpscare, of a coffin dressed in white daisies and lilies. Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and will the memory away. It’s then that you decide to confide in JJ. 

“Do you know who Andy Warhol is?”

“I recognise the name,” he replies after a moment, not questioning why the sudden change in topic. 

“He was an artist. Painted a lot of pop-arty things.”

“Is that the freakshow who painted those boring-ass soup cans?” JJ wonders. You laugh quietly. 

“I wouldn’t describe him like that but yeah, that’s the guy.”

“What about him?” JJ asks. 

“He was in love with this man, way back when. He kept a diary and this man he was in love with died, and Andy was heartbroken. But he ain’t like to say that somebody had died. Instead, he used to write that ‘they went away’, like on a trip or somethin’,” you tell him. Your voice trails off towards the end, fearing JJ might laugh at you as you go on to say, “I don’t know. I think I’d like to say that about my sister.”

JJ shifts underneath you until the two of you are lying side by side, now able to see one another’s faces through the muggy darkness of the room. His eyes glow in the non-existent light, shining and present, gazing into yours. 

“Where’d she go, then? On this trip of hers,” he coaxes. Your lips part in surprise, and for some reason, you want to cry for his small act of kindness. Then, you smile, small and sombre. 

“To Paris, in France,” you whisper. 

“She go to the Eiffel Tower?”

“Every day. She eats dinner there at night and watches it twinkle. For breakfast, she buys a croissant and sits by the Seine,” you murmur. Tears wet your eyes as you picture your lost sister, venturing the streets with the wind in her hair, kissing her plump cheeks. Your voice is thick when you continue, “it’s her dream to see all the stuff in the Louvre. She goes every week and keeps a note of where she’s been and where she wants to go.”

“Like the Catacombs?”

You laugh and sniffle. “Nah. They’re too creepy for her.”

“Damn straight,” JJ mumbles. “They scare the crap outta me.”

As a tear lets slip, trickling down your cheek, JJ reaches out his thumb and wipes it away. His hand lingers on your face and you feel yourself lean into his hold. It’s like he’s holding you up. He’s holding you together. You open your eyes into his. There’s a smile on his face, different to the others. More reserved, less obvious, so different to the JJ you’d known and heard of before. You’re terrified of losing it entirely or saying something especially stupid, and so instead you mouth two words: ‘thank you’. 

When he kisses you, it’s different too. There’s something about it, like a taste that wasn’t there before, and it lingers in your mind and mouth. It only grows as JJ deepens the kiss. Your hand traces his jawline and your fingers loop through the locks of his hair, and you tug him closer with a breath. The dance of your lips and tongues and teeth is growing more and more familiar by the day and it terrifies you how easy it has been to become accustomed to it. How easy it has been to become accustomed to JJ. Hands on your hips, JJ lifts you atop of him with a grunt, him rolling onto his back. You shrug the comforter off your back and straddle him. Your hands cradle his face, palms cupping his cheeks. You kiss him like he’s the antidote to all your ailments. Your mouth chases him in the teasing of his lips, breaking apart just to reel you back in. JJ’s teeth nip at your lower lip and pull, just so, just enough to have you whining and sighing like some lovesick fool. Maybe you are. 

“JJ,” you mewl, rocking back against him. He groans as you begin to torture his jawline and neck. Groans louder when you suckle on the tender skin by his ear, painting hickeys like a beautiful landscape. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips deep enough to leave delicious bruises. You feel him growing hard beneath you as you grind against him like some animal in heat. 

“Fuck, you’re so…Fuck…” 

Your lips continue their descent down his body. Kisses are peppered along his windpipe, bridging over his Adam’s apple, and you can feel every breath, every stutter, every sigh. Down his chest, bare and broad, and down his stomach. His hands are now free from your hips and instead they tether into your hair, combing through the strands. You look up at him from between his legs - he’s made space for you - and can make out his lazy smile through your hooded gaze. JJ’s looking down at you too. His eyes glow. 

You ghost a kiss over his boxers and he inhales a long, deep breath, his head tilting back into the pillows, eyes undoubtedly slipping shut. Lips upturning with a smile, your fingers tuck into the band of his boxers, and you pull them down his legs tantalisingly slow. Somewhere in the shadows of the room you hear him mumbling, ‘please.’ Taking him in hand, revelling in his short gasp, you guide him to your mouth. The smell, the feel - it all consumes you as you go down on him. The brush of bristly hair scratching against your nose, flooding your senses. JJ’s hand comes to the back of your head quick, as if guiding your pleasure, wordless praising your ways. Until it’s not wordless. 

“Fuck, that’s it…Taking me so fucking good, huh? Look so pretty like this…”

You hum around his length and he stammers out a moan. Your eyes flick up to take in the sight of his exposed neck, head thrown back, mouth hanging open as he lets noises slip through, shameless and sinful. And you love it, the way you can bring him to the brink, the way you can manipulate his satisfaction like moulding something out of clay. A finger here, a stroke there. The tip hits the back of your throat uncomfortably. You pull away with a damning pop and a trail of saliva connects the two of you. Resting your head against the apex of his thigh, you jack him off with your hand, almost mesmerised by the way he pulses in your hold. Maybe it’s the sounds he makes. JJ Maybank walks like he’s a God; it’s a power trip to have him weak at your hold. 

“Please, please, fuck…Jus’want your mouth, baby, please,” he begs through gritted teeth. His hand gently yet firmly pushes at your head, trying to guide you back to him, and you feel a giggle bubble up through your throat. It feels unnatural, this version of you. Sexy, seductive, sly. 

“You want my mouth?” you tease, pressing a kiss to his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck - yes, yes, please,” he groans. You glance up at him and meet JJ’s gaze. His hair, damp with sweat, hangs over his forehead, dangling over his eyes. A sadistic smile is on your face as you pull away, easing your hand off him too. His brows furrow. It’s like something snaps inside of him - some restraint he was holding breaking like the overstretching of elastic. His hands are on your in a second, gripping and grabbing at your body like you weigh no less than feathers, and you gasp as he tosses you onto your back. He’s on top of you, ravishing your throat and collarbone so mercilessly, you’re gaping at the ceiling, eyes wide. 

“Think that’s funny, huh? Wanna see how much you like it?”

You stammer something out; you don’t even know yourself if it’s a yes or no. All you know is you want him - you need him - on you, in you. Anything. JJ doesn’t make you wait. His hands pull your panties away swiftly. A finger slips all too easily through your slit and you gasp, eyes rolling shut. His laugh is deep, crooning, cruel in your ear. 

“So fucking wet for me, hm? Such a fucking slut. Wanna see how it feels?”

“P-please.”

The stretch of your walls isn’t unpleasant as he eases a finger in. You let out a wanton moan. It pumps leisurely inside, the foreign metal of his ring overwhelming, and the brush of the tip of his thumb against your clit has you panting from the pleasure. 

“Yeah, you like that, huh?”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Then the torture begins, of the instant movement of his finger, in and out, in and out, before easing away so suddenly it’s like he was never there. After that, the faintest of pressure on the exposed skin at his mercy. His damp finger trailing the inside of your thigh. He repeats this cycle until you’re almost in tears. Your hands clutch the bedsheets in fists, feet writhing uselessly at the head of the bed, kicking at the flimsy pillows. You know he’s gloating from the power he holds. Something tells you he doesn’t get this much control in most aspects of his life. Something tells you he gets off this just as much as you. “You wanna come? Do you?”

“Fuck! Please, please, JJ, please. I’ll do anything, please, please,” you blubber. You don’t care how embarrassing it sounds; how much it pleases him. All you care about is feeling that hot, blinding, pulsing pleasure consuming your every nerve, every bone, every fibre of your being. His breath is hot against your collarbone. JJ kisses the lobe of your ear in such a tender way you wouldn’t be able to fathom the magic he works with his hands below the belt. And as you finally break, tumbling over the edge, letting out a fucked-out sob when you do, you can make out JJ’s low voice, his Southern accent thick like molasses. 

“That’s it, baby. Make a mess on my fingers.”

Smores 

Despite telling Mark where you’re going, it still feels like sneaking around behind his back as you walk up to the Pogue’s house. But this isn’t anything nefarious. This is just you breaking routine. This is you catching up with old friends, current friends, and having fun. Sharing some drinks, smoking a joint or two, sitting around a campfire. Good, old fashioned fun just like when you were sixteen. 

Yep. That’s all. 

“Hey yo! There she is!” JJ hollers the moment you come into view. 

“Hey!” you smile, waving. In your other hand is a bag filled with a six pack of beer, a packet of graham crackers, some chocolate and a bag of marshmallows. You ditch it by the cooler to hug everyone hello. JJ’s last. His arms wrap around you like tree vines, secure and strong, and it’s familiar in a way that has you lingering. Mark. You break apart and take a seat on the opposite side of the campfire to him. 

“What’s in the bag, mystery girl?” the girl you now know as Cleo asks. 

“Some refreshments,” you say, lifting up the six pack. That earns a few whoops and hollers of approval from the already tipsy group. “And some snacks.”

“Smores?” Sarah gasps. She takes the bag of marshmallows from you. 

“Just like old times,” you say. Your eyes catch JJ’s. He’s watching you. 

“Let’s light these bad boys up,” John B announces. The gang is vocal in their approval. Sticks and twigs are gathered for skewers. Marshmallows dangle over the open flames that lick into the dusky air. A marshmallow shoves at yours and you glower at JJ. 

“Leave my marshmallow alone.”

“Hey, this is America. I got rights, y’know?”

“Says who?”

“The constitution,” he retorts, grinning. You roll your eyes, trying and failing to bite back your smile. 

“Y’all better stop it,” Cleo says in her thick Jamaican accent. “I ain’t wanting any marshmallows going to waste.”

“You heard her,” you playfully quip at the blonde haired boy. He rolls his eyes at you. He’s smiling. The amber of the fire paints his face like an oil artwork. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful? 

No, no, stop it. Stop it! God, what is wrong with you? This is just because you and Mark have been a bit distant lately. Yes, that’s all. You’re getting stuck on nostalgia. It’s a mind’s trick. It didn’t work before with JJ so who’s to say it will again. The two of you are friends - he’s been a good friend - and you don’t need to go muddying the waters. You punish yourself by staring into the flames and trying to make images of Mark’s face in the fire. 

The night spurs on with drinks that wash down the sickly sweet snacks. You listen to the tales of El Dorado and laugh at the reminiscences of youthful madness when you were all in high school. It isn’t until you’re back in the bubble of the Pogues that you realise how much you missed it. It’s like rediscovering your favourite movie from childhood. It brings a certain comfort that few things can match. They ask about The Stirring Spoon and you recount the tale of how you came about with the idea, of how you got it off the ground. Nobody asks about Mark and you’re ashamed that you don’t feel the urge to bring him up, either. 

You go for another swig of your beer to find it empty. The cooler by John B is empty too, upon investigating. You drop the lid. 

“You guys got any more beers?”

“Probably some down at the fish and tackle shop,” Kiara tells you. 

“Thanks,” you say, starting towards the dock. The further you walk, the more the vivacious chatter turns into a humming like the crying cicadas and croaking frogs and cooing owls. The water laps at the wooden pillars and you smile, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment as you walk. Nature is so wonderfully peaceful. The cooler is full of bait and chum, but there’s a small section for the beers. You retrieve one and drop the lid to find JJ standing in your peripheral. 

“Holy shit!”

“Sorry!”

“What the fuck, man?” you laugh. 

“Just wanted a refill too,” he says, shooting you a squiffy smile. His hair is dishevelled. He seems to wear caps less now, you note. You’re happy about that. In your tipsy state you can admit your attraction with less shame. You chalk it up to appreciating beauty the way one can appreciate a perfect sunset or timeless painting. To stop your staring, you open the cooler and hand him a can. “Thanks.”

“Hey, cheers,” you say, holding your drink out. He clinks his against yours. “To old friends.”

The two of you take a drink. Neither of you go to move back to the other Pogues (who are seemingly in some weird charades battle that is far from quiet). JJ gestures over your shoulder. “You seen the boat yet?”

“The H.M.S?” 

“Nah, the new one,” JJ answers. 

When he walks past you, you catch a whiff of his smell and it reminds you of home. You turn and follow him. He steps up onto the large boat. It’s painted bright green and in yellow paint, the name reads The Snapper. JJ offers you a hand and you take it, letting him help you up onto the boat. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your shorts but you’re in no mood to check it. 

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

“So sweet,” you agree, looking around. JJ wanders over to the main console and flicks on an overhead light. He glows beneath it. When he takes a seat on the bench, you do the same, sitting opposite. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brutal plastic. “This is the life.”

“Yeah? You miss the marsh?”

“I miss it all,” you quietly confess. 

You can hear the rustle of clothes and the flick-flick of a lighter. The smell of cannabis drifts into the air. “Here.”

Opening your eyes, you lift your head to find a joint extended out to you. Smiling, you take it with thanks and have a hit, then a second, then a third. You haven’t smoked in what feels like forever. Mark doesn’t like the smell; says it makes him feel sick. You wonder why you stopped indulging in something you enjoyed just because of that, even on your own time. 

“Thanks,” you say, passing the joint back. You ditch your beer can to the side. One poison at a time would be best in these sticky situations, you reckon. 

“What’d you mean, ‘you miss it all’?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. You gaze off into the distance; it’s hard to make out much definition in the dark, save for some lights of houses in the far distances and the silhouette of plants and trees. “I feel like my life is so…‘same’ now.”

“Same is good.”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I keep thinking about what you said to me, the other day. About being secure but still living. What if…What if I’m not living?”

“Well–”

“--I mean, look at you guys! You went to El Dorado! You found El Dorado, and the Royal Merchant, and the Royal Merchant’s treasure, and the Cross of Santo Domingo. What did I find? A mouldy tomato in a box of potatoes.”

JJ cracks up and you roll your eyes. “It’s not funny,” you mutter, smiling nonetheless. You take the joint back and have another drag. Relief fills your system. The muscles in your face loosen along with your mouth. “It’s pathetic. I’m nearly twenty-one and I’ve been as far as Charleston and have about a handful of exciting memories to my name.”

“Woah, come on now,” JJ chuckles, taking the blunt back. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself? You heard what Mr Parker said: that Stirring Spoon thing is awesome, and that was all you. You’re feeding the community, bringing people together. That’s way cooler than some shiny fucking  stones.”

“Meh,” you shrug. “Guess I’m just jealous of you.”

“Ha! Yeah, don’t be,” JJ sarcastically berates. A shadow comes to his face. Foot in the mouth syndrome curses you.

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re good. I sometimes forget how bad it was too, with how things are now,” JJ admits. He smiles at you and takes another hit. “But I guess I didn’t fully let you in then, huh?”

“You think?” you jest. He laughs, thankfully, and you inhale the sweet scent of the herb. “Guess I just get stuck on the good memories from before. Like all the days skipping school to surf. And how the summers felt like they could go on forever. Or that time we broke into City Hall, or pranked Topper’s house.”

“Damn, I guess we did get up to a lot of shit, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you grin. Following the dance, you take the joint back. 

“Well, I can think of some other memories, too,” JJ says. His grin is telling, tongue poking through his teeth. You bite back your smile. 

“Don’t,” you warn. 

“What?” he chuckles. 

“Don’t! That’s dangerous territory,” you tell him. You point your joint at him. “That’s no man’s land.”

“Oh man!” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “Why’d you have to call it that!? You know that’s like calling a moth to a fire or whatever!”

“What?” you giggle, eyeing him. 

“Telling a guy not to do something is the exact thing to do to get a guy to want to do something,” JJ argues nonsensically. You laugh, shaking your head at him. He holds your gaze and you feel your smile settle into your skin like footprints into damp sand. “They were pretty good memories, huh?”

“Yeah,” you quietly say. “They were pretty good.”

“Remember that time we did it on the beach.”

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s little conviction in your words. You can’t take his eyes anymore, the blue dragging you under like currents in a riptide. You look down at the joint and fixate on the way the embers burn at the paper. 

“Or that time–”

“JJ, I mean it,” you say, your tone losing its humour now. You shoot him a look that you hope will put a pin in it. “We should talk about something else.”

“Alright, alright,” JJ surrenders, holding his hands up and all. He relaxes back against the plastic seat of the boat and you do the same. Your legs outstretch so you can rest your feet on the spot beside him. The two of you catch each other’s gaze and look away, chuckling bashfully like preteens. You take another hit of the joint and watch the smoke fizzle away into the night. “How’d you meet Mark, then?”

You glance at JJ. “A few months back. He’d just moved to Kildare and came by to The Stirring Spoon to help out, and we sort of hit it off.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” you smile. But it fades. The weed tickles at your emotions, pulling the wires as if to wreak havoc. JJ seems to take advantage. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie. You take another hit and shake your head, plastering on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Sighing, JJ folds his arms comfortably over his chest. “Y’know, just cause I know what you look like naked don’t mean we can’t be friends now.”

Barking out a laugh, you shake your head. “There was definitely a better way you could have put that.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, grinning, “but it’s true, ain’t it? We can be friends.”

“Of course we can. We are,” you emphasise. 

“So…That means that if you wanna vent about Mr Loverboy to me, you can,” JJ offers. 

Laughing, you rock your head back and gaze up at the sky. The stars are out. They shimmer white and crystal in the abyss of the night. “That’d be too weird, I think, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

“I just got one question. Just one.”

“Go on,” you reluctantly reply. 

“Does he say ‘thank you’ after the two of you fuck?”

You burst into fits of laughter. It’s so sudden that it has you doubling over. Tears slip from your eyes and you wipe them away, looking at a grinning JJ. God, you missed him and his twisted sense of humour. 

“He just looks like the kinda guy who would!”

“Oh my God, no!” you laugh, shaking your head. Catching your breath, you manage out, “no, he doesn’t say ‘thank you’.”

“Is he the sub then? Cause there is no way that guy is laying his hands on you without written permission.”

“JJ stop! I’m gonna pee myself!” you cackle, kicking your feet. JJ starts laughing too. You open your eyes and make out his face in the lowlight of the pier’s lamp. Wheezing, you catch your breath and calm yourself. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“I can give the guy pointers if he needs them,” JJ jokes. Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets just at the idea though and you point at him in another warning. 

“Don’t you dare!” you say, trying not to crack up again. “‘Sides, he doesn’t need pointers.”

“Everybody needs pointers,” JJ says with a roll of his eyes. “John B gave me one of the best pointers.”

“I find that impossible to believe,” you snort. 

“He did! It was a tip for kissing. Works like a fucking charm too, I’m telling ya.”

“Mhm, I’ll bet,” you sarcastically return. You glance at the joint to check if it needs tapping off, take another drag, and then look up to find JJ watching you. He hasn’t changed enough for you to forget what that expression means. 

“You want me to show you?”

“Show me? How?” you say with furrowed brows. Something in the air shifts with your question. An unspoken thing, an unseeable thing, but something nonetheless. A nervous tickle comes to your throat. 

JJ doesn’t reply but he slowly leans over the seat towards you. Your breath catches in your lungs the moment he enters your bubble, breaking some unspoken barrier, and your smile fades away like day into night. You feel as though you’re stuck in place, plastered to the seat, and you’re ashamed to admit that you don’t hate that you are. You’re ashamed that you’re not pushing him away, telling him to buzz off, laughing at his idiocy. You’re ashamed that you’re curious as to what he’s going to do next. 

JJ’s close enough now that you can smell him. His cologne mixed with something sweet but tangy, like seasalt and citrus. Something masculine underneath, that has a primal instinct inside of you wanting to claw its way out. Your fingers grip the edge of the seat instead. Your eyes stare into his. You study the laps of green and grey in the sea of blue, mesmerised in the way the night sky reflects in the iris. His gaze darts down to your lips and you have no idea how this happened and how you got here, and everything is blurry but so, so clear from the cannabis as he leans forward, and you can’t move but you should move and you want to move but you don’t, you never want to move again, as his lips brush against yours just so, just enough for you to know that they have, that he has, that he’s real, but that he hasn’t, and that you can take it all back, and that it doesn’t count and it shouldn’t and you shouldn’t but–

Your hand clutches his jaw and you pull him in. His lips crash against yours in a breath. You kiss him like you won’t ever kiss him again. He sighs against you in the hurried mesh of mouths, groaning as your tongue brushes against his, tasting him for the first time in years. It’s like finding a childhood toy and it smells like nostalgia. It’s like eating a baked good and it tastes like a specific holiday. It’s like smoking your first joint and it feels like floating. 

Until you’re not. 

Your body falls back down to earth with a thud. You shove JJ away as if he’s flammable and you’re the deadly spark. Your mouth hangs open in shock, your eyes filling with horror, and the worst feeling you’ve maybe ever felt overcomes you so suddenly, you worry you might be sick. 

Guilt. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper. You lift a hand to your lips and your fingers brush against the damp of his spit that lingers, and it confirms that it was all real. “Oh my God.”

JJ’s lips move to try and formulate words but nothing happens. He looks just as stunned as you do. His eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Those three words bang about your brain as you take in the sight of him. It’s not at all unfamiliar. 

Hot ash from your joint drops onto your thigh and you cuss, brushing it off. You toss the joint into the sea behind you as if it’s the culprit, the plotter, behind all of this. Then you’re on your feet and rambling out excuses. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I think it was - it was definitely the weed. I really should go, it’s so late. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I have no idea-”

It’s as you’re about to step off the boat and onto the wooden pier that JJ’s hand locks around your wrist. It freezes you in place once more and you want to climb out of your body and scream at yourself. Instead, you look down at him. 

“You can stay, y’know,” JJ whispers. There’s a pleading in his eyes, a tenderness that you haven’t known before in him, and you finally know how Eve must have felt with that damn serpent in Eden. Temptation at its finest, dressed up in blonde, unruly hair and dreamy eyes and sculpted muscles and a graphic tee. 

Mark. 

You shake your head and snatch your hand free. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

And no matter how vehemently you tell yourself that you mean it as you hurry away from the pier and from the house, you know you don’t. 

Cheap White Wine 

The tart tanginess of the wine is sharp on your tongue as you take another swig. It’s late, or perhaps early, and the Chateau is illuminated by amber and orange from lamps. It’s raining outside as hurricane season rattles on, but you and the Pogues could care less. When you have wine, you really have everything you need. 

“Come on, come on!” Kiara laughs, egging on you to loop your arm in hers. The two of you line dance together to an old noughties CD in the player. You swing one another around in a tipsy haze to the upbeat tempo. Pope and John B heckle and holler from the pull-out sofa, toasting their beer cans up in approval. You’re happy here, like this, in your bubble. As the song comes to a close on a major chord, you and Kiara giggle and take joking bows to your audience. You frown when you look around the room, not finding JJ anywhere. 

“He’s on the porch,” Pope says, seemingly catching on. 

“Thanks,” you smile, a little embarrassed that you’re that easy to read. Taking the wine, you venture out the door, closing it behind you as another song starts up. Kie’s cheer and begging for John B to dance is muted through the shutters and windows. 

JJ sits on the sofa, a joint lit up, legs outstretched on the coffee table. He glances up at the sound of someone coming out and smiles at the sight of you. 

“Hey. Can I join?” you wonder. 

“Course,” he hums, shuffling a cushion in invitation beside him. You sit and lean against him, hitching your feet up onto the table beside his. He knocks one of his shoes against yours teasingly and you smile. Through the netting of the porch, you can make out the lashing of rain in the yard. It’s pitter-pattering is soothing like a nursery rhyme. You sigh and let your eyes slip shut. “Having fun?”

“Always,” you mumble, making him laugh. “You got any dreams?”

“Like sexy ones?”

“No,” you giggle, elbowing him, making him let out a few laughs too. “Like actual dreams. Ambitions. A wish.”

JJ takes a pause for thought. You have a swig of your wine as you wait, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and constant. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your heart sinks with disappointment. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It felt as though every time JJ came close to pulling back the curtain and letting you see a glimpse, he caught eye of something that scared him and he slipped it shut again. He told you what he wanted to tell you and kept the rest close to heart. You weren’t going to pry his cards from his body to see them, but it would be nice if he showed you them once in a while. It felt like the more time you spent with him, the less you knew. You could guess things from small clues as if playing a boardgame. He hardly went home, never mentioned his mother, and his father came into conversation with a shadow. He spoke lowly of himself, presumed the worst before others could, and it saddened you how clearly he believed everything he said. JJ couldn’t see himself the way you did. 

“I do,” you whisper, hoping it might entice him to share. 

“Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”

“I want to start a kitchen.”

“Huh?”

“Like a community kitchen thing. Not a bakery or a restaurant, just a place for all kinds of food, for all kinds of people, y’know? A good thing, like that. My sister used to help out at a soup kitchen and…I don’t know. I always liked that.”

JJ squeezes your thigh in acknowledgment. “Sounds fuckin’ amazing.”

“Thanks.”

In the Chateau, John B and Kiara laugh and Pope speaks loudly over them, something teasing, and you smile. The smell of weed fills the air before you and blends in with the notes of your wine and the telling scent of JJ. You wonder if the smell of you affects him in the same way; if the flavours of your perfume haunt him when he can’t sleep the way his cologne does for you. Suddenly, somewhere in the serenity of the moment comes a calamitous realisation, like a rumble thunder breaking the rain. 

You were falling in love with JJ Maybank. 

Biscuits  

Food poisoning. That’s what you’d told Mark. The heavy sickness that had sat in the bottom of your stomach like a boulder since last night lingered still. You hoped it was a hangover, but that passed with an advil. You knew what this was. 

You only escaped the guilt in your sleep. The moment you returned home, you climbed under the sheets of your bed like a child hiding from the bogeyman. Sleep was the only reprieve, though it didn’t come easy, and the second you came to in the morning, the first thought in your head was the look on JJ’s face just before his lips touched yours. 

Fuck. 

Your phone pings with another message that is no doubt from Mark and you can’t bring yourself to look at it. It doesn’t help that there’s a framed picture of the two of you staring at you from the bedside. It was his gift to you for your one month anniversary, because of course Mark cares about one month anniversaries. You hadn’t gotten him anything; you had to make up some lie that it was late in the mail, and then run to the shops that night. Just further proof that you don��t deserve him. 

Hello, hell? I’d like to reserve my spot in advance. Queen sized bed please, for me and my whorish ways. Much love. 

When the phone begins to ring you groan aloud and send it straight to voicemail. You bury your head beneath the pillow and close your eyes, but the memories haunt you like flashbacks. JJ’s eyes. JJ’s lips. The way he tasted, the way he bit your lower lip just so, in that way that only he knows, in the way that he always knew drives you crazy–

“Stop it!”

Hello, hell? Quick update: I think I might be going insane, too. Just thought I should preface you. 

Somewhere in your self-loathing, you manage to drift off into another restless sleep. It’s broken by a tapping on your door. Groaning, you force yourself out of the safety of your bed and wander to your door, expecting to find your mom. Instead, your head tips back to see the face of your boyfriend. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is thick with concern, brows knitted with worry. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Thankfully, you didn’t have to lie with that one. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to check on you,” he replies. He steps into your room and you make space, sitting on your bed. He closes the door behind him. “I tried calling but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, sorry, uh…I was just feeling really frail, y’know?”

“Oh, baby,” Mark sighs. He sits beside you on the bed and places his large palm on your forehead. His brown curly hair sits in perfect ringlets atop of his head. One dangles over his forehead, out of formation, and it reminds you of JJ. Just how you went from me to him, JJ had said. Were they that different, after all? “You got a temperature?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You gently push his hand off your face. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Well, I’m here to take care of you.”

“Really?” You hope the dread in your voice isn’t obvious. 

“Course. You’d do the same for me,” he smiles. He lifts a bag you didn’t even notice he was carrying and shows you each item. “Mama’s homemade biscuits. She’s real worried about you, y’know?”

“I’m fine,” you insist, “just a bit sick. I think the worst of it has passed.”

“That’s good, then. I’ll make you a hot drink, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. You get cosy,” Mark tells you. You nod and try your best to smile. Mark leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss on your lips, and the sickness comes back tenfold. You want to cry the second he’s out of your room. 

Mark is good. Mark is good for you. But what if you’re not good for Mark? 

Chocolate Chip Cookies

“I don’t understand.”

You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your forehead. Bile lingers in the back of your throat but you swallow it down, alongside the feeling of self-reproach. This was it: the conversation you’d been dreading. The conversation that needed to happen. You’d rehearsed your words in the mirror like practising lines for a play. Journals and diaries filled with debate, as to whether you stay or bolt. But now was as good a time as any, and you knew in your mind what the right thing to do was. You can’t risk getting in the car accident if you step out of the vehicle. 

“Did I do something?” JJ then asks, his voice weak, naked. You meet his gaze and shake your head firmly. 

“No,” you breathe, “no, you ain’t do nothing, JJ.”

“Then I don’t get it,” he repeats, stronger this time. Frustrated. You knew none of this would be easy. 

“Look,” you cut yourself off with a sigh. You shuffle your crossed legs, sitting on JJ’s bed in the Chateau in a way that you never have before, as if you’ve never stepped foot inside his life. “My parents are heading to Charleston for a couple months anyway, to stay with my grandmother and help look after her, and…well, maybe it’s for the better, that we have this distance sooner rather than later.”

“Distance?”

“You’ve been removed, JJ,” you mumble, hoping not to sound accusatory. “And that’s okay, I know you’re busy. I mean, you told me from the start that you don’t do the whole relationship-thing. But I don’t think I can stay, not right now.”

“Okay, is this some kinda joke?” JJ snaps. He gets to his feet and paces a few steps in the small throughway of his bedroom. Taking off his hat, JJ rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, eyes fiery, expression hard as if to shield from the hurt that you don’t mean to cause. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I thought we were fine.”

“We are fine,” you insist. Sighing, you try and find the best way to explain yourself without giving it all away. “Look, I ain’t meaning that you’re a bad guy or that you’re damaged or anything like that. I don’t think that, not at all. But…How can I explain this?”

JJ takes a moment or two to calm himself as you hang your head and clench your eyes, searching for the perfect turn of phrase to make your thought process make sense. You find it. Lift your head, soften your gaze at the hurt on his face, and try your best to smile through the sorrow. This wasn’t easy for you either. 

“You know when you see a tornado?”

He stares at you for a short while before nodding, urging you to continue. 

“Things that like…They’re always so pretty for afar. So mesmerising, how nature can create something like that. Stunning, really. Epic. But then, you get too close, and you get sucked in. And it’s just chaos and there’s no way out of it without being broken.”

JJ nods again, pursing his lips. 

“I think that’s what might happen here,” you whisper. “If I stick around.”

“I don’t get it. You’re saying I’m gonna break you?”

“No, I’m saying…I’m saying you’re not in a spot right now to give me what I need. That ain’t your fault, JJ, but I can’t let myself stay knowing that I’m gonna have my heartbroken. I wish I could - I wish I could just wing-it like that - but I can’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause that JJ drags out, staring at you as if trying to see into your head, searching for some lie. Sighing, he must come up empty, as he takes the spot beside you on the bed again. You test the waters, leaning against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his t-shirt. One of his hands lifts and strokes your hair, smoothing it down. 

“I really do care ‘bout you, y’know? Like, that ain’t fake,” JJ admits in a hushed tone. 

“I know, JJ,” you reply, just as soundless. “I just think you gotta figure yourself out before you can…”

“...love you?” JJ hesitantly whispers, after you lose nerve. Your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Mhm.”

“You can’t love me ‘til then, either?”

Laughing sadly, you shake your head against him. He really couldn’t tell how much you’d fallen for him already, could he? “I don’t think you gotta worry ‘bout that ever, JJ.”

A soft kiss is planted on your forehead. “So…Just gotta do some soul searchin’, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you hum. “But hey, I tell you what.”

You break apart from the comfort of his hold, tilting your head so you can look up, into his eyes. The pain in JJ’s gaze tears you like wrapping paper, and it’s worse to know it’s your fault, but you know that it’s the only way to save you both from further pain. It isn’t the right time, and that’s a shame, and it isn’t fair, since you’ve memorised the outline of him and drawn him into all your plans and daydreams. But you can hear it when you talk and feel it when you sleep together, this detachment, this removal of himself, that can’t come until he’s healed in a way that he’s far away from now. There’s something pulling him away from you, an adventure of sorts, and you don’t want to keep him from it. You want JJ to love you but you want him to choose you, too. And until then, you don’t have it in yourself to sit around on the sidelines, waiting for your heart to be broken. It’s like sitting a toddler in front of a plate of chocolate chip cookies but demanding them not to touch; the temptation might just kill you. 

“What?” JJ gently prompts, bringing you back from your thoughts. 

Your smile is sick with inner lamentation. “If you do figure yourself out, after some soul searchin’ and all that, then chances are I’ll still be here. So, I guess, if you ever feel like fallin’ then lemme know. You can catch me on the way down.”

JJ’s smile is beautiful, even when his eyes are wet with unshed tears. You lean up and press a fleeting kiss to his lips, but you don’t let yourself linger. If you do, you’re afraid you’ll never leave. You murmur some sort of goodbye, making an excuse that you should get going, and JJ doesn’t argue. He watches you as you stand, waves farewell with two-fingers as you leave, and you walk home with your heart halfway broken but more whole than it might’ve been if you stayed and tried to make this impossible thing work. JJ wasn’t ready to fall in love, not yet, but you already had. 

Ham and Cheese Sandwiches  

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I promise,” you reply to Mark, smiling reassuringly. You wonder if it looks like a grimace. It feels like one. Even touching him makes you want to cry, as you brush your hand atop of his on the table. Your feigned food poisoning was two days ago now but Mark was still worried for your health, likely because you were still acting so withdrawn and drained. It’s hard to sleep when you’re consumed by guilt and confusion. “Why don’t you see if Nancy needs a hand in the kitchen, yeah? I can work on the inventory out here.”

“You sure? I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m sure,” you nod. “I can come get you if I need anything.”

“You better,” he grins. He dips his head and kisses you and it takes everything inside of you not to pull away like a flinch. It’s not him. It’s you. You feel like you’re poison. Like JJ’s kiss has infected you and you can’t get Mark sick too. His brown curls bounce as he walks back to the building. You busy your mind with counting tins of soup. The Stirring Spoon had never had so many posters, so many new recipes, with how much you’d been trying to keep yourself busy. You picked up extra shifts at the Smoothie Shop to avoid Mark during the daytime, and you submerged yourself in your voluntary-planning work and ‘early nights’ to avoid him during the night. It wasn’t fair to him but you didn't know what else to do. 

Well, that’s a lie. You know exactly what you should do, but denial is so much easier. 

Ducking down, you grab another box of leftover soup from a local supermarket. They’d recently changed providers and all the old stuff had to go. You were thinking of making toasted sandwiches with soup. Grunting, you lift the box onto the table. The sun beats down on you as if the universe is punishing you. Good, it’s the least I deserve. 

You can spot him anywhere, even blind. He’s in the far corner carrying a smaller box than usual, compared to his crate. A sudden wave of panic comes over you and you speed walk over to him. He frowns as you approach. 

“You good? Hey!” 

You grab his arm and drag him out of sight from the field, behind an overgrown bush. “W hat are you doing here?” you hiss. 

“Bringing sandwiches?” he replies, as if it should be obvious. “Are you okay?”

“JJ, you can’t be here,” you snap. “Mark is literally in the other building!”

“So?” 

“So? Do you…Do you not remember what happened the other night?” you ask, calming down slightly. 

JJ sighs and puts the box down on the floor. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. “Look, clearly you spun out. I ain’t gonna mention it if you don’t want me to.”

“Wait…Really?”

“Jesus Christ, I ain’t a homewrecker,” JJ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. You want to crack a smile but you think your face might be permanently stitched in perpetual concern forever. His laughter dies. “Listen, I think you got some stuff to figure out, a’right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended! I’m jus’ saying…” JJ cuts himself of with a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You missed all his little ticks and quirks. “Look, don’t kill me for sayin’ this, I’m just tryin’ to be honest. I don’t think Mark’s the right guy for you.”

“I-”

“I’m sorry, a’right? I don’t think you want to admit it either but…I think you gotta be honest. You don’t love him, okay? And that’s a’right, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I just think you need to make a choice.”

“What does that mean? A choice?” you quietly ask, terrified for his answer. 

His smile is sad as JJ shrugs. “I was an idiot to lose you once, I ain’t gonna lose you again - not if I can help it. If Mark’s who you want - if Mark makes you feel like you’re living - then I’ll never bring it up again. Hell, I’ll stay away from you forever, if you want. Least, I’ll try to. I don’t know if I can be held accountable for when I’m drunk but- look, now I’m getting side tracked. The point is:”, JJ speaks with his hands,  “if Mark isn’t the one for you…I’m here to catch you, y’know?”

You blink at JJ and blink away the tears. You’re not sure if you can form words right now, not even sure what words they would be, so you try your best to nod. JJ tries another smile. 

“There’s some sandwiches from Kie and Sarah for today. I hope it all goes okay. Just…lemme know. Or don’t, y’know? Either way,” he trails off with a shrug. You feel cemented into the dirt as JJ backs away. Then he’s gone. Your eyes slip shut. Some weird hybrid of JJ and Mark’s faces fill your thoughts. 

‘If you ever feel like fallin’ then let me know. You can catch me on the way down.’ 

‘I’m here to catch you.’ 

You need to figure this out and fast. It wasn’t fair to anybody, not even yourself. Dragging things out doesn’t make it any easier, it only delays the inevitable, like tediously inching a bandaid off the skin. Sometimes you just have to rip. You just have to prepare for the aftermath.

How ironic, how when you were sixteen it was you waiting for JJ to figure himself out, and now it’s your turn. It’s a shame you were never all that much of a fan of irony. 

Cinnamon Buns 

Baking is therapeutic. The precision of weighing out the ingredients; the cathartic relief from beating together butter and sugar until fluffy like clouds; the tapping and cracking of eggs; the rhythmic folding of flour; the soon-to-arrive reward for your labour. You like baking when life gets stressful. Few things are so systematic, so simple, so quick to resolve, as baking. Life is more complicated than that. 

Mark and JJ. Two sides of different coins. Neither good, nor bad. Human, just like you. 

As you prepare the batter for cinnamon buns, you try to make sense of everything. Figure yourself out, as JJ had put it. 

Mark was designed to be easy to fall in love with. It was as if the universe had a recipe for him, everything the girls crave, the people fawn over in romance novels, the parents pray for in their child’s partner. Responsible; caring; thoughtful; kind; secure; safe. Mark was good. There was no other way to put it. Hell, you met him at a voluntary community kitchen. He gave you stability like a white picket fence. Perfect and practised, like he’d been waiting for that his whole life. But you found yourself restless in the fairytale. Found yourself itching for change, for chaos, for clutter. He was sentimental in a way you weren’t. That wasn’t to say you were heartless - the two of you just loved differently. 

JJ Maybank? He wasn’t designed for it in the same way, but it was impossible to not fall in love with him. You knew it from the moment your paths crossed, back when you were sixteen and the two of you tumbled through two months together. That’s why you left in the first place. To save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring, because sixteen-year-old JJ was in no place to commit to anybody. You assumed that with time your feelings would fade away and when you met Mark, you believed they had. You liked Mark - that wasn’t false - and you had feelings for Mark. But the love you had for JJ didn’t vanish. Like energy, it could only be transferred. It went into the back of your mind as if in hibernation but the moment JJ waltzed back into your world, it was awake. It was impossible to ignore. 

Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist, but JJ was the acrobat. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car, but JJ was the driver. But JJ was safety too. He made you feel safe, but he also made you feel alive. 

And you wanted to feel alive. 

Mark was routine. He was predictable. You could see the next five, ten, twenty years of your life laid out nice and neat with Mark. But did you want that? Did you want to give up the adventure? The chaos? The things you missed so desperately. 

As you drizzle the topping on top of the cinnamon buns, you summarise your scrambled thoughts into one neat realisation: you wouldn’t have kissed JJ if you truly wanted Mark. 

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat as you walk to Mark’s house. The buns sit neat in the tupperware and you’re careful not to shake them. His door looks like a tombstone as you knock on it. There’s a noise from inside and the door opens. Mark smiles down at you. He’s dressed in a baby-blue waffle sweater and it’s so undeniably, so wonderfully him. 

“Hey!” he grins. 

“Can I come in?” you ask. It sounds ridiculous asking that when you used to sleep in this house almost daily. 

“Course,” Mark replies. He opens the door further and you slip inside. It shuts behind you. You place the tupperware on the countertop, taking too much time in letting go. “You alright?”

“Mhm. I just…I think we should talk about some stuff,” you say, feeling your voice losing power. 

“Alright. Come, sit,” he urges. You do as he asks and take the spot on the bed beside him, leaving a gap. “What’s up?”

You fumble your fingers together and stare intensely at your hands, racking your mind for the words, for where to start. You’d practised this so many times in the mirror. Childish. 

“I did something and I need to tell you, because you’ve always been so good to me, and so honest with me, and it isn’t fair to hoodwink you.”

“Okay,” Mark faintly replies. 

You take a steady breath in. Mark is good. He deserves the truth. “I went to see JJ last week, and one thing led to another, and we kissed.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sounds of the air conditioning unit humming as white noise. Then, 

“Oh.”

You clench your eyes shut before looking up at him. He’s detached in his expression. Your eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mark,” you whisper, scared your voice will break if you talk any louder. He meets your gaze. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re such a good, genuine person. I just…I don’t know why, but I just…I can’t love you.”

Mark swallows thickly. The tears are warm and sticky on your cheeks. It’s so selfish to cry when you’re the one who threw the punches. You hang your head with shame and watch the teardrops land on your restless hands.

“I swear I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I still had feelings for JJ until…Well, until then.”

“I did.”

Your head snaps up. He’s staring at you, but he doesn’t look angry. No. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. A sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless. 

“You did?”

“The minute you saw him, that Wednesday at the start of the month. I saw it on your face, clear as day. You never used to look at me like that.”

“Mark–”

“--That’s okay,” he nods. He’s crying too, now, and you’re not sure what to think, what to do. But Mark does. Of course, he does. His hands reach out to hold yours, warm in his clutch, and you blubber like a petulant child. “You’re not a bad person, Y/N. I could tell something was bothering you this past week.”

“I just didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t even know what it meant. But I have to be honest for the both of us, and I don’t…I don’t think I’m the girl you’re looking for, Mark,” you say through your tears. 

Mark smiles solemnly and nods once. The squeeze of your hands tells you everything. I know. I agree. It’s okay. 

“Do you hate me?” you ask in a moment of pure patheticness. Mark laughs and shakes his head. 

“You’re too pretty to hate.”

“Ugh! You can’t say things like that!” you whine, throwing your head back. He laughs again, soggy with his sorrow, and he shrugs. 

“Just got to keep my good-guy rep up.”

Laughing, you shake your head at him and smile. The two of you share a breath and he nods. A conclusion. His smile dwindles. 

“I’m gonna need time, though…Before we can be friends, maybe. Just to…You know…”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I understand. Whatever you want, whatever you need. It’s all on your terms, I promise.”

Mark nods. Thanks you. It is so fucking bizarre to have the man you cheated on thank you but here we are. Life is full of strangeness. 

“Can I give you a hug?” you wonder. Chuckling, he nods, and you waste no time in throwing your arms around his shoulders. Mark holds you in the embrace and the two of you savour the feeling of one another for one last time. Against his shoulder, you murmur, “I’m going to miss you, Mark.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he tells you into your collarbone. “JJ’s a lucky guy. But make sure to tell him I know where he lives if he hurts you.”

You tearfully giggle against him. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Bacon Sandwiches

It’s warm today; bright and brilliant. The critters are happy, chirping in the trees, croaking in the overgrowth by the water of the marsh that lines the Pogue’s house. Your footsteps feel heavy as you walk up the driveway, anticipating weighing you down. You lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight and make out JJ. He’s at the entrance to the shop, stood a few rungs up a free-standing ladder. He’s trying to staple something to the walls - a banner of some kind - and you make your way over. 

“Need a hand?”

He jumps and you cringe. Oops. JJ looks down at you and his lips quirk at the corners. The muscle tee he wears is grey and hangs loose on his well-kept frame. He’s armed with a staple gun. “Yo. What’re you doing here?”

“Want a hand?” you repeat, nodding up at the banner, not quite ready to confess. JJ shrugs and nods. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

You glance around and find something that looks sturdy enough to stand on. Dragging it over, you boost yourself up and hold out your hand to take the other side of the banner. Holding it up against the wall, JJ leans forward and steadies himself with an elbow on the wooden panelling. 

“We’re selling bacon sandwiches on weekends now, so thought we oughta advertise it, y’know? So, anyway, what’re you–” a grunt and a click of the staple gun, “-doing here?”

You step down from your boost and JJ takes your place. You don’t speak, stalling time, as JJ secures the banner. Sighing, taking it in, nodding with contentment, JJ jumps down and ditches the gun. The he stands with his hands on his hips and looks at you, shrugging again. 

“I, uh…I needed to talk you,” you say, clearing your throat. 

“A’right. What about?”

“Just like…” You rock your head back, take a breath, and steel yourself. Somewhere in that split second, you find a new mantra. JJ is good. JJ is good for me. I’m good for JJ. We’re good for each other. Smiling, you look at him again. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” he mumbles. 

There’s a playfulness, a teasing, as you shrug. “That you’ll catch me.”

You can see the words as they process through his head. See the moment he tracks the meaning, parses it altogether. A smile, beautiful and brimming, greets you, and then JJ crosses the gap between you in two large strides. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in an embrace. He swings you around for good measure and you laugh, looping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, smiling against him. This is good. 

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” you whisper in reply. He carefully reunites you with the ground. You smile up at JJ, gazing into his blue eyes, bathing in their depths. Your hand strokes along his jaw, slides down his front until it rests just above his heart. “It was always you, JJ.”

“You think…You think you can love me now?” he nervously asks. 

You shake your head with a silent laugh. It feels like breathing, like you’re finally free, as you admit, “I’ve always loved you.”

It comes and goes like a comet; the flash of shock in his eyes; the glow of his smile; the burning passion of his lips on yours. And as you kiss JJ, without guilt, without fear, you finally feel at home. When you break apart, short of air, JJ rests his forehead against yours. His thumb smooths along the soft line of your jaw and you smile. He takes a small breathe, shaky, unsure, but JJ's words are sure like bedrock.

"I love you too."

[erindrinkstea]

Please Please Please

Poly! Dark! 141 x Reader

TW: Dark Themes, Spicy Themes, Possessive Behaviour, Obsessive Behaviour, Violence, Blood, Death

Description, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Main Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

Note: Hey, I'm back to my usual postings!

For a moment, you swore that you could hear frantic voices from the back of your subconscious. You swore that those voices sounded a lot like your teammates in the 141.

But they couldn't be them. Not with the way they sounded so distraught, begging and crying for your life. You almost felt flattered.

"Lieutenant. Bullet. Birdie. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I haven't been a good sargeant to you, a good friend and fuck- I've been a horrible person overall. Please. Let me correct my wrongs and stay alive."

"You're going to be alright, Bullet. I swear on it. You're not leaving us anytime soon, that's a promise."

"Don't die on us, Bullet."

"Fuck- lovie, I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have lost focus on the field. Please. Look, you can shoot me again in the throat if it'll make you feel better, just- make sure you'll make it out alive to do it, yeah?"

You laughed in the back of your mind. The last voice reminded you of your scottish sargeant, what a johnny thing to say.

"What a Bullet thing to do. Laughing even on the brink of desth."

You blinked at the new but familiar voice. "Cori?" Your old sargeant.

"I must be in hell if I'm seeing you." You joked and the sargeant, kicked at your head as you were lying on the ground.

Sitting up, you noticed that you were in a blank void. A white space with nothing but you and your sargeant, your old friend.

"Believe it or not, Cap and I made it heaven actually. Don't know how we were able to sneak in but surprise." Cori joked and you smiled softly at how easily you two eased into banter despite the long years.

"What are you doing joining us so soon by the way?" Cori crouched down, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. "Cap's gonna be angry if she hears about this."

You winced almost, "Can't you keep this a secret?" you pleaded. Soulmate or not- she'll find a way to kill you a second time if she finds out that you die so early. She always rained down hell whenever you were too reckless on certain missions.

"I don't know how you could keep your death a secret to another dead person, bullet. You're bound to meet sooner or later." Cori snickered.

"Ah fuck." You crossed your arms, preparing to face the wrath of your Captain. Only to find that your body was currently blinking, phasing in and out oddly. "What?"

"Oh." Cori looked surprised but pleased nonetheless. "Looks like you won't have to worry about facing Cap's wrath." He chuckles.

"They're really fighting to bring you back yknow." You didn't know who Cori was referring to. Who they are?

"Think your duty as Lieutenant is still far from over, Bullet." Cori pats your shoulder before you completely phased away from him.

The warmth on your shoulder was comforting even for a moment.

The panic was quick to run through their veins once they saw you go limp. They were assured you were not yet dead when they picked up a faint heartbeat.

A million thoughts ran through their heads as they rushed you to evac. Ghost yelling at Nik once they took their positions inside the helicopter. Price immediately contacting Laswell to prepare all the medics for your arrival. Soap holding onto one hand while Gaz held onto the other, both men pleading and talking to your unconscious form.

They usually wouldn't bother with your existence. They tolerated you as a teammate but refused to acknowledge you properly as their Lieutenant.

The 141 was a close pack, with loyalties that ran as deep as the ocean. So when they first met you, your bullet making a shot through Soap's throat. They were quick to build a resentment against you, quick to hold onto a grudge.

There were times where they felt warmth or awe at your small acts for them. With your little cooked meals, your aromatic teas, and your short notes. There were also scenarios where'd you'd stitch Ghost's balaclava when it rips or you'd patch Gaz up so gently when you're out in the field.

It was flattering to them but they always brushed off the butterflies, they'd shrug of the colorful fireworks. Refusing to acknowledge that they actually liked you because of a stupid grudge that you tried hard to make up for.

Now that stupid grudge might actually make them lose you. That drove them into a spiral- knowing that they might lose you and they haven't even done shit to make up for their mistakes.

"They're going to be fine. Bullet's strong. One of the damn best Lieutenants that I know." Gaz mumbled. He didn't know who he was trying to convince- Soap, him or maybe both of them.

"Please, Please. Make it out alive, birdie. Please."

[sexlapis]

# the D word

꩜ nanami x gn!reader

ns4w, daddy kink, penetrative s e x, praise, fluff, crack, undisclosed kinks, the tiniest bit of angst, petnames

⤷ synopsis : nanami accidentally reveals his “secret” kink.

wc: 1.4k

a/n: i love a good daddy kink fic #sorrynosorry

masterlists

*

the first time that word slips from his lips, you don’t even think he realises.

it had been a tiring, stressful day for nanami and unfortunately, those types of days are not uncommon in his line of work.

some days are better than others. some days he is here, with you and present even after a bad day but other times…he can be gone for months.

luckily, it wasn’t one of those days.

while you finished off preparing dinner, nanami rests on the couch, head lolling back into the headrest. his noticeable tie is long gone, along with his suit coat and goggles. the top few buttons of his blue shirt are undone, the sleeves of it rolled up to his elbows, revealing the pale expanse of his trimmed forearms.

you walk into the living room, where he is. “nanami, dinners ready. let’s go eat!”

nanami grunts, eyes closed and not making any viable efforts to join you or to eat.

you tilt your head, sympathy in your eyes. maybe he has a headache or just wants to sleep. i’ll leave him the leftovers for work.

“_____,” nanami drawls out, sounding like he’s minutes away from passing out, “_____, c’mere, come sit for a second, hm..”

“hm? oh…ken, are you okay?” you move closer to him, placing the back of your hand on his forehead, “maybe you should go to bed.”

“no. yes. no. i’m fine,” nanami huffs, running a hand down his face before patting his lap, “just c’mere, come sit. come sit on daddy’s lap.”

any thoughts in your head, any words you were to utter, any movements you were to make instantly come to an abrupt halt.

uhm…what?

daddy?

your jaw may as well be plonk on the floor.

now, you and nanami’s sex life is not boring or unsatisfactory in the slightest, the exact opposite in fact. you and nanami were happy with what you had. but you most definitely did not peg him to be the type who likes to be called…that word.

did you like that word though? growing up, you had always thought it was a bit strange hearing your friends call the guys they found attractive a term that one would use for their father. for you, it wasn’t even a question or even a thought. you simply and absolutely were not a fan. it wasn’t for you…or so you thought.

that word. nanami said it so easily, so readily, like he didn’t even think about what he was referring to himself as, like he did it every day of his life.

the way in which he said it, in a weary, gentle groan, urging you to sit on his lap, so unfazed like he knew you would say yes to his request as if he has ever called himself “daddy”.

it makes the pit of your stomach alight with unexpected desire. all because of one word.

so you decide to indulge him (and maybe, secretly, yourself too).

you shuffle the short distance to nanami, carefully sitting yourself right in the middle of his lap and curling your knees up on his thigh, you cheek now smushed against his shirt. the steady rhythm of his heartbeat almost sends you to sleep.

he hums, content when he rings his arms around you body like vines and prods his nuzzles the top of your head, breathing heavily and letting his eyes close.

“this is all i needed…”

the next day, all is forgotten.

*

the next time he said it, the sun had just about risen over the clouds on a lazy weekend.

sweat slides between the gravitating bodies of you and nanami, luminary, golden light shining over the two of you. only the sound of skin coming together and the sounds of soft, tired pleasure were all that could be heard in the room.

nanami embraces you closely as you move on top of him languidly, not in a rush at all but already so, so close to reaching your peaks.

he groans, loud and deep. nanami is more vocal in the morning you’ve noticed, all drowsy and vulnerable and pliant. blonde strands of hair stick to his forehead as rouge washes over his neck and cheeks.

“hmfp…fuck…oh shit,” nanami’s hands finds your rippling ass, groping gently and pulling it, exposing you most intimate areas to the chill of the morn, “i’m cumming. fuck, i’m cumming. you’re gonna make daddy cum.”

it embarrasses you. how quickly your eyes roll into the back of your head when he calls himself that damn name again.

you don’t stop and the unhurried circling of your hips around nanami’s cock as you, quite literally, ride out your high has him clutching onto your waist whilst he releases himself inside of you, jerking himself upwards and holding you in place, ensuring you take it all.

languorous rolls of the hips turn into soft grinds as you milk him for all he’s worth. he’s jelly in your hold, moaning quietly and long eyelashes fluttering.

“god…” you chime, lifting yourself up and off his manhood, making him hiss at the cold. white drips out of you, dripping onto nanami’s lower torso.

the next few moments are still after he moves you lay next to him, still regaining your breath and coming back to earth. you peer to your left and that his eyes are closed.

probably going to fall back asleep…

you kiss his sweaty shoulder, “it’s okay baby, you can go to sleep.

nanami whines, breathes out and he…sleeps once again.

no mention of that either.

*

later on in the day, rain patters against the clear window. you and nanami sit closely on the couch, a book in your hand and a very loved kindle in his. he wears his nerdy reading glasses and a cream-coloured sweater, looking all cosy, homey and domestic.

…your mind is not on the book in front of you. not in the slightest.

daddy… just when i think i’ve got him all figured out…

to you, it’s odd. i mean, it would be odd to anyone if their partner began referring to themselves as “daddy” out of the blue, right? why not discuss it with you first? what if it was a turn-off and you didn’t even like it? then again, nanami has not heard any complaints from your mouth. you’re not even sure you have any complaints about his quite generous use of the word.

i think it’s starting to grow on me.

you should just ask him. but what if he’s embarrassed?

well he should’ve thought about that and discussed it with me?

what if it’s awkward?

well not all conversations in a relationship are going to be comfortable.

what if he just shuts down and gives me the silent treatment?

well, maybe-

“since when you do you have a daddy kink?”

nanami chokes on his own spit, coughing before he sputters, staring at you like he should be the one that’s shocked, “wh-what?!”

“don’t play dumb! are we just gonna pretend that you haven’t been calling yourself da- the “D” word recently?” you whisper-shout the last part, feeling heat rise on your face, “where did that even come from?”

“alright, alright i-,” he sighs, “listen i…i’ve-i’ve liked.. it for a while now. it was just-,” he sighs again, looking to the floor, “embarrassing.”

“…oh nanami…” you cuddle up to him, moving his hand away from his now red face, kissing the back of his hand, “you’re so silly. you don’t have to be embarrassed. loads of people like those things…a heads up would’ve been appreciated though…”

“right. sorry.”

you shrug it off, “nah, it’s fine. i actually think it suits you. “daddy” huh?”

“oh, jesus christ.” nanami presses his eyes together, rethinking his life choices.

“oh no, don’t backtrack now. you brought this upon yourself this time…you do have a lot of…”daddy” qualities to be honest,” you genuinely begin to ponder, “you’re caring, kinda fatherly, dominant, you even carry me to bed sometimes and pick out my clothes and -”

“please-”

“what is it? is daddy getting shy? you weren't shy last night.”

nanami might as well melt into the ground as you snicker in his face. you are having far too much fun with this.

“are you done?”

“yes, daddy.”

“eugh.”

you giggle some more and really, nanami does see the humour in this. a stoic man too embarrassed to tell his partner about his little kink? that is silly.

“but seriously, it’s fine. i kinda like it!”

“yes, i got that impression.”

you smack his bicep. “not too much. just tell me next time, yeah? i don’t want to be having sex and then next thing i know you’re calling me “master” or something, that would be crazy.”

“…yeah… that would be crazy…”

“…”

“…”

“nanami? what-���

*

< thank u for reading ૮꒰ˊᗜˋ* ꒱ა >

[myfavoritesstuff]

Hi, How are you doin?

May I request a fluffy cuddle scenario/oneshot with Andrew where they're talking before drifting off cause both of them have a bit trouble sleeping? Hmm.. and maybe a little nsfw at the end? Thank you!

“Yes, We Really Do”

Pairing: Andrew Graves x Reader

Prompt: Falling asleep isn’t always easy, but don’t worry, Andrew is there to help.

Note: This does have smut! Ooc Andrew (a bit). This is kind of short but I probably will rewrite it later and make it longer. NOT PROOFREAD

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting a warm light over the figures nestled under the covers. Andrew Graves, with his tousled hair and sleepy eyes, lay on his side facing you, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

"Can't sleep?" he whispered, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet of the night.

You shook your head, the day's worries still buzzing like distant bees in your mind. "It's one of those nights," you admitted, feeling the weight of exhaustion without the sweet release of sleep.

Andrew reached out, his hand finding yours under the sheets, fingers intertwining with a comforting familiarity. "Let's talk about something nice then," he suggested, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.

You thought for a moment, the presence of Andrew beside you already easing the tension in your shoulders. "Remember the day we spent at the beach last summer?" you started, a fond memory surfacing amidst the sea of thoughts.

A soft chuckle escaped Andrew's lips. "How could I forget? You were determined to build the biggest sandcastle the shore had ever seen."

"And you were determined to help, even though it kept collapsing," you added, the memory bringing a smile to your face.

The conversation flowed easily, each word a stitch in the fabric of your shared comfort. As the conversation fades into comfortable silence, you lean your head against Andrew’s chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. His fingers start to trace gentle patterns along your back, sending shivers down your spine. You snuggle closer, seeking comfort and warmth in his embrace.

After a few seconds of listening to his heartbeat, you look up. Andrew’s eyes sparkle with love and adoration as he leans in to press a soft kiss against your lips. Then another. And another. And another. You giggled a bit as he kept lightly kissing you, moving from your lips to all over your face.

The more he kissed you, the more intense the kisses became. Each one lasted longer than the previous one, and each one had a bit more passion to them. His breathing soon became strained, as he whispered to you.

“I know something that would help us sleep”

You immediately knew what he was referring to and became flushed but you didn’t pull away.

˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷

Your walls clenched, as you felt him grinding against you. Slick coaxed your entrance and you felt yourself start to lose focus on what was happening. He seemed to notice and called out to you.

“Hey, keep your eyes on me, okay?” You nodded just as he slipped into you. His thrusts had your breath hitching while he groaned in pleasure. You tried raising your hips, only to have one of his hands push your hips back down. “Let me do all the work tonight. You deserve it.”

He then leaned down and placed wet kisses against your chest and collarbone causing you to shiver. His kisses soon traveled upward, and he ended up placing a few along your jawline.

His thrusts soon became more frequent, each one having both of you grow closer to the end. Exhaling in short breaths, you wrapped your legs around Andrew’s waist pulling him even closer to you.

Your vision then became blurred as you felt yourself release, crying out when Andrew’s thrusts didn’t stop. “You feel so good” Andrew’s voice cut through the air, “you don’t know what you do to me.”

“Andrew” you called out his name, looking directly into his eyes, “make me yours.”

With that he let out his own sound, one that was as sinful as it was beautiful. He then pulled out leaving you to flinch at the feeling.

Wrapping his arms around you, you let out a pleasant sigh as he pulled you in.

“How are you feeling now?” He asked, voice gentle.

“I’m good, I’m happy that I got to spend tonight with you like this.”

“Me too… me too.”

˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀

“Ugh! Andy! Y/n! Why did you guys have to next to my room?!” Ashley called out in frustration. You were standing next to Andrew as he tried to explain.

“Y/n had trouble falling asleep and besides where did you expect us to do it? Out in the living room?” As the two bickered back and forth, you giggled at them, causing them to look your way. Andrew’s eyes softened and he smiled as he turned to give you a hug and kiss on the cheek. Ashley just groaned and looked away in disgust.

“You really love each other, don't you?” The two of you looked at each other and smiled.

“Yes we really do.”

[prythianpages]

Wanna Be Yours | Part Two

Rhysand x Reader | Rhysand is absolutely smitten with you and you appear to be blind from it.

This is a part two to this. You can find the masterlist to keep track of future parts here.

warnings: none

a/n: I use a prompt from the lovely @thepromptswhisperer . you can find the post here. I bolded & italicized the dialogue I used from it.

The secrets that Rhysand holds in his heart are harder to hide than he thought. He can’t help it. His heartbeat is at its peak whenever you speak or simply look his way. The weight of his confession persists, akin to an inconsolable ache nestled in his chest, right above the delicate golden thread that intimately connects his soul to yours. 

Three months have passed since that night—the night when he found himself grappling with delirium, induced by the venom coursing through his veins. It was the result of a miscalculated move when patrolling the Night Court’s borders. His injuries, though not fatal, seemed insurmountable due to the poison's cruel deception that night. In a panic, he insisted on seeing you and only you. If he were to face oblivion, he wanted you to be the last person he saw.

The poison, however, proved powerless against your skill. You healed him and brought him back from the brink. "I think I might be in love with you," were the words he had uttered to you and though he was lucid, he meant them. Wholeheartedly.

And now, there's no uncertainty. He is in love with you. The Cauldron may have destined you two together but Rhysand is beyond doubt that he would love you, bond or no bond. You’re beautiful, sweet and kind. Everything he could ever dream of, and dream of you he has done. A lot. 

Rhysand wonders if you dream of him too. If you think about him as much as he thinks about you. He wished he had been there to see your reaction when opening his gift but you had been busy all day. It sparked a worry in him that you were being overworked. Then, his own duties got in the way, leaving him with no choice but to leave it at your door. You had greeted him the following morning when you went to check up on him. The smile you graced him with in appreciation for the gift was as golden and glorious as the sun itself. One he wants more of.

You have him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even know…

“Whiskey for your thoughts?”

Dragging himself away from the labyrinth of his thoughts, Rhysand brings himself back to the sitting room of his house. He accepts the glass of golden brown liquid from Cassian with gratitude, leaning back into the soft cushion of his chair. 

“I miss her.”

Azriel’s shadows seem to flicker with a knowing gleam. He doesn’t have to ask to know who Rhysand is referring to.  “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“A couple days too long,” Rhysand replies with a sigh, prompting a chuckle from Cassian. As he swirls the liquid in his glass, mirroring the stirring emotions within him, his usually composed facade begins to waver. “She’s my mate.”

“We know,” Cassian grins, though it’s the first time Rhysand has said it. A quick exchange of glances with Azriel makes Cassian shrink back sheepishly, putting on a surprised expression. “Sorry, I mean. What??”

Rhysand glances between Azriel and Cassian. “You know?”

Cassian and Azriel exchange another guilty glance before Azriel turns to Rhysand. “We suspected,” he replies.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know. We also heard your confession–ow!” Cassian's words were cut short as he shot Azriel a glare, rubbing his arm.

Rhysand arched an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and disbelief in his eyes. He takes a sip of his drink, the corners of his lips lifting into a wry smile. "How is it that you two heard, but she didn’t?" he asks, his tone taking on a solemn note.

“I invited her to dinner and you know what she did?” Rhysand doesn’t wait for his brothers to reply to continue. “She brought Madja and another healer with her. Thought it was a group dinner. I bought her flowers and she handed them out to her patients. Thought I had given them to the infirmary, not her. I asked her to join me for a coffee but she said she was busy and I do believe her–there’s been a nasty flu going around. By the Cauldron, is she even taking care of herself? Maybe, I should pretend to be sick just to get her to see me…”

Rhysand downs the remainder of his drink, the burn in his throat paling in comparison to the burning he feels for you. Turning to Azriel, his eyes sparkle with determination.

“Hit me.”

Azriel chokes on his drink and Cassian grimaces as droplets land on his arm. “What?”

“C’mon. I’m sure you’ve been longing for it, especially after I sent you to parole the Illyrian camps last week,” Rhysand says with a smirk. He then angles his head, giving Azriel perfect access. He taps his jaw. “Hit me. Hard. So that I don’t heal as quickly.”

“Why aren’t you asking me?” Cassian asks, tone on the brink of offense. “I can give you a nasty black eye!”

Rhysand is about to reply when a shiver runs through the air. The room then falls into silence. Rhysand feels something teasing at the edges of his senses. His eyes, aglow with the ethereal light of night, narrow. There’s an unsettling disturbance within the rhythmic pulse of his court. An intruder.

Azriel’s shadows pick up on the stirrings of Rhysand’s instincts. He’s rising from his seat, ready to take on the uninvited presence. However, Rhysand, swifter than a fleeting shadow, vanishes into the embrace of the dark night before Azriel can.

**

There’s a knock on your door and you pull your gaze away from the gold trinket box Rhysand gifted you. Carefully placing it back onto your nightstand, you make your way toward the door. Madja, your mentor, is on the other side. She holds a faelight in the palm of her hand that highlights the gentle contours of her face. The small smile on her lips speaks volumes and you don’t have to ask why she’s coming for you in the late hour. Still, you can’t help but voice your curiosity as she guides you to the foyer of the infirmary.

“What is it this time?” 

“Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

You smile in greeting to the Shadowsinger who is waiting for you. He nods his head at you and without a word, offers his arm. Madja calls out words of encouragement to you. 

Azriel’s shadows wrap around you both and winnow you to Rhysand’s private residence. A beautiful and vast estate nestled in the heart of Velaris. He guides you to Rhysand’s room, though you know your way around well. As your hand reaches for his bedroom’s door, Azriel’s voice stops you.

“I must warn you…he’s in a mood.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, echoing Madja’s words from earlier. It’s more to reassure yourself than him. Azriel only smiles at you in response.

Rhysand’s room is spacious–a sanctuary of regal splendor. Its walls are bathed in a deep shade reminiscent of midnight and adorned with tapestries of celestial landscapes. Everything about the room reflects the refined taste and mystical elegance of its inhabitant and what a mystery he is to you. The High Lord of the Night Court is the most powerful in Prythian history. To many, he is careless and as cold as the winds from the Illyrian mountains. 

Only those dear to him know the truth of his nature. You still can’t wrap your head around as to why he chose to let you see the man behind the mask. Perhaps, it’s all attributed to your power but with Madja living here, you don’t quite understand the need for two healers in Velaris.

“Daybreak.”

Rhysand looks like a dream. 

He stands under the gracefully arched openings of his balcony.  Wispy curtains sway with the gentle night breeze, carrying with them the intoxicating fragrance of citrus and sea that caresses your senses. As moonlight spills into the room, it bathes him in a stellar glow, causing his membranous wings to dance in magnificent midnight hues. You can’t help but wonder which is more beautiful–the breathtaking view of the Court of Dreams from his balcony or him.

A stifled sound from Rhysand pulls you out of your trance, blinking away a gentle intrusion you felt in your mind.

“I have a name, you know,” you remind him.

“I know.” Though his back is to you, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

He turns to face you and you pick up on the telltale signs of subtle surrender in the slump of his shoulders. His wings vanish and your eyes trace down to his chest, where he cradles a feebly wrapped arm. A subdued darkness stains the light bandage. As your eyes lift back up to his face, his lips press together into a fine line.

“Come,” you say as you motion for him to sit. With a casual flick of your wrist, your first aid kit materializes from the pocket realm, settling gracefully onto his desk.  “May I?”

Rhysand promptly slips his shirt off before extending his injured arm to you with a nod. You arch a brow. “You didn’t have to take off your shirt.”

“It’s warm here,” he protests, though a mischievous glint dances in those violet eyes of his. He leans back into his desk chair, manspreading those glorious sweat clad thighs of his. “Feel free to admire me, darling,” he smirks at you and you force yourself to look away only to catch his biceps tensing with purpose.

“You’re blushing.” He muses, his eyes tracing every nuance of your reaction. 

“Yeah, so? Never seen anyone fall for your charm before?” You retort, feigning nonchalance. Internally, you’re cursing the way your blush deepens and the way your stomach flutters at the sound of his laughter. It’s deep and alluring, wrapping around you like a sweet melody. You’d think after months of knowing him, you’d be immune to his shameless flirting.

Focus, you remind yourself as you do your best to ignore the playful smirk that continues to grace his luscious lips. So much for Azriel’s claim of Rhysand being in a mood. Whatever had soured his temper must’ve gone away, you think. Despite his injury, he looks perfectly fine to you. 

You gently grasp his forearm and begin to unwrap the bandage carefully. The scent of antiseptic mingles with the warm, earthy undertones of his skin. Up close, the flush of his cheeks become more pronounced and the thin sheet of sweat glistens on his tattooed chest. Your keen eyes immediately pick up on the black ink trickling from the small wounds on his arm. Recognition dawns in your eyes.

“These are puncture wounds from a Puca.”

“Very astute of you, darling.” 

A furrow appears on your brow as curiosity mingles with bewilderment. You can't fathom how a Puca, a dangerous creature that roams throughout Prythian, managed to get this close to someone as powerful and even more dangerous as Rhysand. 

“What did it appear to you as?”

Rhysand's demeanor undergoes a shift. A-ha, there is that sour mood you had been expecting. Something akin to embarrassment flickers in the depths of his violet eyes. He instinctively pulls his arm back, but you tighten your hold, silently demanding an explanation.

"They say that a Puca uses your own desires to lure you and then eat you," you remark, your tone a mix of caution and concern.

Rhysand, attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance, hums thoughtfully. "Is that so?"

You drop your gaze as your hands fall into the familiar rhythm of tending to his injuries. “Azriel said you were in a mood so whatever it appeared to you as, must’ve been something for it to get you this go—“

“You.”

Confusion clouds your expression, and your glowing hands still. "What?"

You can feel the warmth of his gaze, a sharp intensity that lingers on you. "It appeared as you."

A moment of silence stretches between you two. The corner of Rhysand’s lips quirk up, the silver fleck of his violet irises sparkling with a mix of amusement and something more elusive. His gaze holds yours and there’s the slightest hint of vulnerability beneath his charismatic exterior. One you don’t catch.

"You flatter me," you finally say with a soft laugh, not believing him for one bit. 

And all Rhysand can do is look at you in bewildered wonder as your hands continue to move with deliberate care. He needs to try harder.

**

Days later…

Come back home.

Those three words stare back at you. Haunting and persistent. "Home," you quietly muse to yourself.  Dawn is your home. Or so you once believed. 

A home is meant to be a sanctuary. A place of safety. A place of comfort. Over time, it transformed from your sweet haven into a source of distress. But if Dawn is no longer your home, then what is? 

Is it the Night Court? You don't feel suffocated with high expectations here. The nights may be dark, but the stars shine their brightest here. They watch over you, listening to your silent whispers. There is a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows, almost like a sense of belonging.

You crumple the letter, the tangible weight of memories folding with it. Time is healing, you remind yourself. With a heavy sigh, you turn back to the stack of books and paperwork on your desk. Yesterday had been a slow day in the clinic so Madja asked for you to accompany her while she bought supplies. She treated you to a nice dinner afterwards. It was a much needed break but now, you found yourself behind in your studies and patient’s charts.

With a glance toward your desk candle, you use your powers to light it up. Leaning forward slightly, you fix your gaze on your first report with a strong determination to finish the stack by the end of your shift. No distra–

A knock echoes through the slightly ajar door.

Your office door is deliberately left open, a practice maintained for moments just like this - in case a patient requires urgent attention. While there’s a room in the clinic set up with rows of cots and medical equipment, your office provides an additional space for those seeking a more private examination.

"Hello, daybreak.”

Rhysand strides in, his easy confidence filling the small space of your office. You glance up only momentarily before returning your attention to the task at hand, responding with a dry humor that matches his tone.

"Hello, High Lord. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Rhysand tilts his head, his gaze lingering on you. Moving with quiet elegance, he walks past the examination table and approaches your desk instead. His attention is immediately drawn to a book resting on top of one of the many stacks. A poetry book, he recognizes, adorned with a delicate cobalt blue ribbon. 

“What’s this?”

“A gift from Azriel,” you reply casually and miss the way his face twists at the nonchalance of your tone.

 Rhysand blinks at you. “A what?”

“A book. That Azriel got. For me.” You repeat, deliberately slower this time. 

Rhysand heard you perfectly well the first time. His eyebrows knit together as he gazes at the book, a storm brewing in his expressive eyes. If looks could scorch, the innocent book would be reduced to a pile of ashes. Your birthday is months away and Solstice was weeks ago. 

“I’m hurt.”

You look up, keen eyes glancing over his form again. “You don’t look hurt.”

Undeterred, he saunters closer, swiping a deliberate finger across the papers on your desk. "Come on, surely you can spare a moment for a poor High Lord in deep pain."

You inspect his outstretched hand, where a barely visible mark is displayed on his pointer finger. "It's a papercut," you deadpan. 

“It hurts.”

"It's already healed."

Rhysand dramatically lets out a deep sigh and you suppress the urge to smile. The sound of a bell ringing–a sign that someone is in need of help–has you rising from your seat. You walk toward Rhysand, who continues to brood. Holding his gaze, you bring his hand to your mouth and press a light kiss right over where the papercut had been.

“There.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze. “Feel better now?”

Every nerve in his body tingles with excitement, and there's a giddy flutter in his stomach. “Much better,” Rhysand breathes with a grin, savoring your touch.

He doesn’t allow your hand to drop, brushing it over his cheek instead and holding it there with his own. If you can’t see the flush to his cheeks, then surely you must be able to feel its warmth.

“How can I ever repay you?”

“You’re already paying me,” you remind him with a soft exhale, a laugh almost. The sound is music to Rhysand's ears and all his heart wants to do is dance to its rhythm. He realizes he can’t let this moment slip. Not when he finally has your full attention and a golden opportunity to seek more of it.

“You can come with me to the Midnight Eclipse ball.”

“Midnight Eclipse ball,” you repeat, your voice laced with intrigue, and Rhysand can't help but admire the way your eyes gleam with curiosity. “What is that?”

“Come with me and find out,” Rhysand replies, his eyes sparkling at you. He leans in closer, captivated by the softness of your gaze, and with a smile, he boldly adds, “As my date.”

“Your date?” you ask, your breath catching slightly. 

Rhysand only hums in reply, taking pleasure in the way his cheek presses further against your hand as he does so. The look he gives you is almost pleading as he gazes down at you. 

“Okay,” you finally say after a moment of silence with a small smile of your own. “I’ll join you. When is it?”

Rhysand beams down at you, his eyes filled with warmth and anticipation. Shifting his face in your hold, he presses a gentle kiss against the palm of your hand and now it is you who is overcome with a giddy flutter in your stomach. Rhysand, normally attuned to your every shift in expression, is too caught up in surprise to take note of it.

“Next Saturday,” he replies, holding your gaze.

The bell rings again, the sound prompting Rhysand to reluctantly let go of your hand. You give him an apologetic smile as you turn toward your desk, grabbing a couple of supplies. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”

You excuse yourself, walking around him to exit your office. Rhysand follows but chooses to lean against your doorframe, watching as you rush toward the infirmary.

“Don’t forget, it’s a date!” Rhysand calls after you, putting emphasis on the word ‘date.’

“Yes, I got it!” You reply, giving him a thumbs up before disappearing around the corner.

Rhysand smiles to himself. Though Saturday is almost five days away, he doesn’t mind the wait. Not when you just agreed to be his date. He looks down at the hand you kissed, closing it into a fist, overwhelmed with the giddy excitement building up inside him. You’re so utterly endearing. He brings his fist close to his mouth, suppressing the urge to bite it as he swoons over the thought of having you as his date for the Midnight Eclipse ball.

Reality begins to set in and his smile widens into a grin. Now, he has to plan the ball he literally just made up…

a/n: tbh, I don't know how I feel about this part. I feel like I set up expectations too high for myself because I really loved how the first part turned out and this part is kinda meh to me. anyway, I hope you still enjoyed this. I'm looking forward to writing the other part(s) as those include scenes I've had in my head for weeeeeeks lol. (You'll finally learn the little secret or two reader is hiding in the next part...any guesses? )I estimate only like 1-2 parts left, depending on how long the next part is.

tagging: @minnieoo , @phoenixgurl030, @nebarious, @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444

[sandplague]

pathologic 3 save & sound 2024 presentation

this is a quick attempt at a transcript of the presentation. I think I got most of it but there are some words I was unable to hear, I can't say I have a lot of practice doing this and that's on me so if any of you guys can help me I'll edit it asap

Ressa Schwarzwald: I'm Ressa from Gameowdio. Our team has been working on Pathologic 3 with Vasily Kashnikov and his apprentice Nikolai. This video will feature some of the audio stuff we've made together.

Our goal regarding audio direction was to give the real experience of being in the epicenter of an epidemic. Fully realistic, no bullshit. So we are obviously shooting this video in The Town. We realized pretty early that the game was quite different from the original Pathologic 2 because of the time travel mechanics. So for the prototype we built a time travel machine [the date November 1924 shows on screen], which appeared to be quite useful to record some source sounds, and [date changes to November 3024] make this video in just half a second using existing technology.

Let's start with the music.

Vasily Kashnikov: Hi, I'm Vasily Kashnikov, audio director of Pathologic 3 project. I'll tell you how our music is structured. We were already thinking about how the Bachelor's game would sound when we were working on Patholgic 2 and writing music for Haruspex. In Pathologic 2, the music had more ethnic and real motives (motifs?) and instruments. Since the city and its customs are familiar with Haruspex since he was a child, he is involved in the traditional way of life. In the case of Pathologic 3, this is the view of an outsider who evaluates everything from the point of view of rationality and science. Therefore, we are trying to make the Pathologic 3 soundtrack colder and more detached from the steppes and ethnicity in character. There is more synthesis, guitars at the same time, the Bachelor communicates with those in power so the soundtrack contains a large share of minimalist so-called furniture music that could sound in the beginning of the last century. Piano etudes and references to composers of that time: Satie, Debussy, etc. The soundtrack is a rather eclectic mix of dreampop, downtempo, and (?) minimalism.

In the city when the Bachelor is alone with himself, we emphasize the cold mind of the rhythm section: less emotional harmony, and sometimes electronic timbres. In the rooms where we need to separate the main character from those he interacts with, we use more expressive harmonies and more classical instruments: piano and guitar passages.

When we designed the interactive music system, we assumed that time is finite, and the music had to change depending on the amount of time the Bachelor had left. However, we later abandoned this system and now the music changes depending on the state of the Bachelor himself, who can fall into apathy or psychosis. To emphasize these states, we apply filters and effects to different layers of our tracks and get a slower, muffled sound in the case of apathy, and wired (?) nervous, glitchy in the case of psychosis. In the infected quarters, there are interactive systems that... [screen begins to distort] oh my god, Nataliya! Please stop this!

Nataliya Radina: Whoops, hehe, sorry. But yeah, basically the other system we created reflects everything you hear in the game. Such as... If we use our gun when dealing with the local thugs, the longer we aim the weapon at the people, the less sounds of the outside world we hear and the louder becomes the heartbeat. To add to the intensity, sharper tone was used along with a high pitch tinnitus sound. If the psychosis level goes to the maximum, it starts to damage Bachelor's health, which is accompanied by flashes on the screen, as well as low heartbeat and short breathing sounds.

Vasily Kashnikov: In the infected and rebel's quarters, there are also interactive systems that change the character of the music by adding or disabling instrument layers depending on the state of the world or the Bachelor's equipment to fight the plague. As a result, we have 12 tracks for each day spent in the city. they can freely switch between each other and several dozen themes for locations and characters, and all the music is subject to change depending on the state of the Bachelor.

Nataliya Radina: Since the game has a weather changing system, we also wanted to reflect that in our audio feedback as well. The game has global wetness parameter that shows how intense the rain is. The more it rains, the more squishy and muddy are the steps of the outside surfaces. Moreover, if you come closer to the window, you can hear the rain pondering on the glass. Even in the middle of the plague, we always have room for cozy moments, right? My favorite part of that system is involving cows. [cow moo]. So, when it's raining, you can actually hear very very soft sound of raindrops dropping on those bovine butts. And I personally think it's beautiful.

Artur Ramanouski: Hi, my name is Artur, and I was also involved in creating some sound assets for the game.

Probably the hardest thing to record were the footsteps. I had everything planned out: bought the equipment, got every type of surface, but...there was one small thing I overlooked: I live in a city with over 12 million people. Noise everywhere. The solution was simple and ingenious: I recorded everything on a Sunday, because in Buenos Ares, Sunday is the one day when no one does anything.

Nataliya Radina: One of the most important places in the game is the cathedral. There we have a system of ladders that control the speed and direction of time. Direction wise, we can have it flow normally, or reversed. [entire presentation is rewound very quickly so it's back to Ressa]

Ressa Schwarzwald: She is super professional.

Nataliya Radina: As for the speed, we can make it stand still, go twice as fast, or half normal speed. We created an audio system that has to (?) understand what is actually happening around (inaudible). When we reverse time, spatial effects are added to the surrounding sounds. Ambience, steps, and the mechanism itself. When time stands still, we increase the low frequencies in the ambience, and all the other sounds are muted to zero. Now lastly, when the time goes twice as fast, or half the original speed, the pitch of the surrounding sound changes accordingly.

The coolest part of this system is that it's been actually implemented into the game engine using only one parameter.

Ressa Schwarzwald: Thank you for watching. See you here, later!

[daphwritesworld]

#23 A. Russo– digital bath.

content: daddy kink, strap on(r receiving), eating pussy (both receiving), fingering (r receiving), hair grabbing, manhandling, cock warming, impact play, referring to strap as a cock, dom/sub relationship, top!Alessia, bottom!reader

warnings: slight intoxication while having sex, dom lessi, teammates hearing you two fuck, spankings

synopsis: You drunkenly claim that Alessia is a bottom to the team…she shows you & them just how bad you’re lying through your teeth.

word count: 2.6k

!! MINORS DNI!! 18+ CONTENT

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥♠♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The teams all gathered in an air bnb for the weekend. It’s supposed to be a “team bonding trip,” but considering how close you all were– it’s really just like a mini vacation. It’s the second night and well into the evening. A few hours have passed since someone, you can’t remember who broke out the wine, but you’re two and a half glasses deep already. Your girlfriend’s disappeared to the bathroom and you’re starting to clench your thighs together every time you think of her. Alcohol always brings out the more horny and risky side of you. Usually so soft-spoken and shy discussing anything like that..goes right out the window after the tipsy level has been reached.

“so who tops, you or less?” a drunk Leah lets out from across the couch.

You’d usually blush and tell her to mind her business or shut up, but the alcohol cursing through everyone’s veins was making you feel confident…and stupid. 

“Obviously, it’s me. Don’t you notice how she does everything I say or want?” a smirk crossing your face as you lift your drink back to your lips to take a sip. The burn masking the lies you know will catch up with you sooner rather than later. 

“Oh my god, she even ties your shoes for you without you asking!” Beth chimes in with a laugh 

“Or how all she has to do is give Russo one look and she shuts right up!” Lia starts getting in on the discussion. 

“See, I told you. I’ve got her on a leash—“

“And who would that be, love? With the collar on and everything?” the color drains from your face as the all too familiar voice from the hallway entrance fills the room. 

Silence follows as her footsteps get closer. You can’t even look up at her, picking at your fingers and looking at your lap to distract yourself. You don’t even look up at her when her feet are right before you. Her fingers reach for your chin, bringing your face up. When your eyes don’t follow she starts counting back from, “five.” your heartbeat starts to pick up. “four,” her voice gets more stern. “three,” her grip tightens on your jaw. “two,” you gulp as you bite your lip weighing your options. “O-“You look up at her, eyes pleading for her to be nice. 

“Look who decided to listen. Now stand u-“ 

“No! Less, baby please..” 

“Stand up and say your goodnights. Now.” 

You can tell she’s not playing around from the look on her face and the tone she’s using with you. So you do as she says, rising off the couch and biding your teammate’s goodnight before she’s leading you to the room you’d be sharing for the weekend. The first one on the left as you enter the hall a.k.a the closest one to the living room where all the girls still reside. As soon as the door’s shut she’s got her hand in your hair, bringing you to the bed. She sits herself down first, laying your body down across her lap. She releases her grip on your hair before running her hands down your body, stopping at your waist to yank your shorts down. They collect at your ankles, Alessia letting a groan out as you flinch from the cold air hitting your wet pussy. 

“No panties on, babe? What am I gonna do with you, naughty girl?” 

Before you get a chance to respond she’s letting one of her hands come down onto your ass. You let out a small yelp of pain and quickly cover your mouth, going red at the thought of any of the girls hearing you from so close. 

“Move. Your. Hand.” she spanks you harder after each word, switching between cheeks to not overwhelm you. 

When you don’t make a move to comply with her, she lets out a loud sigh. Her disappointment apparent as she yanks both of your arms behind you, keeping both your wrists bound to the small of your back with just one of her hands. 

Her other one disappears for a few seconds, but before you can think about it.. you hear it. The clacking of her belt coming off, pulling it through the loops of the jeans she’d worn out tonight. 

“You’d think you would of learned to listen by now…unless you just like getting punished. Like winding me up and getting put back in your place after,” the laugh she lets out is bone-chilling. She rubs your ass a few times before you feel the first one. It’s not too bad, but enough to finally bring some tears to your eyes. 

“Alessia!’ it comes out whiney, high pitched, and so so loud. 

It’s followed by another 14, the next one harsher than the last. 

“Lessia, please touch me. I promise I’ll be a good girl for you! J-just please!” your crying at this point, slipping deeper into subspace by the second. 

“You did so good for me, Love. Took all your spankings without complaint. Now let’s reward you a bit, yeah?” She leans down to leave light kisses on your back. Rubbing softly over your ass to not hurt you more, she could tell you’d be bruised there tomorrow and aching before sunrise. You nod your head as you look back at her, tears still flowing and pussy still dripping. She doesn’t waste any time running her fingers through your folds and collecting your wetness to bring up and ghost over your clit. She brings them back down after teasing you, shoving two of her fingers into your pussy to your surprise. A loud moan rips from your throat as you get used to the stretch. The slight sting makes you wetter if possible, already creating a puddle on Alessia’s jeans. She picks her pace up when she feels it soaking through to her skin, her thumb coming up to rub your clit. 

“Lessie, you feel s-so fucking go-good!” your brain is fuzzy at this point. Stuttering and slurring your words as the pleasure starts to blind you. Your toes curling and your thighs squeezing shut– but it doesn’t last. Not for long anyway, because Alessia is pulling her fingers out and away from you. 

“That was mean!” you’re flipping your body around, arms crossed over your chest as the tears roll down your cheeks and the pout wobbles on your lips. 

“Oh look at you, crying ‘cause you didn’t get to cum. I’ve got you so fucking spoiled, don’t I?” Alessia is doing that cold laughter from before, and something about it still sends a rush down your spine. Then she’s up rummaging around in her overnight bag as you stay sulking on the bed. 

“Maybe if you apologize nicely, I’ll let you come on my cock,” it’s spoken so softly compared to everything else she’s said tonight that you fold. Your head jumps up to look at her at the end of the bed and your mouth flies open. She’s stark naked besides the lacey black bra adorning her chest, and the brand new strap-on attached to her waist. The sight truly takes your breath away for a moment until she grabs your ankles and pulls you to her. She manhandles you so her cock rests on your pussy, letting her hand come down and lightly slap your inner thigh.

“I-I’m sorry, baby! I don’t know what came over me to lie, I swear! I won’t do it again, I-I promise!”

“Mm I don’t know, Love..I think you can do a bit better than that, don’t you?” she’s giving you a knowing smirk. One you’ve only seen a few times when she’s in the mood for a certain name. Your eyes go wide, “b-but the girls-”

“Then you better stay quiet,” she says it in a way that leaves no room for discussion. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry I lied to the team. I’m sorry if I embarrassed or disrespected you…so so sorry! Just wanna be your good girl and cum for you,” your hands come up and guide hers to your breasts. “Just wanna make it up to you, Daddy..”

Alessia groans shortly, cutting it off early to hear the gasp you always let out when she lines her hips up and first pushes the tip in. No matter how many times she’s fucked you, it always stretches you the same. She goes slowly and at your pace, until she bottoms out, rubbing circles on your hips as she waits for your go-ahead. After a few minutes, you look up and nod at her, giving her permission to fuck you…but nothing could’ve prepared you for the way she starts jackhammering her plastic cock into you. Pulling all the way out so she can hear your pussy squelch every time the head dives back in. 

“Ales–”

She stops for a second, throwing your legs up over her shoulders, “That’s not my fucking. Name.”. She thursts extra hard for emphasis making your eyes start to cross. Leaning forward and forcing the strap even deeper inside you at this position. 

“Daddy!” the word flies out faster and louder than anything else you’d said that night, making your girlfriend smile against your forehead as she leans down to press a kiss there. “Ohh f-fuck, your so fucking b-big!” Your hands grab at her forearms, nails digging into Alessia’s skin. 

“You like my big cock, Baby?” she’s biting at your bottom lip now, pulling it away as you moan at the feeling as she lets it go. 

“I fucking love it!” you’re staring into each other’s eyes at this point. Alessia hissing as your nails buried in her forearms start to scratch down, the burn of it creeping up and helping build towards her orgasm. She moves your hands to her back as she lets one of hers find your clit. Rolling figure eights over your sensitive bud, a white creamy ring appearing around the base of her strap. 

“C-can I cum, Daddy?” 

“Not yet, Cuore Mio. Hold it for me,” she’s finally starting to break a sweat at this point. Her baby hairs starting to stick up from her ponytail.

“I c-can’t, Less!”

“Oh yes, the fuck you can. And you will. Don’t you dare cum until I say, you understand?” her voice goes back to being stern, and her thrusts get harder, her frustration with you focusing all into her hips now. Fucking you with so much passion she swears she can feel your pussy gripping her dick like a real piece of her body. She’s too wound up to even make you correct yourself, letting the name slips go by unnoticed.

“I-I’m so-sorry!” you let out a squeal as the straps pushed out of your pussy by the liquid spraying out of it, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your back arches. 

Alessia’s stuck between wanting to suck the squirt off your pussy or edging you till tomorrow. She settles for a groan of “Fuck, Amore Mio!”

Her fingers instantly start trailing down to replace her cock, curling them into your g-spot and rutting them into it over and over again. Your hand reaches for her wrist trying to slow her down, but it’s no use, she slaps it away with her other one. Your eyesight starts to blur as the coil in your stomach winds back up again, and you try to warn her with a few grunts and moans. She’s got you rendered speechless from the overstimulation, eyes rolling again as she closes her lips around your clit. You soak her fingers instead of her abdomen this time, placing a soft kiss on your clit before standing back up. 

That’s when you see it– the light glistening off her chin and lower mouth. Your cheeks flush as she pulls you in for a kiss, tasting yourself on her lips. 

“Turn around, Love,” she says with a frown, and you know she’s still mad at you for cumming without permission. “And get into position.” 

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry,” and for once tonight you just do as she asks you the first time. You place your knees open before laying your head on the mattress, arching your back as much as you can. Your beaten ass is on full display for your girlfriend to see her handy work, and she can’t help but to reach for her phone and snap a photo of you like this before tossing it back down. A little reminder if you ever forget this lesson and want a sneak peek back into it again. 

Alessia grabs ahold of your waist with one hand while the other grabs her strap. She grinds against your pussy a few times, getting the strap wet before sliding in balls deep with no hesitation. This angle has the harness hitting her clit perfectly, and her fucking you wildly as she chases the feeling. You hear the groans, moans, and pants from behind you, and try to picture how pretty her face looks. Something about the sounds Alessia is making makes you throw your ass back. The hard smack of your hips hitting hers sends shock waves through her body. Her brows furrow, her grip tightens on your waist, and her sounds of pleasure start being growled into your ear. She’s got a hand in your hair– pulling your head back with a gaspy moan leaving your lips. “Fuuuck, Tesoruccio. Keep going, Baby!” 

And so you do. You push your ass back against her harder in this new position, her legs starting to shake as yours do. “I-I’m close, Lessie!”

“I’m close too, Baby! Cream all over this dick for me, go on,” she’s groaning out how much she loves you, her own cum running down and mixing with yours. Making a mess as your left brain dead, repeating “Thank you!” over and over as your body shakes from how hard the orgasm rocks you. 

She goes to pull out after you’ve both calmed down some– but you wrap your legs around her waist with a pout.

“Don’t go,” you say softly as you take her hands into yours. Interlocking them and placing them above your head.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love. just to get us cleaned up.”

“No, I mean..stay inside me, please? Wanna sleep like this, baby.”

And how could she say no to that? So she scoops you up in the same position and slowly but surely gets you placed under the covers and snuggled up against your girlfriend(and her fake cock).

-bonus-

The next morning…

After a nice wake-up fuck, courtesy of your girlfriend– you decided to slide that harness off her and eat her out. Her hand is in your hair, guiding your head along her pussy as you both try and stay quieter this time. Your eyes are on the verge of rolling just from the sight of her, her chest rising and falling as you bring her closer to the edge with every flick of your tongue.

“Fuck me with your tongue now, yeah just like that! Good girl, Love,” you’re dizzy off the praise she’s giving you, fingernails digging into her thighs as you moan into her pussy.

Her grip in your hair tightens as she starts humping up against your mouth, her wetness and cum getting all over your face as you savor the times like this when she’s the one underneath you. (even if she is the one in charge still)

When she cums for the second time in a row, she pulls your mouth up towards her own. Sharing a kiss and finally starting to get up and dressed for the day

“You brought your own clothes you know?” your girlfriend says as she pulls your back into her chest. you can feel the rumble of her laugh as she leans down slightly to leave a kiss on the back of your neck. “And you know i’ve been looking for this hoodie you, Mostriciattolo!” it’s followed by a light slap to your ass. Not too hard to hurt your bruises, but not soft enough to not feel it.

“Yeah i did ..but they don’t smell like you, or fit like yours, and well…too bad so sad, babe! Finders keepers losers weepers!” You turn around and plant a kiss on her lips before going to the door, clad in some of her training shorts and a hoodie of hers you had actually packed with you. You can still remember her running around looking for it while playing the oblivious girlfriend…But once you both make it to the kitchen it is an all-out brawl. 

“You know I never took you for the Daddy type. Leah sure, but you?? I’m actually taken aback. Some best friend you are!” Ella is the first to break the intense stare-down between everyone in the room.

“OH DADDY YEAH RIGHT THERE!”

“Who did that? I do NOT sound like that!” you finally chip in after hearing the god-awful pornstar-level rendition of your voice, a deep crimson blush spreading across your cheeks.

“I’m scarred for life after last night, remind me to never get a room next to yours again. I swear you lot they were up at 6am fucking AGAIN,” Leah grimaces at the thought, “how you two got like 3 hours of sleep and still managed to go again for two hours this morning is actually bloody ridiculous. You both should be studied in a fucking lab.”  

The kitchen breaks out into loud laughter and incessant teasing remarks as you bury your face into Alessia’s neck to hide. She’s about to rip into everyone for making you upset, but she feels the smile and the small laughs against the skin of her neck and relaxes.

[nincompoopydoo]

Hey! Can you please write something for Aaron Hotchner with the prompt ‘I never saw such a woman, she would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.’ ?

YOU ARE IN LOVE

PAIRING: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader WORD COUNT: 800+ SUMMARY: Hotch is in love and you’re trying to figure out who. Little did you know… A/N: can u tell i love writing confessions ;-; and peek the ts reference! anyway hotch has my whole heart. thanks for the request! note: paragraphs in italics is a flashback. WARNINGS: swearing. reader being kinda clueless. mentions of a gun. no beta we die like men. PROMPT: “I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.” [from this prompt list] MASTERLIST

“I know that look, Hotch,” you hint with a natural inquisitive tone, “You are in love.”

This was normal for the two of you – an unlikely friendship with a shared need for coffee to survive late-night paperwork, rudimentary for a budding friendship of otherwise Quantico strangers. You crossed paths from your work with the CNU on the floor below and first backed the BAU a year ago with a hostage negotiation. You were new to the job but rose quickly up the ranks. Ever since, you kept seeing each other everywhere.

11 pm. Coffee. You’d always meet.

He isn’t sure how the topic of being in love came about, but he suspects you had a hunch for quite some time. For a moment, Hotch’s heart drops at your words but quickly catches the curiosity in your tone, and the general ignorance to the fact that your prying means a lot more to him than you realised.

You really haven’t got a clue.

Hotch feels a beckoning of warmth flaring in his cheeks, spurring a sheepish smile and a passing light chuckle. His gaze trails the rising steam billowing from his black coffee and disappearing into the expanse of his office.

He shifts his eyes to you, casually hunched in your seat, legs stretched out, and your coat hung at the back of the chair. You’re watching him with a curious look.

“In love is a bit of a stretch.”  

That’s a lie. He’s very much in love with you.

Your smile curves into a sly smirk. You know he’s lying.

“So, you don’t deny it?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

You scoff, shifting in your seat to cross your arms. “Look, be thankful I’m not using hostage negotiation tactics on you right now. Answer the question, Hotch.”

Hotch laughs, and it leaves him with a small smile. He shakes his head, gaze falling to his mug once more. “I don’t deny it.”

You simply hum. “I won’t pry, but I believe it’s customary to tell me how you met and what she’s like.”

Hotch raises a brow, and you reflect his expression – it’s a challenge. He’ll never make it out of Quantico if he doesn’t tell you.

With a heavy sigh, he ultimately gives in. 

“We first met on the field. She assisted us on a case…”

“Agent Hotchner!”

He spins around to see you trudging across the road while strapping on your tactical vest. You introduced yourself with a polite smile through squinted eyes under the glaring sun and shook his hand. Firmly.

You’re CNU – hostage negotiator. A fresh face.

“We appreciate you coming on short notice,” Hotch says curtly, though the smile that tugs his mouth betrays his usually serious demeanour.

“Well, anything for our upstairs neighbours.” You beam up at him, and Hotch prays that his suddenly flushed cheeks are hidden under the shade of the nearby trees.

You make a final adjustment to your vest with a light huff and unclasp the holster that secured your gun, withdraw it and extend your firearm to Hotch in a heartbeat. It’s a silent request and an act of trust.

Hotch hesitantly took the gun from your grasp. “You sure about this?”

You pressed your lips in a thin line. You were terrified. “Yeah... Unsub isn’t gonna talk with a gun in his face.”

Another smile his way. “Just cover me while I’m in there.”

Your words resonate with a heaviness that strikes directly at his heart. There’s a clear passion for your job despite your horrified disposition. It isn’t noticeable, but he sees it. He respects that about you.

Hotch just nods assuringly, “Always.”

“– Alright, pause. She’s highly intelligent, an excellent communicator, fears nothing, and I’m assuming incredibly hot...” You stop yourself and laugh to yourself, expression gleaming with amusement. “I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.”

You don’t mean to, but he can see you trying to ‘crack the case’: the identity mysterious woman. He knows you’ll uncover the truth eventually. Despite harbouring a confession for months, Hotch understands there may never be a right time. It needs to be now.

So, he allows you to piece it together.

“She certainly is.”

You’re not listening anymore, brows shooting up like you just had a revelation. “Wait, you mentioned she’s a negotiator?”

“Yeah, she’s from the floor below.”

Your brows furrow with confusion.

“The floor below?! But there’s only Annie, who’s very much happily married, and–”

A beat. Realisation settles upon your face, and Hotch’s heart leaps.

Oh.

OH.

You blink at him, dumbfounded.

It’s you.

“...You’re in love with me?”

Your words are barely audible and careful, bearing their fragile weight and gravity. There’s a crease between your brows, eyes gleaming with expectancy. 

He has never been so sure.

“Yeah, I think I am.”

A beat. He says it so plainly that it assures any doubts you had before. Your breath hitches.

Hotch is in love with you.

Instantly, your face splits into a bashful smile as you reach for his hand, a gentle touch to your palm, fingers intertwined with your own.

“I think I’m in love with you too.”

[hoshinasblade]

For real, the animator had ri have been a Hoshina loyalists. Cause no way he looks that bad. For a Narumi prompt it could be funny that he gets with someone that doesn't know him. Someone who doesn't believe he is the 1st division captain because they only see him as the "wet cat" version of himself. And we have Narumi losing his mind over the fact you don't believe him

(not sure where tumblr took my post again because i cant find it lol) the budget went to hoshina and his tight shirt and there was nothing left to animate narumi properly. anyway, this is such a cute and interesting prompt because because yes, he is losing his mind over you not believing he is the cool first division captain 😆

pairing: gen narumi x f!reader trigger warnings: narumi gen is a trigger warning himself, just super short because im not used to writing anything narumi-related yet. hopefully you don't get mad at me anon for not going exactly per the ask lol my brain is a mush right now, i'll try harder on my next fics

the rich man is here, shouted the kids from the hallway. you can hear their hurrying footsteps - excited little taps that in turn triggered your heartbeat to race as well. you shut your eyes, calming yourself down.

narumi gen is not exactly a rich man; the children in the orphanage just calls him that fondly. apparently he has been dropping by for years, way back when you weren't working as a teacher yet. the older orphans refer to him as nii-san.

narumi would bring toys snd snacks for the kids, and would spend time with them until the early evening before he has to say goodbye. last time, he played video games with everyone; he brought crayons and sketch boobs for his visit today, and within an hour, it was eerily quiet - the little girls and boys holding their pencils, drawing all sorts of things.

the youngest in your herd, a six-year old boy with a missing front tooth ran to you when he saw you by the door, showing you his drawing - a stick-man figure with a knife in its hand, and an animal beside it which you were not sure whether it's an oversized dog or a giraffe.

"it's a kaiju, and narumi nii-san is fighting it", the boy explained, and you patted him in the head. "he's a captain of his team, i'm gonna be like him when i grow up!"

you looked at narumi who is sitting on the floor, but he was already looking at you. you shifted your gaze. "this is so pretty, we should display it in the art wall", you suggested to the boy who grinned at you, clapping.

"you know that it's not a good thing to do, lying to kids, right?" the children had bid narumi goodbye just past 7pm, and although some of them cried, narumi was quick to promise he would be back next weekend. you were surprised, he used to only be here once a month.

"huh?" he responded to you with confusion. you walked him out the orphanage to the parking lot outside. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"look, i know you are trying to be nice. and i thank you for that. what you've done for these kids is more than anyone else have done for them. but telling them you're some guy who kills kaiju is wrong. and telling them they can be like you?" you scoffed.

narumi's mouth was wide open before he realized you have finished your speech. "but i am a guy who kills kaiju", he replied, his hand on his chest as if he is swearing on his life. "really, i'm not lying. i'm the captain of my team -"

"right, and you fight kaiju on the daily," you finished his sentence for him.

"yes, i am a real badass, i promise!" he exclaimed when he sensed you do not believe him in the slightest. it looks comical how he looks close to panicking over the fact that you are not buying whatever he's selling. he frowned at you, and you stared at him, the eye contact lasting for a few seconds.

maybe this guy is a con-artist and he makes his living manipulating people, you said to yourself. this would make a lot of sense considering you think he has the good looks to lure people in. narumi had flirted at you once or twice before - or you wish he was flirting and you were not just reading too much on his actions.

"you know if you meet my friends, they would tell you the truth," he suggested, his voice cheerful.

"why would i meet your friends?" you asked, equally confused.

"so they can tell you that i am the coolest captain of the anti-kaiju defense force. they would also tell you i am a good man and a dependable friend," narumi said, reciting maybe the contents of his curriculum vitae to you. is he in a job interview? you wanted to ask but didn't.

you sighed in defeat. "are your friends as exasperating as you are?" you asked in jest.

"come on, let me impress you", he told you with sincerity that is almost startling. you were not expecting him to sound so genuine, so adamant at proving himself to you.

the kids will have their dinner in a few minutes and you will be needed to help out. you gave narumi one last glance before strolling back to the orphanage. "i'm off on fridays", you said.

narumi's smile could have lighted the entire street.

[marchsfreakshow]

Withdrawals And Heartache [Kai Anderson]

Angst / smut teasings

Your friend got you into a cult when you moved back into town for a bit. Not that you knew it was a cult. But, the leader...looks oddly familiar.

Request for anon who suggested a part 2 to 'A Drug For His Heart' !! Ur request honestly gave me so many ideas so thank u for that.

Some warnings: smut implications has non-con, reference to hitting, Kai himself. Mentions of religion/corruption. Ultraviolence references but the roles are reversed. We got everything here at MarchsFreakshow

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

"look just come to one. It'll be worth it."

"Hm.."

You looked at your friend with distain. Being back in this town, knowing the possibility that Kai still lived here tugged at you. Well...you hadn't seen him so far, what was the possibility of seeing him at this... meeting you were suggested? You figured 100% you wouldn't see him.

The man's voice was lower, his face darkened by the shadows. You almost clung to your friend when you walked into the room with them. This place looked familiar. But you didn't put it past you, plenty of houses in this town looked similar to one another. Maybe it was your ditzying memory. 2 years away and a job that paid you well. There was not much here for you apart from family.

"Finally."

His voice rung through your ears. Your friend sat you down with them at the back. Why that voice...like the one that whimpered your name so long ago? Despite those lingering thoughts, his face was still hidden by the shadows. Quick, lingering glances to you. Like he knew you. His eyes on you had you slightly squirming. Adjusting your legs casually, pulling your coat sleeves down. He took notice of it all.

"You. Stay sat." His finger pointed directly into your eyes. Silently eyeing your friend, begging them to stay. Yet, they left in the crowd. Eyes meeting eyes. His footsteps, calculated, short and sour.

Standing up, you left your chair, to stand in front him. The stringy, greasy blue hair, the boba black eyes, the nose. The hands.

Kai.

"Kai.."

He repeated your online name. It made you cringe slightly. "You looked familiar. Why are you back in town?"

"Family."

"Tell me something...your real name. The one people use to devote their time to you."

Slightly stuttering, you got out your real name.

This wasn't the incel, nervous, shaky loser you met on Reddit over 2 years ago. Kai stood taller. Still had terrible hygiene. Atleast one thing never changed. He was more confident in himself, proud and ready to kill. And..the blue hair. It almost confused you. Why blue? He looked perfectly fine the way he did with his natural hair.

"It suits you." A moment of almost awkward silence between the two of you. "Why did you move? Was it me?"

"It wasn't you." It was him. Another step towards you, and his hands confidently found the small of your back. Not reminiscent of his shaky, nervous hands on your waist and your back when he held you close, when he pulled you flush against his chest. Yet that heartbeat stayed the same. Picking up it's own pace once he had you in his arms once again. "Ha...Kai." You breathed out, sprawling your hands over his chest, almost an instinct to push him away.

No. He couldn't have you push him away. Not after what you put him through. "I missed you."

"...I didn't."

Those dark eyes, somehow darker when Kai stared his soul into your soul. Rage. Confusion. Why didn't you miss him? He poured his heart out to you when it was so long ago. Shouldn't you've taken it all to him when you noticed it was him? The dim light over you flickered like a horror movie, a horrible cliché. His fingers digging themselves into your coat fabric, holding himself back from doing something that could drive you away from him.

Kai missed you. He had back in his arms. After so long. He held himself back. His true love. His love for you wasn't enough. Was it? It never was enough. Why was loving you hard? It was so easy...when you were the same person. "I'm different now Kai." Like you knew what he was thinking. "I'm healthier...not wasting away in front of a-"

His hand struck you. A quick, hard slap over your cheek. The reddening skin covered just as speedily with your own hand. "Kai-!"

"Do you really think you're that much different from when you were depending on me?"

"..what the fuck Kai?!"

Meeting your gaze, levelling himself. This definitely wasn't Kai. Whoever it was, you wanted out. Now. "..Still a pretty one. I suppose you're one with a rosary on your bedstand. Hoping for a better world."

No retort after a few minutes. Steeling silence with a unclear gaze, your hand still soothing the sting of your cheek. It almost earned a huff of a chuckle from the blue haired man. Why blue? "Believe yourself to be a lamb? Innocently following the word of god?" Well...you wouldn't go so far as to call yourself a lamb of god. But maybe you read a few verses on Sunday. Visited the church and made a donation when you felt you needed some time away from your own head. Not a full puppet to the landscape of religion. Silent still. Not giving up yet? Kai had seen that. Seen how you were digging your stare into those eyes of his.

"Your god has only let you down." Taking a step around you. Breathing out a sigh, putting his hands on yours and wrapping them around you. Pressing his cheek to the side of your head. Like he was taking you in. "If god...truly loved you..why has you lead you here?"

Your lips were sealed. No response. There was no way you were giving into his stupid tauntings. He was doing this on purpose. Riling you up. You ached to lay your hands back on him. Yet, not wanting to give the desperate man an inch of your time. Such a different man to the one you knew, but still the same. Needing your attention, and your touch at all times like the loser in his mom's basement.

Now that was mentioned...you were here. In the basement. This..was infact Kai's house. How could you be so stupid? Of course this was Kai's place!! You knew the hallways looked familiar. The whole house. "fuck."

"There we go... can't keep yourself quiet for long. Even when I begged you to stay quiet." He lead you over to a table. Even if that did include a bit of thrashing and refusals. Attempting to get yourself away. Such a pitiful thing. So pitiful. The stinging of your cheek had lessened by this point, but it was still there. Never backing yourself down however. You'd gotten this far. Such a pretty thing. "I've missed you..Even if you haven't missed me."

Not particularly wanting to give into your fate, you continued to struggle. Attempts to get away from him; cut your trip short and go back home.

As much as you would never admit it, Kai did appear in your mind once or twice after you moved away. How could he not? For one, he took your virginity. You took his. That was something important to you, and you yanked it away from eachother.

Like how he yanked your jeans away from you. The cold air hit your thighs before you could respond. Both of you stayed silent. His belt hit the ground. You still felt the same. Gripping onto you. Playing with your skin as he got used to how you felt around him again. Whimpering your name again. But your actual name this time. Not your online name.

Somehow become his again, even though you'd leave again in a week or so.

"fuck..mine.."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tags: @babygorewhore / @taintandviolent / @oceanblvd111 / @nahoyasboyfriend / @coentinim / @slutforgarlogan / @briaroftheroses @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re /. @evanpeterspeter / @feefymo / @fear-is-truth / @lacucarachapisser / @marchsfreak / @saintlucretia / @jazz-berry / @t8-ak47 / @lemoniiiiiii / @xrag-dollx

[kamaluhkhan]

we were wild and fluorescent (come home to my heart)

pairing: conrad fisher x fem!reader

summary: you come back to cousins beach after a few years away. conrad is not particularly happy that you're back - and you aren't particularly thrilled, either. too bad there's a history (chemistry?) neither of you can deny.

warnings: nostalgia + fluff + a bit of a *steamy* ending ; mentions of sex; swearing; conrad and reader drink alcohol; reader is a competitive swimmer + deals with a lot of pressure; complicated family dynamics (reader has two younger siblings + is eldest daughter); pop culture references (it book/movie, percy jackson series), this chapter is very long + ending is a little cheesy !!

tags: @stargirlsirius-recs, @ifilwtmfc, @qwertyb2577, @allnrsnz, @baconeggndcheez, @peanutbelley, @imogen-skye, @geekinthefuschiahair, @tvije, @drikawinchester, @maybankslover, @junnniiieee07, @elcpsstuff, @fangirl-kimora, @redbierd, @starkeylover, @serrendiipty, @jackierose902109, @lonelywitchv2, @c4rpediem-s, @teensyflowur, @peteronesgf, @percysaidnever

a/n: i literally cannot express how much it means to me that people are reading + enjoying my work!! thank you endlessly for following this story. this chapter is mostly fluff with a lot of banter between the reader and conrad + nostalgia. i'm thinking this will be the last part (....unless?) so i hope you enjoy it :)

part one | part two | part three

on a summer afternoon / i get to thinkin' 'bout the hazy days / under august shade that i used to spend with you (khai dreams, “sunkissed”)

now — summer age 18

you’re already frustrated when you walk over to the beck house, and when the person you least want to answer the door opens it, your mood goes from bad to worse.

"hey. is jere home?" you ask, peering behind conrad to see if someone else, anyone else is there. this is the first time since your argument that you and he were alone together, and you really don't want to look him in the eye. he doesn't look too thrilled to see you standing on his porch, either. he looks at you with tired eyes, wearing a black, short-sleeved rashguard and hair dripping wet. 

"no, sorry." 

"how about steven?"

conrad shakes his head and droplets of water go flying. he says something about prep for the debutante ball.

you exhale sharply, upset that your backup plan just fell through. "okay, bye."

you start walking away, but conrad calls your name. 

"everything okay?"

you're surprised by his follow-up question — suspicious, even. given the harsh words you'd exchanged the last time you were together, you assumed that conrad didn't very much care to prolong a conversation with you, much less whether or not you were okay. whatever his intentions are, you don't really have time to go down this road. 

"everything's fine," you answer loudly, still forging ahead.

"come on, y/n. i know you." 

your hands clench into fists at his words and you finally stop in your tracks. 

"conrad," you huff, turning around to face him. "i really don't have time for this." 

"look, i'm not…." conrad sighs, running a hand through his wet hair. "i'm not trying to start anything. you seem a little stressed, and if there's anything i can do….just, let me be there for you."

conrad used to always be there for you in situations like these, and you ignored the sharp pain in your heart earlier when you decided he couldn't be this time. you really, really, really want to stay mad at him — you certainly have enough reasons to be for several lifetimes — but the gentleness of conrad's tone calms you down as much as it throws you off. instinctively, you feel your hands unclench, your heartbeat slow down. 

“so, what’s wrong?”

you sigh. your siblings had planned an overnight trip with their friends at a campground about 3 hours away. they were meant to leave this afternoon, but the chaperones just cancelled — one had car trouble and the other a work emergency. now, they didn’t have a ride or adult supervision, which left you to come up with an alternative, lest you want to spend the rest of your summer drying your siblings’ tears and dealing with a lengthy guilt trip from your mother (who, conveniently, has plans this weekend and can’t reschedule). you left that last part out of your story to conrad, explaining only the basic components of your dilemma.

“but, it’s fine. i’ll sort something out.” as you wait for conrad to respond, you’re already running through a few other alternatives in your mind. you’re just in the middle of estimating the amount of money you would spend on gas when conrad says:

"well, i can come with you." 

you quirk your eyebrow at him. “yeah, you don’t need —”

“you’ll need two cars — and two drivers — to get them there, right? i'm not doing anything right now, or tomorrow.”

“it’s not your problem, conrad. i’ll figure something out —”

“look, you have three options," he interrupts, tilting his head at you. "one, you take two trips yourself to get them all there, which means you’d spend around 10 hours driving each way and waste a ton of money on gas.”

you stiffen. 

you hate that he knows exactly how your brain works….

“two, the twins have to cancel their trip, and you spend the rest of the summer with your siblings upset at you and your mom suggesting that you’re a bad sister, which is not true.”

you hate that he understands exactly the situation you’re in….

“three, you let me help you.”

….and you hate that he always insists on being helpful.

that was the real reason that you didn’t want to ask conrad — because you suspected that he might offer to help regardless of the tension between you two. the conrad you remember was always concerned with doing the right thing, no matter what, and despite how different he’s acting this summer, you knew that caring boy was still there, deep down.

sometimes, you hate being right — it can get a bit tedious.

conrad waits for you to answer, but he obviously knows you well enough to guess your decision. you don’t find the prospect of camping with conrad particularly appealing, but you’re desperate.

you tell conrad to be ready to leave in an hour, before walking back to your place to tell your siblings the good news.

a little over an hour later, your siblings, their friends — devi, khadija, kai, and leo — and all the camping supplies are split in between your and conrad’s cars. you decided to divide the group into threes: you’d drive your sister, khadija and leo; and conrad would drive your brother, devi, and kai. once everyone’s buckled in, you and conrad close the trunk of your respective cars and turn to each other.

“so, we’ve got a spot booked at stardust falls, but the plan is to stop halfway —”

“at sophie’s for a bite to eat,” conrad finishes, a smile creeping on his face. “i know the drill.”

you bite back a smile yourself before nodding at him and getting in the driver's seat.

as your sister cues up a playlist — you had just made her watch lemonade mouth so she was currently obsessed with hayley kiyoko and her music — you get lost in memories of summers past. 

it was a tradition, many years ago: your siblings were too young to join, so for one weekend in late august it was you, conrad, jeremiah, belly, and steven with susannah and laurel, the seven of you piled into a minivan for an overnight camping trip. you spent the drive blasting music and singing along, playing ‘i spy’ while gorging on goldfish crackers and sunny d. about halfway through, there would be a pit stop to refill the gas tank, stock up on snacks, and get something to eat from the nearby diner. you would always get waffles with extra whipped cream and conrad would get chocolate chip pancakes, and you’d always split the food between you. once you got to stardust falls, you’d spend the afternoon swimming and sunbathing, and the night roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, stargazing and whispering until sunrise. 

as much as you loved laurel and susannah, you and conrad would dream of getting your driver’s licence and being able to continue the tradition with just the kids. you never got the chance; it was only five years ago, when you were the same age as your siblings now, that you had gone on your last camping trip to the same location. 

it seems your dreams were finally coming true — just not in the way you expected.

when you get to sophie’s diner, you’re relieved to have a chance to stretch your legs. the eight of you get a familiar booth in the right corner and you find yourself squeezed between devi and the window. the waiter distributes menus to everyone, and it isn’t until you look down that you see it: your initials next to ‘CF’. last time you were here, the five of you all carved your initials onto the table when the moms weren’t looking. you forgot that you’d placed yours right next to conrad’s; to be fair, you were always sitting next to each other. now he’s at the other end of the table on the opposite side, examining the menu carefully even after being here so many times. 

this time, you just get a coffee and steal some bacon from your brother; conrad doesn’t get anything, claiming he isn’t hungry, until your sister offers him the rest of her french toast, which he practically inhales. after, you and conrad fill up on gas while your siblings and their friends go into the store for some snacks. 

“hey, can you get me some sour patch kids?” you ask your brother, handing him a $5 bill. your brother nods and starts walking away; you glance at conrad, then add: “and some m&m’s, too!” to which your brother offers a thumbs up. 

“thanks,” conrad says. he removes the nozzle and sticks it into the gas tank; you do the same, and for a few moments, there’s nothing but silence between you.

“does listening to the lightning thief musical on repeat make your brother a theatre kid?” 

you turn to face conrad, who’s already looking at you with a lopsided smile. 

“i think it makes him more of a percy jackson kid,” you decide.

“well, he has good taste. i didn’t even know there was a percy jackson musical,” conrad adds. 

“i know, right?” you gush. “my brother and kai went to see it off broadway, and of course i had to chaperone, but i’m so glad i did because how, in the name of all the gods, did we not know this existed?”

conrad laughs. “we would have been obsessed,” he agrees. 

you smile, feeling yourself hit by another wave of nostalgia. 

when you were younger, you, conrad, jeremiah, steven, and belly loved the percy jackson series, rotating the books between the five of you until everyone had read them, the covers well-worn and sand stuck between the pages. so, for belly’s 9th birthday, laurel wrote out a prophecy with an elaborate quest for the five of you to go on - something about searching for poseidon's missing trident - while susannah used the time to fashion the backyard into your very own camp half-blood. you each got ‘assigned’ a godly parent: apollo for jeremiah, ever the sunshine boy; hermes for steven, the trickster of the group; aphrodite for belly, who looked at the world with rose coloured glasses; poseidon for you, because you loved the water; and athena for conrad, wise beyond his years. 

yes, your heart did skip a beat, because of what a perfect coincidence — that conrad was essentially the annabeth to your percy. when would the two of you share the best underwater kiss of all time? 

after a fun-filled afternoon, you each took home a necklace filled with clay beads, as was tradition at the fictional camp half-blood. even after summer ended, you would always wear yours in between swim competitions and practice. somewhere along the way, you misplaced it; it was probably left on the chlorine soaked floor of a locker room. you wondered if the others still had theirs, if conrad even remembered. 

he’s looking at you now with such wistfulness, you have a feeling he does. when he looks at you like that, it’s easy to forget that you’re mad at him and he broke your heart. scratch that: you’re mad at him because he broke your heart. 

and, not that it solves everything between you, but he’s here and didn’t have to be, and that maybe possibly heals something inside you. 

before you can continue the conversation, a sudden click indicates that the gas tanks are full, just in time for your siblings and their friends to exit the convenience store, carrying a significant haul of snacks and drinks. 

your brother hands you the sour patch kids and m&m’s, and you toss the bag of m&m’s at conrad, which he catches effortlessly. you rip open the package with your teeth and stuff a few of the sour candies in your mouth as everyone piles back into their respective cars.

you open the door to get in the driver’s seat, but the passenger side is empty. that’s when you notice that your sister and devi were still walking back from the store, taking their time. your sister laughs a little louder than usual, her smile a bit brighter when devi bends down to steal a sip of her drink. she’s wearing a jacket that you’ve never seen and probably belongs to devi, and your sister’s pair of sunglasses now rests on devi’s head. technically the sunglasses were yours, before you passed them down to your sister, but still — it’s adorable. devi winks at your sister before slipping into the backseat of conrad's car. your sister sighs contently before freezing at the realisation that you witnessed the moment between them.

"what?" she asks, a little flustered.

something makes you glance over your shoulder at conrad, who you now realise had seen the interaction between your sister and devi as well. beside him, the door to the driver’s side is also open, but he doesn’t get in. instead, conrad raises his eyebrows at you and smiles knowingly.

“nothing,” you say, smiling back at conrad, then at your sister. “but hurry up, if you want to make it to the falls before sundown.”

your sister mumbles something and gets in the car, while you check the route one more time. you tell conrad which one has the least amount of traffic, and soon enough, you’re on the road again.

conrad follows closely behind you, never allowing more than a car between before catching up. you glance in the rearview mirror and see your brother belting the words to what you assume is the percy jackson musical, and conrad is even bopping his head along. in your car, your sister is busy reading the song of achilles while the others in the back are relatively quiet. 

“so what’s going on with you and discount james dean?” your sister suddenly asks. she puts her book down, reaches over into the cupholder to grab a few sour patch kids. 

you laugh at the nickname, even if the answer disappoints you, just a bit.

“nothing.” 

out of the corner of your eye, you can glimpse your sister roll her eyes. 

“that seems to be your favourite word today,” she notes.

“fine, how about this for a change of pace….there was definitely something earlier between you and devi.”  

your sister’s jaw drops and she turns around to see if her friends heard, but khadija is asleep and leo has his headphones on, looking down at his phone.

“y/n!” 

“what!” you mock her incredulous tone. “you’re not fooling anyone.”

“i’m not…we’re not…” your sister stumbles over her words, turning her head sharply to face out the window. she plays with the sleeve of devi’s jacket, which she’s still wearing despite it almost being 85 degrees. the same music as before fills the space, and hayley kiyoko sings about girls liking girls as you wait for your sister to answer. 

she finally sighs when the song ends. “i like her, okay? but we’re just friends.”

at her words, you’re overwhelmed by an eerie sense of deja vu. if you could have done things differently, maybe you would have. and maybe, just maybe, you can help your sister have a better outcome — whatever that means for her. 

“look, kid, i know it feels like the end of the world, but you have options,” you promise. “one, you tell her and she doesn’t feel the same way; your relationship is forever ruined and your other friends have to choose sides —”

“y/n! seriously?”

“i’m just preparing you for the worst case scenario,” you defend, exiting the highway. “the best case scenario is that you tell her how you feel, or she feels the same way and beats you to it, and it all works out. and there is, of course, the secret third option.”

“what’s that?”

you shrug. “easy. you never cross that line.” you follow the signs that lead you to your destination.

“and bottle up my feelings forever,” your sister grumbles. “is that what you and conrad did?”

you make a right into the campground and put the car in park; conrad’s car pulls up next to you a few seconds later. you turn off the engine.

“not exactly.”

_________________________________________

you and conrad unpack the trunks as your siblings and their friends set up their tents. you hear their giddy banter as they plan how to spend the rest of the afternoon, as well as the sleeping arrangements. you smile to yourself when you hear devi suggest that she and your sister share a tent. the cars are pretty much empty except for some food to keep away animals, but you notice that not everything made the trip.

you double check your car, then conrad’s, before calling over your brother.

“yo, what happened to my bag?” you ask him. 

“i thought it was your swim stuff, so i took it out of the trunk,” he explains. “did you need it?”

“oh no, no. it just had all my clothes, my sleeping bag and my tent,” you say sarcastically. “no big deal.”

your brother gives you a thumbs up, clearly not getting the message. he seems more interested in kai, who's currently unpacking his guitar.

“cool,” he says before walking back to his friends. 

you huff and close your trunk. at least there is some balance in the universe: the mosquito repellant was in your bag, and your brother is usually their favourite meal. you always have afterbite, or you would have, if you had your stuff with you. 

thankfully, you had your bathing suit underneath your clothes, and you could sleep in the backseat, even if it wasn’t the most comfortable…

“everything okay?” conrad sneaks up behind you.

“turns out none of my stuff is here.” you shrug. “but it’s fine.”

“i mean, we could share my stuff,” conrad offers, lifting up his bag. knowing him, he’s probably overprepared and carefully packed, even with only an hour’s notice.

you look at him for a second. 

“let’s sort that out later, yeah?” you decide, ignoring how the prospect of wearing his clothes, sharing a tent with him, makes your heart beat faster. “i’m itching to go for a swim.”

taking advantage of the late afternoon sun, you all slather on sunscreen, throw on colourful swimsuits with sunglasses, and relax near the water. it’s only a short walk away from where you’d set up camp, and all your tents (well, except yours) are still in view. your brother, leo, and khadija are sitting down on their towels while playing cards. kai has borrowed your sister’s copy of the song of achilles to read. your sister and devi are, splashing each other in the water. conrad is reading a worn of stephen king’s it, a bottle of lemonade resting next to him.    

khadija brought her wireless speaker, and out of all your siblings’ friends, you’re thankful that she has the best taste in music. “this is the day” by the the plays in the background of everyone’s laughter and playful banter. you swim idly in the water, let your skin absorb the sunlight, and take it all in.

as much as you were stressed this morning, you’re practically floating with joy now. you feel like a kid again — and it finally feels like summer. 

your eyes land on conrad once more. he sits in the shade and you’re craving a sip of his drink, so you get out of the water and settle down next to him like it’s the most natural thing for you to do. you’re dripping on his towel, but he doesn’t seem to care; he hands you the bottle of lemonade without a word. you take a sip, surprised that it’s slightly bitter. 

“does this have vodka in it?” you cough. 

“yeah,” conrad answers, putting his book down. he takes off his sunglasses and rests them on his head. “i can get you something else, if you want.”

you shake your head and take another sip. “it’s fine. just don’t let the kids drink any alcohol, okay?”

“i won’t.” he offer you a wry smile. “but you know they’re not kids, right? they’re teenagers.”

“it feels weird calling them teenagers,” you say. he’s sitting up with his knees bent, and you lay down next to him, but not before stealing his sunglasses to shield your eyes. the sun moved slightly, and starts to peek through the leaves of the tree that was providing shade.

“just because we grew up, doesn’t mean they have to," you add once you're comfortable. 

conrad hums. you tilt your head to look at him and notice his eyes lingering on the tattoo below the band of your lime green bikini top. you smile — he blushes, then looks away. conrad takes the lemonade bottle back from you and swallows a mouthful. you close your eyes, let the sun wash over you.

“my mom told me you got into stanford,” he says suddenly. “that’s really cool that you get to go to california. just like you wanted, right?”

“i thought you hated horror,” you say, referencing the book you saw him reading earlier. you desperately want to change the subject — your father is still pushing princeton because of their swim team rankings, and your mother is too busy spending her free time in bars to really care. needless to say, where you’re going to college isn’t a topic you want to discuss, unless you’re looking to ruin this perfect sunny afternoon.

conrad just looks at you for a second before playing along.

“i usually do, but this guy on my football team wouldn’t shut up about stephen king, so i thought i’d give it a try. you’ve read it?”

“no, but i saw the movies. i cried so much in it: chapter two, like i was practically choking on tears in the middle of this dark theatre. my ex had no idea why i was crying so much.”

“why did you cry so much?”

you open your eyes. it takes you a beat to respond, because you never really thought about it that deeply. by now, the song has changed to david bowie’s ‘heroes,’ and watching your siblings and their friends goof off in the middle of summer makes you feel like a background character in a coming of age movie, when five years ago you would have been one of the main characters. you miss those days, almost as much as you miss what you had with the boy next to you.

“because it reminded me of this,” you admit. 

conrad lets out a small chuckle. “did i miss the summer where we fought a killer clown?”

“no, smart ass,” you shove his leg playfully. “but there were other things that were just as intimidating. like, parents who were jerks with soul-crushing expectations, and younger siblings who needed to be taken care of. drinking problems, cancer diagnoses, divorces. just…everything, you know? it was summer, we were kids, and things were just scary sometimes, but we always faced it together. and, then…”

“we grew up,” conrad finishes. 

“yeah,” you muse. you lift the sunglasses off your face to look at conrad, and he’s already gazing down at you. if you closed your eyes again, you could imagine laurel and susannah sitting by the water and gossiping, steven and jeremiah diving underwater to try and catch a fish with their bare hands, and belly laying in the sun while reading a romance novel she's probably too young to read. but all you see now is conrad, smiling at you softly with the golden sunlight shining behind him, and it makes your heart ache. 

belly mentioned that they hadn't been back here since you stopped coming to cousins. because it wasn't the same.

your voice drops to a whisper. “i'm sorry i ruined it."

"don't give yourself so much credit." his smile at you sadly. "we both made things messy; i should be sorry, too."

"are you?" 

he hesitates, finishes off the bottle of lemonade. 

"yeah," he finally says. "i'm sorry."

and it doesn’t feel like enough, but instead of worrying about what would happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, you just focus on today. you relax back down on the towel next to conrad, and let the sunshine and sounds of summer fun wash over you.

the afternoon fades into the evening, and once everyone's dry, you get started on dinner, then dessert.

it's so familiar: the warm glow of the campfire, the smell of burnt marshmallows, the slight itch on your skin from where a mosquito must have bitten you, the pressure of conrad's knee pressed against yours. 

you get up for more graham crackers, and your sister follows you. 

"so, i hear you and conrad are sharing a tent," she teases. "you're welcome."

"why would i thank you?" you wonder, biting into a graham cracker. 

a wicked smile appears on your sister's face. "well, i was the one who told our dear brother that you wouldn't need your bag. i figured your boyfriend would have everything you need."

"conrad's not my boyfriend," you remind her, a little annoyed. you and conrad made nice earlier, but the peace between you is precarious. you aren't particularly thrilled to be in a situation where you're confined to close quarters together — much less now that you know it's been fabricated by your own sister.

"so then why are you and conrad sleeping together in a one person tent?" she challenges, crossing her arms.

"do you want me to sleep outside and get eaten by werewolves?" 

your sister rolls her eyes, but you notice how she shudders just a little bit. 

"those don't exist," she declares, her voice a little shaky. your sister is old enough to know that monsters aren't real, but you still get a kick out of scaring her - especially when she's done something to frustrate you.

"oh, sure they do," you reply easily. conrad arrives at the table next to you just in time, probably to check on those graham crackers you'd promised to get. "stardust falls is crawling with werewolves, right con?"

"no," he answers. your sister sighs with relief too soon, because conrad continues. "only on the full moon…." he makes a big show of pulling down his sleeve and checking his watch. "which is tonight, if i remember correctly." 

"but, don't worry," you wink at your sister. "devi will protect you."

there's a moment of silence between the three of you, before you and conrad burst out laughing. 

"you guys are the worst!" your sister groans. you and conrad are still laughing as she grabs an unopened bag of marshmallows and snatches the pack of graham crackers from you before storming away. 

"thanks,” you say once you’ve both calmed down. 

he grins at you, reaching over to grab an orange. “my pleasure.” 

you smile back at him before walking back to the campfire, already feeling warmth spread through your chest.

_________________________________________

when the night is at its darkest, everyone decides that it’s probably time for bed. you triple check to make sure the fire is out and all the food is away, and then everyone goes into their tent — with you as the exception.

you and conrad never circled back to whether or not you’d be staying in the tent with him, so you end up staying out by the water. 

there’s still some rustling and whispers from the tents behind you, but mostly you’re left with the soft trill of crickets, and what sounds like an owl in the distance. you’re still wearing your bikini top and cutoff shorts, even though there’s a cool breeze near the water, because you didn’t really have another option. conrad was right earlier — it’s a full moon, and you’re thankful that it provides some light. the sky is clear enough that you can also see the stars. you’re so lost in looking for constellations that you’re startled by the sudden appearance of shadow right next to you.

“shit, conrad. you gave me a heart attack!” you exclaim, just loud enough for conrad to hear and quiet enough to not wake the others.

“sorry,” he whispers back, sitting down next to you with a lantern. “i couldn’t sleep.” conrad tilts his head up. “but, i come bearing gifts.”

conrad hands you one of the mugs he’s holding — not the usual thermos you’d bring for camping, but ones that you’d find in the kitchen back at the beach house.  

in the dim light, you see that it’s your favorite mug, the same mug you’d dropped during your argument a few weeks ago. the cracked porcelain is so carefully repaired, you wouldn’t have known it was broken. 

“thanks,” you whisper. you take a sip of the lukewarm hot chocolate, but the warmth that spreads through your body is from conrad’s gesture more than anything.

conrad nods and points up at the stars. “find anything good?”

you launch into a detailed explanation of what constellations you’ve found so far — and, when that’s over, you continue making up stories like you’re david attenborough narrating a nature documentary. sure, it’s ridiculous to use a very serious british accent to suggest that king kong and godzilla are immortalised in the night sky, but it makes conrad chuckle, and you decide that’s worth all the stars in the universe.

in between stories, conrad asks: "are you cold?" 

conrad already knows the answer, because he passes you a light jacket without you saying a word. you shrug it on, and practically sink into the familiar fabric.

"so you're the one who had my varsity jacket," you realize. it smells like him now: lemon and sandalwood. 

conrad smiles sheepishly and shrugs. "it's a good jacket — what was i supposed to do, not wear it? you left it last summer."

last summer. 

the words hang heavy between you. 

 “y/n —”

“con —”

you both stop, waiting for the other to continue. there have been enough moments this summer where you’ve cut your heart open and conrad just watched you bleed. a part of you wanted him to do the same, even though you know how much it hurts. 

“why did you come back that night?” he asks. conrad is usually confident, sturdy, reliable; right now, though, he’s the most timid you’ve ever seen him.

“i needed to.”

“why?” he presses.

you bite the inside of your cheek, remembering yourself a year ago and all the pressure you felt, from your parents and coaches. you used to love swimming, and you realized too late how much competing took over your life. things weren’t perfect at home, either, but you were trying your best to guard that truth from your siblings. ironically, that was part of the reason you had distanced yourself from conrad in the months prior: you knew he would worry, and you didn't want to burden him.

you tell bits and pieces of this to conrad, cutting yourself open once more.

“i felt like i was drowning,” you admit. “i tried so hard to hide it —  just keep swimming, right? but it got to be too much. so last summer, when i had a meet nearby, i just had to see you, because i knew that you were the one person in the world who would jump in and save me.”

“i didn’t know.” is all conrad says for a moment. you don’t add anything, because you find yourself in the same position as always: vulnerable, pouring your heart out.

“what you said on the fourth — you were right,” conrad sighs. “when you came last summer, i was already mad at you for not coming back to cousins for so long, and then you were leaving again and i was hurt. and - it’s fucked up, but i wanted to hurt you, too.”

“mission accomplished,” you laugh sadly.

“i shouldn’t have said what i said that morning last summer, and i shouldn’t have ignored you after.”

“you shouldn’t have ignored me this summer, either” you add. you can’t help calling him out for his shitty behaviour lately as well.

“hey, you ignored me, too,” he points out. “and, yeah, maybe i deserved it. there’s just a lot going on and….” conrad trails off, his gaze fixed on something in the distance, where a sliver of golden sunlight peeks through the horizon. you and conrad must have been talking for hours because morning is now just around the corner. “i know i was a jerk. just please know how sorry i am — for everything.” 

you’re about to say something, but you can’t seem to find the right words. i'm sorry too didn't feel like enough. instead, you reach out and grab conrad’s hand. it’s cold in yours, but you don’t care.

“i can’t lose you,” conrad whispers, almost choking on the words. he squeezes your hand. “i can’t lose you, too.”

“i’m here, connie,” you whisper back. with your other hand, you brush some hair out of his eyes before using your thumb to wipe a stray tear from his cheek.  “and i’m really glad you’re here, too.”

throughout the entire conversation, you and conrad had moved closer together — now, your shoulders are touching and your left leg is bent over his right one. 

“did you mean what you said on the fourth?” conrad asks, his eyes searching yours. “do you regret that night?”

“i’m guessing you mean the us-having-sex part?” you reply, a gentle smirk on your face. 

conrad nods. he’s blinking faster than usual, and you can tell he’s anxious to hear your answer.

“if it ruined things between us, then i would,” you admit. you realize then that your hand is still on his cheek; you remove it, but keep the other intertwined with his. “tell me it didn’t ruin things between us, and maybe i’ll change my mind. i mean, do you regret it?”

conrad smiles at you, his shoulders relaxing. “no. that’s one thing i don’t think i’ll ever regret. that’s another thing you were right about — that night meant something to me. it meant everything.”

your heart skips a beat at the way he looks at you, tenderly, waiting for you to say something.

"yeah, me too. or, me neither. i mean, i’m sorry -” now, it’s your turn to stumble over your words, nerves getting the better of you - you take a deep breath to calm yourself. “i’m sorry for not being here; i’m sorry for hurting you; and i’m sorry for making you feel like i didn’t care, because that’s further from the truth.”

“i appreciate it,” conrad replies sincerely. “but i think we’ve apologized to each other enough for one night.”

you laugh. “yeah, i guess you’re right about that one. have any alternatives, fisher?”

conrad reaches up to caress your cheek, a gentle gesture that contrasts the mischievous smirk on his face. his eyes fall to your lips, then back to yours. “i can think of a few —”

you kiss him before he finishes his sentence.

maybe you'd never shared an underwater kiss, but kissing conrad feels as dynamic and unpredictable as the ocean. 

when you kissed last summer, it was like a wave breaking onto the shore: the built up anticipation finally coming to fruition. 

earlier this summer, at nicole’s party, kissing him felt dangerous, like swimming out into the turbulent water and realizing you’re in too deep. 

right now, his lips on yours feel like floating in water on a warm summer day. 

conrad slips his hand underneath your jacket, and you shiver when he touches your bare skin, right under the band of your bikini top where your tattoo is. you shift ever so slightly and suddenly you're tangled in his lap, feeling him strong and sturdy beneath you. one of your hands is on his thigh, while the other tangles into his hair. you tug the strands just the way you remember him liking it; he groans and kisses you with more intensity, a calm sea gradually becoming more rough.

once you’ve run out of air, you pull apart ever-so-slightly, appreciating his swollen lips, pink cheeks, and tousled hair in the early morning sunlight. you could do this for hours — drowning in him — and you're about to do it again, too, before you’re shocked back into reality.

“i knew it!” you hear your sister yell in the distance. she then adds something about your brother owing her ten dollars. you make a mental note to get them back later for betting on your love life. 

conrad laughs against your lips, then pulls away. you get up and offer him your hand, which he accepts with a smile. 

“you might wanna…” you gesture towards his messy hair, and he blushes even more despite how much he enjoyed it earlier. 

“right.” he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair to tame it. 

“i’m gonna go get started on breakfast,” you say before walking a few steps closer to the campsite. 

you turn back around to conrad, who was frozen in place, looking at you carefully. his posture is stiffer than before, and it takes you a second to realize why: he’d been here before. he’d watched you leave one too many times.

not this time, though. this time, you reach out your hand — a peace offering, a promise. 

summer will end soon, and maybe you aren’t quite sure what the future holds once it does.

“so, are you coming with me or not?” 

but you do know this: when you get back to the beach house, you’ll go surfing with the fisher boys, watch movies and eat sour candy with belly, play video games with steven and jere. you’ll sneak out to meet conrad, then watch the sunrise together. the five of you will have bonfires on the beach, maybe even inviting your siblings and their friends, and roast marshmallows. susannah will host another pool party and you’ll feel conrad’s arm wrapped around your waist; he’ll kiss your cheek, sitting on the edge of the pool, and you'll jump in the water, bringing him under with you, before kissing him back. 

you'll spend one particular night in conrad's bedroom, hands and lips all over each other, trying to keep quiet, and when you search his drawers for a condom, you'll find the same necklace that you, jeremiah, steven, and belly were gifted. it holds faded clay beads painted with various symbols - a turquoise trident, a crashing wave, a rainbow, a starfish. you'll think back to how the tradition started at belly's percy jackson themed birthday, when you and conrad were 11, and susannah would give one to each of you at the end of each summer. there will be a sharp pain in your heart when you notice that some beads are missing, the years don't add up, but you'll realize, prompted by conrad's deep voice calling you back to bed, that you might be able to make up for lost time.

you'll soak up as much sunshine as you can. you’ll squeeze out every ounce of summer, and then some. you'll dust off old traditions, and make some new ones, too. you'll fill those necklaces with more clay beads.

and you'll always - always - come back home.

[slowd1ving]

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games. 

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible. 

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall. 

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses. 

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything. 

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae. 

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him. 

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better. 

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line. 

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets. 

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words. 

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it. 

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses. 

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend. 

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on. 

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest. 

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader. 

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness. 

Dokja’s changed. 

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over. 

When will it end? 

You haven’t seen him for months. 

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now. 

Your eyes meet his. 

Like magic, the house collapses. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind. 

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn. 

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in. 

It’s hard. 

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it. 

I can do it. That is your gamble. 

You do it. 

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death. 

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment. 

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up. 

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has. 

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand. 

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues. 

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream. 

He bets on it. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear. 

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet. 

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone. 

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly. 

Your chest heaves desperately. 

Dokja. 

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings. 

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore. 

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend. 

There is a pressure behind your eyes. 

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head. 

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too. 

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend. 

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind. 

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind. 

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet. 

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over. 

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend. 

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too. 

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle. 

His lips wobble. 

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain. 

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field. 

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart. 

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them. 

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell. 

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face. 

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face. 

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that. 

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic. 

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right? 

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

[endzithefangirl]

Scandals

Authors note: So, let's talk the Sinner doping thing first. I think the story is legit, it was one billionth of a gram. But, I do think that if Jannik wasn't no. 1 and from Italy he would have been suspended until the investigation ended. Still found innocent, but he'd be benched for a few months at least. As for Carlos smashing rackets... Honestly it was hot. At least to me... I was shocked because he never does stuff like that but I think the Olympic final was still in his mind and he just lost it. Anyway, enjoy these crappy shot fics!

Summary: Two short stories in which our two talented young tennis players, who have recently been in 'scandals', need a little reassurance

Warnings: English isn't my first language, no use of Y/N, gender not specified, everything stated in the Autors note is my opinion and I do not ask everyone to agree!

Word count: 711

Carlos Alcaraz x Reader

"Hey," you say as you enter Carlos' hotel room. "You okay?"

"Mmmmh, come here," he replies, looking you up and down. You walk over and hug him, smoothing out his messy hair. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in close, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and taking a deep breath. You hold him tight. "What was that about, hm?" you ask cautiously, referring to his anger at the court. He leans his forehead against yours, sighing.

"I just lose myself sometimes. I get too in my own head, too competitive, too hard on myself." He presses closer against you.

"You broke a racket; we were all so shocked..."

Carlos huffs, slightly embarrassed. "I know, I lost my temper... again. I should have done better, but I just couldn't keep it together."

"It's okay," you say, trying to calm him down. "It's okay, baby. Everyone has off days. You weren't feeling great, and Monfils just decided to play his best."

He exhales loudly. "I know, I know, but it's just so irritating. I wanted to win so badly, needed to win so badly... but I just kept screwing up and making stupid errors and—" He stops talking and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

"It's okay. Now you need to relax, get back into the headspace for the US Open. Okay?"

He wraps his arms around your neck, his body pressed tight against yours. "Will you help me? Help me relax?"

"What do you want me to do, baby?" you ask, looking gently into his eyes. Carlos' grip around you tightens, and a vulnerable look enters his eyes. He lets out a deep sigh as he lays his head on your chest. Your touch is soothing as his arms wrap around you, his eyes closing, melting into your embrace.

"You better, baby?"

He nods, nuzzling his face against you. "...Much better…" He pulls you tighter against him, almost like he doesn’t want to let go. Carlos stays there, listening to your heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest. He presses gentle kisses against your collarbone and shoulder, feeling a little clingy.

"Mmm, you wanna stay like this for a bit?"

He nods, slightly embarrassed by the clinginess but too tired to care. "...Just a little longer..."

Jannik Sinner x Reader

"Damn, they really booed you," you say as Jannik comes back from his first-round match. Jannik sighs in annoyance. He walks to his locker and grabs a towel. With a hint of irritation, he responds, "That’s nothing new."

He takes off his sweat-soaked shirt. "Yeah, but... they were really booing. It's because of the doping scandal—" He pulls out a clean shirt and starts getting dressed. "I don’t know why they still think I’m cheating..."

"...Well, you did get off better than most people would have..."

Jannik closes his locker a bit too hard. He runs a hand through his curly red hair and looks at you. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, if you weren't world number one, and you didn't have the fancy lawyers, and if it wasn't one billionth of a gram—"

He cuts you off, getting closer to you. The annoyance is evident in his voice. He looks you in the eyes, his tone low and serious. "You think I’m protected because I’m world number one and have money for fancy lawyers?"

"Do you think that if it was me, they would have let me play before I defended my case?"

He's silent for a moment, thinking about what you just said. His face slowly relaxes, and he looks away. "No, probably not…" he says, his voice calmer now.

"Look, I know you're innocent," you say, standing up and wrapping your arms around his bare shoulders. "But you need to know that you got the absolute best-case scenario that most people wouldn't get."

Jannik's face is now completely relaxed too. A few beads of sweat run down his bare chest. He puts his sweaty arms around your waist and looks into your eyes again. He doesn't argue with you anymore because he knows you are right. "I didn’t really see it like that before…"

"You're not a bad person, Jannik. You're just so fucking lucky it's annoying."

[writing-with-sophia]

Hi! Thank you for your blog. It really helps with writing ♡

I have a question throught,

How can you refer to a character without using their name, hair/eye colour, or gender???

I hope this question isn't too difficult or boring. Thank you in advance :))

Ways to refer to a character without using their name, hair/eye color, or gender

This is pretty hard.

Way number 1: Emphasize their role or profession

This is what I often encounter in the short stories I study at school. Authors often use professional terms such as "artist", "driver", "farmer", "engineer", etc. to name the characters throughout the story. Doing so often has two main purposes: one is to make it easier for readers to remember the characters thanks to their most typical characteristics (occupations), and the other is that the author wants to target that character as representing a community or a larger class.

For example, "farmer" is a character representing the peasantry and working class, while "teacher" represents the intellectual class, and "princess" represents the aristocracy. These characters do not represent themselves, but rather the classes or communities they symbolize, so they do not have individual names.

Way number 2: Also emphasize their role, but combined with descriptive phrases

In situations where the characters don't represent any wider community but just the character themselves, you can add some descriptive phrases in front. For example, "the young barista", "the elderly neighbor". Thus, you can both diversify the way the character is called and describe some typical characteristics of that character without revealing gender, appearance, etc.

Way number 3: Employ metaphors or analogies

This is a pretty cool way, but I advise you not to overdo it. Instead of talking about name, gender, characteristics, etc. directly, you can use metaphors. For instance, a leader is "the lion of the group", "the alpha", or a misfit is "the black sheep". It sounds much better, right?

Here is a short paragraph I hastily wrote using metaphors and analogies to refer to the characters without mentioning gender or names:

The melancholic melody of the violin echoed through the room, its sorrowful notes washing over the gathered onlookers like a gentle rain. The performer, a beacon of grace and poise, moved with the fluidity of a dancer, captivating all who bore witness. Long, slender fingers danced on the white keys like a staircase from heaven, weaving a tapestry of emotions that covered the space. Each up and down is a heartbeat, a breath, a silent conversation between artist and audience.

That's all! If you have any questions, please inbox me!

[jisokai]

At (y)our own pace

Sero wants to make sure you know that it's okay to go about intimacy however you need, at your own pace. It's your journey, not anyone else's.

Given your previous relationships, it takes some getting used to.

sero hanta x GN reader

[aged-up characters] slight nsfw, references to past dub-con (not between pair), use of explicit consent, emphasis on processing past relationships and developing boundaries with intimacy, queerplatonic relationships/can be read as fwb; hurt/comfort, angst but also fluff i promise 14.2k words | oneshot, complete, can be standalone part 2 of a sort-of-series: "healing my inner teenager" [part 1]

notes: smidge of kiribaku and references to past kamisero

ao3 option

The first time Sero reaches for you you're nineteen, a summer intern for a hero agency’s news department. Your desks are on opposite sides of the room, but close enough for him to stop by whenever he enters or exits the fourth floor. He has to catch your attention every time—footsteps too soft to alert you—usually with a knock against the top of your desk. The sound is firm enough to pull you from your computer, knowing that it's him.

Those soft raps against the desk always come from a hand that starts outstretched before curling in on itself in apprehension. Consideration, in case you don't care for a tap on the shoulder. Today is no different. He makes his little noise and gives you a sheepish smile at the beginning of the day, a few weeks into your internship. His knuckles thump in tune with his heartbeat, excited. Nervous.

"Hey," he calls gently when you look up. "Wanna grab some dinner after work today?"

You immediately smile at the idea. You two have spoken frequently in your short time here, but always on the job and never for long. It'd be nice to have a real conversation, drawn out over food and spilling into the night. You wish you had asked first.

"I'd love that," you say honestly. "Are your friends joining?"

His smile fades a little at your question and you wonder if you said something wrong. Before you can ask, he tells you, "I wasn't planning on it. I was thinking more of a… date. Just us."

You blink at the admission, surprised. Sero is cute, enough that you’re aware of your own attraction whenever he’s around. He's friendly and makes an effort to help you feel welcomed as someone new to the agency. He's a passionate guy, while laid back in a way that lets you know he's sure of himself. But you don't know each other well enough to think about things like dating. 

Although you suppose that's the point of a date, to get more acquainted.

Sero watches your face nervously, worrying he got the signals wrong. You seem excited to see him anytime he comes by, a little more interested in what he has to say over Denki or Shinsou if they're with him. He reasons now that those interactions don't necessarily mean you're interested in him in that way. 

You respond before he can backtrack. "Okay," you say, still smiling. "But let's get dinner as a group sometime too."

His shoulders drop in relief, he didn't realize they were tense. "For sure," He says with a smile, but then it wavers. "Do...do you not want to? Go alone with me, I mean. It's okay if you're not interested. I don't mean to make you feel cornered."

You pause at the question. The open invitation to back out. You think for a second before you answer, hoping the hesitation doesn't betray your conviction. "I want to spend time with you, alone."

He smiles at you sweetly.

The first time the two of you make physical contact is that evening. It's while you're walking down the street, side-by-side to an okonomiyaki stand he frequents, him promising you that you're about to eat the best you ever have. The two of you are bantering, lighthearted, and the narrowness of the sidewalk forces you closer. Sero walks a pace behind you to avoid the bumping of your shoulders, which keeps a reasonable distance until another pedestrian walks the opposite way. You drift a little to the side to make room for them to pass, but the change in speed is enough for Sero to gently bump into you from behind, his shoulder pressing into your back before he immediately pulls away.

"Sorry," he mumbles. 

You don't think it's a big deal, but you notice how he is around you: walking on eggshells to avoid direct contact. Always a greeting of your name or a knock on the desk, never a touch or tap to get your attention. It's the opposite of the way he is with Denki or Shinsou, often purposefully trying to spook them with a grab from behind. It's endearing to you, the sort of intimacy you can feel yourself start to hope for. So it's confusing, the way he is around you. How he treats you differently.

You think about the other people in the office, how he acts around them. Distant, respectful. It's similar to how he is with you. But it's also different: there is never apprehension on his face. You wonder what that could mean. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he asked you to dinner. A date. You think about the last man you dated, someone who grabbed you easily and without question. Someone who always guessed it was a yes unless you had the courage to say an explicit no. You swallow and continue forwards to the restaurant.

The dates are...okay. You go on a few in the next couple weeks, always after work. Casual, lighthearted. You love Sero's company, getting to know him better. He's a comforting presence. Honest, open, rolls with the punches and never spends a moment in shame, it seems. He also has a snarkiness and a bite that isn't as apparent at work, though he's good at keeping it moderate. You think you have a lot to learn from him. You think it makes sense for you to be together like this.

But there's a tension, an awkwardness whenever it comes to his romantic gestures. You find the way he holds the door for you sweet, but leaves an unsettled feeling in your stomach. The same for his compliments—he can be quite the flirt, when he foots the bill, when he gives you your preferred side of the popsicle at the conbini. It's not that he holds any ill-intentions, at least not that you know of. But there's something about these gestures, what you think they mean beyond the fact that they happen, what more he could want. It leaves you feeling uncomfortable, like you have an expectation to live up to.

Maybe by now you're close enough that you could ask. You’d like to think you could share what you're feeling and be met with understanding. You want to, want to give Sero that opportunity to respond and prove you right. But part of you remembers conversations in the past, looks of disappointment when you voiced these kinds of thoughts, faces staring at you with the hurt of a broken promise, one you didn't know you made. You have some faith that your time with Sero has built something stronger than a repeat of whatever those past things were. But you don't know for sure. You've only known this guy for a month.

But Sero...Sero can sense your distance. He can tell there are words you aren't letting out, ones you try to keep at the base of your throat since you can't swallow them down.

"Is something going on?" he asks at the end of an evening together. You look at him with surprise, and a little apprehension. But you know that tone, the one that says you don't have to reply.

You huff, "You have some sort of intuition for this stuff, huh?" He doesn't respond, just shrugs. It gives you the courage to be honest.

"I—I think I'm just feeling kind of weird. About us, I guess."

It's all you can muster, and you immediately know it's not enough. It's the perfect amount of vague to make any man nervous. But you're surprised to see him look at you not with interrogation or accusation, but curiosity. A request for you to elaborate. So he can understand, maybe make things better.

"I really like spending time with you," you say first, to make sure that’s clear. "I've been excited by how close we've gotten in just a month of working together, and I feel like we're the kind of people who just click. But...I think there's something about the dates that make me nervous, like you're expecting something from me. I'm pretty bad at these kinds of relationships, I don't read between the lines well. And I guess I don't want to disappoint you, if you like me in that way."

Sero looks surprised for a moment, but then his face schools into realization. Like pieces are falling into place. It's only a moment before he speaks, calmly and without judgement.

"I think I noticed. Not exactly what you just said, but I got the sense that you're uncomfortable around me sometimes. I figured maybe I was coming on too strong, or that you just weren't that interested in me." He doesn't look upset as he speaks, which is more worrying. Like he’s hiding his actual thoughts.

But he's not, you tell yourself. You remember that this is Sero, open and honest and rolls with the punches.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, ignoring his confused look. "I think I'm just confused, and I don't really know how to talk about it in a way that can get at what I'm feeling. But I like being with you. I just don't think I can handle the expectations that come with a relationship."

"Oh.” He doesn't look hurt or upset. "Well that makes it easier, then."

You look at him, pause your step. Your confused face triggers one of his own.

"Let's just be friends then, yeah?" He asks. "Or is that not okay?"

It's your turn to say, "Oh." Relief. You didn't expect that. You say as much, "I didn't—is that okay? I guess I assumed that...you wouldn't want to be friends anymore."

He frowns. "Why wouldn't I? I like spending time with you. I'd love to stay friends, and it sounds like you'd be more comfortable that way."

It seems so easy with Sero. He just gets it. You're waiting for the catch.

"You...you're not gonna hold out hope or anything, right? That things will change at some point and I'll fall in love with you or something."

His frown remains, "No of course not, why would—is that what people usually do?"

You shrug. It's all you know, people's sense of entitlement to you just because they felt a certain way. Whether it's your body or your touch or your mental space; your feelings to be returned. You know disappointment or even anger when they don’t get what they want. Like you were supposed to change for them, will yourself to love them.

Sero wants to probe, to ask more and understand what you're suggesting. He just liked you from the beginning, wanted to get to know you. He felt happy enough to talk and get food and work next to each other, to be involved in each other's lives. Instead he tells you, "Let's just be friends. I like being with you, hanging out and talking. I don't expect or need anything more, I've just...liked being in your space."

It makes you look at him in a new light, want to grab his hand or hug him. It doesn't make sense to you, that as soon as he decides to remove the romantic implications that you start to feel magnetized towards him. But you nod and agree, the weight of the world lifting from your shoulders.

Your relationship with Sero doesn't change much after that conversation, other than the lowering of your guard. You feel at ease with his platonic touch, happy to lean into him. He swings an arm over your shoulder as you walk to dinner and gives you a hug when you separate for the night. His flirtations persist, but they’re just part of the banter. It's comforting, familiar. Denki wiggles his eyebrows at the two of you at first, but Sero's eyeroll and dismissal gives you confidence that there's no question on his part. You feel safe, seen.

You and Sero keep close contact even after you leave the agency to return to university. You share moments from each other's days, random shower thoughts, ask each other for advice. You hang out on days off, and even when you're cramming for exams he's just happy to sit and lounge beside you, sometimes working on a report or request of his own. 

It goes on like this for a couple years, as best friends. Even when he moves from Shizuoka to Tokyo to switch agencies, you make it work. You have your conflicts and your disagreements, but you're inseparable. It's open, free for either of you to say anything, no judgement and no expectations. Sometimes the hugs are longer or you cuddle closer than usual, whether it's for comfort on a particularly bad day or for no clear reason at all. Sometimes there's a kiss on the cheek, if you haven't seen each other in a while. Sometimes you hold hands. But it just is, you two just are.

When you graduate you get a job offer at a new branch of Juko. It's in Tokyo. The decision is obvious, crystal clear when Sero tells you that you should room with him; he's planning to renew his lease soon, and his place is only a couple districts away from their office. You accept the offer that day.

Living with Sero feels like what you should have done all along. You fill in each other's gaps when it comes to the decoration and the chores (you hate vacuuming and Sero avoids doing the laundry, but neither of you mind the other). It works out. Any disagreements resolve easily and there's never an opportunity for resentment. Because it's the two of you. Sero, honest and open and rolls with the punches.

The first time you kiss him, you're twenty-two. You aren't sure where the feeling comes from—not that you hadn't thought about it before—but it washes over you when you're sitting together quietly: you reading a novel and him scrolling through his phone. You're distracted, can't read two sentences and retain what they said. You glance at him at the end of every attempt.

You don't mean to ask, but it's normal for you to blurt whatever you're thinking around him.

"Hey don't take this the wrong way, but...can I try kissing you?"

He looks surprised, eyes immediately darting to yours as he asks, "Me?"

You laugh, "Yes you. You can say no, I'm just curious."

There's a small smile tugging at his lips, like he's embarrassed. But he says, "Okay. Why?"

You move to put your book on the table and sit up so you're closer to him. Sero does the same, then grasps your hands in his. They tingle at the contact.

"I think sometimes I want to be closer to you," you admit. "And a hug isn't enough. I'm just curious, I guess."

He looks happy, a little flushed at your words. "I want to be closer to you too. Let's try it, no expectations, yeah?"

You lean forward hesitantly, anxious as you remember it's been a while since you've had this sort of intimacy with someone. But it's Sero, and if it's bad you'll just acknowledge that and move on as normal. He looks nervous too, which helps calm you.

You close your eyes when your lips touch, pressing gently. It's new, exciting. His lips are soft and warm, and they move slowly against yours. You can feel him smile against your mouth, and it makes you break away with a giggle. When you open your eyes, he's smiling at you, softly and warmly.

"That was nice," he says quietly. "What do you think?"

"I think I liked it. It's kind of awkward, though."

He hums, urging you to explain what you mean.

"I think it makes me a little self conscious," you try to explain. "It's definitely a way to feel closer, but being closer means there's more to be seen. Or felt, I guess."

Sero thinks he understands; he had a similar experience at first. But he enjoyed the moment.

You ask him, "Would you be okay doing it again in the future?"

He nods immediately.

You don't kiss often, it turns out. It happens occasionally, not becoming a routine touch like a hug when you get home or forehead kiss before bed. Mouth kisses are sparse, a little more special, you think. It's partially because they're still awkward for you, not the level of closeness you want all the time. But it's also partially because you realize you sometimes want the adjacent touches more than the kiss itself: the way Sero gently holds your face before leaning forwards, the press of your bodies against each other when it's particularly passionate, when he grabs both your hands like that first time on the couch.

Sero, however, very much enjoys kissing. But he's not sad without it, rolling with the punches. Open, honest. When he wants a kiss he asks for it, but he tells you he doesn't need a warning if you want to kiss him. You like it this way, this low stakes slotting of preferences like puzzle pieces. It makes you feel safe.

You do learn that making out comes with a whole new territory of anxiety. The first time it happens is a few weeks after the first kiss, when you experimentally bite his lip and then run your tongue along it. Sero makes a noise of surprise and lets his own tongue slip through, brushing against yours. It's okay, manageable at first when the tongues are kept sparse. But when it heats up some more you pull away panting, making a face.

"Not into it?" Sero asks, amused and unbothered. Again, easy going. Safe.

"I think I was at first, but I don't get why people like using so much tongue." You think about your last serious relationship, a woman who ran her tongue along your gums and every crevice of your mouth. It sounded like the nonsense you used to read in romance novels, but it was uncomfortable when you actually experienced it.

Sero hums, "I think it's fun on my end, but I get why it's weird if you're the one receiving it."

That makes sense, you suppose. But now you're thinking about the larger picture. Making out always meant sex was coming, to your knowledge. If your kissing resulted in a boner it had to get taken care of one way or the other. You frown.

"Are we...is this still friend territory?" You ask.

He shrugs, "I don't see why not."

It sends a thrill through you, this no-expectation dance of intimacy. But you still think about the implications, the...end goal.

"Are you—Do you..." they're hard, these words. "We don't have to do anything else, right? Just because we made out."

His immediately frowns, looking at you with disbelief. "What? Of course not. Who...Did someone tell you otherwise?"

Your cheeks warm at the question; he asked it like you should know better. Maybe you should.

"Just past relationships, I guess," you admit. "I don't wanna jump into anything I'm not ready for yet, even if maybe I should be by now." You think of one night stands—spurred on by the excitement of kissing someone you were interested in at the bar, or a first date that was moving quicker than you anticipated. Not wanting to disappoint, willing to sacrifice your preferred pace.

You remember your first time, losing your virginity uncomfortably because you didn't have the confidence to ask for what you wanted. Wishing it could instead be the perfect wordless and romantic night your first serious boyfriend laid out for himself.

Sero's frown deepens. You avert your eyes, embarrassed. "Hey," he calls, a plea for you to look at him while he takes your hands. "There's no should here, only what you are or aren't ready for. What you want to do, what I want to do, and the compromise we make between those things, okay? And that compromise will always be because we want it, not because we think we should want it. And it will never sacrifice your feelings of safety."

Where was this man six years ago, you wonder. Busy cramming and getting his ass beat to make it as a hero. He's too good, you think. Overwhelmingly so that you don't know how to respond.

"It isn't some incredible consideration," he adds. "It's the bare minimum."

He's wiping small tears from your eyes, ones you didn't know were falling. He holds your face in that way you love, makes you feel small and protected, and brings his lips to your cheeks. You realize he's licking your tears between kisses, causing you to giggle and scrunch your nose in disgust.

"Hanta—" you try to whine, cutting yourself off with more laughter. He smiles back in earnest, not amusement.

"Thanks," you say. "It's a delayed learning process for me."

"Of course." Of course. He thinks about that early conversation, when he realized friendship was best based on your apprehension. The way he's always just been happy to be by you, in your space and presence. The constant pull to be closer to you, one that overpowered the gravity he felt for anyone else (even if he gave them a thorough chance).

At the end of the day it's you he wants to be with. And he knows you feel the same, that he's your best friend, your rock, though more of a mountain unwavering in the wind and storm. It makes his heart warm, and full enough to feel somewhat painful.

"I love you," he says abruptly. Heartfelt, shameless, with a soft smile. You pause, surprised, heart thumping loudly in your ears. "It doesn't have to mean anything other than that. I just love you and love being with you, anyway you'll have me. I want to make sure you know. So...take your time. And there's no intimacy goal we're trying to achieve, other than what we want."

You kiss him again, pulled to him by your need to show him something, demonstrate the way you feel. 

"I love you too," you say easily. "Not...not the romance or whatever because you're attractive and easy to be around. But because my life is better, with you in it."

You find a kiss is still not enough, even when you do it a second time and pull away to look at him. Your hands clutch his as you try to understand this yearning. What more you could want? Again, the stupid irony—how his reassurance that you don't have to go any further is what propels you forward, gives you the courage to try again or something more. But you stop yourself, hold your ground to acknowledge your fears. Sero is more than the excitement of trying something new. Honoring your pace here means honoring his importance in your life. So you push down that urge to pull him closer for now, letting it wait for another day when you've had space to reflect.

Sero knows that you're emotionally grounded: able to talk through feelings and conflict with relative ease compared to what he's used to. You catch stray comments and things hiding between the lines of conversation, never letting anything go unacknowledged or unrefuted (if you disagree). You often know what to say, or alternatively know when silent listening is enough. You know your self, and how to regulate it. It's refreshing, it's relieving.

It's surprising just how bad you are when it comes to talking about your struggles with intimacy.

He notices the way you tense, your discomfort and the inability to speak without hesitation. The looks that cross your features: guilt, doubt, fear sometimes. The way you can't stop thinking about whether you two are within the realm of 'just friends'.

It's not always bad, you can usually still communicate things openly. But it's oftentimes after an uncharacteristic bite or defensiveness that emerges seemingly without warning. Sero thinks he just needs time, that he doesn't understand the pattern well enough to recognize the warnings, yet. It makes him think of Bakugou, a comparison you made yourself when you finally tagged along for a night with the crew at an izakaya—at least a comparison with a younger, more angry version of you.

So it's Kirishima he turns to when he needs another perspective. Kirishima, the closest friend with an inkling of emotional literacy. Kirishima who he now patrols with since starting at the Tokyo agency.

It's also Kirishima who gives him the opening, asking an innocent, "How's your roommate?" after their routine catching up.

Sero says his usual, "good," before making a sound like he wants to take it back. Kirishima cocks his head gently and Sero cracks his fingers with his thumb, wishing he didn't have his helmet so he could run his hand through his hair.

"You...you can't talk about this with the others," he starts. The look he's given lets him know the redhead won't—aside from Bakugou, of course. But Bakugou doesn't count, an extension of Kirishima by now, and the hardest of anyone to wrench information from.

So he explains, generally, the way the two of you have been recently. How you asked to kiss him, how nice it was, how it keeps happening. How sometimes they're even passionate, deep, intense. The way I love you frequents your dialogue.

Kirishima doesn't miss a beat. "That's awesome to hear man! This is the sort of thing you were hoping for, right? I remember you said the two of you tried to go out when you first met."

But Sero frowns. "No, that's not—" he thinks about the way expectations put you on edge. "I'm not just lurking around our place hoping for this. It just...it happened. It's good. And we're still friends, not trying to think about what it means beyond that."

Kirishima needs a moment for the words to settle before he smiles sheepishly. "My bad, I guess I just don't really understand what your relationship is like. But I'm happy for you, glad it's good."

Sero nods in appreciation. "Yeah, we're just rolling with whatever happens. I think...there's some trouble with past relationships that make the labeling hard for them. Makes 'friends' feel safer even if we act more like a couple at times. But yeah...I'm really happy."

Kirishima smiles, so genuine as he sees the twinkle in his friend's eye, the tint of color on his cheeks. He thinks Sero has the glow of someone in love. It makes him happy, warm. It makes him think of Bakugou.

"I think I get it. Katsuki's kind of like that—bending labels, I mean. It's more of a 'I do whatever I want' thing for him, though. I guess when I think about it..." and Kirishima is trailing off, remembering the early days of his own relationship. How anytime he felt unsure of what they were doing, what they should be doing, Bakugou just tsked, before saying: "The hell cares, we do whatever we want."

They are two men in love, patrolling the street on a beautiful day. Warm cheeks, sunlight, genuine and unembarrassed happiness for one another.

You're still twenty-two when you two are (nearly) naked together for the first time. It's not in the context of kissing and intimacy, but in the space of tense vulnerability; Sero comes home disheveled and dirty from a rough patrol, too weak and too faraway to shower or bring himself to bed.

There have been rough nights before, patrols that brought trails of dirt into your shared home, ones that made him quiet, ones that made him restless, ones that unsettled him unless he was in your arms. But never something like this.

His eyes are rimmed red when he enters, shoulders slumped, steps heavy, head tilted down as he closes the door behind him. You look for him when he doesn't announce himself, immediately approaching when you see his condition. It takes twelve hurried steps to reach him, gently cradle his face and take in his expression. All you can think is that he looks so tired. He leans into your touch sadly, unable to meet your eyes. He doesn't say anything when you call his name, doesn't respond to any of your questions of what happened.

You coax a reaction out of him when you ask if he wants to eat: a shake of the head. Then a nod when you suggest showering, so the two of you can lay together afterwards. So you take his hand and bring him to the master bathroom—his bathroom—before gently telling him you'll wait on the couch. But when you turn to leave you hear him whine, a soft noise of need. You see the way his eyes are teary, pleading. Absolutely heartbreaking.

"Don't go," he says, a cry with a broken voice. You hesitate, but nod slowly.

"Hanta, I—are you okay if I undress you? To help you shower?" You ask. You ignore the awkward implications, fully absorbed in helping your friend. At his affirmation you get to work stripping him, inspecting the skin that's revealed to you for major injury, averting your eyes when his underwear comes off. There are some ugly bruises and fresh scrapes, but you sigh in relief when he looks okay otherwise. You decide to put him in the bath, since it'll be easier to wash his hair if he's sitting. You leave the drain open so he doesn't soak in murky water, swirls of brown and red slipping away along streams of soot.

You fuss over him quickly, removing your own shirt and pants when they start to get wet, ignoring any apprehension. The process isn't uncomfortable after you commit to it and realize Sero isn't thinking anything of the nudity, too far gone to do anything but let his eyes drift to the ceiling.

When you're done you help him stand and wrap a towel around his body. You guide him to sit on his bed before turning to look for some clothes in his drawers. His arm catches you, pulling you back.

"It's fine," he says quickly, quietly. "Just...please." He tugs gently on your arm, another plea. For you to stop doing anything but hold him.

You nod and open the covers, urging him in before crawling to his side. Your own lack of clothes makes a tightness pool in your stomach, but you ignore it as you watch Sero, see how his eyes never leave your face. Your heart jumps to your throat when he reaches for you, pulls you into a close hug, closer than you've ever been before. His skin is warm from the bath and still a little damp, and you can feel it around your waist, your stomach, your legs as he intertwines them together. You ignore his hips pressing into your side, how his thigh brushes just below your groin. You feel on edge for a moment before reminding yourself that this is Sero. Hanta. The one who's always honest and open. So you relax and squeeze him in return.

Guilt punches your nerves aside when you hear him sob. The dam of whatever emotions he walled off when he first came home is broken, the waves of his hurt and fear rushing over your shared land. Here he is, in pain and incapable of verbalizing it to you while you sit in your cage of skepticism, doubting his sincerity. In this moment you feel a shift, a resolve that you can't fully identify. But you hold him close, conviction brimming in your heart.

You two have fallen asleep before, on the couch at the end of a movie night or cuddling when one comforts the other. Sometimes Sero is without his shirt or you without pants, the partial lack of clothes never a point of awkwardness. But never have the two of you laid so bare while so close. You think for a moment that this is the kind of closeness you've yearned for when a hug wasn't enough. You can feel the softness of his skin, his breath on your neck. The way you're huddled under the blankets feels like hiding from something, the larger world out there—you protecting him as these small tremors of tears wrack his body. You think your heart is being pulled towards his, pressing against your sternum as you hold him tighter. He gasps with another cry against you and it hurts to hear. You wish you knew what he needed. You hope he can feel the way your heart is reaching for him, full of that unidentified determination he inspired in you.

Things change after that night.

It's mostly on your end, and Sero notices. You're more affectionate, more willing to try to take things a little further. He stops you one day while you're kissing him passionately, frowning slightly with flushed cheeks.

"Hey, you—I don't want you to feel like I need more from you," he says with a heaving chest. "I know I'm more touchy than you in general, but really I'm okay. You shouldn't do more than you want."

You feel your body heat up, urged on by his obliviousness. You don't get it, don't get how he doesn't get it. You want him, want to be closer, want to press yourself against him like you were that night. You lean down to kiss him again, trying to show him.

"'M not," you say after a pause, going back for more. "I just—I don't know how to explain it."

You see his eyes widen at your admission, his cheeks reddening another shade. You love it, that reaction. You want him to know you want him, that you love the proximity and the closeness. He doesn't try to stop you again, welcoming your fervor. He cautiously brings his hands to your waist, to anchor himself. It makes your heart flutter, a rush of dizziness wash through your mind. You're lost in it, absorbed in a way that you've never been before. You think you might finally understand: this intensity and agitation that makes these touches move along before you realize it.

At some point you end up on his lap, straddling a thigh while you hold his face to yours. You're still comfortable, still safe.

Until you readjust and your knee brushes his crotch. It’s enough to feel that he’s hard.

You freeze immediately, body tense and heart galloping, the pressure of its pace pounding uncomfortably in your ears. Sero notices at once and pulls away, looking at you curiously and with concern.

"Hey," he says gently, trying to bring your mind back. "We don't have to go any further. It's okay, we can stop."

When you don't say anything, still sitting there frozen, he adds, "I'm not expecting anything more."

It makes your face pinch, eyes stinging as you try to swallow your tears. He doesn't understand, you think to yourself, you don't understand. How you want him, how you feel ready to try something new with him, to bring him closer. How even with that conviction and the safety of Hanta, you freeze at the moment of opportunity.

It's unfair, so unfair.

At your tears, Sero gently pushes you off his lap and runs his thumbs under your eyes. He kisses your forehead and says gently, "I want to stop." It makes you feel worse, makes that longing deepen and in turn reminds you of your inability to follow through. He doesn't press for an explanation, which makes it harder to voice it. Ask me, you call to him. I want to tell you. But chivalry will die with this man, never wanting to pressure you. So you spend the rest of the night restless, unsettled by the unspoken pieces of you. (Those people from your teenage years who saw their arousal as your responsibility, who have trained you to carry guilt anytime your answer feels like no)

Luckily, the conversation doesn't take long to appear. He asks you after a couple days, giving you some space from the situation before prying. He says he wants to check in, to make sure you're okay and gauge where your comfort is at. He admits it's because he wants to give you a kiss.

It takes everything in you to not crawl over and pin him under you. It makes you so frustrated you could pull out your hair.

"You—" you bark at first, surprising yourself. You try to speak in a leveled voice. "You are so..."

He watches as you pause again, concerned. You ball your fists, then point an accusatory finger at him.

"I want you so bad sometimes," you say before you can stop yourself, ignoring the way your face flames and the shock that appears on Sero's, flushing. "But I...I can't fucking—I don't know!"

His worried face remains despite his blush. He takes ahold of your accusing hand—a gesture you realize is always a grounding tool, a way for him to tell you he's there for you. "It's okay," he encourages. "If you tell me what you can, I'll try to piece it together."

You don't deserve him. You know this, want to say as much, but that's not what he wants to hear. At the very least you can try to answer him properly.

"I want to be intimate with you sometimes, more intimate than we are now. But then when there's a moment to take that next step I get anxious, I think because I'm worried about how it could change things...the way you see me."

He listens, rubs his thumb against the back of your hand until you're finished. "Can I ask why you want to be more intimate?"

You pause, not expecting that response. "I'm not sure," you answer, "but it happens when I feel very intensely for you. And sometimes when it doesn't make sense. Like when you say that we should stop because I seem uncomfortable—for some reason it makes me want it more."

You wince after hearing your own words. "Sorry. Maybe I just enjoy leading you on."

He dutifully shakes his head. "No, it makes sense to me," he disagrees. "It sounds like you have concerns about how our relationship or expectations might change. Then when I say something that removes the possibility of those expectations, you feel more secure to try whatever it is you're thinking about."

He looks at you expectantly, waiting for a confirmation or denial. So you nod slowly, "I think that's true. But I want to be able to ask or initiate something and feel confident then, not after you've put an end to things. It gets me nowhere. And it makes me feel insecure, I think."

Sero pouts at that, pouts for you, you realize. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice."

You scowl. "Stop it, it's not your fault. There is no way I could possibly blame you for my problems or my inability to talk to you."

He huffs, like he wants to argue, but then squeezes your hand gently. "I had another question," he says instead. "Do you know what’s making you anxious? You say it has to do with expectations or how I see you, which I think I get, but is still vague. You've mentioned previous relationships before, and I get the sense that they have a lot to do with this. Do you think you could talk about it more? Maybe I can offer my perspective to compare?"

It's an ineloquent jumble of words that tumble from your lips, trying to point out moments in your intimate history that could draw some sort of loose thread.

(You are twelve years old when a girl in your class hands you a note that says, I like you, do you like me too? and you nod, blushing. After class you walk to her locker together and she says you have to kiss her, since you're dating now. You freeze, a lump in your throat at the idea and then you run away. The next day she puts a note on your desk that reads, I hate you.

You are fifteen with your first serious boyfriend. He's the first one you ever kissed, especially like this right now. It's his birthday and the two of you are in his room, kissing in a way that feels weird but seems to make him happy. Your heart starts to race when he brings your hand between his legs and says, "C'mon, it's a special day." You agree easily, excited by the idea of trying something new. You feel gross when he finishes and make an excuse so you can leave.

You are sixteen when you lose your virginity to him, unable to find the words to tell him how to make it better as he rubs you harshly and thrusts too fast. You think it's supposed to be like this, that first times are never good, and you just hope that he'll want to stop when he finishes this time. You let him do what he wants since he told you he planned the night and the room to be romantic. For you.

You are seventeen when you go to a party, hoping to find someone fun to talk to and take your mind off your breakup. There's a cute boy who gets you a drink, and when he leans in to kiss you, you don't stop him. You don't stop him when he pulls you to a room in the house either, where you eventually spend the night in his bed. You feel hollow the following morning.

You are eighteen on a date with someone you instantly clicked with. She invites you into her house and you say "okay" even though you're tired. You like her company and want to sit in it for a little longer. You continue to say "okay" when she goes to kiss you, to touch you, to lay you down, despite not feeling ready. 

You are still eighteen when half a year passes with her, but you can no longer stomach the thought of holding her hand. So you end things, a messy break that she is angry about, and think maybe you're going about this all wrong.)

You mention disappointed looks, assumptions and entitlement you were subjected to. You don't understand what it means at the end of all this talking, other than that you're difficult, complicated in the way you handle intimacy.

To make things more confusing, you add at the end, "I think my sex drive has always been lower than anyone I've been with. And sex itself is usually super disappointing, like I wasted my time. But sometimes I have really good sex, and sometimes I'm horny for several days. But usually once I get my fix I won't want to do anything for weeks."

(You are twenty-two and finally telling someone.)

It's a lot to dump on him, but he listens carefully the entire time and then responds thoughtfully, trying to make sense of all the different pieces of information and directions. He suggests that you might need more time to be with someone before you have physical intimacy, or that you don't associate certain touches to be sexual, but other people have interpreted any initiative on your end as such. He thinks about the disappointment, the assumptions, and the entitlement—how that makes it difficult to make your own choices about your body and desires. He says that you could also simply have an unpredictable sex drive, and you need people to be flexible about when they can be with you in certain ways. He wonders if it wasn't that complicated in the beginning, but the way your relationships panned out made everything harder and more confusing.

You think it makes some sense when he puts it like that. It never occurred to you that your feelings weren't the problem, but the way people responded—or didn't respond. You talk back and forth for a little, trying to refine the way you articulate the root of all this. It helps at first, but then it becomes confusing again.

Sero notices and changes directions by saying, "How about this: the way I see intimacy isn't that everything is a prelude to sex, but that the point is to just enjoy the feeling at the moment. It doesn't have to end in an orgasm or a certain idea of "finished", but just that both sides enjoy themselves."

You keep your face carefully blank as you think about his words. They sound foreign, an entirely different way of thinking about pleasure. It doesn't make sense.

"What...what's the point, then?" you ask, not trying to be dismissive but genuinely confused.

He shrugs, "To have fun, maybe get to know someone a little better or feel closer to them for a moment. People can decide to end their workout or a project whenever they want to, even if someone else may have a different idea of when it's actually done. Sex—intimacy in general—can be the same."

That...sounds believable, you think. "But is that not just blue-balling yourself?"

He laughs. “Maybe. But there's a different kind of enjoyment in that if you're open to it. And usually it makes the next time you orgasm that much better...Although, if you're not expecting to cum it's not really blue-balling, I think."

That makes you pause. You think about the way your mind immediately jumps to sex when there's arousal involved. You wonder if you've been subjecting Sero to the same assumptions and expectations that you've been fearing this entire time. You think his perspective sounds interesting and relaxed, that it makes sense for Sero. So easy-going. You think it wouldn't hurt to try thinking about things that way.

Instead of voicing that, your mind darts somewhere else when you speak. "We...we're basically a couple at this point." You think about how you still have different rooms. "Well, maybe not."

Sero shrugs, "Maybe. I don't think that's our priority right now."

Again, he lifts the weight of the world from your shoulders.

You're still twenty-two when you try running your hands over his torso and tell him you want to try pushing things a little further. He says, "okay" and brings his hands to your waist. The way they move is exciting, different than his hugs or cuddles. These hands move purposefully, curious as they explore your body and press or pinch or pull—trying to understand and coax an array of reactions from you. He's gentle, asks if they can trail lower. When you nod, he pauses and pulls them back. You see apprehension fill his vision and he asks if you can stop for now. You're confused, but agree, and instead you spend the night as his little spoon, his hands back to hugging you at the waist. You want to ask, but you remember the way he normally gives you time, and instead let yourself soak in the warmth of his body.

You're nearly twenty-three when you learn that another big piece in this large equation is embarrassment at your desires. You want to try going further again, but remember Sero's apprehension. You ask him gently one night, trying to be honest the way he is with you. That you want to make sure things are okay, that you want him.

His answer surprises you a little, mostly because nobody ever told you something like it before. 

"I think I'm a little nervous after what you told me about your history with other people," he admits. "It might feel kind of backwards, but I don't want you to agree to something just because you think I want it—or want it more than I care about your boundaries. I would feel awful knowing that you didn't actually want to be with me in that way."

You remember how he puts an end to things whenever you seem nervous or unsure, leaving no room for doubt. He doesn't want to be with someone who's uncertain of their feelings. It's a shocking realization for you, used to people wanting the pleasure itself, uncaring of how it's obtained. You feel some guilt at your lack of self-understanding, wishing you could offer something to make him feel more at ease. You ask him.

"I think...If you want something, you have to say it." He tells you firmly. "I don't like guessing and getting nods or unclear answers. If you tell me to do something or guide me, though, I'll know you're enjoying yourself. And you have to tell me to stop if you start feeling any uncertainty."

You agree, starting to understand Sero's perspective throughout this mess.

But verbalizing your desire turns out to be much more difficult than you anticipated. Your body screams touch me, touch me here, but you're incapable of saying it, face burning with shame at the thought. You ask for a break while the two of you are caught in a passionate kiss on his bed, him pulling away as he hovers over you.

Your eyes bore into his, trying to will the words out. He seems to notice your struggling and takes his hand off your waist, removing any distractions.

It's the opposite of what you want.

"Fuck, this is harder than I thought," you say honestly, wanting to get anything out there to start.

"What is?" he asks gently.

You swallow. Breathe out slowly. Inhale. "Telling you what I want to do," you admit. "I feel really embarrassed by it for some reason."

"I want you to," he reminds you softly. "Tell me, I want it to be good for you too."

The way his honesty turns you on, sends fire through your body is unfair. Sero, ever so open, never acting on shame. So unfair.

"Just—just go back...to kissing me," you say. Maybe it'll help you find the courage, after you relax a little into his touch. He nods curtly before leaning to continue, starting gently before working up to the previous rhythm.

It takes a couple minutes for you to move, eventually grabbing his wrist—the one that was on your waist before—and returning it, bringing it against your belly. You manage to gasp out, "Again," in between kisses, "like before."

With the way Sero grabs you and runs his hands along your torso, you think your lead was enough for him to follow. The admission keeps your cheeks warm, but his passionate response helps chip at your self-consciousness. In a moment of courage, you drag one of your hands from his waist to his back and press down, pulling his hips so he grinds against you. The gasp that leaves his mouth is surprised and broken, and the sound mixed with the feeling of his hardness makes you groan. 

He ruts against you gently but with an intensity. You feel him get firmer with the contact, and you can feel your own arousal deepen. Your mind runs wild with possibilities for what to do next, torn between bringing his hand between your legs, or your own between his.

When he breaks away from your lips and presses kisses against your neck, you tell him, "I can't decide—If I wanna try getting you off or wanna have you play with me." The whine he releases makes you squeeze your thighs together. The honesty is exciting, liberating as you feel a sense of freedom.

Your body shivers when he clenches his hand at your stomach, thumb reaching to rub gently below your belly button. It makes you inhale shakily in anticipation. His voice is low in your ear, throaty and sinful as he tells you, "Let me."

That night is the second time you sleep in his bed with him, now both of you fully naked. Spent. Your heart squeezed by him whispering in your hair—thank you, and I love you.

As expected, things unravel before they improve. You need space, time alone and time untouched. There's a tenseness in your stomach, but it's manageable, small rolling waves. You try to ride them out patiently, with as much compassion for yourself as you can muster. Sero is good to you, because of course he is. And his openness to your needs helps to peel away your apprehension. You find yourself still comfortable in his presence, easily falling back into your usual patterns after a few days of closing yourself off.

You don't reach for him for a little while longer, but he doesn't seem too fazed. You notice something has changed with the way he acts around you, though.

You're making dinner one evening after he returned home, washed and waiting on the couch. You can feel his eyes trailing you, and every time you look towards him he holds your gaze, smiling. You turn the stove off and put your hands on your hips when the food is ready. 

"What's with the staring today?" you ask candidly.

He shrugs and says, "You're beautiful." It makes your face heat, not expecting that answer. Then he adds, "Sorry, is that uncomfortable?"

You shake your head, want to tell him it's not believable. Instead you say that it's fine and usher him to eat. His words ring through your mind and you can't help but stare a little as you eat your dinner quietly, the two of you making a lot of eye contact.

When you finish and start the dishes, taking a plate that he passes you by the sink, you tell him, "You're beautiful too."

You've always felt complicated at friend gatherings.

Sero invites you when they happen—usually at an izakaya or occasionally hosted at someone's place—friendly meetings with his group of hero friends from UA. The first time he asked you to come, you were confused. It felt out of place to be there, not sure you were the sort of person who needed to get introduced to heroes, for being a roommate.

Sero had looked at you questioningly when you told him. It was your explanation after turning down the third invite. "You—you're my best friend," he said. "Not just my roommate. I've wanted you to meet my UA friends for a while."

That sort of honesty was hard to reject, so you went despite your nerves. Thankfully he knew Denki and Shinsou would be there, familiar faces you could cling to if Sero got whisked away to catch up with others. That night was fun and you enjoyed getting to meet these people—names that Sero mentioned often—and hear stories from their perspective at Sero's expense.

The one difficulty of that night was the constant denying that the two of you were dating. Rolling your eyes at Denki's stupid wiggling eyebrows, attracting the interest of another friend—Mina—in trying to get you to divulge the secrets you were allegedly keeping. It didn't help that this was just a couple weeks after the two of you first kissed—a development that was unexpected but you decided didn't change the label of your relationship. The heroes in front of you looked too starry-eyed, too smug in their questions, for you to share any of that. So you doubled down on your place as a friend, playing it off easily.

Even as your touches with Sero covered more ground, it was still easy to call yourself friends in front of others—especially because neither of you yearned for affection when there was an audience. An occasional arm over the shoulder or ruffle on the head passed between you, but those were the ways Sero engaged with any of his friends. The two of you had an agreement that things were better kept lowkey around others, solely to avoid unnecessary explanations. And it worked, until it didn't.

This time, nearly a year after your first, a Saturday evening at an izakaya rented out just for the heroes and their friends, Sero is loose—undoubtedly because of the efforts of his fellow alum, toasting to anything and declaring constant challenges for no reason other than to get plastered together. It's a small group, the rest—and thankfully majority—of the people gathered keeping an eye on them and ensuring they have safe means of getting home.

You're returning from the bathroom, walking through the hall separated from the main bar, when Sero appears. You step to let him pass, about to ask how he's holding up, when he sloppily grabs your jaw with one hand and kisses you.

You return it for a moment before reaching to push his chest back gently, saying, "Not here Hanta." He uses his other hand to grab yours pressing against him, making a noise—one that sounds like a mix between a whine, a groan, and love you—and leaning down for another. It makes your heart race with both affection and nerves. You're prepared to wriggle from his grasp, already twisting your forearm to—

There's a gasp from the end of the hall. You freeze at the sound, blood running cold when you recognize whose voice it is, an, "I knew it!" screamed by Mina, gleefully.

You aren't sure why getting caught like this makes your stomach turn the way it does. Surely you're not a high schooler hiding your secret boyfriend from your parents. But you hate that it was Mina to find you like this, knowing her mind is jumping at lightspeed to conclusions, making assumptions out of one snippet of a gesture.

And Mina's cry grabs attention, of course it does. And it's Denki, because of course it is, and the first thing he says when he takes in the scene before him is, "Dude, I knew there was no way you could be living together and not banging." Because of course he does.

And your eyes sting with tears, not sure if it's shame or disappointment or fear coursing through your veins, still icy. You're deaf to any other comments they make, feeling your breath quicken while your heart hammers in your chest. When your moment of paralysis passes you retreat, the coward taking over to reign in any sense of control or safety. Sero's grip is slack from the shock, and you use the opportunity to dart back into the bathroom, grateful there's a lock on the main door despite there being four stalls inside.

The noise is overwhelming—too many sounds to fully understand what's happening. You hear Sero call your name, rushed knocks on the door. Denki and Mina's voices get closer too, still trailing on and on with interrogation and amusement. It makes your eyes water faster but your body heat in anger. It's what, of all things, you were trying to avoid most. The way people will take in the news and their first thought is that they somehow knew. That it was obvious, that you're oblivious to your own emotions and stupid for having to move at your own pace. The way their faces fill with cockiness—borderline condescension—because they knew all along, idiot. 

It's a blur, fuzzy in your mind as you try to focus on breathing. You muffle your sobs into your arm, not wanting to give the people on the other side the satisfaction of knowing the state you're in. You think your embarrassment would make them proud of themselves, for some reason.

It's only a moment later when there's a startling shout. It's Bakugou, with his signature, "Oi!" before he barks, "Shaddap you idiots!"

You hear stomps approach the door, then two shrieks. The voices whine and ramble as they move further away, carrying part of your overwhelm with them.

You don't see the meaningful look Bakugou gives Sero before he turns to shove them back in the main room. You don't see the way Sero's eyes are completely clear, body sobered by the gravity of the situation.

(Sero once admitted that he keeps Kirishima vaguely informed of the developments between you two, mostly because he was the next closest friend and the best person for advice. Always better at the emotional stuff, in his words. He also mentioned that Kirishima could probably relate, since Bakugou has a way of disregarding convention when it comes to his relationships. You wonder if Bakugou knows too.

You don't hear how in the main room Mina whines, "But I saw them kiss!"

You don't hear Bakugou's response either: a scoff and then, "Doesn't fuckin' matter what you saw, you shit. S'none of your fuckin' business.")

Sero stands in the hallway as his brain attempts to recollect all that happened in the span of a minute, give or take. You're still muffling your panic in your arm, but he hears a shaky inhale and it sends alarms of urgency through his body. He raises his hand to try knocking again, and he is momentarily taken back to a wooden desk on the fourth floor—the first few weeks of knowing you, knocking on your desk to get your attention because he wasn't sure if it was okay to tap your shoulder. It feels like an entire lifetime ago, but also the reality of the present. So he knocks, a short series of raps at the pace of his nervous heart.

When he's met with silence, he says softly, "Hey, I'm sorry. Can you let me in? So I can apologize properly," pauses; adds, "and make sure you're okay."

It takes a moment after some shuffling on your end and a pause, but he hears the door unlock. Unable to contain his relief, he yanks it open and pushes through, pulling you into his arms. You hear the door lock again after he's gotten ahold of you and you shove your face into his warm chest to mute a surprise sob. He doesn't let you stay there for long, trailing his hand to your face so he can look at you, run his thumb below your eye to wipe away another tear.

"I'm sorry," he says, heartfelt and unwavering. "I know we said that kisses were private, and I didn't respect that. And it led to exactly what you were worried about, especially since it's Mina and Denks. Being drunk is no excuse. Can I...do anything right now to help?"

It's unfair how perfect his apology is, how open and honest he is when he's at fault. You just pull him close, needing his comfort in the security of the damned locked bathroom. He feels more relief at that, to not be pushed away.

You feel more gnawing at your stomach, those ugly thoughts that you're overreacting, blowing things way out of proportion. Playing some sort of victim when it's not a big deal. It was a kiss, you tell yourself. But a kiss is often what starts to create those separations, categories in the mind that are inflexible, come with the territory of strictly defined behaviors and confine the way people see you. And it was sweet that he wanted your affections. You think it's all in your head, that you're overcomplicating—

You are pulled out of your spiraling when Sero jerks himself away from you and makes a beeline for one of the stalls. You hear the sound of his retching and run to his side, patting his back and raking your hand through his hair. It’s a delayed reaction maybe—likely a combination of already feeling sick from the drinks, the nerves from the guilt, and that moment where he suddenly sobered. You wait with him until he's finished, flushing the toilet for him when he goes to stand on shaky legs.

"You're too good for me," he moans guiltily as you help him to the sinks to wash his face and mouth.

You just shake your head, disagreeing but not wanting to impose an argument on him in this state. You pocket it for later, wondering what he'll remember in the morning. A knock at the door breaks you from your thoughts.

It's Kirishima, concerned face slightly relieved to see you after you open the door. "Just checking in. Hanta man, you look super unwell," he says, taking in Sero's paleness. Red eyes then move to you, "And you..." you think about how you were mid-sob, a mess in your own right. You know the pair of you look ridiculous.

"Maybe it's best to take him home," he decides. You agree. 

Kirishima is a step ahead, already having gathered your things so you could choose to exit the izakaya without re-entering the main room where everyone else is, still chatting happily. You think he is your savior. The only one who sees you slip away is Bakugou, eyes meeting yours intensely, like there's something he's trying to tell you.

Sero makes an effort to apologize, first thing in the morning. You two are in his bed again—you wanted to be by his side in case anything happened at night—despite the nerves sitting in your gut from earlier. They're gone, mostly, now that you're away from prying eyes.

You wake before him, watch him lay peacefully on the pillow. You think he looks soft and unbothered, not far from how he is awake. After a moment of appreciating his quiet presence, you slip away carefully, return with a glass of water and medicine for his bedside table, and then enter the kitchen to make breakfast.

When he wakes, he is hit by nausea, dense in his stomach. He's not sure if it's the hangover or his in-tact memory of the night before, but it worsens when he sees his nightstand, smells the traces of his favorite post-drinking breakfast wafting through the air. He takes his pills and chugs the water before straightening himself up as quickly as possible and meeting you in the kitchen.

He's pouting when you see him, not even aware that he's doing it. But you see the way his lip juts out and his eyes are teary with guilt and you smile softly. He feels worse.

You had some time to reflect after waking and while you cooked breakfast. You decide it was definitely an overreaction on your part, the tears and the dread inexplicable and now a thing of the past. What's done is done, and you'll move on.

So you ask him, "How are you feeling?" before you turn to shovel some food on his plate.

And he makes a sound, a strangled one in the base of his throat, begging you to acknowledge what he's hurting for. (You.) He walks to you in large strides to gently wrap arms around your waist and bury his nose in your hair. It's so gentle, so cautious. And you're warm against him as you lean back into his embrace.

"I'm sorry for my bullshit last night," he says, not answering you.

You say as much, "Not an answer to my question."

And he whines, tells you, "Stop, don't do that. I upset you and you should let me make amends while sober."

You huff, wanting to be done with it. "It's fine Hanta. What's done is done, we'll carry on. And I overreacted anyways."

He squeezes you tight when you say it, you can feel the disagreement radiating off of him. "No, no. Not an overreaction, never an overreaction. You cried. It's acceptable to cry when you're upset."

"I ran away and locked myself in the bathroom."

"It was a meter away and you needed space."

He's too good at this. You try, "You were incapacitated, not thinking straight."

It makes him angry. He pulls away and turns you so you have to look at him when he tells you, "You told me to stop and I didn't." It makes you swallow, to hear it phrased like that. "Drunk or not, it's unacceptable. And if I can't respect our agreement when I'm that wasted, I shouldn't let myself drink that much in the first place."

You think of past nights at the bar, one night stands. Partners when they had an extra glass of whatever and couldn't pull themselves away from you. You, drunk enough to roll with it. But you, never actively wanting it.

All you can do is say, "Okay." 

Sero sighs, face pinched in a pained expression as he leans forward to hug you again. He rests his head on yours and sighs.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"I know," you say. "And I forgive you."

He runs a hand along your back and hums. He's still unhappy with the conversation, thinking about the way you tried to dismiss his apology. That part still unaddressed, where you suggested you were over it.

"I'll talk to Mina and Denks," he says. It's a testament to how not-over it you are that you realize you were resigned to never see them ever again. "They have big mouths, but I'll try to keep whatever gossip they spread to a minimum. At the very least they know what circles to contain it to, so there's no risk for the media to learn anything."

That part you didn't even consider, but for some reason don't feel so anxious being reminded of it. Instead you just poke his stomach, once gently and then again firmly to push him back from you.

"Okay," is what you say. "Now, how are you feeling? Are you hungry?"

As expected, touches get a little difficult after that. The sexual intimacy, especially, but even the kisses that you've gotten so familiar with. You're in your head, thinking about the friend-or-not-friend implications of everything. Wondering why it's so hard to just commit to a label.

(Kirishima is on patrol with Sero, seeing him sigh when he's asked how things are going, talking about how you've been struggling to feel as confident in yourself after that night.

Bakugou is scowling, telling Kirishima, "the fuck they care about other opinions so much for?" when the redhead mentions it while debriefing his day at dinner.)

But it improves with time and patience. Sero is crystal clear water, the gentle lapping of waves on a shore. He is warm and inviting and healing. And you are slowly submerging yourself in the feeling of him, occasionally stepping back, occasionally a wave bringing the water higher than you expected. But it is always warm, always safe.

After two months of dread, Sero manages to convince you to come back for an evening with the group. "They wanna apologize," he tells you, "and Kirishima asks about you." You know you can't hide forever and begrudgingly agree to go.

It turns out it helps to face your fears. People don't look at the two of you any differently when you enter, and you feel a twinge of guilt at the way Kirishima's eyes brighten with excitement and relief when he spots you. You're only a few steps through the door when you're stopped, the wailing of a familiar pink friend.

"I'm sorry!" Mina says overdramatically, notably tipsy as she grabs your shoulder. "I'm such a horrible gossip. And you two are so hot—Ugh!"

You don't know where to begin with this, and all Sero can do is laugh from beside you. It doesn't help when you feel your opposite hand get taken by an unfamiliar touch, your eyes darting to see Kaminari starting to kneel as he holds it. Your eyes widen impossibly at the display.

The drunk blond begins his own messy apology, though genuine and making a few good points including: "We're sorry for our big mouths," and "We're too stupid to understand." You laugh in disbelief, until Mina is clinging onto you with an arm around your shoulder and Denki starts kissing your hand. It's overwhelming and you feel cornered, but Sero helps detach Denki from you, pulling him up to drag him back to the bar.

You hear his whines and Sero saying, "It's okay dude, they forgave you." You make a note to tell him yourself later.

You're grateful for the help, but it's left you alone with Mina. She's rambling into your shoulder now, and when you tune in you realize it's actually meaningful stuff.

"—didn't know if Hanta ever really had someone who caught his eye, ever since highschool. He was so chill about everything, the romance stuff especially. Always brushing it off. If there was anything going on, he was just as secretive as Bakugou." She stops to sigh, heavy against you. "Denki told me, when you two first went out and I was so excited, but I've been confused about how stuff has been going ever since. 'Cause sometimes it sounded like you were leading him on, especially when I saw for myself the way he looks at you. And when I saw you in the hall I thought maybe Hanta's love worked out, but then you ran away. Hanta tried to explain it but I don't get it at all."

You lean your head back to get a better look at her face and she's pouting. You aren't sure how to respond, feeling defensive at her brief accusation. But you hold yourself together, make sure your voice is calm when you answer.

"We're friends," you say simply. "Friends who sometimes act like a couple from an outside perspective. But we're always gonna be friends, even if the couple stuff just stops one day."

Mina sighs again, and you think it's probably because of your poor explanation. So you add, "I'm sorry it felt like I was leading your friend on, but I haven't—we're good at communicating. And it doesn't really have to make sense to anyone but the two of us."

It makes her whine and turn to hug you. "M'sorry," she mumbles by your neck. "I'm so nosy about people's love lives. Maybe I should just focus on mine."

You startle out a laugh and gently hug her back. "You're forgiven," you tell her. "And maybe it'll help if you just think about other important things."

She scoffs, grumbles, "You can say that 'cause you're a snack."

You raise an eyebrow. "And you're not?"

The night carries on smoothly after that, finally making it to the bar and getting conversation in with the others—Kirishima first, of course. You and Denki cross paths again and have a significantly less dramatic reconciliation than earlier. Like Mina, he also mentions how Sero's always been elusive about love, that they were just excited for him. You watch him carefully, recounting conversation when Sero talks about Denki, when they were younger and had a relationship not unlike yours now.

Sero approaches you after making his own rounds, from behind you while you're catching up with Jirou. She's offering you an invite to a show next weekend, asking for your number to send you the details. You're in the middle of declining, only ever declining these things. You always think they're pleasantries, offerings to make you feel included as an outsider. But this isn't your world, it's Sero's.

You've told him before, how out of place you feel despite the growing familiarity. Why you decline invites to other hangouts, avoid exchanging numbers. Kirishima is the only one you've folded for, but only for emergency use. Denki and Shinsou had your old number from your intern days, but you got a new one when your career started taking off, never offering it a second time.

"You should go," he says as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. The clink of ice in a glass sounds by your ear, a half-finished Long Island. "If you want."

You make a face, a look he knows. Past conversations where you've told him: it's your world, not mine.

He turns his head to whisper gently in your ear. "You're my world, too."

If Jirou is tempted to react to the exchange and the way your face heats, it doesn't show. She sits calmly, almost bored-looking. It makes you forget she has enhanced hearing. At your unchanged uncertain expression, she says, "It's more than a week away, so you have time to think about it. Sero can give you my number if you decide to come."

You think about your ease in this room, even with the debacle that unfolded several weeks ago. Meaningful looks from Kirishima, glares from Bakugou that seem different from anger. How Denki and Shinsou always make an effort to catch up. The way Mina smiles brightly at your appearance. Jirou, here, inviting you despite your streak of declines.

"Okay," you say. "I'll think about it," instead of your usual excuses.

Sero leans further onto your shoulder, pleased by the response. Jirou's face smiles gently and you think maybe it's time.

You are twenty-three when you decide to move your things into Sero's room—the master. You sleep there together often now, even when it's just side-by-side instead of wrapped in each other's embrace. The room is larger and the bathroom is nicer, too. It makes sense.

Sometimes you retire to the second room anyways, if you need the space for a night or few. Just like everything else it's managed easily enough, met with understanding.

One night when you and Sero are laying in the bed, not touching but facing each other from opposite ends, he says quietly, "I discovered a term today… that I think fits our relationship."

You hum in response, watching him, how his eyes have a twinge of uncertainty.

"Life partners," he offers. It sounds simple, neutral, a little vague.

You like it.

"Sounds perfect," you say quietly.

He smiles, bright and honest. His hand reaches for yours and they sit clasped between you, his thumb rubbing your palm.

"I thought so too."

You are twenty-five when you can finally voice what you want in a public setting without feeling the burden of expectation. You are twenty-five when you are able to let go of the implications of labels, what other people think of them, prevent them from shaping your wants and how you go about them.

You are twenty-five, drinking in the atmosphere of the izakaya with Sero's friends—your friends—and all you want is to touch him. He's come up to you where you're perched at the end of the bar, away from the noise of the center. He lays it on thick, a bad pickup line that makes you laugh in your private corner of the room.

When your voice calms you take him in, dressed up from the nice dinner some of them attended beforehand. His hair is pushed back and messy from the ruffling of friends and his cheeks are warm, a couple drinks in. He looks boyish and cute, and you grab the end of his tie to pull him closer.

"You look good tonight," you say as you obnoxiously eye him up and down. "Gimme a kiss."

He flushes further, protesting out of uncertainty for you and your usual consciousness of PDA. Even as you've gotten more comfortable with intimate touches around his friends, you're never bold like this. But he's also weak to you, and gives easily when you roll your eyes and tell him it's fine.

"Man, have any of you seen Hanta? We're supposed to toast our next round together," Denki whines as he approaches the center of the bar.

Jirou makes a noise of amusement and then a display of cocking her head to the end, eyes directing their gaze.

The blond makes a startled sound when he sees Sero standing over you, moving to break from a kiss while you pull him by the tie to bring him closer. Then an obnoxious gasp when he sees you bite his lip.

Mina just groans and leans into Jirou. "They're so hot together. I totally get it now, why aren't you all like that with me?"

"Randomly making out with you at the group function?" Shinsou asks.

Mina just sighs uh, yeah, and Jirou offers, "Haven't you heard of friends with benefits?" Then she pauses thoughtfully, remembering the way Sero quietly said You're my world, too.

Denki pouts, "Are they—are we gonna get Hanta back tonight? Our toast..."

But then you pull back smiling, and the two of you exchange a meaningful-seeming dialogue. Sero gives you a kiss on the cheek and then turns to the center of the bar, eyes scanning. He brightens when he sees Denki and rushes over with a wave. Meanwhile you stand up as Kirishima walks over to you, you happily meeting him halfway.

"Sorry I got distracted Denks, did you put in the order?" Sero asks, breath slightly labored.

"Shut up man," the blond continues to sulk. "Don't rub it in, you can go back to making out in your corner."

Sero laughs, "Nah, I wanna drink with you. Let's go."

Denki eyes him skeptically but the shots are brought out and then downed easily. Denki is soon slurring and leaning against Sero for support. They awkwardly stumble to the barstools together.

"Dude, you're not like—gonna run away from us with your hot friend, right?" Denki asks after sitting down.

Sero looks at him with wide eyes. "What? We've been living together for years. It hasn't made me see you any less."

The blond sighs, saying, "Yeah, but...That's before you started making out like that."

And Sero laughs, genuinely. Happily. "Denks. We've been making out for years now too. And you’ve known about the making out for a while."

There's a hum in response, noncommittal. Sero watches closely as Denki's eyes look far away, thoughtful. Somber.

"I'm—I'm happy for you man," he says eventually. "And...I'm sorry."

Sero doesn't need any other words to know what he's alluding to. He's immediately thinking back to life at UA when he had a relationship not so different than yours now—but with Denki. Late nights in the dorm sleeping together in one of their beds, after cackling and scheming to make their classmates' lives harder. Everyone knew they were close, but they didn't know about the cuddling, kisses and tender moments that would spring at random in private. They were happy with their little rendezvous, carefree and uncommitted. 

At least, it was fun until Denki got more serious about his thing for Jirou. It didn't make Sero upset, the loss of the touch and the intimacy. But the loss of his friend almost entirely is what bred hurt in his heart. No more late night laughing, one-on-one time in the dorms. They still hung around each other with the others, Denki still slinging an arm over his shoulder, but everything deep between them paused for a while, without explanation. It was awkward and confusing. Hard.

But war changes people, brings them closer and further apart. Denki and Jirou's new thing didn't last, luckily able to revert back to their easy friendship. And the boy's friendship with Sero was rebuilt, sturdy and unwavering. But it was different, and that period of emptiness remained unspoken, left as an artifact to the times when things were simpler and easier.

Sero knows that when Denki voices this insecurity, when he pouts and feels a squeeze at his heart, it's one that first appeared in the fourth floor of the agency when Sero asked you on a date. He knows that Denki fears the very thing he did when they were teenagers, the blond whisked away by the prospect of a love that was somehow more meaningful than theirs.

Sero knows that Denki understands the magnitude of what you and he share. And Sero knows that Denki will always feel a sliver of guilt in his heart for not maintaining the same.

"I forgave you a while ago," Sero tells him. It's honest, real. Unwavering forgiveness. And Denki is sighing, pouting as he leans into his arm propped up on the bar.

Sero pats his back gently as he says, "I love you, Denks." And the boy is teary, leaning into the touch as he says a muffled love you too.

You're aware of this history, something Sero shared with you when you were friends at a distance, separated by work and life. You had asked once about the ease with which he navigates his relationships. Why he can maneuver his feelings so well.

And you see this moment, this exchange from a distance from your spot at the bar. A small smile creeps onto your face, imagining their dialogue.

Sero's eyes meet yours as you make your way over, unhurried. He smiles, brightens before giving Denki's back another pat and letting his hand slide away.

You are twenty-five when Sero reaches for you in the ambiance of a bar crowded with friends. It's a gentle but confident gesture that he knows you will take, an outstretched hand extended to close the distance as quickly as possible. You are twenty-five when you take it easily, relieved by his touch and the knowledge that he accepts you—and everything you’re willing to give him.

just another fic of me oversharing thanks (the kitchen apology scene fixed me i think, i'll never have problems again)

this one is all over the place tbh and it's probably because i was trying to cram too many things into such as short length but some people on ao3 were fans, hopefully someone here enjoys too!