#why on God’s green earth would he cheat on someone? he’s not a hypocrite | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

captainchrisfics · 5 years

Text

Seahawks vs. Patriots

About: A first-person pov, Seahawks-supporting reader couldn’t just not show up when Chris Evans throws a Super Bowl party, even if it meant flying across the country to see her second family. Instead of a few elbow jabs from her best friend when the Patriots score a touchdown, she gets a snide comment from Chris that upsets her boyfriend and her whole understanding of their relationship.

Word Count: 5,304

Warning(s): A small physical altercation between partners- it isn’t anything more than a wrist grabbing moment, but I just wanted to give a heads up just in case.

Requested By: @marvelousnomad - Thanks for sending this in and being so patient. Hope it’s worth the wait! x

“Prepare to lose epically, Evans,” I threatened through a grin as soon as Chris’s front door swung open. I shoved the guac and chips I carried to his chest as he laughed and shook his head, jostling the snacks into one arm and sloshing his beer. Chris took a sip and sucked his teeth.

He looked up at me through long eyelashes, smiling back at me. “Wouldn’t be so sure,” he slurred. Chris stepped aside to welcome me into his home, currently hosting the most hectic Super Bowl party of the century.

“Look, I know you’ll live and die by Brady,” I shot back with a dramatic roll of my eyes. “But you’ve got to be honest with yourself.” Without much warning, I wrapped my arms around Chris tightly, without a concern for the chips crushed in between our chests. His hands found the small of my back, bodies pulled together, almost as if we were magnetic.

Between our increasingly busy lives and living on opposite ends of the country, Chris and I rarely got to see each other in person anymore. Even when he was out West, working in L.A. kept him too busy. When I was home, he usually wasn’t. We still talked for hours nearly every week and texted each other far more than that, but it wasn’t the same.

Chris took a long inhale as he pressed a kiss to my temple. “I missed you,” he confessed in a breathy sigh that reeked of booze. “Back at you,” I responded like a vow, squeezing his neck tight before letting go all at once when Andy cleared his throat, asking where he could put the drinks.

The place already reeked of booze, which Chris had asked us to pick up more of on our way over. My boyfriend held the case of beer so hard his knuckles turned white, regarding Chris with only a stiff nod as he walked past. My best friend reciprocated, a hard look of his own.

“This is Andy, my boyfriend,” I said, feeling dwarfed between the two of them, as it occurred to me that they’d never been officially introduced. We’d been together for a few months and it almost felt wrong, introducing two of the most important people in my life for the first time. I knew both of them so well, nearly inside and out, but they were complete strangers.

“Boyfriend,” Chris acknowledged curtly, extending his hand in a forced peace offering. He smiled wryly as he took Boyfriend’s hand with a squeeze harder than it had to be.

“Friend,” Andy spit back like an insult. Like Chris was below him. He smiled in a different way, one that was more confident and cunning and fueled by knowing he’d just beat Chris at his own game. I didn’t even know the rules, the way to operate in this situation. None of this was computing.

So I rolled my eyes and wrote it off as stupid boys before grabbing Andy’s hand, slipping passed Chris.

Chris was always my friend. Always. Even when he broke my dolls and I didn’t want him to be, even when he picked up and moved across the country just after graduation and he almost came back because I’d cried about how I never missed anyone that much before, even when he shot to fame among the stars and needed someone to pull him back down to Earth, even when I moved all the fucking way to Seattle... Not that he had any room to talk. But we were friends, never even a little more.

I never wanted more, but neither of us sure as hell would accept any less.

The place was crawling with an odd crowd, a mix of people Chris and I had grown up down the street from and others we’d go to the movies and see on the silver screen. There were empty cans everywhere. Everyone was buzzed, including Chris, and speaking loudly about everything from their new Tesla updates to the local school’s latest musical production. I weaved in between the small crowds, navigating Chris’s house since it was as good as my own.

I found Scott in the kitchen, snacking on some chips and discussing his mom’s bean dip until he saw me and broke out into a grin, abandoning the small talk he’d been having with some stranger. “Hey,” he called, wrapping me up in a hug. Unlike his brooding brother, Scott wrapped a warm arm around my boyfriend’s shoulders before focusing back on me. “It’s been too long. Still loving Seattle?” Scott asked, passing me a beer from one of the boxes my boyfriend dropped on the counter. He eyed my Russell Wilson jersey with a hint of a playfully condescending smirk.

“Definitely, but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to watch you two weep when your boys lose, no matter how much they try to cheat,” I said with a cheeky wink. Chris, who’d trailed behind us rolled his eyes dramatically, lifting a hand to his chest and clutching his worn Patriots jersey over his hurt heart.

“This is your doing, I bet,” Scott scoffed, crossing his arms as he jokingly stuck his nose up at Andy who merely shrugged, sticking his hand in the back pocket of my jeans.

Chris pushed his way to my other side, slinging a heavy arm around me. “She used to have a good head on her shoulders,” he commented, tugging the sleeve of my Seahawks shirt between his thumb and pointer finger like it was someone else’s trash as he wrinkled his nose. “Now she’s little more than a hometown traitor.”

I laughed them off, taking a long drink to buy time for a good come back. Andy hadn’t been the one to suck me into the 12th man’s infectious culture and the Evans’s boys knew that.

The three of us spent nearly every Super Bowl together, from when we were little kids playing in another room, only joining our parents in front of the television for the halftime show, to proud New Englanders through and through. And then I moved to Washington a few years back for work and joined the Evans family on their couch donned in blue, silver, and green, much to their dismay. Now, for the first time since my conversion, the two teams were not only going against each other, but they were facing off in the biggest game there was.

“That’s laughably hypocritical,” Andy jeered, his voice absent of any inkling of a light-hearted coyness. “At least when we win, we won’t be throwing our rings at Trump.” Chris and Scott’s smiles dropped simultaneously as Andy’s thorny disposition poked their sore spot.

Chris’s arm grew tense before he retracted it completely, burying his hands in his pockets, drifting away from me and toward his brother with downcast eyes. “So,” Scott cleared his throat. “Mom packed you your very own container of her bean dip to take home,” he deflected, laughing uncomfortably. “Tucked it in the back of the fridge to keep it away from these vultures.”

“God,” I sighed with relief at the opportunity to change the subject, no matter how forced. “I love Lisa’s cooking almost as much as I love her.”

After his faux pas, Andy stayed out of the conversation. I tried to include him, of course, but it wasn’t easy. Laughing until we could barely breathe over these “you had to be there” moments, like the time Chris convinced the younger Scott and I to wet our pants on purpose, wasn’t exactly something I could rope him into. Instead, Andy sat there with crossed arms and this look in his eye that made me remember every time he’d said that if he had nothing nice to say, he’d say nothing at all.

“Oh my god, remember when we were in middle school and she cast us in Grease,” I started, following up Scott’s horror story about one of our old music teachers. “I was Sandy,” I reminded everyone, playfully sweeping my hair off of my shoulder to bask in their limelight.

“And Chris was so beyond pissed that he didn’t get Danny,” Scott elaborated through a fit of laughter.

“Hey-” Chris butt in smoothly, leaning an elbow against the kitchen counter. “I did get Danny.”

“No,” I corrected, raising an eyebrow. “You got his understudy.”

Chris laughed from the bottom of his belly, a sound I sorely missed. Hearing it through my phone’s speaker didn’t compare to watching his shoulders jump up at the same time the corners of his lips reached their peak, throwing his head forward with the force of his lilting laugh that grew out of an incredulous scoff. His eyebrows rose so fast, almost like they were about to take off, and the only delicate thing about his guffaw was the way his eyelashes just brushed the rosy, round apples of his cheeks.

“And the kid who actually did get Danny… Who was it, Jake Dohenny? Well, he got a very convenient leg injury during football practice,” Scott finished for me. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, huh, Chris?”

I tried to suppress my giggle behind my palm, but Chris shot me this look that only made me laugh harder. “Sincerely, I’m sure whoever did tackle the punk so hard his tibia fractured didn’t mean to, but no one ever said it was me,” he professed his innocence, although the glint in his eye betrayed him. Then Chris’s irises grew dark as his grip tightened enough to dent his beer can. “Dohenny had it coming though, talking about you the way he was,” he swore in a low tone.

My eyes dropped to our feet. I’d forgotten exactly what happened, but as soon as Chris mentioned it I remembered exactly why that name made my stomach sink. You could say life imitates art, with him being Zuko and all. He’d gone around school and told everyone that we hooked up backstage. Being barely thirteen, it seemed like the sort of crippling embarrassment I could never recover from. Then, one day, Jake came to school with a cast around his leg and he’d still move out of my way whenever I’d walk down the hall like I had the plague or something.

I asked Chris about it once, since we usually walked together even when we were in different classes. He’d said it was for the best, that he learned some respect. It all blew over in a couple weeks anyway so I’d forgotten about it.

“Plus,” Chris said, softer now. He caught my attention as he tucked some of my hair behind my ear. “We made a damn good couple,” he joked, looking at me with this soft smile bookended by laugh lines and crow’s feet at the corner of his blue eyes. I laughed from my chest, suddenly remembering all of the terribly awkward stage kisses over each other’s thumbs and times the director got so mad she turned red since we couldn’t even get within inches of each other without breaking down in fits of nervous laughter. It was awful for everyone involved, although it made for some funny home videos.

“Well,” Andy interrupted, pulling me away from Chris and into his side. “We do, too.” He looked between the Evans’s boys with his nose stuck up in the air, shoving his hand in my back pocket almost like he was trying to stick it to them, just because he could.

Scott and I laughed uncomfortably, joking about how that had plenty to do with our eighth-grade production in an attempt to de-escalate whatever situation we’d found ourselves in, but Chris only gave him this hard look. Every bit of his former softness turned to steel.

Then the commentators’ voices, ramping up dramatically as the game began, echoed from the living room, where Chris had just about the biggest television they sold for this purpose. With a panicked glance at each other, not realizing how long we’d spent catching up and reminiscing as per usual, we raced each other to the living room. The four of us were just about the only ones with our butts glued to the couch. Leave it to Chris to throw a Super Bowl party where everyone was too busy having a good time to actually commit to watching the game.

A hell of a game it was, too. It was closer than any Super Bowl had been in a while, with both teams playing as competitively as their respective fans tried to out-cheer each other, although they all paled in comparison to Chris and I. By far one of the more exciting Super Bowl’s we’d witnessed, fueled by our own elbow-jabbing rivalry. We jumped and clapped, hollering every time someone scored and then even louder when the other team got the point back, shouting insults so profane Lisa would’ve revoked my dip if she’d heard us.

“Fucking, come on already!” Chris shouted, springing to his feet, fists clenched tight in his stressed hair. I was on the edge of my seat, just about to fall off as the referees took a torturous amount of time deciding if the Patriots last sorry excuse for a foul should count as a touchdown. I tried to listen intently over Chris’s drunken ramblings, telling Scott that this was make or break with so much intensity, like he was relaying a divine prophecy instead of just parroting Tony Romo.

The camera zoomed dramatically on the man clad in a black and white striped shirt as he prepared to make the call, every screaming fan in the stadium going quiet. “It’s good,” he concluded, throwing his arms up in the shape of a field goal as if those two words hadn’t just cost me bragging rights for the next three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of the year. As if it didn’t put the Patriots ahead enough to secure the trophy.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding, that was so a foul,” I groaned, sinking back into the couch with a crushing sense of defeat. Chris, on the other hand, shot his fists into the air while he cheered along with most of the people crowded around the living room. “Well, fuck me while you’re at it,” I muttered, pursing my lips as I crossed my arms, pouting like a discontent toddler in time out.

Chris sat back down, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as he jostled me, trying to get my spirits as sky-high as his. When he’d calmed down, Chris smiled at me with these round, booze-rosied cheeks that crinkled his soft, blue eyes. He bit his bottom lip before laughing, a deep rumble that grew from the bottom of his chest. “Lord knows I’ve been wanting to,” he all but purred, looking at me through his dark eyelashes with dangerously tempting bedroom eyes.

“I’m sorry, what?” I spit at him, thinking too many thoughts of my own to totally process his words, scooting out of Chris’s reach against my instinct. It was out of nowhere, his words, my actions, all a stark reminder of how painfully quick a second could pass. I gave him a harsh look, complete with wide eyes and high eyebrows as I waited for some kind of excuse, some kind of laugh as he shrugged it off, some kind of anything.

But Chris was a too-happy drunk tonight. The overly friendly kind whose hand had slowly dropped from my shoulder to my waist, the talkative one who’d lost his filter something like three or four Buds ago. I wasn’t sure how much he’d had, but judging by the typo-ridden text he’d sent asking me to bring more booze on my way over it’d been a lot before we’d even arrived. Now he could usually handle his drinks, but no amount of empty cans could excuse that sort of comment.

Chris’s smile dropped with his concerned brow, like the gravity of what had managed to slip past his lips had just hit him. His eyes searched my face, confused by the way I’d treated him. The way I’d torn myself from his familiar touch and retreated into someone else’s side, the venom in my voice. It even tasted like poison to me.

“I think I heard him loud and clear,” Andy said, his chest rising and falling with ragged, angry breaths. “In fact, I have been all night,” he continued, standing from the couch. “You need to learn how to keep shit to yourself, Evans.” Andy loomed over Chris, who acted more like a kicked puppy than the snarling one my boyfriend had been hoping to meet in the dog fight. He had this glint in his eye, like a spark of a blaze Chris was about to be burned in.

“We’re leaving,” Andy growled, turning to me once he’d realized Chris wasn’t going to fuel his fire. He grabbed my wrist so tight it hurt, yanking me off of the couch before I could react, but Chris stood nearly as fast.

Scott joined him, stepping between the two other men. “You guys need to stop thinking with the wrong heads,” he warned, raising his hands to show he wasn’t a threat.

“Take your hands off of her and get out of my fucking house,” Chris said lowly as he stepped around his brother. Every ounce of his convivial disposition had dissipated, leaving Chris a dangerous mess of flexing biceps and tight jaw. Andy’s grip only tightened to the point where I could nearly feel every ridge of his palm and each indent of his fingertips.

He smirked, a smile that was harsh and cruel and not one I ever thought I’d see, although I realized right then how much it seemed to suit him. “Why? Because you’re jealous?” Andy challenged, taking a step toward Chris. He was shorter than him by a good few inches, but he stood up to him nonetheless. “Mad you don’t get to touch her like I do?”

They glowered at each other with their vexed veins popping and eager fists clenching, every bit of the enemies they’d somehow become overnight, for seconds that felt like years. Seconds I needed to catch up to the present.

I ripped my hand from Andy’s grip, rubbing the tender skin around my wrist with the other. “Because you’re hurting me,” I insisted, surprised at the sureness I was able to muster. I put on a strong front, imagining myself made out of hard concrete. I stepped between the two of them, an unwavering wall. “Because you shouldn’t treat me or my friends like that,” I impressed upon Andy, my voice remaining miraculously unbroken, before turning to Chris.

“And you shouldn’t talk to me like that,” I paused to take a few deep breaths in an attempt to maintain my measured composure. “And neither of you should act like I’m some prize to be won or defended, for that matter,” I finished with crossed arms, glaring at the two of them.

I tried to place a stern hand on Andy’s shoulder, unable to resist the urge to recoil. I ran stressed fingers through my hair instead. “Go back to my parents, I…” I sighed. “I guess I’ll see you there.”

“But, look, I’m really sorry-” he started an apology that didn’t finish leaving his lips.

“Just go,” I snapped at him, closing my eyes as I let out a strangled breath. It did nothing to alleviate the pressure in my chest. “Honestly, go back to Seattle, if you want. I really don’t care, just go.”

Andy bit his bottom lip, mind reeling to come up with anything that could win me over, which was exactly his problem in the first place. He gave up and leaned in to kiss my cheek, but I pulled away. I didn’t think much of it, just a simple reflex as a response to what his last touch had felt like, but by the look in his eyes, I knew our fate was sealed. It was over. I think Andy realized that too, as he turned and left.

“For the best,” Chris slurred, tentatively reaching to pat my back. I stepped out of his reach before he could, leaving our burst bubble. I realized then how many people were staring at us with their popped-out eyes and dropped jaws.

I took Chris’s wrist, tugging him out of the room as he stumbled and pulling him up the stairs until we reached the solitude of his bedroom.

“I bet this is a good night for you, huh?” I shouted, slamming the door behind me. I turned to him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. “The Patriots get a win and you get the girl? Great plan.”

Chris’s gaze dropped to the floor. He shoved his hands down in the back of his pockets, rocking from his toes to his heels. “Seriously,” I implored, softening for him. Melting, as I always seemed to. “What were you thinking, saying something like that?”

Chris dragged his palms down his face. “Would you believe me if I uh,” he paused to hiccup, “I said I was drunk?” He tried to half-smile, watching me with these puppy-dog eyes that begged as bad as Dodger.

But my resolve didn’t waver. In fact, it took everything in me to just stand there with my arms crossed instead of boarding a flight back home to get as far as I could from him without leaving the country completely.

Chris sighed, knowing it wasn’t good enough. “That you weren’t happy,” he said smally, innocently. Chris sunk to sit on his bed, watching his fingers as he wrung his hands anxiously in his lap. “That I could make you happier.”

“It was just a game, Chris, I’d get over losing the fucking Super Bowl, but this-” I began, but then those ocean eyes carried me into his riptide. The intensity of his gaze was unmatched, it reminded me too much of a stormy sea. The kind that made people come up with all sorts of gods to explain.

“I- fuck, I know it was stupid,” he said, dropping his eyes again. Chris ran his hands through his sweaty hair. “I mean, I meant in life. With him, like, I don’t know, but with me…” he trailed off, shaking his head like he couldn’t get rid of the thoughts. Like putting them out into the thick air between us didn’t even help. He sighed. “I know it doesn’t make sense.”

The problem was, I wished it didn’t.

That I didn’t fit more naturally into Chris’s side than any of the other boys I’d brought back to family dinners. That I didn’t book flights home whenever he wrapped filming, dropping everything just to see him for a few days, or buy his cologne for my boyfriends on their birthdays. That didn’t chase others trying to outrun him. That I didn’t waste years, entire decades really, of my life denying it.

“I didn’t realize until you weren’t here anymore,” Chris explained, but I could only wonder whether or not he’d tell me the same thing sober. He looked up at me, with these eyes that looked like they were the ocean others said they cried. “When you moved all the fucking way to Washington of all places.”

“You are so not one to talk,” I insisted, all the hurt of years staring at his empty place at the table and stealing the t-shirts he’d forgotten in his childhood bedroom and every bit of hurt walking down this city’s streets but only seeing ghosts of Chris instead of him by my side bundled into one sentence.

“I know,” Chris reassured me, puffing his cheeks out as he let go of a sigh. “But you took almost everything I loved about coming back to Boston with you. You took home with you,” he pleaded with me to see his side, clenched fists hitting his knees like it hurt to admit it.

“You can’t tell me that,” I shot back, shaking my head furiously. “That isn’t fair, Chris. You don’t get to say that. You left first.” My voice broke along with whatever dam was holding back my tears.

Really, what I wished was that I could love anyone other than him. Someone who I could go to when my best friend was being too much. Someone who would still be there after a breakup. Anyone other than this globe-trotting star who seemed to be everywhere. On every billboard’s movie poster, promoting his work on almost every continent, sitting on every interviewer’s couch, everywhere other than by my side. Someone who could walk down the street without getting photographed and hounded and probed. I was close enough to see the burns of Chris’s life in the bright lights, but still far enough to stay out of the heat myself.

The bedsprings creaked and Chris wrapped me up in his strong arms, allowing my body to wrack with its sobs as he pressed long kisses to the top of my head, whispering gentle shushes against my hair.

“You took home first,” I cried, pounding my palm against his chest, curling my head into the crook of Chris’s neck even though he smelled worse than a frat house on Sunday morning. “You don’t know what it’s like sitting in our booth at the diner all alone.”

“Oh, I do,” he interrupted. Chris’s skin was hotter than a radiator. “And walking to the T without you tugging the headphones we’re sharing from my ear,” Chris voiced my thoughts just above a whisper. “And going to see a movie at AMC all on your own even though you could invite someone else, but it’s always been our thing so it feels really wrong, and when it’s over you realize you got enough popcorn for two.”

I pressed my forehead to his pec, feeling his heart pound along with my growing headache. “So you know why I went to Washington,” I said without really saying it.

Chris hummed a reluctant confirmation. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear while smiling gently. “What’s the thing people say… You know, about distance making hearts grow? I’m like the grinch in that one scene where his quadrupled.”

“It tripled,” I corrected, like that was the only thing wrong with his sentence. With any of this.

“Well,” Chris sighed, puffing a putrid breath that reeked of stale alcohol too close to my proximity. “Mine grew even more than that for you.”

“That’s another thing,” I whined, trying to keep him on track while I wiped my tear-stained cheeks. “You’re my best friend, Chris. The guy I go to after a breakup, not the one I want to be breaking up with.” I closed my eyes, wishing all of this away, as I hopelessly buried my face back into his Pats jersey.

Chris’s chest rumbled with laughter, the thunder to my storm. “I don’t want to be breaking up with you either,” he promised earnestly. “The problem is, you’re the one I wanna be with.” His hands rubbed small circles on my back as I started to shake again.

“You don’t get it, I do too,” I said, for the very first time out loud. “But we’ve both got a one-hundred-percent failure rate on that front, that’s the problem.”

I didn’t want Chris to be another statistic. Another one slamming the door behind him or ignoring my texts or boarding a plane back to Washington. I didn’t want to be another tell-all in some trashy magazine or a name paparazzi would shout to get his attention. He was already so much more to me than that and I knew I meant more to him. I did the calculations, it wasn’t worth the risk.

Chris chuckled again. “S’one way of looking at it,” he slurred, shrugging his shoulders without releasing me from the hug. “But the way I see it is that, when it comes to us at least, we have a pretty good chance given our track record.”

He had a point there. For years, Chris and I had worked out every time, after nearly every trial and every error. In fact, more than we had issues in our own relationship, we seemed to cause them in our other ones.

“I am not willing to risk ruining a whole lifetime of friendship,” I said with a shaky voice and a shaky everything else. “I can’t lose you,” I continued collapsing in on myself.

“I already feel like I’m losing you,” Chris mumbled, resting his chin on top of my head. “Even though I know you’re right here…” His arms tightened around me. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Chris shook his head. “But I do know I’ve felt like that since I realized, as much as I love being the guy you come to when you’ve got relationship problems, more than anything, I wanna be the guy you’re in a relationship with, the guy who makes sure you never have another problem again.”

“Chris,” I sighed, gathering his fuzzy cheeks in my palms. “You know I love you…” His flushed cheeks widened with a smile that made it so hard to continue. “But we can’t do this now, alright? That’s my problem. I’ve got a lot to process. Lord knows your liver does, too. We need to get to bed and-”

To my surprise, Chris untangled himself from me without anything resembling a protest. He peeled off his jersey and climbed out of his jeans before pulling back his bed’s covers far enough for him to climb under and then some next to him. He smiled at me, this innocently wide smile, as he patted the mattress’s empty space, inviting me to lay beside him. “No problem,” he grinned.

“To our own, separate beds,” I clarified, trying to hide my laugh behind a cough as to not encourage him. As wide as he’d smiled, he frowned even deeper. “It’s just too much right now. I promise we’ll talk in the morning,” I tried to reason, although I was sure the inebriation kept him far from it.

“I’m gonna miss you though,” Chris groaned in protest, the last bit of his coherent brainpower being spent. He yawned and snuggled deeper into his pillow, making himself at home under his covers.

“I’ll miss you too,” I tried to reassure him, not able to subdue my laugh this time. “But it’s all just too much,” I echoed faintly, flicking his bedroom light off.

“Oh!” I heard Chris call over the door’s creak as I was about to shut it behind me. I paused before stopping completely.

“I love you, too,” he said confidently. I’ve heard him say those words a million times, over the years, before either of us really knew what it meant, and over the phone, before I really knew what it meant to him. And what it meant to me.

I hesitated, wanting nothing more in that moment than to swing the door between us wide open and take Chris into my arms, tell him that I loved him again, only in the same way, and that everything would be okay between us, since it always was before. He’d been my problem for a hell of a lot longer than just that night, and I wanted him to keep being my problem for the rest of my life. Seemed like that should be all that mattered. But that’s exactly what is too much, all of these awful, confusing feelings boiling in my chest, just about to bubble over and fall out of my mouth. So I smiled, despite everything I thought I knew about my world being shaken in a scale-breaking quake, and closed the door.

Tags: @patzammit , @thegetawaywriter , @coffeebooksandfandom , @captainsteveevans , @intrepidandabitcrazy , @super100012 , @spilledinkindumpster , @torntaltos , @amiquette , @peach-acid

If you’d like to be tagged in my future fics, please reply to this post, or if you’re looking for more of my writing you can find that here :)

249 notes · View notes