#trying to play around w type and learning how to just make things again!!!

[heejamas]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[butchvampireheimerdinger]

The Great War

A/N: So this was made in response to a request but it ended up blossoming into a full 2K word fic adjacent and I had to split it into two posts! Anyways, if you enjoy sexy and occasionally soft Sevika, dramatic arguments that result in comfort, and mob-wife vibes… enjoy!

Warnings: Not smut but mentions of sex and both characters are D O W N B A D.. A lot of cussing and mentions of violence.

Pairing: Butch!Sevika X Femme!Reader who is super outgoing and forward

🂱 So the two of you’ve met briefly around town, kinda running in the same circles. You notice her right away but you don’t actually talk until she shows up at work — The Last Drop.

🂱 You’re a server and your charisma, magnetism, and punchy/blunt sort of energy makes you well suited to hospitality. You’re the bubbly outgoing type of waitress who gets their table laughing and in a good spirits with ur contagious good vibes.

🂱 You beat the other waitress to claim Sevika’s table, and it’s on.

🂱 She would get a kick out of it — your shamelessness. She really likes the forward thing, timidity makes her roll her eyes. Life’s too short for playing hard to get! Plus, she’s an adult. And a literal revolutionary who quite literally does not have the time for all that.

🂱 Before you learn each others names you endearingly and lightheartedly call her “butchy,” or something like that. She calls you sweetheart.

🂱 You’d pour her beers on the house. You’d lean over the bar counter on ur elbows, making sure ur titties look good and perky. And if it was just the two of you, she would not hide her ogling.

🂱 It’d be a bit of a game to you two. Making the other person crack, being the first to back down/get all blushy. You’d be all flirty-flirty over the bar counter, she’d pull you into her lap during her card game. It’s like how straight guys play gay chicken. Except ur actually gay so it would just be chicken.

🂱 And she’s smoking indoors, as per us. You ask if you can have a hit. She shotguns it into ur mouth and you blow it upward, once again drawing attention to your décolletage, to the girls hehe

🂱 Eventually she just asks you straight up if you wanna spend the night. Maybe you take her up on it, maybe you don’t. Either way, she’s not the fuckboy (fuckbutch?) hit it n quit it type. She’s an adult woman with emotional intelligence and communication skills goddammit and she’s gonna ask you to dinner.

🂱 Takes u to the fanciest place in the undercity, orders everything on the menu trying to flex her wallet and impress u. Whether or not u ask for it she gets you one of those weird rich people desserts where they make part of the preparation an “experience.” like they pour hot liquid over a hollow chocolate shell and it cracks open and reveals a little cake inside. Or something involving a blowtorch.

🂱 Anyways this whole time ur just rubbing ur lil high heeled foot up her pant leg under the table and twirling ur hair, touching her arm, etc. Naughty girl — she mock-scolds you telepathically with a dommy little eyebrow raise thing.

“Here? Now? I pull out all the stops to give you a magical evening and you already wanna leave and bang it out. That’s real classy, sweetheart.”

🂱 You’re both rather bold and upfront, obviously. Strong personalities, fire sign energy — which means you butt heads often. Your relationship is super intense and fiery so every day is like a soap opera, or like The Real Mob Wives of Staten Island in levels of drama.

“Why the hell didn’t you come home last night? And why did i have to find out from Vivi that she saw you cracking skulls in a fishing boat by the pier?”

“Babygirl I told you I was taking care of business. Sweetheart, uprisings don’t happen overnight, it’s all about biding time and strategically applying political pressure in Topside-”

“Jesus, Mary, and the goddamn camels you and your strategic goddamn pressure. I’ll tell you I’ve fucking had it with you and your fucking pressure. You wanna make me look like an idiot? When me and my girlfriends are sitting drinking mimosas for brunch at Jarrod's and they ask me ‘Y/N where’s that woman of yours?’ And i have to look them in the eyes and say “Clint Eastwood was unable to join us as she had a prior engagement strategically applying pressure. To the back of enforcers’ skulls. With a fucking baseball bat. Like a common thug. Mind you, I’m a classy lady all by my lonesome on a Sunday fucking morning-"

“Classy lady I’ll fucking say. You’d think I plan on growing old with Mrs. Fucking Vanderbilt, the way you want to buy ten thousand pairs of red high heels-“

“Omg babe you wanna grow old with me?”

“-that all look exactly the fucking same, by the way. ‘Burnt orange’ and ‘vermillion’ and ‘chartreuse’ or whatever the fuck — You know it’s just fucking red.

“Chartreuse is green, since you wanna be a smartass,”

“Don’t gaslight me, woman. Where do you even plan on wearing those? We live in an oversized sewer pipe. Not the magical land of Oz. I told you who i was when you met me. I told you this is what I do. And you better get used to it if you wanna keep charging my card at every boutique within a ten mile radius,”

“Or what? Gonna give me the spiel again, talk me to death about the uprising and the political elites and the our time is imminent, y/n. Gonna threaten me like you do your little fishing buddies? Gonna apply me some strategic fucking pressure?”

“That’s enough.” Sevika hissed, scary calm. She kicks the pantry door shut and whips around, pointing at you with her cigarette. “I’ve had enough of this shit. You’re done, Missy.”

“Beg pardon? I’ll decide when I’m done, thank you very much. You’ve got some nerve telling me when to speak when I can’t even reach you half the time. I had to track down your little boss the other day — brought him a lovely casserole — and ask if he could pass on a message for me! ‘Excuse me Mr. Scaryman Eye of Zaun, sir, could you possibly ask Zorro if she might head home as soon as she’s done busting kneecaps? And to arrive in a clean shirt, as my parents are in town and they prefer to greet their daughter-in-law when she’s not covered in someone’s intravenous blood. Thank you kindly.’”

“You showed up at work? Wait- you talked to Silco? Babe I told you to stay the fuck away from there!”

“Please. He may be the kingpin of the city or whatever, but I make a gorgeous quiche. Trust me, babe. Once he tastes my cooking, I am henceforth immune to whatever machiavellian basement torture chamber you brutes probably use as your break room.”

🂱 Sorry guys, got a little carried away there. Point is, one minute you’re screaming at each other and dramatically slamming doors and throwing shit, the next you’re fucking on the kitchen floor like the world’s about to end. You guys basically co-authored the book on how to be an absolute nightmare of an upstairs neighbor. The entire building feels the floor shaking and no one knows if the screaming is just you guys having a little too much fun for 2pm on a Tuesday, or if they’re gonna see this on the news tomorrow.

🂱 Kidding! At the end of the day, trust and loyalty are the foundations of your relationship. You love each other wildly, deeply, and passionately.

🂱 Sevika has a strict no going to bed angry policy. If you’d gotten into it that evening you might give her the cold shoulder, curl up facing away from her in the quiet moments before bed. She’s reading by the lantern on the bedside table — an upcycled barstool the two of you stole from your old job at The Last Drop one evening when you were in a particularly silly mood.

🂱 She catches your gaze a couple times as you stare over your shoulder to see if she’s paying attention to you, and then you immediately turn and go back to ignoring her. She takes off her reading glasses, tosses her book onto the bed, and rolls over to you, wrapping her arm around you from the back.

“Hey baby?” She kisses your shoulder and the back of your head since you still won’t look at her, and she continues. “Love of my life? Light of my world? Keeper of my soul and partner in crime through the sea of trials we call the fucked-up game of life?” You turn slightly to give her a glaring side eye.

“…What do you want.”

“Still mad at me, babygirl?”

“Not at all. Why on earth would I be mad?”

“I’m sorryyy,” she draws it out, cooing at you all soft and sing-songy. If the ne’erdowells who often got their asses handed to them by her and her little team could see this Sevika, they’d think they lost their mind. Hell, if any punk on the street could see this Sevika they’d think they lost their mind. It made your knees weak the way she undid herself and softened for you. For only you. You fought the smile forming and she continued murmuring against your skin.

“It’s all this bullshit at work Silco’s got me taking care of. I’m neglecting my little lady, I’m stretched so thin. It’s too much…”

“Too much…?” You echo. “Talk to me, love. Silco’s not letting you catch a breather?”

She grunts in affirmation against your shoulder: “Mm-hrmm”

“Does my baby have the whooole wide world on her poor, tired, buff, strong, sexy shoulders-EEK!” She gleefully flips you over to face her, making you cackle. You’ve been disarmed. At her mercy. You always were.

She leans forward to bonk her forehead against yours.

“Glad someone in this cruel world finally understands me and my line of work,” she says, half-joking.

“No one understands the importance of your job better than me, babe.” You continue, at this point unable to remove the sarcasm from your tone even if you tried. She nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder facedown, head supported by the cushiness of your tit. You weave your fingers in her hair.

“The honorable burden of great duty… The unfathomable smothering of moral obligation, even. One might describe it as an immensely… strategic pressure-”

“-For FUCK’s SAKE”

“You have worker’s rights, you know! Demand an hour off — paid — in your underground torture chamber-breakroom. You’re entitled to relax and sip coffee as you watch the bodies hit the floor, goddammit!”

Feigning exasperation, Sev dramatically collapses backward starfish-style on the old-ass creaky-ass decrepit-ass daddy longlegs convention of a double bed the two of you share; in a shithole apartment, in a shady-ass neighborhood, in a collapsing city. That’s how it was between the two of you. Underneath it all, she trusts that you’ll always be there to kiss her wounds, to make sure her collar is straight and there’s no shmutz on her face. You trust that at the end of the day, it’s you she’s coming home to.

[pomefioredove]

having a crush on you

summary: how they would act having a crush on you type of post: headcanons characters: pomefiore (vil, rook, epel) additional info: reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, rook is rook, not proofread, hi I'm insane and I love pining, I NEED to write another fic but with rook. might write this same prompt with other dorms

𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐭

don't take his calm and collected facade as apathy

he's slowly losing his mind about this

"pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself, falling asleep thinking about you" kind of losing his mind

it's my personal belief that Vil hasn't been in love before this

hasn't even really thought about it

so when you enter the picture it kinda throws him off balance

and with the exception of Rook, no one can even tell

he is an actor, after all, he can play the part of "totally platonic friends with room for Jesus"

(maybe a little too well)

but Vil isn't entirely emotionally repressed

he keeps things to himself, yes, but he's quite conscious of his own wants and needs

so when he realizes he's been craving your presence more than usual he does acknowledge it

in his head

and then does nothing about it for months

...what? he's busy

things like this can wait for him, and he doesn't want to put a rift between you two in case it might be a passing feeling

well... it doesn't pass

he becomes keenly aware of how much he wants you around him, how much he thinks about you, how much your very presence is enough to make him happier than he's ever... really felt

and you know what?

he is totally cool about it.

just kidding. he drives himself insane trying to think of the perfect way to confess, something that will impress you and meet his standards

he's dropping hints left and right and you don't seem to be picking any of them up

which again, just makes him crazy

(some days he really wants to ask you how oblivious one person can be, but he restrains himself)

I mean, how many times can he send you red tulips before you finally get the hint? he's practically spelling it out for you!

there is... a tiny, little part of him that worries you don't reciprocate

is he not your type? are you interested in someone else? perhaps he'd been too harsh on you, after all...

the fact that one little potato can make him so worried absolutely drives him mad

he is the vision of poise and grace and you are ruining him

and this sort of mood comes and goes in waves

just when he thinks he's pulled himself back together, you'll smile at him or say something cute and suddenly he's back to square one

(you're so adorable it's annoying -_-)

while he's sorting out a good way to express his feelings properly, he'll be spending all his free time with you

you need some new things? he'll be glad to take you shopping

you came over to see Epel? oh, well, he's not here, but you should stay for some tea, anyway!

your afternoon is free? he has some new lip gloss he's been dying to test out...

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭

contrary to popular belief, I don't think Rook would be so open about it

he still compliments you, of course, and sings praises of your beauty and elegance, and has little regard for personal space, as always

but he's like that with a lot of people, so it's hard to really tell when he likes someone

the truth of the matter is that Rook Hunt can be just as reserved with his feelings as anyone else

when he really, really likes someone, he keeps it to himself

why?

he's hunting you he's learning more about you before making his true feelings known

he feels it's necessary to have an adequate amount of information on his target before making a move, after all

for reference: you catch his eye at orientation, and do not have a single conversation with him until after winter break

(of course, after that, you start mysteriously running into him everywhere)

is he kinda weird about it? uh. yeah.

this is Rook we're talking about

on the other hand, he's completely lovesick about you and it's almost cute

he's definitely the type to write your initials in a journal with a glitter pen while kicking his feet back and forth and giggling

seeing if you would sound better with his last name or he with yours...

definitely has a very weird photo collection of you somewhere in his room

along with stacks of poems, pressed flowers, and little gifts he intends to give you once he's won you over

(when, not if. Rook is nothing if not patient)

you may find a rose left outside Ramshackle every so often

or a few cans of tuna for Grim

all while acting like the same old eccentric Rook, no discernable difference

except when you can feel his eyes on you at random places in the middle of the day

Ace and Deuce call you paranoid but you can't shake the feeling

though, every once in a while he'll get a little grumpy

Rook is easily jealous, and while that sort of possessiveness never extended to untouchable idols like Vil and Neige, he's already decided that you're his prey

and he'd kindly ask everyone else to find their own, thank you

he hasn't exactly planned the confession yet, but just know it's probably going to be the sweetest and craziest you've ever heard

𝐄𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐫

first of all he's going to fight you for making him like you so much

second of all he's going to beg for a chance

maybe not in that exact order

Epel is constantly at war with his own emotions and having romance thrown in the mix is. uh. not optimal

not only does it ruin the stoic, strong male persona he's been trying to build, but it's also making him feel all soft and gushy

suddenly he cares about looking nice

(much to Vil's approval)

and now he wants to do nice things for you?

he's gonna bite you

how dare you make him think about kissing and holding hands!

don't you know he's supposed to be above all this romantic stuff? what is he, Rook?!

then, after his initial temper tantrum, he starts coping. hard.

he might be able to stomach the idea of being an item if he gets to wear the pants in the relationship

...yeah, right? right.

if you let him be the man, if you let him protect you...

he might be okay with it!

obviously he starts trying to show off his manly strength (seriously) every time he sees you

starts making comments about how tough practice was on him

will literally never let anyone else carry anything for you ever again

he even provides for you (in payments of apple juice)

obviously this backfires 'cause the second you do something that gives him butterflies he's back to giggling

(you'll have to ease him into the idea of being soft and romantic together, but he'll get there)

but, to his credit, he'd be the first out of all the above to confess

super suddenly and out of nowhere (and he ends up shouting it cause he didn't want to sound chicken) but it's sweet in its own way

[kumasakka]

hi, i am back again rqing for sugishita! um, im not really looking for anything long and elaborate, just maybe some general headcanons w a reader who's having a bad day? school has been weighing heavy on me lately 🙏

thank you for your services, they are greatly loved and appreciated,

— sugi anon 🐰

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❝ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ? ❞

⋆.˚ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. s.kyotaro x reader .

⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. having a bad day because of something or nothing? general headcanon with our underrated favorite character, sugishita kyotaro <3 again, boy deserves much more love guys .

⋆.˚ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. ~0.6k .

⋆.˚ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. fluff. comfort. gn!reader (gender doesn't get addressed though). sugishita tries a lot for you, because he loves you. feel loved. but I tried my best, sugi anon! sugishita may seem ooc. spoiler - free. safe for minors <3

why do you look so down? as soon as he sees you upset, that's the only thought that occupies his mind for real for real. sugishita ain't even listening if someone is talking to them and if umemiya is talking to him, he TRIES to listen. but at the end, he can only think about the matter that's letting you feel down so badly.

if it's about school (taking this as an example from the request) because of certain subjects, expect to have more study dates. well, instead of going out into the town or something else, you two will just meet at the library so you can study as much as you want while teaching him later because I promise you, he does NOT understand a word you say.

it's a good learning method for you since you'll teach him first when if you checked the subject yourself.

don't worry, he'll try to listen and nod while you're teaching him about that damned subject even though he doesn't understand a single word.

what did you say? can you repeat that? nevermind, you should save some time instead of wasting it to repeat what you said.

nonetheless, it's still cute how he tries only for you. he's not even the type to listen to someone who's talking about school, but if it's for you he can and will try.

or you're feeling down maybe because school is just throwing assignment after assignment even though you have many exams in the upcoming weeks, which results in you having barely time to do anything else, your free time is almost nonexisting.

what do you mean, you don't even have time for him? wow, so how about giving your school a little visit?

let's be for real, sugishita is moments away from beating up your teachers and directors after hearing those shitty stories you're telling him. yes, he knows he shouldn't use his strength and fist against people who didn't deserve it. but it's still for a good intention. and good reasons (the only thing that's stopping him is you).

watch him take this school down.

what if you just feel down without any specific reason? yeah well, you're making him wonder how to let you feel better. but he doesn't even know what's making you feel upset.

what should he do? nevermind, why is he thinking so much?

he will just drag you to your favorite spots, preferably spots where you two are alone or spots that are quieter, a refuge from all the noisiness that's happening in town.

by the way, sugishita doesn't need a place or spot as his refuge because he has you.

he'll also start talking about your favorite series or animanga, something you love. he never starts a conversation though, but that doesn't stop him from leading you into one. he's sure you'll eventually feel a little better and will lead the rest of the conversation, yapping about the special things you love, things that happened the last days in school or the new gossip in class.

but if you're still quiet and still feeling down, sugishita will just seal his lips like always, drag you to his or your place so you can just lay on the bed. he urges you to play your favorite playlist, wraps his arms around you and just — sleep.

his most beloved activity which comes AFTER spending time with his special someone.

expect to find little yet lovely gifts in your room, backpack, pencil case — sugishita literally left gifts everywhere. minor things, yet full of meanings so you know that he's thinking about you.

© 2024 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work !

a/n's note — I have also have lots of exams coming for me and feel a little stressed! >< but after reading this request, I couldn't help myself but write this as fast as possible so you wouldn't feel down any longer. stay hydrated and don't forget, you're loved!!! thank you for your kind words btw <33

[l223m0nade]

Bees (a stucky au snzfic)

ok

ok ok

so I saw this random thing on a tumblr post:

and it got its Stucky-idea hooks so deep in my brain. It just did. And the thing is my deepest inspo is honestly in the land of snz. (This fic kind of ends abruptly sorry but i want to do more and it'll probably end up on Ao3 w like a M or E rating 😳🫣 when and if that happens i'll link to it)

Stucky au, no powers, age gap, what I'm picturing in my head goes less with the words "silver fox Steve" and more with the words "dorky Dilf Steve" like 2012 Cap fashion with current Chris Evans face? in..a good way? and longhair early-20s burnout Bucky. I have some backstory headcanons that are just hinted at here, hopefully it's tantalizing rather than confusing.

anyway have 11.5k words of this and encourage me to write more bc i have fallen in love with these particular boyz. Some light existential angst but mainly idiots pining aka the sweetest sauce

~Fic~

Sam isn’t sure how much longer he can allow this to go on. His barback and the new semi-regular square dude are once again being all awkwardly flirty while pretending they’re not, like two sad lonely white...ducks, who never learned a mating dance and have zero game.

At least Square Dude has an excuse: he’s the most obvious newly-divorced newly-out family-type guy Sam’s ever seen. He’s clean-cut, with a ridiculously handsome square jaw, wearing well-made but unstylish button-down shirts and pants that make him look like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. He started coming in about two months ago, quiet, friendly when ordering his one or two beers of the evening, and firmly shy when it comes to the inevitable overtures sent his way. It doesn’t take a genius to see that this is him dipping a first toe into the pool: coming to a relatively quiet gay bar, just to sit and watch men talk to each other and let the whole notion sink in.

By now most guys would’ve found someone to spread their wings with or gone elsewhere to find em, but Square Dude, whose name is Steve, seems content to talk to the guy who pours his beer about whatever DIY project Bucky is pulling questions out of his ass about.

The crush is painfully obvious, and suburban closeted Steve can’t be blamed for having no deal-sealing abilities, but Bucky has no such excuse. Sam has watched him pull stiff-backed business bros in five minutes flat when the mood struck him, with his big blue puppy eyes and his dark wicked smirk and long lean slouch. But with Steve all he appears capable of doing is asking him questions about crown molding as though those words mean anything to him while gazing at him like he’s beaming the words You could fix me directly into Steve’s skull. Steve, for his part, just doesn’t seem to be able to look anywhere other than Bucky.

As usual, anyone that tries to strike anything beyond a friendly conversation is kindly but firmly rebuffed. “He’s not ready for that yet,” Bucky had insisted with unnecessary defensiveness when Sam implied it was time for the new guy to move from spectating to participating in the relatively mellow flirting and hookup scene the bar played host to most evenings. “People go at their own pace.”

“The only pace he’s going at is towards you,” Sam smirked. Bucky glowered at his implication. “You gotta make it weird. He comes here to, like, practice. I’m part of that, in a chill, friendly way.” He shrugged and looked at the glass he was drying. “When he is ready, it’s not gonna be for me, it’s gonna be for someone actually in his league, like a...hot college professor, or something.” Sam had rolled his eyes and resolved to stop trying to help Bucky Barnes flail around in his mess of a love life anymore, for the hundredth or so time.

Tonight is busy enough that Sam can mostly be distracted from this bad sitcom, and not so busy that he has to yell at Barnes for being distracted. Still, there are a couple empties on tables in the Steve-less side of the bar, and after finishing the drinks for the people in front of him he turns, catching Bucky’s voice, in a tone of delight he uses when speaking with only one person, saying “Wait. Seriously? Bees?”

“Yeah!” Steve responds, equally puppyish. He’s tall and broad, sandy hair and beard just beginning to show a hint of salt-and-pepper. He looks like anyone’s fantasy fireman or lumberjack, at least in the context of a place like this. He also exudes genuine sweetness and vulnerability despite his intimidating muscled height.

Bucky Barnes, Sam’s barback and old friend, leans against the bar doing the helpless-goober-with-a-crush stare, a look on his face like Steve just announced he was a Nobel Prize winner. “No way. How do you keep bees? Just as, what, a casual hobby? That’s, like, a whole thing, you can’t be an expert in so many things!”

Bucky is all shaggy longish dark hair and stupid cheap graphic t-shirts, with a striking, animated face that is used mainly for sarcasm. He and Sam had been at the same high school a few blocks away, though Sam is older, and in the funny way of life they’ve wound up good friends. He’s working at Sam’s place because, in his words, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing with his life. Bucky’s going through his own version of one of those fairly bleak lost periods of 20-something misery, but he’s smart and not a drunk and decent at what he does for Sam, and if he bangs a third of the customers he does it discreetly enough. Sam never knew dark-blond, broad-shouldered, bass-voice sad-eyed dudes pushing 40 were the kryptonite that made him unable to do anything including flirt, until Steve came in one day and Bucky sprayed himself with the keg he was tapping.

Steve chuckles— is this man blushing? “Oh no, I’m nowhere near an expert. But it’s pretty easy once they get established. Don’t need much from you. I’m not, uh, living at the place with the backyard where the hives are, right now….so….but they’ll be fine without me.”

Steve gets a little quiet and Bucky’s fangirl expression dims with distressed sympathy. It gets sad like this sometimes when talking to Steve. Recently divorced guys had this problem, where everything came back to the one topic. Steve’s not doing it pathologically, didn’t seem like, just genuinely realizing another change. Bucky looks stricken. He doesn’t always seem young, at newly 24, but sometimes it still shows.

Sam finally manages to catch his eye away from gazing at Steve to convey a quick head jerk of get-the-hell-over-there-and-do-the-job-I-pay-you-for, and Bucky peels himself away with an apologetic smile at Steve. Sam picks up the conversation with Steve as Bucky clears tables at top speed, hearing how he’s renting a place month-to-month not far away, not able to plan something more permanent just yet. He doesn’t say anything revealing, but it’s still easy to paint a picture of a small, empty apartment. Bucky’s not the only one with a soft spot for this guy, and Sam is warmed by the thought that his little bar offers him respite.

………………..

“That’s so sad,” moans Bucky a few days later. It’s just after opening on a weekday afternoon, and Bucky seemed quieter than usual so Sam is tantalizing him with what he learned talking to Steve the other day. “Did he say—you know he has kids?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers. He’d been as offhand as a person could be about that sort of thing, but it wasn’t hard to see how he really felt. He was standing in the rubble of a sincere loving marriage to a woman with whom he had two 11-year old twins. Helped explain his rectitude when it came from moving from his spot at the bar, meeting someone other than the staff. Bucky’s eyes are pools of sympathetic anguish and Sam feels the need to say, “This kinda stuff happens to people, Buck,” earning an eye-roll for his patronizing efforts. “It’s good he’s coming here, learning about himself. I think you help a lot, for the record.”

Bucky starts and gives him a bewildered look. “What?”

This is aging him. Sam sighs, “He’s lonely. Maybe feels kinda lost right now.”

Bucky’s mouth gets a pained downward slant to it.

“He. Likes. You.”

At that, of course, Bucky gets uncomfortable, blushing and moving off to wipe tables somewhere away from Sam, rubbing his nose and clearing his throat like he’s been doing since he got there. He brightens when Steve comes in an hour later, and Sam rolls his eyes and leaves them to their game of mouse-and-mouse.

Steve is telling Bucky... how window insulation works. He thinks he asked, he hopes to god he did, at least. He’s been embarrassing himself for weeks, coming to this place almost every day. He’s kept it pretty well under wraps that although he liked the neighborhood simplicity, and talking to Sam, and got comfortable after the first few visits, the real reason he’s there more evenings than not is to see Bucky. With his bright grey-blue eyes and dark hair hanging past his chin, swinging against his cheekbones, with his smile and wicked sense of humor and his confounding ease in himself, the ease that gives Steve despair and hope for himself. With that mouth and that divot in his chin, and those last two thoughts are not allowed, because the need to put his thumb into that dot in his sculpted chin and kiss those ridiculously pink lips is urgent and unthinkable.

He doesn’t do that, he just sits and pines and chats awkwardly with him, and gets to know a few other regular guys and talks sports with Sam. He just likes talking to Bucky, it’s easy, easy like nothing has been in a long time, and he’s a creep, he’s a pathetic older guy using his experience to take advantage of a younger guy—

Only, he’s not actually experienced here, at all. And Bucky is so smart, he’s self-deprecating about it but it’s not like he and Steve aren’t generally on the same level beyond his inner glossary of home improvement terminology. He downplays the fact that he knows cars like an expert, insists the stuff Steve learned from keeping up an old house and the hobbies he picked up to stay sane is somehow far more impressive— Steve’s pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose, to make him feel less adrift and clueless. He has that way about him, of someone who looks after other people without realizing it.

Things were all dark there for a while, with the end of his marriage to Peggy. But he’s pretty sure he and Bucky are friends, and he feels bright when he sees him.

Tonight, though, Bucky seems just a little worn down. He’s wearing a waffle-knit shirt under his incomprehensible-thorny-calligraphy-t-shirt, as though he’s cold, and his eyes are tired. Steve waits for a reply to the last thing he said and looks to see Bucky with a dazed, spaced-out expression, before he shakes his head and rubs his nose, saying “Sorry, I thought I was gonna sneeze, what’d you say?”

Talking about the goddamn weather and window insulation was segueing into a real conversation, to Steve’s delight: “How my mom moved us out to Jersey so we could live somewhere better and I never forgave her.” Bucky gives a wide-eyed grimace of agreement and he can’t help the bright laugh that bursts out of him. “How about you, you grow up in the city?” He’d inadvertently spilled his guts about the divorce on like his third time in the bar, something that humiliated him to think of but Sam had simply said with an understanding face wasn’t too unusual, so Bucky knew the basics about Peggy and the twins, but Steve had felt clumsy asking Bucky about himself.

He rolled his eyes with his problematically attractive crooked grin and answered, “Aw man, I grew up practically around the block from this place. Went to high school at the big catholic cinderblock in the neighborhood. I was at school on the west coast for a couple years, but…” His eyes cast downward. “now I’m back.”

Steve remembers how bad it felt at that age, to not have accomplished enough fast enough. Saying that will make him sound like an old grey dad and even if that’s what he is he can still hold out a little hope of being something different here, so he just says, “Brooklyn’s a good hometown to come back to.”

That makes Bucky smile at him and look him in the eye, like he liked what Steve said, even like it made him feel better. Steve tamps his answering grin down to reasonable levels.

Bucky’s also been rubbing at his nose on and off this whole time, and he can see it give a little twitch right before he breathes out a “scuse-me” through hitching breaths, his eyes flickering closed. He pushes his nose firmly into his long-sleeved elbow. “hhh-hh-tdschuh!” He sneezes quietly and muffled. “Oh, snf, sorry,” he says, blinking and emerging from his elbow but not lowering it, the hazy ticklish look still on his face, breaths hitching. “Another—hhh—‘nother one?” He freezes, looking up at the overhead lights, nostrils flared, but after a second he deflates with a sigh. “Nope, nevermind. Snff.” Steve’s guts swoop. This crush is so unsustainable. He’s gonna fail to be cool and friendly and he’ll have to watch Bucky go all uncomfortable and pitying as he explains to Steve that he has six hot boyfriends who are not almost-forty almost-virgin losers who only know how to take up his time when he’s trying to work. According to his therapist these “harangues of negativity” are “unhelpful.” But Bucky looks tired and a little pale and like his nose is going to start turning pink and Steve is just trying to survive.

“Bless you,” Steve says softly in his gentle voice that’s so deep it takes Bucky by surprise and makes his stomach flutter every time he talks to him. He feels like he might be blushing.

“Thanks,” it comes out husky and he clears his throat hard, moving to the little sink to wash his hands.

“Allergies, or…?” Steve ventures, a little divot between his eyebrows of concern-more-like-pity.

“I dunno, something’s bothering my nose today,” he says lightly with a shrug. In truth Bucky has a good idea what’s making him sneeze. The fucking radiator that was supposed to heat his cheap shitty basement apartment had stopped working in the middle of the night, so he’d spent six hours until dawn shivering, and an itchy tickly feeling had been growing in the back of his nose and throat since around noon. It’s starting to evolve into a runny nose and an ever-present but elusive feeling of being about to sneeze, and he knows that means he’s coming down with a cold.

He sees some convenient glasses to clear and excuses himself with a smile so he can sniffle out of Steve’s earshot; he’s enough of a mess compared to Steve on his best day, he doesn’t need to show off his scraggly urchin runny nose aesthetic of tonight any more than he has to.

For the next hour, these light, tickly sneezes either sneak up on him or abandon him at the last minute, leaving his nose feeling like it’s going to start getting stuffy.

Steve watches Bucky do his job, sniffling, rubbing his nose, and sneezing furtively into his sleeve or collar; tucking the strands of hair that have come loose from his short ponytail behind his ears, and feels so helplessly tender for him that it can’t be normal or healthy even by desperate crush standards.

Bucky’s coming down with a cold. He seems to want to brush it off, but Steve can hear a slight change in the resonance of his voice that gives it away even if the tired pink starting to border his eyes and nostrils doesn’t. The place is getting crowded and he’s busy; Steve feels for him, as well as pathetically jealous of his attention as he banters with him in passing once in a while.

He glances up as Bucky heads in his direction with a short stack of empty glasses and sees his steps slow; he pauses, blinks up at the overhead light, eyes hazy, and then, wavering, starts to turn his face into his shoulder, before pausing again and then sighing and sniffing as the sneeze evaporates. He looks up and sees Steve watching him like a creep and laughs, “Damn, lost her,” and then as he continues behind the bar, “You havin’ fun watching me look stupid?”

“It’s agony actually,” he responds, gets a laugh, and feels the now-somewhat-familiar internal squeal of this is flirting! I’m flirting with a guy and I think he can tell! It’s painfully pathetic, but he can’t help but track the fact that Bucky knows plenty of the folks that come to Sam’s, that he’ll give anyone his attention if they ask for it, smiling and joking, but the only person he really goes out of his way to talk to, initiates teasing with, is him, Steve. It’s still nothing more than polite obligatory chatting, he’s sure— when you work at a bar this kinda thing is natural. Bucky is young and charismatic and gorgeous. His love life would probably give Steve enough combined envy and jealousy to cause heart failure, which would be perfectly appropriate because he is an old square divorcee. It makes him warm and bubbly enough that he seems to be Bucky’s favorite customer to pass the time with.

A guy down the bar gets his beer from Sam and sidles closer. “This seat taken?” he asks with a good-humored cocked eyebrow. This is why Steve actually started coming to this place: to meet people, to meet guys, in a way that, well, went somewhere. To call his own decades-old bluff. Not to moon over staff half his age who woulda been out of his league even if he was still in his twenties. He turns to the guy—his age or a few years older, attractively lithe with muscle, a hard but handsome face, and smiles.

Bucky gets busy for a stretch— Sam’s place is actually full tonight thanks to the playoff game. He enjoys the feeling of being a genuinely necessary part of the bar’s operation, when some nights it’s hard to believe he’s more than Sam’s charity case. Nights like this remind him that he has a real job, he’s decent at it even with a bum left arm; whether he’s living out his dreams or not he’s an adult with a job, a place to live, and people he cares about. Plus it distracts him from feeling sorry for himself for coming down sick.

His satisfied feelings fade when he looks over to the Steve end of the bar and sees Brock Rumlow talking to him. He scowls. Fucking Rumlow. He only ever comes on nights with games these days, but Bucky would be perfectly happy if he never came in at all.

It’s fine. Steve’s fine. He is a grown-up, significantly more of one than Bucky. Of all the people who have no need of his misplaced ineffectual chivalry, Steve has got to be last in line.

Maybe he finds more stuff to do in the general area of that end of the bar, and maybe he’s listening for Rumlow to say something dickish, or maybe he’s just a masochist and he wants to know firsthand if they hit it off. Sam is trying to point his “Don’t-be-Stupid” face at him like a flashlight beam but he resolutely ignores it while he replaces a couple bottles that legitimately needed it, ok, just because they’re in a convenient place doesn’t make that untrue.

“Yeah, I’m glad I found this place,” he catches Steve’s cheerful voice. A wave of bar noise obscures their next words, and then he makes out Rumlow,

“—actual sports on the TV. ‘Course,” the smile is audible in his voice, “the clubby places are good for at least one reason, y’know?” He quiets down to say it but not enough. Steve wouldn’t particularly like that, Bucky guesses, and then grinds his teeth as his brain helpfully supplies him with the memories of how easily Brock had charmed him, months ago. It wasn’t any kind of nightmare, but it was still probably his least favorite hookup to date: he’d been so happily focused on Bucky at first, then rough and selfish in bed, capped off by an unnecessarily clear implication that he wouldn’t be calling. Bucky knew the score with casual sex, but it had still given him enough whiplash to sting; it crossed his mind a few days later that it had been like Rumlow wanted him to feel like a dumb kid.

Steve has sputtered something about “not sure he’s looking for anything like that” while Bucky fumed about the past. He has to grab beers for a couple guys, and bending to get in the lowboy fridge makes his nose run suddenly, and flush with an insistent tickle. He manages, just barely, to squash the sneeze completely into a silent mmp! into his shoulder, andmakes a getaway to the bathroom. He blows his nose, but it won’t stop tickling, so then he stands there like an idiot, holding paper towels like they’re a book he’s reading, staring up into the lights and waiting to coax the sneeze out.

He can feel it coming but it still takes forever. At least the bathroom is empty. He wrinkles his nose exaggeratedly and sniffs and his breath finally starts to catch.

“hehh...heh...heh—heh-Uhh....huhh. Fuck.” There’s no way it’s not happening though, his goddamn nose tickles so bad— “hhHAh—EHSsschhooo!” It’s a ridiculous cartoony sneeze but at least it’s satisfying. He blows his nose again, then sighs. He’s definitely sick. Gonna be great sleeping in a freezing apartment. Turning into kind of a shitty night, he thinks with sarcastic pep.

When he leaves the restroom he can’t help glancing over to where Steve sits, and sees he’s now frowning at whatever Rumlow’s saying, looking politely uncomfortable on the way to annoyed. As he drifts back into earshot he hears, “….fun, but, if you’re looking for more than, um, casual, I dunno, kind of a dead end.” Then his pulse jumps as Rumlow looks right at him and finishes, “not dating material, trust me. Either way,” he leans in, “I think you can do better.”

Bucky closes the distance but puts himself behind the bar so he doesn’t immediately clock the asshole. His fists are clenched. Can he throw him out? If he doesn’t get away from Steve and shut up Bucky’s gonna end up fired and charged with assault, probably, but he doesn’t know if he can throw someone out on the grounds of being a jerk that he hates. Thank God, Sam’s caught on that something is up.

Rumlow doesn’t seem to have won Steve over, in any case. He’s turned cold and hard in a way that makes him look unfamiliar, and he says quietly but very clearly, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.” He sounds like a straight Army Captain contemptuously shattering an underling’s heart immediately post-office-suckjob or something; in the morass of anger and panic it still registers with Bucky’s dick to his utter bewilderment. It definitely triggers some core memory for Rumlow, who turns the color of old milk before flushing and standing. He takes in the sight of Bucky glowering behind Steve and barks an ugly laugh. “It’s like that, huh?” he asks, shaking his head in mock pity. “Good luck with that rescue mission.”

Bucky feels like he did when Hank Ackerman pantsed him in 8th grade. Everything’s too bright and clear. He wants to cover his face and run into the back, but he’s rooted to the spot by the thought that that’s just what the dumb baby slut Rumlow’s been making him out to be would do.

“That’s it man,” Sam comes up beside him, smile on his face as though he’s just casually joining their conversation. “You’re done. Get outta here.”

Rumlow scoffs, takes a step towards the door, then turns with the beginning of a macho intimidation-lean in Sam’s direction. He’s hammered, Bucky hadn’t realized, and he can usually tell with people. He’s...kind of fucking scary. Had he gotten rougher around the edges, or had he been like this when Bucky went home with him? Jesus Christ.

Sam just returns his stare, all semblance of friendliness gone from his face. “Get out.”

Rumlow glares another second, but then he goes. There’s a reason Sam’s successful running a bar in the middle of the still-managing-to-be-seedy part of Brooklyn, as well as his finely tuned sensibilities to the unmet needs of Brooklyn’s grownup queer folks. He has the air, recognizable to serious troublemakers, of someone who will absolutely meet and raise any escalation. There were, in fact, a taser and a gun behind the bar, but Sam had never had to use them.

Steve stands up sharply, like he’s—what, gonna follow? Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but then—“Steve.” Sam’s got the side bar entry folded up and he’s intercepting his angry stride. “Please don’t.” He goes on, too quiet for Bucky to make out. Steve deflates and sits back down, taking a long drink of beer and then frowning at his knees.

Bucky consciously lets go of his tension as he sees Rumlow’s silhouette, walking outside, disappear from the last window on the right. He feels shaky, the way any kind of confrontation leaves him, and embarrassed as hell. He avoids Steve’s eyes for all he’s worth, scrubbing a hand under his nose and sniffing sharply.

Steve was just a customer. Bucky was just one of many people that Steve made polite conversation with in the course of a day. Feeling like this was just a consequence of getting that confused. Because he’s an idiot. He has to sniffle again. He also feels about ten times sicker than he did a few minutes ago, and successfully blinking away the brief prickle in his eyes just turns it into the need to sneeze.

Steve tries to breathe smoothly and calm down. This frat-boy rage is ridiculous, he still wants to go punch the hell out of that fucking creep. He must be drunker than he realizes, although deep down he knows it has more to do with the inarticulate surge of protectiveness he’d felt for Bucky since the guy had gestured to him with a jerk of his head as he crossed the room.

He hears a shuddering gasp and sees Bucky duck down to crouch behind the bar. His concern flares way up, but then he hears the three muffled sneezes, all in a rush, “hhhMPtchsh—hmptsschoo—hptsshhuh,”. He straightens back up, sniffing hard, more wetly than he sounded earlier. He’s rubbing his nose and glaring at the door, not looking at Steve.

“Bucky,” he says, frowning, determined to get this across, “what that asshole said about you—”

“Steve, snff, it’s fine, just drop it, okay, I’m asking you,” he meets Steve’s eyes with a downcast expression, before it flickers as his breath catches, and he sneezes again, half-pinched down into the collar of his shirt, “ihh-dtsschuh!”

His nostrils keep quivering and he lets out a shaky sigh of frustration before ducking around the corner out of sight with his hands tented over his nose and sneezing, “hiih-hih-HIDtschoo!...hih-HIH-TISchoo! ..heehh...heh—HEH—” the last one deserts him and leaves him sniffling. They’re still pretty quiet, but a lot heavier and spraying than the first sneezes Steve heard earlier. Bucky blows his nose and washes his hands thoroughly, and when he’s back behind the bar his nose is decidedly pink.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky’s lips thin in exasperation— it’s not like him, compared to the guy Steve’s talked to the last few weeks. Whatever, he can’t help but say, “you do sound like you’re coming down with something, you should—”

“Steve, I’m fine,” says Bucky, in a soft tone that brooks no argument. Still tense, he turns to Steve with a crooked smile and says, “Really,” and it’s warm, if strained, between them again, and it seems like that’ll just have to satisfy Steve, and he says as much to Bucky who blushes and bites his lip for some reason.

Sam rescues Bucky by asking him to do inventory in back, letting him be sneeze and be dramatically in his feels without anyone around, especially Steve. The bar is slow enough now that he just shamelessly hides for the rest of the night. He’s constantly sniffling and sneezing and needing to blow his nose with the roll of rough brown paper towels back there, and even without that he’s too keyed up and pissed and miserable for human company, so it’s for the best.

He casts furtive recon glances to the bar where Steve sits, first craning his neck trying to spy Bucky, then brooding into his beer glass which makes Bucky feel like an asshole, then perking up at least a little shooting the shit with Sam, hopefully talking shit about Brock Dickface Rumlow. Then the misery wells up enough to get him to actually focus on work to avoid feeling it, and then it’s a few hours later and they’re closing up and he goes home to his little icebox and tires not to think about anything.

The next day, Sam chooses evil.

Steve and JB Barnes are both at least somewhat complex men, and it is always a bad idea to meddle in the affairs of others. But screw it, he’s had Bucky moaning in his ear for months now, and he was gonna have to recheck all his angry counting from last night, and these guys really seemed dumb enough to let the tension of mutual attraction strain between them until it just broke, some misunderstanding threw them both on the defensive or whatever, and they missed the chance at any of the fun part of connecting with each other.

So.

It isn’t a big surprise when Bucky calls him around 2, apologizing and pausing to make some gross “ihHgjshuhh!” noise, saying he was probably too sick with this cold to come in. What is a surprise, for poor Bucky, is Sam’s implacable response: “Duuude, I’m so sorry, but there’s some kinda convention in town and the place is packed, I need you here so bad, no matter what. You can take the next two days off, I’ll pay you.” He hears Bucky swallow back the what the hell and resignedly say ok. He feels diabolical. But hopefully it will be worth it. Steve usually comes in early on Thursdays, and he’d looked all hangdog-worried about Bucky the night before.

He’s been there twenty minutes already, chatting distractedly with Sam and staring at the TV screens but really looking all over the room like Bucky might be hiding somewhere. Bucky slouches in, ten minutes late, takes in the mostly empty room and gives Sam a betrayed glare.

“You really ndeeded mbe, huh,” he mutters as he puts his backpack away.

“You don’t even sound that bad,” Sam rejoins cheerfully, and Bucky’s mouth drops open with incredulity.

He moves some boxes around in back without issue. Then he tries to start prep by the bar. In a fifteen-minute period he has two sneezing fits that require him retreating to the bathroom to blow his nose endlessly and wash his hands. Sam decides that’s plenty sufficient. He and his customers are gonna pay a price in germ exposure for this stupid ass cupid skit he’s putting on.

“Steve, you believe this guy?” Bucky’s been avoiding Steve’s concerned hopeful looks since he got here. “He insisted on coming to work.” Bucky chokes in outrage, then coughs for real, while Steve moves a few seats closer. Sam turns; Bucky couldn’t look more betrayed if there was a knife with Sam’s name on it in his guts. Lord deliver him from dramatic white boys. “Did you take the bus here, Buck?” There was no other way for the guy to get to work, but he just replies flatly,

“Yeah.”

“You oughtta go home and rest.”

“Le me give you a ride, Buck,” Steve jumps in with the Air-Bud eagerness Sam had expected. They confirm it and bustle Barnes into a Civic while he’s sneezing too much to protest. Sam washes his hands metaphorically of the situation, and also very literally and thoroughly.

Steve’s car is a little old, and cold, and dusty. Bucky shivers as he buckles his seatbelt. He feels silently nervous and thrilled to be in Steve’s Car!!, but at the moment it’s hard to be anything but….sneezy…

“hhh-hh-hhmmPtchuh! S-s-sor-ry-hiihHIptchsh!” Holding them back when he feels like this just makes his nose more irritated and thus even sneezier. He stubbornly jams his fist under his nose to quell the tickle. He has some napkins from work, so a nose-blow is possible, but it doesn’t feel possible, not so close to Steve, who has it a million times more together than Bucky even on days when he isn’t falling apart on a cellular level.

“Bless you,” Steve says quietly. He looks at him reflexively, to see a small, sweet, sympathetic smile. “Ready?” Bucky gives a little nod and the car pulls out into the slushy road.

His nose is running onto his finger, it’s a crisis. This is why it’s always a terrible idea to leave the house when you’re really sick. “Ugh, I gotta blow mby ndose, I’mb sorry, I’mb so gross right ndow,” talking also makes his nose angry. Fucking Sam and his supervillain plan to humiliate him. What had he done to deserve this? He fumbles for the napkins with his less-dextrous left hand, the one he should have stuck under his nose, goddamnit, he’s gonna sneeze again…

“Psh, don’t worry about it,” scoffs Steve like the big huge dad he is, then with a sympathetic glance he turns the radio on, to the classic rock station, because of course, Bucky almost laughs even while racing to get tissues on his face before this giant wet sneeze overcomes him. The music is loud and it does help him feel less embarrassed.

“heh—HEH-KSSSHOOoo!” he gets the wad of napkins in front of him just in time. Blowing his nose after that demolishes them, but he feels a little closer to a human being.

“Bless you!” Steve chuckles. “Man you got a good bug, jeez!”

Why are he and Sam both so cheerful. “Thanks, I’mb glad you’re impressed,” he croaks.

“You have cold stuff at home?” Huh? When Bucky doesn’t answer he continues, “Tissues, tea, soup, medicine, you know?”

“Oh, umb, sorry, I’m tired,” Steve makes a sympathetic sound. “I usually just use toilet paper. I took the last of my Dayquil before work. I dunno if it even helped, all it feels like it did is mbake me jittery and sdeezy.”

“Why don’t we stop by a drugstore.” He sounded decisive.

“Oh, you don’t have to bother with that, really Steve—” he pauses to sniffle desperately. Technically he can afford a couple things, and he probably needs them. “Or—you could drop me off and I’ll get myself home from the store, that would totally be a big help—”

“Is the heat even on in your place?” Steve interrupts, shrewd-eyed. At Bucky’s wide-eyed sputtering response he continues, “I knew it. I used to be a broke Brooklyn kid, once upon a time. Only reason to come into work, am I right? Can’t believe landlords are still getting away with this shit.”

Bucky considers denial, then slumps. “S’why I’mb so much...hhh...worse...hh-huh-hudschuh! Snff-snff. Worse today. They said it’ll be fixed by tomorrow so...we’ll see, ha. I got a space heater and an electric kettle though, I can get in my blankets and drink tea and I’m fine.”

Steve is quiet, no response, and Bucky worries irrationally that he pissed him off. A few minutes of classic rock later, he pulls into the small parking lot attached to the drugstore, turns the car off, and turns to him, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Bucky I—” he breaks off and laughs to himself. “I know you have to be polite to customers, I don’t want to—” he makes eye contact, looking pained and rueful. “I’d like to think we’re friends. But I don’t want to put you on the spot or anything,”

“We’re friends,” Bucky interrupts gently. Steve’s face brightens like a sunrise and Bucky’s chest does a nice warm thing.

“Yeah? That’s...I’m real happy to hear it.” Steve says, sheepish but grinning. Then his eyes get the determined look that Bucky is starting to think means trouble. “Well the reason I asked is, as a friend, I really hate the idea of you trying to ride this out in an icebox apartment. I have heat. And a couch!” He hastens to add at whatever wide-eyed look Bucky’s giving him. “It’s just, I know it’s no fun being sick by yourself, and, well, honestly I wish I’d socked that asshole at the bar last night, and I really wish I’d clocked him as a jerk faster, and I’d feel a lot better if I could do something nice for you, and you really seem like you could do with some rest and medicine. Will you let me grab some stuff here and spend the night at my place—where there’s heat— and let me fuss over you?”

“Steve, that’s—that’s so nice, but I really can’t imb—snff—impose on you, and I gotta be so contagious right now…”

“I don’t care about that,” Steve says easily. “And I know you’re not gonna die on your own, but,” and, whoa, he’s deploying some kind of dignified mature version of puppy-dog eyes, it’s so sincere, and also so certain, that it starts to seem like the only sensible course of action is to let his gorgeous crush take him to his apartment while he’s the polar opposite of sexy, an unspeakable snot factory, and also possibly starting to run a fever.

….His apartment is gonna be so goddamn cold.

And lonely, incidentally.

And Steve is so nice. He’s literally, actually here, he seems to mean it that he wants to take care of Bucky’s sick bedraggled ass as some kind of friend-favor. There’s no way this is a come-on with him in this state, even if he can still muster enough energy to wish it was. No way Steve’s ever gonna want to fuck him after watching him snuffle through 200 tissues and mouth-breathe all evening, but he was nuts to think he ever would anyhow. He’s just that nice, and Bucky is that pathetic, and that might not feel great, but he wants to be Steve’s friend, he really does, and even through his own shyness he can see that the guy is pretty lonely.

“You, umb. You really don’t have to.” He says, watching Steve, who waits with obvious hopefulness. “But. Uh.” Steve raises his eyebrows and gives him a little smile, and Bucky finds himself returning it helplessly. “If you really don’t mbind. It could, potentially, be really ndice to take you up on that. You really don’t have to though!”

“I want to, though.” Jesus, he’s so sincere. Bucky feels some weird kind of protective way about the earnest honesty in his eyes.

“Well, then, okay. Thangk you, I really appreciate it.” He laughs, finally feeling how miserable it would have been to go back home and try to sleep in a cold blanket pile on his mattress on the floor. “Mby place sucks right now.”

“Alright then,” Steve beams. “Let’s get you a couple things and then get you cozy.”

Bucky’s nose is not okay with him using his face to talk instead of constantly blow it. It’s gotten completely blocked, and it’s tingling unpleasantly, and running so bad again he has to smush his knuckles under his nostrils. The tickle crests and his breath catches before he can do anything about it, but he clenches his jaw and forces it into a stifle. “hhh-huh-MMP!!” The problem with doing that is it just makes the tickle— “hh-mMP!” worse. “Ugh, sorry.” His hand is a dam against his nose at this point.

“Bless you!” They both step out of the car, but Steve hurries over to his side with a crinkle in his brow. “Why don’t you just stay here and I’ll grab a few things. Anything in particular, or just tissues and NyQuil?”

“Dyquil is just schndapps,” Bucky grumbles, then his brain catches up a little and he says “tissues,” fervently, and then it catches all the way up and he says “wait, ndo way are you buyig!”

Steve cocks an eyebrow like a handsome jerk. “You really wanna go in there?” With your current nose situation? He’s kind enough to not say.

He casts about for a moment—“Grab me a little pack and then I’ll go in!”

Steve gives him a skeptical look and says “Sure,” in a way that makes him think his orders won’t be followed, but he’s too busy squishing his nose more firmly and silently begging it not to make him sneeze again to keep arguing, or to protest when Steve opens the door for him and puts his car keys in his hand before dashing into the store with a promise to be quick.

He’s back not even ten minutes later, by which time holding his nose plugged and not letting his sneezes out has put Bucky in a state of perma-misery, stifling relentless sneezes every few seconds, unable to keep his eyes fully open. Steve tosses a box of tissues onto his lap before he gets all the way into the car because he is a saint.

“Guh,” Bucky says gratefully, pulls out a wad of about ten, and lets the miserable sneeze that had been building out into the nest of forgiving softness. “HehgSHOOmpff!!” And then blows his nose forever. Finally he feels like he can speak and have a face again; the little drugstore bag is now home to a dozen nasty used-tissue balls. “Well,” he says as he puts the last one in there, “wish I hadn’t had a witness for that.”

Steve just chuckles. “You’re fine,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing rumble. “I grabbed you a toothbrush, and I’ve got some stuff that can fit you for pjs.”

Bucky feels like he sneezed out the last of his strength. “You’re way too nice.” He sniffles and slumps against the window, looking at the familiar blur of orange streetlight. “I should be more worried you’re a serial killer.” Steve chuckles again, and he likes that, so he goes on, “Probly got a nice Jeffrey Dahmer setup at your place. Sorry if I don’t make a good steak.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Steve replies, sounding indignant. Then laughs for real, shaking his head, “I’m not gonna chop you up and eat you, I swear.”

“It’s fine. Just mbake mbe into soup,” sighs Bucky. That would be warm. He’ll just be a big hot pot of Bucky, and Steve will stir him and season him so carefully with his big strong hands. This is a weird train of thought. He might have a fever. But he can still hear Steve chuckling.

Steve pulls into his parking spot and the car shudders to stillness as he takes his key out of the ignition. Next to him, Bucky is asleep with his head mushed against the window. He’d conked out for the last five or so minutes of the drive. “Hey, Buck, we just got to my place,” he says softly, trying not to sound too bedroom-y. His eyes flutter open, the blue of them standing out, and Steve takes a steadying breath because Bucky is so good-looking it catches him off guard and overwhelms him sometimes.

His eyes are glassy-bright and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and as he shifts upright in his seat Steve reaches over and touches his forehead without thinking about it. It’s noticeably hot, but not burning. The twins’ childhood bouts with the flu gave him a sense of bad-fever heat. “Think you got a temperature,” he murmurs sympathetically. Bucky just blinks up at him, a little wide-eyed, and only then does he realize his big meaty hand is practically covering half his face. He feels himself flush to match Bucky, and for a second they just look at each other.

Until Bucky sniffs a miserable liquid sniffle and they both almost jump. “Sorry,” Steve mutters awkwardly, and Bucky’s saying the same thing at the same time. They both move to get out, “Just one flight of stairs up.”

“huh—tschumpf!” is Bucky’s answer, his nose buried in a new handful of tissues. “huhh, hUH—huh.” The second sneeze fizzles, leaving him blinking and frowning and wrinkling his nose snifflishly against the ticklish haze as he shuts the door. “Fuck. Sorry, scuse mbe.”

“Bless you.” It’s probably not normal to find someone so sick so adorable.

Steve leads him up and along the hall and then he’s unlocking the door, feeling giddy that he’s letting Bucky into his apartment, and then guilty for being excited, when the poor guy is just hesitantly accepting a much-needed favor. Bucky trails in behind him and then stands still while Steve sets the bag from the drugstore and started to turn to him, saying, “It’s not much, but—”

“ASHHOO!” Bucky’s sneeze interrupts and snaps him forward into his tissues, and then he just stays folded over for a second like it sapped the last of his energy. Then he straightens, rubbing his nose into the tissues and sighing. “Jesus, sorry,”

“Bless you! You don’t have to be sorry, you’ve just got a cold.” Steve has to hold himself still to keep from rubbing his back.

“You’re...hh-huh….? Snfff, ugh. Totally gonna catch this, I owe you way mbore apologies.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” he chuckles, toeing his shoes off. Bucky follows suit and he continues, “I stopped caring after raising toddlers, they’re little germ factories, you catch everything.” Why’d you bring up your old-dad status, Steve? “I’ll grab you some things to sleep in.”

An hour and one confrontation about Steve giving up his bed later, Bucky is ensconced on his couch like the king of cold-medicine commercials, surrounded by blankets and pillows and tissues and steaming cups and bowls. He feels a little more human, which is nice, but lets him access how incandescently awkward he feels at being rescued from his idiotic life like a snotty Cinderella. Steve has been flitting back and forth between the couch and kitchen, fussing over him to a truly excessive degree while exuding satisfaction and cheer, like some kind of calendar-model Santa with a caretaking kink. He was practically rubbing his hands together at the prospect of getting Bucky blankets and tea on his couch. Now he’s giving a rundown of his TV system standing next to the couch and it feels the tiniest bit manic and Bucky can feel himself getting a little too quiet but he can’t help it. After a minute Steve notices, and sets the remote down.

“I should stop babbling at you and leave you in peace,” he says with a bashful chuckle, turning to leave the room.

“No, I— you don’t—” Bucky doesn’t really have a response beyond ‘please chill out and hang out with me and let me picture cuddling with you,’ which will not be said aloud.

“You really don’t hafta feel like you need to entertain me, Bucky.”

“It’s not, I don’t,” he sighs and then sniffles. He doesn’t want to sit here and stare at the wall and stress about this, alone in this room in Steve’s goddamn apartment. He maybe should have thought about just how much he’d fallen for Steve before taking him up on this offer, because the concern and sweetness and fussing are starting to ratchet up his anxiety, because what if there was a chance it meant—

“Is anything the matter?” Steve crouches smoothly to be on his level and torment him with his eyes’ blueness. When all Bucky can do for a moment is flounder he looks more concerned, and a little downcast. “I really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. If anything’s bothering you, you can just tell me.”

What the hell is an ordinary sinner supposed to do in the face of this much sincerity? Act like he thinks he’s a damn grownup, Bucky guesses, and girds his nervous loser loins.

“Why’re you—” he starts, frowning, then cuts himself off and tries again with a small, apologetic smile.

“It’s just...this is such an imposition, and you seem...kinda weirdly happy about it? I just don’t get why.”

One side of Steve’s mouth quirks up, making him look dry and self-deprecating and unfairly handsome. “You’re worried I’m gonna start talkin about Scientology, or put you in my basement dungeon?”

Bucky shrugs. “Kinda.” Just ‘cause he went home with strangers didn’t mean he had no sense.

Steve seems to cast about for an explanation, and he also starts to turn pink. “It’s—you’re just so—” and then he sighs and sits on the end of the couch, next to his blanketed feet, addressing his words to the wall in a rush. “Honestly, Bucky? I have a huge crush on you, and,” he laughs in embarrassment, decidedly blushing now, “I’m just real happy to have a chance to take care of you in whatever little way.” Now he does turn to look at him, pained. “I’m sorry, that must be so uncomfortable to hear. I promise you’re not my hostage! Please don’t make a break for it, it’s cold out and you’re so sick. I swear I’m not Cathy Bates in Misery.”

“Y—hihdsschuh!” The sneeze catches him by surprise, but he has wadded-up tissues in his hand already anyhow. He has to blow his nose, and he does it thoroughly to buy time. Steve stares stoically at the ceiling as though waiting for sentencing. Is this seriously Steve telling Bucky...he likes him?

“You…” he stops, sniffs. He needs a plan. He doesn’t have one. His mouth is gonna keep moving anyway, “You said, ‘you’re just so—‘, what were you gonna say?”

Steve looks confused for a second, and then just helpless. “Bucky, you’re just so sweet. I’m happy for a chance to do something for you because I owe you, you get that, right?”

“Owe me?” Bucky asks, nonplussed. Steve laughs with what seems like disbelief at his confusion.

“Yes, Buck! For the last few months! For taking pity on me that first night I came into Sam’s. You asked me a question about antifreeze.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. His world is rearranging itself. Steve remembered that?

“I feel—real self-conscious, I guess, coming into the “scene,” he gives it air-quotes and Bucky’s heart swells a little more, “by the route I have. Y’know, married dad who woke up one day and realized the stuff he repressed at sixteen might be the real him. Sam’s was the third place I tried to go into. I just felt so ridiculous, I still do— 39-year-old brand-new gay dude, it’s idiotic. I was practically gonna have a panic attack, I was definitely gonna leave and not try again and just...stop trying in general, maybe, to figure this new scary shit out. Except you were there, this—this smokin-hot guy, and you’re acting like you actually want to talk to me, and… so I stayed. And came back.” He looks Bucky in the eyes and it makes Bucky’s stomach clench. “I feel like you’ve been taking care of me this whole time, helping me ease into things, helping me not to feel bad about being completely uncool, asking me about stuff I actually know about instead of laughing at me because I’ve never heard of ‘poppers’,”

At that, Bucky has to give in to the giggle bubbling out of him, which inevitably leads to a short coughing fit. His first instinct is to keep laughing, rake Steve over the coals, but Steve is looking at him with a careful sort of expression, and it occurs to Bucky that just because he’s older and seems like he has it all together and has great posture doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling vulnerable. And he looks like he’s feeling really fucking vulnerable right now. Acting like Bucky is worthy of this adorable schoolboy crush is absurd, but it’s not like it was so many eons ago that little baby Bucky Barnes was having his First Gay Bar experience, and he’d been scared as shit.

He already feels like he missed the boat on his life. Steve is starting over at 39. He’s so fucking brave. Bucky...somehow, unthinkably, Bucky is in a position where he could really hurt this guy.

“I’mb, umb. Snfff. Thing is, I’m a little surprised…” And Steve must think that’s the prelude to rejection because he pulls this sad little smile onto his face that’s the worst thing Bucky’s ever seen, and he has to make it go away, “It’s just, to hear you tell it I took pity on you and I’ve been talking to you to, like, guide you along and coach you because I’m some saint!” He smiles, starting to feel amused. “Steve— I just wanted some reason to talk to you, dude.”

Steve blinks at him. “What?”

He has to laugh, putting his forehead in his hand. “Sorry. I, just, I have not been operating under the assumption that I had a chance with you? And now it sounds like you’re telling me I do? While I sit on your couch filling your trash can with my disgusting tissue mountain?”

All he gets from the man is “...Huh?”

“You said ‘crush’,” he insists, and he’s not laughing, his heart is pounding actually. “What did you mean by that?” He’s gonna awkwardly say that he wants to fuck, and once that box is checked in his Gay Awakening, he’ll move on to actually date people actually in his league, and that’s maybe not gonna feel great, but, well…

Steve looks up from staring at his hands, makes eye contact, and he looks a little confused and a lot like he’s facing a firing squad. “I meant, I mean that…” he blows a breath out. “Jesus I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean that I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out on a date, since pretty much the first night I met you.”

Bucky’s head does a record scratch and Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, “But I guess instead I kidnapped you when you were sick and blurted this out to you while you were trapped on my couch waiting to be left alone to sleep. I was never smooth but I swear I’ve done better than this.”

A giddy feeling is rising up in Bucky’s chest, making him forget completely about how tired and crappy he feels. “Well, I am smooth,” he says, “I’ve got game. At least, I did, until you showed up and turned me into a giggling bimbo. What the hell, Steve.”

“This is starting to seem like a romantic conversation but I can’t tell,” murmurs Steve with his face still uncertain but a little twinkle in his eye.

Bucky’s nose is gonna ruin this, he’s surprised it gave him that long a grace period. “Yeah, snfff, real romantic, I’mb gonna—hih—fuckin’ sndeeze—heh-heTShoo! Againd.”

Another sneeze teases out, and then he has to blow his nose for about ten years. “Bless you,” says Steve all quiet and bedroomy in his deep voice, and he’s definitely smiling, sparkle-eyes, leaning towards him the tiniest bit, but still looking like Bucky’s leaving him hanging a little, unsure, and he can’t help the wave of doubt he feels.

“Steve, you—” he stares at the blanket on his lap. “I’m a mess. You’ve accomplished shit, you have a real goddamn job, I—I’m just, ok, we’re both adults, but I feel like a screw-up kid compared to you.” He takes a deep breath and says what he doesn’t want to, “I’d be...pretty damn flattered if you wanted to hook up. I kinda can’t imagine you actually want to date me.”

He dares to look up and Steve looks more serious. He doesn’t say, “no shit.” He says, “I won’t argue if you say you don’t want anything, but I sure don’t agree with how you describe yourself. I don’t want to hook up—at least, not just that— I want to date you, get to know each other better, because I like you. I trust my judgement, when I think someone’s a good person.”

He says it so simply, and Bucky finds himself believing it despite himself, and a warm happy fire is kindling under his ribs. “Well, shit,” he murmurs, “it’s starting to seem like you’re asking me out.”

“It’s...starting to seem like you might be saying yes? If I am?” Steve looks agonized and Bucky’s doubts are no match for the giddiness fizzing up inside him, and he lets it show on his face with a grin, and whatever that looks like makes Steve kinda gulp and scootch up closer to him. Bucky makes a show of giving a slow, considering nod. Yes.

Steve has this soft, nervous little smile on his face, but his eyes hold something weighty, almost burning, as he moves even closer, and it’s just, it’s really, wow, Bucky has maybe never been taken seriously in quite this way by anyone before, it makes his knees feel watery and kindles something in his core. “I know you’re sick,” he rumbles, “but I feel like I gotta kiss you,” and how is it that the softer he speaks the deeper his voice sounds? He brushes his curled fingers over Bucky’s cheek because that’s how close they are now and this isn’t really Bucky’s life, is it? “What if I was to kiss you, right now?”

It’s hard to tell with the sexiness melting his brain but he realizes Steve is actually asking, because he’s a gentleman— a gentleman Bucky wants to be taken apart and turned inside out by. “Then you would be a guaranteed victim of my plague,” he breathes. “But I wouldn’t stop you, I’m not that selfless.”

“Sounds like a dare,” Steve murmurs, and tilts his head and presses their lips together.

It’s a short simple kiss but they each give a quiet gasp at the contact, and then stay there a moment. Steve’s beard isn’t huge but he feels it, like a firm underline to the shockingly warm plush pressure of his lips. He thankfully tragically remembers that congested people can’t make out and pulls away after just a brief press of lips, but not before giving a soft lick to Bucky’s, full of promised things to come.

They sit there a few inches apart and breathe. Bucky feels like a vibrating tuning fork. He just barely stops himself from shakily saying “wow,” like a highschool virgin, but when he sees Steve looking at him with lips still parted and a gobsmacked expression he changes his mind and lets it out anyway, “wow,” with a giddy grin.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, blinking like he got hit with a cartoon hammer, going from pink to red, and then he swoops in and kisses Bucky’s cheek, and then stands, going, “Excuse me, just gotta go...out of your sightline, and. Do something cool. And serious. No victory dances.”

…..the next morning…….

Steve could hear Bucky in the shower, sneezing three times, but not sounding—four times—nearly as heavy or exhausted as the night before. A few minutes and one loud noseblow later, he came out wrapped in a towel, mercilessly bare-chested, his nose bright red but his eyes clear and cheerful. Steve’s attention caught on his chest as his nipples tightened in the relative chill as Bucky said sheepishly, “forgot my clo-hothes—” his voice swooping to a breathy quaver on the last word, “hhh-hh-hehh—EHisSHOooh!” he turned as far away from Steve’s part of the room as possible and sneezed over his shoulder. “Snnfff. Excuse me, sorry.”

“Can I lend you some warmer stuff, just for now while we eat breakfast? There’s no way you’re not still sick,” Steve fussed, forcing himself to round the kitchen island slowly and casually instead of rushing over and wrapping him up in his arms and kissing his red nose that was twitching again. He quelled it with another sniff that sounded a lot less congested than the previous night.

“Ah, I’m ok. I felt really bad yesterday, but I slept so well,” he said with a warm grateful smile at Steve that went to his toes, “I don’t feel shitty and run-down anymore, just all, like, shnuffly.”

Steve chuckled helplessly and went over to rub his shoulder. “You’re adorable.”

“No way!” Bucky glowered, but then a few drops fell from his wet hair to his chest and neck, and he shivered into a sneeze so quick and light it sounded incomplete, “hih—tish!” followed by “ih-hihtchoo!” and he blinked, taken by surprise.

“That was... the cutest thing that ever happened,” Steve said truthfully.

“Shuddup— heh—edschoo!”

[gentlenotes-moved]

how to get rid of nausea (or at least reduce it)

ok y'all so it's almost 1 in the morning and i can't sleep so i figured i might as well make use of my time. these tips are from what have personally worked well for me as a person who's been dealing with ibs and gerd since basically birth. of course these might not work for everyone, this is just what has helped me the most :)

first, make sure you've taken your meds!

sip on some cold water. preferably with ice.

get some cool air. whether that's through a window or just a fan.

drip some cold water onto the veins of your wrist. i know this sounds kinda weird, but my dad said it's a trick he learned in the military to help nausea. it's worked pretty well for me, personally. though the effect is temporary.

sip on some cola or another fizzy pop. carbonation helps you burp, and you honestly might just have some trapped gas. you'd be shocked how just one good, trapped burp makes you feel like you need to projectile vomit. drink in small, frequent amounts, not large gulps(for the love of god don't take large gulps. please). this is honestly one of the best tricks for nausea for me, it helps within minutes or sometimes a bit longer.

sniff some rubbing alcohol. again, kinda weird, but it works pretty well for some reason.

drink some pepto bismol. a life saver honestly.

take some tums. i highly recommend the peppermint flavored ones. tums are usually for acid reflux/gerd, but the peppermint really helps the nausea part for me. that's why i usually get these bc i'm killing two birds w/ one stone lol

sleep at a high elevation. this helps stomach contents from coming back up. there's been many times where i've had to sleep at a 90° angle. get out your pillows and stuffed animals to make one giant mountain if you have to (that's what i do at least).

sleep on your left side. if you really want to sleep on your side, sleeping on the left keeps the stomach contents down the best.

distract yourself. either watching your favorite show, playing a game, or, hell, even working. this might be a bit tricky if the nausea is overwhelming, though.

avoid strong smells. rubbing alcohol is the exception here, but strong smelling things (esp food) has always made my nausea much worse.

avoid spicy/punch-to-the-face type food. eat simple foods like toast, saltine crackers, or applesauce. my personal favorite is dried seaweed (salted)!

sit upright; try not to slouch. sitting upright helps you digest food properly and gets rid of any trapped gas as well.

don't move around a ton. of course, some simple stretching is beneficial, but i'm just suggesting you don't go run for a few miles when you're feeling like shit <3

[kristallioness]

It's like a little heartbeat

Summary: Aang and Katara are reconciled after a heated argument during the day.

Word count: 1,356

Author's note: I was going through a very rough week (mentally), so one night as I lay in bed trying to get my biological clock to adjust to my irregular sleeping patterns, I felt like I needed to think of something comforting. I pictured some of these images in my head. Of course, the pictures had to have some backstory, so I began to imagine the dialogue behind it and I quickly had to write them down before I forgot the exact wording, sooo.. here it is. Tears were shed while writing this. I really needed to get this out of my system. The story takes place during the events of "The Boiling Rock", shortly after the comic "Love Is a Battlefield". Also, it's my very first fanfic that's been completely typed out on my smartphone (proofread it and made some small corrections on my laptop though). *throws confetti*

----------x----------

The dim campfire cracked every now and again, burning up the last bits and pieces of charcoal and wooden sticks that were still left in the pile in an attempt to stay alive for as long as possible. The summer nights in the Western Air Temple were rather warm, so the fire merely provided a source of light for the kids who were seeking refuge from the war.

Toph had tucked herself in inside her makeshift rock tent a while ago. With Sokka and Zuko away on a supposed fishing trip, the rest of the boys were taking shifts to keep watch over the others.

The Duke had passed out long ago, snoring on his blanket nearest to the remainders of their campfire. Haru was toying with some small pieces of earth to practice his bending in silence and Teo, who was still awake, was keeping him company.

Aang could hear their quiet chatter from further away. He was leaning on the edge of the bridge that connected their campsite to the backward rooftop of the neighbouring tower. His source of light was generated by the palm of his left hand.

The flame flickered in the soft breeze that blew past him. He knew to bend it further away from himself to avoid singeing his sash by accident. What once caused him horror and fear now brought him warmth and comfort on the inside, and out.

Aang occasionally played around with the small flame. He tried to give it more oxygen to make it grow bigger, then breathed out to relax and let it shrink back to its original size. He was discovering new aspects of firebending that were more connected to airbending than he ever could've imagined. Guess that's why air comes right after the element of fire, just like water comes after air. The bending discipline that follows the Avatar's natural element in the cycle seems to be the easiest to learn since it bears more similarities than the others.

Speaking of water and air - he heard light footsteps approaching as they climbed the steps leading up the stone bridge. A moment later, Aang could spot Katara making her way up the stairs and walking towards him.

"Hey," she said once she was closer to him.

"Hey," he replied and greeted her with a small smile. She dusted some of the pebbles and debris off the railing next to his side.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Uh, no! Of course not," Aang stuttered, beckoning her to take a seat with his free hand. Katara obliged happily, letting out a puff of air once she'd settled down.

She was hoping that Aang would strike up a conversation, but he seemed to be focused on his firebending instead. She stared towards their friends back at the campsite together with him for a few minutes. When the airbender remained silent, she dropped her gaze down at her warrior boots in shame as she bumped her feet together.

It wasn't any easier for him. He was hoping that she'd be the one to start talking about something, anything to break the silence.

When neither one dared to speak up, obviously the most awkward thing happened again.

"Aang, I-"

"Katara, I.."

How in the world did this keep happening? Maybe it was a good thing since they both ended up laughing over the funny exchange of words.

"You go first," the airbender insisted after the ice between them had started to melt. Katara took a deep breath to gather herself.

"Listen.. I'm really sorry about earlier today. I didn't mean to upset you like that."

Now Aang felt bad. Neither one of them had exactly handled the situation well.

"No, no.. don't be. I'm sorry for pushing you like that. If you're not ready to talk about what happened, then.. it's okay," he sighed in defeat, but stared into her blue eyes and did his best to force a smile. He felt a huge relief when she met his gaze and returned it. He did not want to bring back the tension between them. He just wished that everything would be the same again, like it was before the invasion.

"How's your firebending going?" she asked to change the subject.

"Eh, it's coming along great, I guess.." Aang replied with a shrug. He brought his right hand to the side of the flame to feel it live and breathe. To Katara, it seemed like he was caressing the fire with such care and tenderness. He noticed her watching his every move in awe and admiration, her head slightly tilted so she'd see it better from that angle.

"Do you know what it feels like?" he asked. She shook her head, but remained curious.

"It's like a little heartbeat. Do you wanna feel it?"

"Mhmm," the waterbender hummed in agreement, carefully reaching out her hand to hold her palm close to one side of the flickering flame, just like he had a moment ago.

"Don't worry, I won't let it burn you," he assured her, this time feeling confident enough to be able to keep the tiny spark under control.

Katara did feel how the heat sort of bounced off from her hand in a certain rhythm of its own, getting hotter for a few seconds and then cooler again for a while.

Aang lifted his gaze up at the paintings facing them on the opposite walls. Intricate masterpieces depicting flying sky bison and the nuns tending to their daily chores or rituals, most of them separated by cracks in the stone or bigger chunks that had fallen off to the ground due to the dilapidated conditions they were in. His brows furrowed with sadness.

"How could someone.. anyone wielding such delicate power be able to use it for such great evil?" Aang wondered out loud. Katara frowned similarly to him as she eyed the paintings. She didn't have the answer to his question. But she did come up with an idea to cheer him up.

"Close your eyes."

The airbender quirked an eyebrow at her sudden suggestion.

"Just trust me. And don't get scared."

He gave her a soft smile at that and closed his eyes, still firebending the small flame in the palm of his hand. Through seismic sense, he "saw" how Katara turned towards him and gently grabbed his other hand from its wrist, the one he'd been supporting against the stone edge they were both sitting on.

"Does it feel something similar..", she murmured, the words from her lips drifted off as she lifted his hand in the air and slowly brought it closer to her body, tenderly resting it right above…

"..like this?"

Her heart. Aang opened his eyes in disbelief, completely forgetting about the flame as he let it extinguish in a split second. His free hand clasped his mouth as if to hold back a gasp. Tears formed in the corners of his grey eyes as he wasn't sure whether this was real or another daydream.

He could literally feel Katara's heartbeat drumming away right beneath the palm of his hand, which she held steady with her own hovering above it. Tears spilled over his cheeks as Aang felt a wave of love coursing through him. She didn't know just how much he treasured her at the moment.

He hastily tried to wipe them away with the back of his other hand, slightly embarrassed at how he'd reacted. Katara didn't seem to mind though, given how much that smile of hers grew the moment she saw him tear up. Before the light went out, Aang could've sworn that she was blushing, too.

She gazed at him lovingly and gave him a minute to compose himself.

"Yes.. yes, it does," Aang sniffed, holding back a sob whilst rubbing an eye.

Her free hand cupped his cheek to help dry off the wet streaks. Katara leaned forward for a sec to give him a kiss there. Not on the lips, but a peck on the cheek. Perhaps that was a sign that he hadn't burnt all the bridges between them after all.

[bitchfitch]

idk my stained glass post is going around again and a lot of people are saying it's inspiring them but they're still hesitant to start whatever craft has their fancy rn, so here's a dipshit's guide to getting from horsey to whale when you're starting out a craft

Step 1: skim a tutorial.

don't take notes, don't pay all that much attention to it, give it like. at max 10 minutes of your time. Just get the general shape of the process into your head along with any relevant safety precautions.

the point of doing this is to stop yourself from forming expectations. Expectations are the motivation killer. Strangle them to death.

Step 2: Tool time

You may want to start right in on a project, you might even have one in your head already.

Don't. Stop that, see the point above about expectations. Your first project is going to suck major nuts, it doesn't matter what you do, so you simply must plan to make your first project as nut-sucktastic as physically possible. Burry your expectations so deep in the ground that you will leap over them by simply faceplanting.

So here's what you do instead, gather the necessary tools and materials then set aside an amount of material that you are ok with just pissing away. just absolutely wasting. If you went right in and got discouraged enough to drop a project while doing it, youd be wasting the materials anyway. Might as well get the wasting over and done with Before it eats hours of your mortal life.

Ok, now pick the first tool and associated skill involved in your new craft and just practice That. Don't try to make anything, just learn the motions and teach yourself how things move or break or bend or etc etc etc. all the real basic boring parts that don't produce anything.

Then move onto the next steps associated skills and tools. Connect them back to the product you got from practicing the first step if you can, then the third and so on, so that at the end of this ordeal you too can have a horrible abomination you can pretend looks like a horse.

Step 3: nap

With that done, fuck off and do something else for a bit. like for at Least a few hours if not a full day. Take a nap. do some drugs, play a hentai gatcha game, fuck if I care man. Just don't do the craft. This is the best way to kill expectations: fuckin forgetting what you're capable of.

step 4: learn it right this time

Actually watch/read that tutorial now. like. for real. give it your full atten and take notes on where you fucked up and how you struggled back in step two. like actual written/typed notes. You're going to be focusing on those areas and having a neat list to keep thing orderly in your head can help.

at this point it's also a good idea to try to find other tutorials that explain the Thing, but have a different person explaining it. or tutorials that are more granular. like ones that talk about the skills involved in a single step instead of the whole process. having that little bit more detail can be a game changer.

step 5: visualization

Come up with the easiest and most basic project you can think of while referring to that list of areas you struggled. You want this project to primarily focus on those weak spots and give you room to practice and improve them. ok. and now scrape the top 10% off the project. Make it easier make it smaller, make it less detailed, find a pattern instead of making your own, whatever just simplify it that little bit more.

Step 6: just do it

actually do that project while referring to your tutorials and notes.

Let yourself fuck up. Let yourself waste shit. And then move on. Don't get tangled in expectations, or let your perfectionism strangle you. Look it in the eye and strangle it back, make your shit uglier just to spite it.

Skills take time to develop. Give yourself that time and don't let your brain issues take the joy of creation from you. It's fuckin hard, but you've Got to do it if you want a modicum of happiness in this hell world. the vibe is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy but done with pure violence and vitriolic hatred of what your own neurosis are trying to take from you.

step 7: aw shit it's a never ending cycle

repeat step 5, but go for something a bit harder, then step six until you find a new muse to start over at step 1 with.

[morgy-doo]

THE OWL HOUSE RELATIONSHIP HEADCANNONS~

Luz noceda~

has 100% made you read all of the azura books ATLEAST once

has started teaching you spanish because she thought it would be cute if you two had your own cute lil conversations without over people over hearing

always pestering amity on relationship advice

the owl house is basically your second home by now

hooty can never leave you both alone for more than 5 minutes when your with each other

tries to hide whats going on with belos from you but you figure it out pretty quick because she is a BADDDD liar

she just doesn't want you to worry <3

AMAZING at cheering you up, honestly she would throw herself off a cliff just to hear you do that little cry laugh thing

Amity blight~

she is constantly worrying she is not good enough for you

please give this poor girl some love and reassurance

based on the past person she was she is terrified that one day you will realise there are better people and will never speak to her again

even if your not in the track, abomination magic has become a big part of your life

sometimes at school she gets an abomination to follow you around and carry your bags and stuff when she is not avaliable

she thinks its sweet and endearing

you think its terrifying but don't have the heart to tell her

literally gulps down your praise

"you really think i did good?"

she is so proud of herself after that

she cares about you SM

lucky bitch

your safety always becomes before hers and sometimes she forgets to do certain things for herself because she is to occupied with worrying about you

Willow park~

loves gardening with you

honestly you were clueless about how to diffrentiate (did i spell that right?) different types of trees

but ever since dating her you know the label and scientific name of ever plant that's ever grown

good for you boo <3

always is slightly self concious around you

always trying to smooth down her hair

but DAMN this girl is STRICT

if you play a sport or any type of activity that involves potential injury, you better expect her to be wrapping you in bubble wrap the moment you leave that field

if you were trying to impress her with your skills and get hurt, she will scold you the entire time she is fixing your injury, but secretly finds it cute

she will find simple little things to brighten your day like leaving cute little potted plants on your desk before class

Gus porter~

THE MOST supportive boyfriend to ever grace this earth

you wanna try something new? go ahead he will be excited to hear how you liked it

you wanna try out a new sport? he will be cheering you on at every practice and game in the stands

definately owns one of those shirts that say "i love my bf/gf"

tries so hard to impress you

he wants to be the perfect boyfriend for you so if you show interest in the slightest thing then boom you own a whole collection of items related to that interest and he has learnt everything there is to know about it off witchapedia

loves watching you use your magic

it interests him

learns so many different jokes just to make you laugh and smile everyday

Boscha (i only just realised she doesn't have a last name)~

oh god how do i even start this

can be super clingy one minute, but then acts as if she is used to the attention from you and couldn't care less

she takes it upon herself to be your protector

even if its from a potential splinter

BIG on pet names

babe,baby,darling,sweetheart, yk

"heh did you see that babe? i totally just saved you from that rogue grudgby ball"

speaking of grudgby, as cliche as it sounds she has bought you a jersey that has her name on it for when she plays grudgby

honestly dies of happiness when she hears you shout "that's my girlfriend!"

always lends you her jacket when your cold, even when she is freezing herself she is way to stubborn to take it back

or she just lets you wear it around the school hallways so everyone knows the coolest girl in school is your girlfriend

when she is ruling hexside, she keeps an eye on you, no matter where you are in the room, her third eye is always on you

she is terrified she is going to lose you like she did the others

lets you sit on her lap when she is on the throne

can you tell she is my favourite?

Hunter deamonne~

he is literally the definition of acts of service

the biggest gentlemen ever

holds open every door, pulls out your chairs for you, literally he could be your slave

gets red VERY easily

when you give him praise he practically melts

found it hard to open up to you about his past but when he does he feels a huge relief

now he tells you literally everything

you totally gossip together all the time

he loves training with you, it's never serious and he can see your magic in action

you are honestly his everything

he loves playing with your hair too

is honestly so good at doing hair, he has learnt how to get the perfect rounded bun

loves you more than life itself

part two? <3

[faithandfairies]

It's interesting how in Interview with The Vampire everyone is an apex predator and yet there are nuances to that. A kind of hierarchy.

It's interesting how I'm inclined to think Louis got Claudia killed.

But if I'm honest, the entire narrative conspired to kill her. She kept journals she was not told she was not allowed to keep. Journals in which she incriminated herself. Madeleine suggested they go back one last time because Louis loved her and would want to see her. Lestat watched as Claudia died and did nothing. Louis kept secrets and refused to believe her.

When Claudia told Louis Armand threatened her my first thought to Louis was "Take the girl and run". They could have done that. Armand and his coven weren't the type to follow them. Not like Lestat. But maybe Louis couldn't have known that for sure.

But Louis was arrogant to think he was the one who was in control. Because instead he thought he could genuinely semi-take over a coven run for centuries by a centuries old vampire who was supposedly in love with him.

I wonder how he rationalized it. Did he tell himself he was doing it for Claudia? Taking over the coven she loved so much and wanted to belong in?

I call bullshit on all of it.

Because the way to control Louis is by making him believe he is the one in control.

Armand never loved Louis and Louis never loved Armand. Armand got played by Lestat. For a week or a month Lestat said and did all the right things to get Armand to teach him what he wanted to learn about vampirism. And then Lestat ran. Lestat was the one that got away. The one he couldn't keep under his control.

And then here comes this 30 year old vampire that actually managed to keep Lestat around for 30 years. Lestat actually mated him, actually treated him most of the time like he loved him and in his need to control Louis by letting him think he was the one in control Lestat actually gave up control. Not only that, even after that Lestat didn't want it to end and Louis actually had to (try and) kill Lestat in order to be free of him. Louis achieved with Lestat what Armand literally dreamed of when he first laid eyes on Lestat. Of course Armand had to have Louis.

He held on to Louis so that Lestat couldn't have him. Did Lestat try to find him and back off when he realized Louis was with a vampire that outranked him in age and power? Knowing Louis most likely would not come with him easily so talking him away from Armand before Armand found out was also out of the question?

Louis never loved Armand either. He didn't even consider Armand a companion. He tells Armand this. Lestat took the time to learn Louis. He knew Louis' history, everything about everything that mattered to him and could read him like a book. Armand couldn't even remember his mother's name. He didn't care to, because it was never about Louis. It was about holding onto what Lestat considered the love of his life.

Maybe the huge difference was that Louis did love Lestat. Against his better judgment he did. Even though he never verbally revealed it to Lestat himself, he did. Then again Antoinette loved Lestat too and Lestat couldn't really care less. Louis fell in love with Lestat when Lestat first courted him with the intent to mate him. And by the time Lestat revealed that he was a vampire, Louis could not undo that he loved him. That revelation was not enough to undo it. And it horrified Louis.

Louis knew Armand didn't love him though. I think he preferred it that way. Because look what happened when someone considered themselves in love with him. Armand did not care enough about him as an individual and never actually gave up control. Just made Louis think he did. I'm not sure Louis ever realized that Armand was more dangerous than Lestat. Just because as far as we know Armand never physically hurt him does not mean he was the safer choice.

Lestat knew this. But Armand also immediately showed Lestat who he really was. I wager that Lestat was terrified of Armand and saw him for what he was. And wanted to get as far away from him as possible so as not to become collateral damage to whatever Armand had going on. This is a man who brought in a stranger to take apart his entire coven he had run for centuries. People committed suicide. And he did it twice.

Interview with the Vampire, the title as in his original interview with Daniel Molloy, is literally Louis pulling a Lestat. When Louis said that the original interview is an admitted performance he meant it. Doing an interview that is almost exclusively about Lestat but in a way that is clearly a bold-faced lie meant to try to get a rise out of him.

You know Louis had a fever dream that Lestat would come find him on account of that book, not because he was appalled as being revealed to be a vampire, but appalled at the way Louis sketched their relationship and Lestat himself.

The way Lestat made Louis a song that involved Antoinette singing on it knowing that if anything would get a rise out of him enough for Louis to come find him, that would be it.

[neo-exploded]

Ohhhh, your FoulWilt art is so adorable! Do you have any headcanons for them, either as individuals or as a couple?

YOU BET I FUCKNG DO😈😈😈😈 also thank you sm 💕💕

but i'll do individual hc first before couple hc 💁‍♀️

also these hcs are most closer to my human au (see some of my doodles for their designs :P) so some headcanons may be inaccurate to a more canon version of them

just a warning; this is really freaking long so just saying-

v

• one of the episodes already portrayed this (S2E3: Where There's a Wilt There's a Way) but Wilt has this like rlly bad mentality where he must help anyone and everyone he can, takes everyones health and wellbeing before his own type of thing

• willing to give up his kidney if you asked him to

• sleeps in some of the most impossible positions known to man (Coco found him asleep in the closet once)

• either has flexiable as hell or has some stiff ass limbs, no in between

• can't sing well, but dances extremely good (from what he could learn from Frankie's computer)

• wilt helps Eduardo w his insomnia sometimes (I HC THAT ED HAS INSOMNIA STFU I THINK ITS CUTE)

• on the same topic on the last one, wilt also sews any of eduardo's broken plushies together when he's not around

• cooks like a god (pastries, not so much tho)

• probably forgot his birthday once or twice

• pansexual (he had to fight for his life to explain that he DOES NOT KISS THE COOKING PANS to Bloo)

alr larry's turn 🤭🤭

• didn't actually know HE was the reason for wilt's broken arm and eye, so when he found out, he was like- spending the whole month trying to both make it up to Wilt (despite the fact wilt repeated that he forgave larry) and was extremely guilt-ridden that he was basically isolating himself

• cant cook for shit, its almost sad

• probably the one to teach wilt how to say no and every cuss word known to man

• closeted hamilton fan (or just musicals in general), but he mostly enjoys dubstep or just VERY LOUD songs in general

• flower enthusiast, daisies are his favorite

• probably shaved his head once because he thought he'd look good but never again

• i think he smells like peaches ☝️😲

• bisexual (has dated before, sometime pre-Good Wilt Hunting ep then broke up lmao)

couple hcs🤭🤭🤭

• before dating they would actively avoid each other while also desperately trying to see each other too

• larry is touch starved and wilt is overly affectionate (via touch and words) so it works out basically

• i think they live on opposite sides of the house, so they make up for it by giving each other gifts and letters either whenever they see each other or some magical delivery system

• when they have sleepovers wilt has the life changing moment of what it feels like to actually sleep in a bed

• on that note, wilt is a massive cuddle person and will hang onto larry like a koala while asleep (trying to pry him off is nearly impossible)

• Frankie and Coco write fanfics about them, you cant tell me otherwise

• Their relationship developed from really long glances to the other from across the room to just holding hands in public and that was enough for Frankie to realize theyre dating

• i think i saw this in a fic once but the two would basically give very back-handed 'compliments' every time they saw each other, which developed into "dont you EVER FUCKING say that to him" when the other is insulted

• Rarely play basketball against each other, but when they do Larry is extremely fucking careful that wilt gets upset because he "isnt giving his best efforts" (Larry loses on purpose anyways for Wilt's sake)

• is there a term for when both partners in a relationship have massive problems and go to the other for advice and comfort? because i think thats them

• wilt has no knowledge of relationships whatsoever so trying to explain what a "pussy" is to him is very difficult ("like a cat?" "...no.")

• larry, with the help of nearly everyone in the whole house because theyre all broke as shit, bought wilt a prosthetic arm for his birthday and wilt sobbed on larry for a whole hour

• larry likes to throw wilt over his shoulder very often bc hes light as a feather and its just funny to him

• i think i just really like the "tall skinny guy" x "even taller and built guy w man boobas"

• wilt rarely swears unless needed to while larry says at least once per sentence

• both are awkward af so asking each other out is like a mental battle to the death

• mac, goo and bloo will spend hours trying to analyze a corkboard if they're in a relationship or not (when they do they will place traps for wilt and larry like a mistletoe)

• larry draws REALLY FREAKIGN good and when wilt found out he begged larry to post it somewhere (it blew up) and now every letter larry writes to wilt has a small doodle of something on the back or in the corner as per his request

• wilt gets flustered very very very easily and its really funny to larry

• watch movies together and either larry falls asleep on wilt or wilt goes to get more popcorn then never comes back because everyone needed a favor from him

• Jackie Khones is a certified detective on trying to figure out on what the actual hell is going on between the two (probably worked w Mac again in order to figure that out)

• Wilt is a dog person but Larry is a car person, that is one of the main (and probably only) arguments between them

• i already said wilt was a good cook so he'll always make larry small snacks (because Herriman forbids people making their own meals for some reason) and larry will silently cry of happiness for a moment bc "wilt's too good for him"

• wilt blinks like a frog when he zones out and larry also finds it funny

• but on the opposite note, wilt found out that larry will sway side to side when idly standing or zoning out and likes to point it out whenever he does it (wilt finds it funny and cute at the same time)

• they save the corny nicknames for when theyre alone, but publicly will call each other stuff like "shorty" and "carebear" (wilt likes to call larry carebear because he's somehow more caring than anyone hes ever known and is nearly as tall as a bear)

• Wilt scheduled times designated to shit-talking Duchess with eduardo, coco, bloo, mac and frankie (Larry had no idea who Duchess even was but when he met her for the first time he never wanted to punch someone so bad)

• Wilt fish-kisses (looks like a 3) and Larry kisses w tongue

• madame foster now hosts 'pride parties' in june which was inspired by the couple so that residents of the house could feel comfortable while living there (and she got all the tea about them from Frankie)

ok tahts all bye

thanks so much for requesting <3

[dangermousie]

How to do character studies in a scene that is ostensibly about nothing much

The weiqi game between FL, cousin and 17 is my favorite scene in these two eps because it so brilliantly illuminates all three characters (and shows why cousin would be such a bad fit for FL while 17 is a good one.)

Basically, Cousin wants to play weiqi with 17, who is apparently known as a weiqi genius. But FL is grumpy because she’s the one who wanted to play against cousin (who is not interested because she’s terrible.)

For cousin, of course he wants to play against the best; it’s insane for him to play against someone who is useless (he can’t hone his skills or learn against a bad player.) It’s sort of a parallel of him only being interested in people in this village if they are useful to him. But 17 has no interest in that. He wants whatever would make FL happy.

The thing is, this does not come across as weak or codependent or pathetic in the least. This is a man who is secure in his priorities - and for him playing a game is immaterial in the grand scheme of things, but making FL happy is important. That does not impinge on his dignity or his will or his masculinity. He just someone who cares about the wellbeing of his loved one and making her happy is way more important than some random game. He has no particular ego interest in showing off how good he is or beating some other dude or w/e, not even in a “if I show off how smart I am, she will dig me” way - because he assumes the utterly sane but so rarely practiced position that you know what would make my loved one happy? They know that better than I do so why don’t I listen to what they say will make them happy. Quite different from cousin who is very much “I know what’s best for you” type.

What sticks out here is twofold - FL’s dedicated attempts to deny she cares (her very denial confirms she does) and the teeth 17 shows to Cousin as compared to his meting look at FL. This is very much a dog thing to me - he may be loyal as hell to his owner but anyone else he can certainly bite!

Heeee, they agree on her playing cousin but 17 advising and I love the positioning with FL and 17 a team against cousin.

This is honestly so brilliant! 17 advises her but when she wants to go a different way, he doesn’t even demur, he is fine with it and easily agrees. The utter indignant shock on cousin’s face is glorious. But that’s the thing, I can’t see cousin ever acting like this even if he knew FL was his long lost XY. (Or if he did, he’d make a show of it - he’d act this way because he wanted to consciously demonstrate his caring - as opposed to 17, where it’s not showing off or demonstration, he’s genuinely not sacrificing anything because the point of this game to him is making FL happy and nothing else.) Even cousin’s question highlights that he does not understand 17 at all - 17 does not “let” FL do anything because “letting” would imply a degree of control or desire for same and 17 never feels that, he just wants to love her and make her happy and if there is any ownership thoughts it’s his wanting to be owned by her not the other way around. 

The above is your future life cousin ahahahha (he’s a great, complex character who reminds me a lot of LCY from Goodbye My Princess but I do NOT like him as a person.)

And once again she ignores his advice and he Does. Not. Care. His priorities in this game are so different from cousin’s that they might as well be playing two different games. He knows what move is better (and it’s his) but he is fine with her picking her own move or agreeing with his - what matters is that she gets her choice, whatever that choice is.

Cousin keeps trying to center it back on him and 17 just refuses.

The moves were hers but he is the one who takes the responsibility for losing and I love that so much. The whole calm acceptance of losing, the whole taking responsibility on himself tho he didn’t have to - I just love the man.

And then we get the below little coda:

This man, with his good heart and utter lack of ego is a total keeper. 

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. I am so impressed by the screenplay, the directing and Deng Wei’s acting because it’s so hard to make unalleviated goodness interesting but 17 is so layered and complex and fascinating and real and yet utterly good at the same time.

[grumpybunny-edith]

Gwen's Bunny HRT - Month 1 (Part 2)

I learned this trick a little while ago for smiling at the camera: just think about something that makes you laugh. I didn’t have to work very hard to find something - everything Rae had just said had left me smiling maybe too much. I turn on my camera, turn my head to show off my ever-so-slightly longer ear, and make it a point to let my teeth sit on my lip, even as my first impulse was to hide them. 

Opening the chat, I saw the last thing sent — it was a selfie from Delilah, her cheeks and chin covered in long, grayish-black fur. 

thebuildingisonfire: Decided not to shave for the last couple days. Feels good. 🔥

It looks good too. Combined with the changes to her face shape giving her more of a snout, she’s starting to look more like Rae and Ashley than Edith and I. If that’s even a rational comparison to begin with. I do my best to stop comparing myself to my friends (again) and start typing.

wen-kutesuli: Hey everyone! Rae reminded me today was my one month, so... Here’s a quick update! It looks like it got to my teeth first, which... Is what it is, but my ears started getting longer recently too! No fur or anything yet, but. Big things 🥳

Rae is quick to jump on things, responding again almost instantly. 

raeraebun: YAAAAA THAT’S MY GIRLLLLLLLL you look so good!! The first half an inch of so many more :DDD 

grumpybunny-edith: !!! That’s huge! Starting with teeth must be tough :( how’s the pain been 

wen-kutesuli: It’s been... manageable? grumpybunny-edith: oof. Good luck lol  pink-lightning: Edith, don’t. That’s wonderful news, Gwen 🩷

I can’t help but wonder what Edith meant by that. It hadn’t been easy for the last couple weeks — as it turns out, growing your teeth is at best super uncomfortable — but it had been bearable as long as I didn’t forget my painkillers. Is she just trying to scare me? Is it gonna get way worse? Or does she just have an embarrassingly low tolerance for pain? 

pink-lightning: You look happy.  pink-lightning: Have you ever sent a picture smiling before? 

I scroll up to look at the picture again at Ashley’s statement. I’m a little surprised at how much I’m smiling; I hadn’t even noticed when I took it. I’m also surprised that she’d notice something as small as how often someone smiles in pictures. I make a mental note of that, feeling embarrassment creep up about it — is it not normal to feel a little bit weird about a smile? I do my best to hide my feelings.

wen-kutesuli: I guess not lol I didn’t notice! raeraebun: You NEED to do it more. you look SO CUTEE grumpybunny-edith: fr. depriving us of that shit should count as a crime tbh  thebuildingisonfire: okay but like. Be gay do crime  raeraebun: not this crimee raeraebun: we love following the law in this specific moment grumpybunny-edith: Yeah this crime is like. Stealing from a small business  thebuildingisonfire: just on principle, omfg =_=

The chat stops for a few minutes. I’m too giddy to care much about it, pacing my room on my toes and going fast enough to feel the wind in my ears. Of course they’re happy for me, why wouldn’t they be? Their pride... kinda becomes my own. I keep jumping around, catching glimpses of myself in my mirror, and it makes me so happy. The light from outside shines through my ears like a tulle curtain, making them shine. I don’t even have to imagine I have a tail to feel this giddy about it all. I put on my favorite KKB album and hop around my carpeted floors, enjoying the simple joy of having a body becoming more like what it’s supposed to be. 

I don’t notice the next message until several minutes later, the buzzing of my phone muted by the carpet. I prance back to it only intending to play a song over again. 

thebuildingisonfire: dealing w any like, behavioral stuff? Or are we still waiting on that lol  raeraebun: I didnt realize you were taking over scheduling the sleepover, del xD thebuildingisonfire: oh no definitely not that’s still your job lmaooo thebuildingisonfire: just curious I swear

I keep hopping around my room as I try to come up with an answer. I don’t feel anything like what the information outlined, and definitely nothing that would warrant one of those sleepovers they’re always talking about. My feet are a little bit sore from all the moving, but I still have more energy to get out, so I type and jog at the same time. 

wen-kutesuli: I don’t think I’ve gotten any yet?  grumpybunny-edith: Oh my god Delilah you can’t just ask someone how horny they are pink-lightning: Yeah. Obviously that’s Edith’s job.

I drop my phone. I don’t pick it up. I’ve stopped in my tracks. Of course I know what’s coming, but it’s hard to believe it’ll happen to me. Sure it’s exciting, but I haven’t exactly had all that many... you know. It’s just hard to think about as something real, let alone something happening so soon. And, just, logistically it all seems pretty inconvenient; “Missing work for sex so often you get fired for it” seems more Delilah’s speed than it does mine, and I’m not sure I want to find out whether or not that’s correct. I shift my feet in the carpet nervously, feeling the tiny fibers through my soles. I press up onto the balls of my feet, trying to adjust to the way my feet are going to move within the next year. When I move to join my phone on the floor I push my heels down first, sitting down like a rabbit is supposed to. 

raeraebun: its not that unreasonable yall, “behavioral stuff” doesnt have to mean horny  raeraebun: its just cool to know the drugs work and that youre happy w them gwen :))  pink-lightning: And if you’re not, you can always let us know. We don’t want anyone having to go through that kind of thing alone.  grumpybunny-edith: That’s kinda the whole reason this chat exists, lol  grumpybunny-edith: Also, that’s what she said. 

I giggle for the amount of time it takes to understand what Edith meant, at which point I’m overrun with blush. I can barely fathom the idea of one of them actually wanting to... Well. “Help me” with that kind of thing. I’m well aware they do it with each other, I’ve just never been that type before? It’s like being in line for a rollercoaster you have no knowledge of beyond being able to hear the things people say once they’ve gotten off. 

pink-lightning: Seriously. I know we all only just met you in the grand scheme of things, but we are here to help in whatever capacity you want. I’m trying to build the space I would’ve needed when I was in your shoes. If there’s anything you need to talk about, please let us know. Even if it feels kinda weird.

raeraebun: absolutely!! We’re here for ya bestie <333

Ashley is so sincere it almost makes me anxious. I walk across the room, heels sinking into the carpet, and pull the packet the doctor gave me out of my desk drawer. I sit on the floor with it. 

“Descent into sexual depravity” “Unavoidable, frequent joint pain that will last for years”

“ near-constant sex drive which interferes with life at nearly every turn” 

“Irreversible”

“Loss of self”

I throw the packet to the side, my lower back numb like something was trying to burrow out of it, thrashing viciously from side to side. 

I open the chat again, staring at Ashley’s message with my phone in my hairless hands. My nails are short and fragile, not clicking against the screen as I type. 

wen-kutesuli: I’m gonna be okay, right?  grumpybunny-edith: You’re gonna be just fine 💙 pink-lightning: Absolutely. And whenever it’s not, let us know.  thebuildingisonfire: we got you  raeraebun: totally!!!

I look between my screen and the discarded packet. I feel wide awake in the sunset but crawl into bed anyway, finding comfort in the blankets over my head. I really, really consider asking for some company, but I’m not sure how much I want to be seen right now.

---

Prev - Next

[ellevandersneed]

One of my nagging fears is that someone will or already has screengrabbed a bad take of mine and used me as an example to define the type of person they don't like. I can get really paranoid over my little posts. It's simultaneously a matter of actual insecurity on my part - I find it difficult to live unabashedly as myself for a variety of reasons that I am slowly but surely working on - but it is also sort of a legitimate fear based on the experience of hanging around terminally online people for a large chunk of my life. How long until I have become the non-entity whose existence symbolizes miserable idiocy. How long until I get to play the NPC or the secret liberal pig or the miserable killjoy. Have I been psychoanalyzed by an angry 19 or 33 year old yet? Maybe if it ever happens and I stumble across the digital plaque with my dog face and tumblr handle, a short wall of text made in the moment without much serious thought, captioned by a diatribe about how miserable and pathetic and tiresome this person (me) must be - I'll be able to suddenly realize, on a much deeper level than I do now, that this is an overrated, petty fear. Maybe I'll remember some childhood persecution or familial expectation and be able to process it better. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and the world suddenly turns to pudding and the river becomes lemonade and the great many rusted metal things that line the riverbed transmogrify into delicious rock candy of so many colors and shapes. Maybe I'll have to put in the work and actively fight this insecurity or maybe I can ignore it and do some hard work (and be set free) and one day it won't bug me anymore. Maybe I should tell a friend or a therapist. Maybe I'll learn the process of making rock candy, and make those many shapes and colors and put them on sticks and bring them to parties. Maybe I'll pick up a guitar again and practice until my fingers don't feel so clumsy and I can strum the Flintstones theme effortlessly. I'll ride in a riverboat, plucking out a tune and while I rest my hands I can dip an empty tankard in the river and pull up a draught of sweet lemonade. The boat could go out to sea, and I'll swing below deck whenever the sun or the rain get to be too much for me. The ship could carry a great many underwater compartments. It could house an entire apartment complex that shrinks and grows on the outside, depending on the circumstances, but is always the same size on the inside. I could cover the floors with carpets from around the world. I could sit and look at the famous Persian flaw of an Iranian rug covered in beautiful designs and woven with red, orange, cream, burgundy, cerulean threads and think of my insecurities. What is perfection in a world without a perfect being? Is this idea of improvement, infinite improvement, an attempt to help others and myself or am I just trying to replicate the proverbial Jesus of a pseudo-secular mindset. Am I actually challenging my own insecurities - my petty, trifling, in-sig-nificant insecurities - by thinking in terms of... "Well... other people don't act or think like this. You don't want to act like the wrong type of person, do you?"

I could sit, cross legged and sipping riverwater lemonade, the tips of my fingers sore from pressing down on strings and plucking at them, and ponder all of this forever. The rock candy formations of the riverbed would glide by. Tufts of seaweed that had been transformed into strips of gummy candy filled with sealed pockets of sweet syrup would brush up against the hull of my boat. Swedish fish would wriggle past, or they would sit tight as the tide pulled them in the direction they wanted to go. The world would keep happening regardless. I wonder if I would just be taking myself with me if I were to walk away from this little imperfection in the rug. If I stood up and began to look for problems to fix, tightening pipes, sealing leaks, arranging furniture, I could lose myself, or maybe my flaw would manifest in the ways I behaved. I would be very far from that boy they strung up a couple thousand years back, indeed. So I continue to sit on my rug. I think that maybe, if I sat here long enough, I'd be able to solve the problem that is myself - unravel every knot in my heart so perfectly - that I could leave that part of myself here on the rug to be thrown overboard later. I would, of course, obtain the great goal of enlightenment and be a being of pure light and energy. I would do anything I wanted to. I would become morally invincible, I would become a "good person." It would finally all be over. So I spend the rest of my life, sitting on the rug, unraveling knot after knot - not realizing that the strings that make me who I am are perfectly tying themselves right back up when I'm not looking. Meanwhile the rock candy and the gummy seaweed and the Swedish fish and the whole of the lemonade river would still be passing me by until all of it was eventually long gone and I was all alone - enlightened but alone - the knots would all tie themselves back up pretty quickly indeed if this were the happen. The solace worth taking is that, at least, the knots will be different. At best they will be variations of their old configurations. Fun.

The only other choice seems to be to get up, live life, play songs and fix leaks and drink lemonade and sail with other boats and dance on other decks and help other sailors and eat new candy sealife and live and live and live while stopping every so often to check on that little insecurity in me to see how she's doing. I can augment how I listen and how I communicate and how I set boundaries and how I respect boundaries and try to be a little kinder and forgive myself and do all of the many little things that are in vogue right now while still living. Not unaware and paranoid or sitting still on the floor staring at the tiniest of threads but actually living life as a maker of mistakes and a sad, sweet, happy, angry, patient animal and an artist and a writer and a friend and a neighbor and a stranger. I just won't do it with eyes closed. Or I won't force myself to keep them open if I the strain becomes to much. Or if sleeps call is too sweet. I am tired now. I am so sleepy.

[kaycode1999]

Hey there! Um, sorry if I'm barging in and your requests are closed or too busy, but can I ask for a match up?

Appearance: I have long black hair, dark brown eyes and I’m about 5'2~5'3-ish?

Pronouns & sexuality: My pronouns are she/her, and I'm ambiamorous and polysexual, (basically all genders except women) and- maybe- cupioromantic? (I'm not really sure on that one yet- so possibly QPR type thing?)

Hobbies: I really like to draw and write a lot. Staying indoors is what I prefer, either binge watching shows or hyperfixating on one particular show. Maybe either the occasional relaxing games or reading or even try out new hobbies. But generally, I usually have a lot of time on my hands, doomscrolling or daydreaming and imagining scenarios in my head.

Type: I'm not really sure? But I suppose someone easy to chat to but also able to chill with. Possibly someone who can be stronger than me- not just physically but with drive/confidence? (If that makes sense?)

My personality: I would say I'm more anxious/reserved at a first meet, then slowly letting a person know more about me bit by bit. I'm more of a lurker and a little awkward around big groups of friends and more silly with one on one interactions, but I really like listening to people speak and learn more about them, accidentally not adding onto things or, if I do manage to talk, making each talk turn into a deeper and, I guess, more intimate conversations. My viewpoint- as my friends have pointed out- is more pessimistic and disturbing, which is pretty unusual with how I would act- being somewhat bubbly. Occasional intrusive thoughts slipping out my mouth and sometimes lack of social cues, often leaving me confused on what is happening at the moment.

Characters I don't want to get matched with (That sounds so mean Q-Q): Pigsy, Tang, or Sandy. They feel like father/uncle figures to me.

Ah, so I really hope this finds you well and hope you're having a great day. Sorry, again, if this is confusing, cluttered, not giving enough info, or redundant, and also for having so many 'unsure's. Thank you for reading that much text, and I'm excited to see who I get matched with! Thank you so much! ^w^

I match you with

MK the Monkey Kid

He also enjoys drawing so that's a shared interest between you two

You two can be comfortable just hanging out and drawing together for hours. It's more about being close to each other more than doing anything specific or talking all the time

He loves just having stay-at-home dates snuggling on the couch either watching movies or binging a show

Most of the time he likes to play monkey meck but bring over a new game and he has no problem playing it

He does have to do training outdoors but he doesn't mind if you tag along and stay in Monkey Kings house doing whatever until he gets done

He's both physically strong and comes off as confident ( especially with everything he's been through his confidence is a facade and he can be quite pessimistic too when he gets into a particular mood, having you around helps him)

He's so sweet but he can be dense at times so he can also say things that can sound odd or just not understand what is going on either so he doesn't judge you at all

He also takes time to get actually comfortable around people he doesn't know because of things in his past, so he understands that well and lets you take all the time you need to warm up to him and the rest of his family but he does what he can to make you feel comfortable

[x-v0id-x]

HIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!! ☆*:.｡.o(≧▽≦)o.｡.:*☆ What kind of yans are your OCs!!? Are they the stalker types,, delusional ones, submissive? Manipulative??

HIHI MOOT!!! X3c EEE I’m glad you asked!!! ^^

<3 Kaito is definitely the rougher of the two. His personality isn’t..the most easy to deal with. ;w;

<3 He does mean well!! He was raised with a lot of dangerous people, so he was built up to be more rough around the edges. He doesn’t know a lot about love, all he knows is that from the moment he saw you, he felt different!! He didn’t feel dread, spite, or anything negative for once! He just had to learn more about you! Why did you feel so much different than everyone else? From there he grew obsessed. With him being in a very particular group, he has a lot more access to hack into databases or anonymously find whatever he needs to about you online. Plus he also has a ton of things to use on his darling at his disposal :3c

<3 Of course he’d never do anything to hurt his darling!! Not intentionally. If he ever did he would do anything to make it up to them, gifts, doing favors for you, bringing you your enemy’s head, whatever!! Kai can be really cunning and knows what to say to convince people to do what he wants, even his darling! Though he’d always keep his distance from them in person out of fear of scaring them away :<

<3 Kai would have a lot of influence in your life, albeit indirectly. Suddenly when you lose something dear to you, you’ll find it minutes later! If you go to a coffee shop or some store you frequent, you’ll be told the customer before you already paid for your order! It doesn’t happen often enough for you to remember to pay close attention to the man in front of you. Riiiight as you forget to do so, it happens again! Kai is often in control of anything that happens to you from now on. Though he can barely work up the nerve to talk to you TwT

<3 Kai would act like a guardian angel! In a twisted way. If he found out someone was pursuing you..well they won’t be for long ^-^ Regardless of if you would’ve accepted or denied their feelings. Someone won’t leave you alone? They won’t be a problem for much longer. Someone just betrayed your trust? They’ll be the next to disappear. He’ll keep you safe..maybe if on the day he finally gets the courage to talk to you, you won’t completely hate him. He loves you so much..he just doesn’t know how to show it.

<3 Now Milo has a completely different approach. They have a special charm to them and have lived their life knowing how to woo all sorts of different people >< They lived their life being told that everyone loves them and everyone will find him so cute so long as he follows directions.

<3 Ever since he was little he’d always play along, meeting and dating a plethora of people. But no one really made them feel any sort of spark, nothing important. They get tons of guy and girls trying to pursue them, and as much as they’re happy to cater to them, it gets tiring. At least until he met you!!

<3 They didn’t know what to think, from the moment the two of you spoke they knew it was love at first sight!! You two were destined to be together, get married, and live a rich, fulfilling life together ^^ But they knew how this game worked, so while Milo would definitely stalk you, he’s never afraid to walk up to you! In fact they do it nearly all the time! They’ll chalk it up as being in the area and never having been able to miss your cute face.

<3 Milo constantly offers to spend time together and would get so pouty whenever he realized you were hanging out with other people. Why would you need anyone else other than them?? They could give you anything you’d ever want!! But they’re sure you love them just as much as he loves you, just maybe you haven’t realized it! Or maybe you’re just so sweet that you feel bad on letting your friends miss out on how wonderful you are! Still, they’re determined to show you just how much you don’t need them anymore!! Can’t you see that they’d do anything for you? They’ll always wear their cutest outfits or maybe try something more masc if that’s what you prefer! They’ve always been very touchy, but if you seemed hesitant he’d whine and almost beg to keep getting to hug you.

<3 Though after Milo has their sights on you, anything you want is now yours. They make tons of money being a model and all. If you’re ever home alone and talk out loud or are looking for a certain product you wished you have, it’d be in your house the very next day! (Milo had to resist putting a pretty pink bow on it to show it was from them) Of course they sneak into their darling’s house when they’re away, they love seeing the space their darling resides in!! What you like, what you seem not to like, everything! It’s almost like you two lived together! x3 And of course Milo tends to steal a shirt or two, maybe a jacket. They cant help it! Wearing something of yours, being able to smell you on it, it’d make them so happy. Especially if it was a liiiittle big on them, they’d be so happy ^^

<3 But if you showed them any sort of basic human decency they’re immediately blushing and being so giddy internally, they can act calm and often reciprocate it to their darling, but after their darling leaves they’re kicking their feet and twirling their hair >///<

<3 That’s all!! Have a great day!! >u<