#DAMN it's already 3am good night

[disposal-blueeee]

guess what ! doodles . again

edgar , nny and devi belong to johnen vasquez (even if i only drew nny and devi at the bottom)

scriabin by zarla-s

[phagodyke]

I have to be up for work in 3 hours and I'm gonna be real I think ive hit the point where I might not be getting any sleep at all. for fucks sake.

[wordsofwhimsy]

ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ

Pairing: Lenless [No Goggles]!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Fucking fiiiilth, smut bitches!!!

Tags: Threats of violence including self harm, absolutely toxic behavior, reader matching his freak in the worst way

Word Count: 2,814

Inspiration: “None of Ur Friends Business” – Ginuwine

Synopsis: Your dangerously unhinged not-boyfriend threatens to “take care” of the friends of yours that keep trying to pull you away from him, and you are having none of it. literally a crazy stand-off

a/n: you know i had to jump on it after this anon message!! god he’s such a damn psychopath, need that 🤪

His hands are warm—too warm—palming your waist like he owns it. The soft press of his mouth against yours is hungry but practiced, like he’s done this in his head a thousand times and tonight he’s just filling in the details.

You’re trying to stay focused. Trying not to melt into him completely. But his knee is nudged between your thighs and your hands are fisted in his shirt and—God—he smells like the night. Wind and sweat and danger.

And he feels it. The shift.

Mark pulls back just barely, his breath brushing against your lips. “What?”

You blink up at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “I… I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

He laughs—low, sharp, a little breathless. “You say that with your hands still on me.”

You pull back further, guilt blooming under your skin. “It’s not me. My friends… they don’t think I should be around you.”

Mark’s eyes flicker, and something inside them cracks. Not anger. Not surprise. Something worse. That slow, dangerous amusement he gets when he’s too far gone to care.

“Ohhh,” he says, sitting back on his heels, still straddling your legs. “Them.”

You shift, tugging the hem of your shirt down, suddenly too aware of how vulnerable you are underneath him.

“They think you’re… I don’t know, unstable,” you murmur. “That I’m not thinking straight when I’m with you.”

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s already solved. “And are they wrong?” You hesitate. His grin widens. “Didn’t think so.”

“Mark…”

He leans down again, slower this time, arms caging you in as his voice drops to a whisper. “You think they know what this is? What we are?”

Your heart stutters. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your jaw. “They don’t get a say.”

“You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can.” His eyes meet yours. Calm. Controlled. Unsettling. “Because I don’t care what they think. And you don’t either, not really.”

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Your resistance is paper-thin and he knows it.

“They don’t know what it’s like when you look at me like that,” Mark mutters, voice velvet-dark, “like you want me and hate yourself for it.” You swallow hard, trying to find your footing in a conversation that’s already sinking fast.

“They’re just looking out for me,” you say, weaker than you mean to.

Mark hums, dragging his fingers up your thigh like he’s barely paying attention—which only makes it worse.

“Yeah? Then maybe they should spend less time worrying about you and more time fixing their own messes.” His tone is too casual. Too cutting.

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks at you like it’s obvious. Like he’s been holding back and is just now getting bored of pretending.

“Let’s start with Lauren,” he says, like he’s choosing a weapon. “She’s real concerned about your well-being for someone who’s still sleeping with her ex behind her current boyfriend’s back.”

You freeze.

“And Maya?” He laughs under his breath. “She’s got a lot to say about how ‘toxic’ I am for a girl who gets blackout drunk just to forget she texts her therapist at 3am.”

“Mark—”

He leans in, grinning, like he’s telling you a secret. “They don’t care about you. They just don’t want you to have something they don’t have.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, voice dropping low and dangerous.

“Especially your girl Sadie.” His eyes are locked on yours now, completely still. “The way she looks at me?”

Your breath catches.

Mark's lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk, but there's something sharp underneath. “So obvious. Like she wants me to look at her the way I look at you. Like she’d lose her mind if I touched her the way I touch you.”

Your skin prickles. “You’re imagining things.”

He chuckles, and the sound is mean. “You really think I don’t notice? She doesn’t even breathe when I walk into a room. Like she’s hoping I’ll slip and touch her by accident.”

His fingers trail up your arm, slow and lazy. “But I won’t. You know why?”

You’re quiet.

He leans in, mouth just brushing your ear. “Because she’s not you.”

You shove at his chest—not hard, but sharp enough to get the message across. “You’re such an asshole.”

Mark barely moves. Just blinks, lazy and slow, like a cat watching its prey squirm.

“Yeah,” he says. “And?”

You sit up, untangling yourself from under him, heart pounding. “You don’t get to talk about them like that. They’re my friends, Mark.”

He watches you now, eyes darkening. The grin slips, just slightly.

“They’re hypocrites,” he says coolly. “They don’t like me because I don’t kiss ass and pretend I’m something I’m not. And you—” He leans in before you can react, voice low and dangerous. “—you like that about me.”

You flinch back. “You don’t know what I like.”

He scoffs. “Don’t I?”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, not painful, but firm. Controlled. You freeze.

“That little act you pull?” he says, head tilting. “Like you’re just so confused, like you don’t know if this is right?” His thumb brushes your pulse. “It’s bullshit. You keep coming back. You let me touch you. You want me here.”

Your stomach flips, anger warring with the way your skin burns under his touch.

“I want you gone,” you whisper. He laughs again, and this time it’s ugly. Sharp and disbelieving.

“No, you don’t.” He shifts closer, crowding into your space again. “You’re mad because I said what you’re too scared to admit. That your friends aren’t saints. That Sadie wants me. That deep down, you love the fact that she can’t have me.”

“Mark—”

“You want me all to yourself. And you hate that you do.”

You yank your arm back. “You’re insane.”

He smiles. There’s no denial. No apology.

“You knew that when you let me in your bed.”

You stare at him, heart pounding, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

“You’re sick,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You think this is normal?”

Mark doesn’t even blink.

“No,” he says easily. “But I think it’s honest.”

You push at him again, harder this time. He lets you—for now. You scramble off the bed, putting distance between you like that could somehow make this safer. Make him safer.

“I’m done,” you say, trying to sound stronger than you feel. “This was a mistake.” He tilts his head, eyes tracking your every move like he’s amused by the performance.

“I really don’t like how much they distract you,” he says, tone casual—too casual. “Your friends.” You go still. Mark’s gaze sharpens. “Always in your ear. Telling you what to think. What to feel. Pulling you away from me.”

“Don’t,” you say, voice rising. “Don’t go there—”

“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, standing now, slow and unbothered. “Maybe it’d be easier if they were gone.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Mark shrugs. “Just a thought. Clean slate. No distractions. Just you and me.”

Your mouth opens—no sound comes out. You swallow, steady yourself, and find your voice. “You don’t mean that,” you whisper. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

His smile is all teeth. “Why would I want to scare you?” He starts to cross the room toward you and you instinctively step back. “I like you,” he says softly. “I don’t want to scare you. I want to protect you. And if that means getting rid of people who are bad for you…”

He trails off, as if he’s genuinely thinking it over. “…then maybe it’s not that crazy.”

“If you touch a single hair on their heads,” you hiss, “I swear to God, you will never get to touch me again.”

Mark goes still for a second, like he’s processing that, weighing it. Then he scoffs. Loud. Dismissive. Cruel. “You think you can stop me?” he says, stepping forward with that wolfish grin. “If I want you—” His voice drops an octave, sickly sweet, almost a purr. “—I’ll just take you.”

And in one motion, without flinching, without breaking eye contact, your hand shoots out to your desk. The cold metal of the scissors hits your palm.

Mark’s smile falters as you lift them up, pressing the tip against your own throat. Just hard enough to leave a mark. Just long enough to make your point.

“I will literally end it right here,” you hiss, voice shaking with fury—not fear. “Do not fuck with me.”

Silence.

Heavy. Dense.

Mark stares at you like he doesn’t even recognize you. Like you just flipped some internal switch he didn’t know existed.

His chest rises, then falls—slow. Controlled.

“…Whoa,” he breathes.

You press the blade in just slightly deeper, enough to make his jaw clench.

“I’m not your little toy,” you snap. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to hurt the people I care about just because you’re obsessed with me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you spit. “You are absolutely obsessed. And I’ve let you get away with it because you’re hot and you kiss like you invented sin, but I swear to God, Mark—”

You jab the scissors toward him now, and he flinches. The grin is gone. He’s listening.

“You pull one more psycho stunt, and I’m gone. Not just gone—I will erase myself from your life so fast, it’ll make that little broken brain of yours crack in half.”

He blinks. Then runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little like he doesn’t know whether to be angry, aroused, or in awe.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

You lower the scissors, your voice cool and even.

“Takes one to know one.”

Mark just stares at you. Breathing hard. Jaw clenched. That frayed little thread of control he was holding onto? It’s gone. Burned up in the fire between you.

And you—you’re still gripping the scissors. Chest rising and falling like you just ran a marathon straight through hell.

“You are,” he says finally, voice low, wrecked. “So out of your fucking mind.”

You toss the scissors onto the desk with a loud clatter.

“Guess you finally met your match.”

He takes one slow, deliberate step toward you. Then another. Eyes locked on yours like he’s looking at the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore.

“You’d really do it,” he mutters, half-laughing. “You’d die just to spite me.”

You blink once. “And you’d kill for me.”

He stops right in front of you now, inches away. His smile is wild. Reverent.

“I’d kill for you,” he echoes, voice rough and quiet, “and you’d die just to spite me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

And it snaps.

He grabs your face with both hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, crashing his mouth into yours with zero hesitation—hungry, desperate, possessive. Like he’s been waiting forever to kiss you like this and now he’s afraid someone might take it away.

You kiss him back just as hard.

There’s no hesitation left. No doubts. Just teeth and hands and ragged breath, both of you pulling like you’ll tear the other apart. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, fisting in your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

You gasp into his mouth, tugging at his hair, and he groans like it’s killing him.

“I need this,” he pants against your lips. “Right now.”

You nod, forehead against his, eyes burning.

“Then take it.”

That’s all he needs.

Mark doesn’t hesitate—his mouth crashes back onto yours like gravity just stopped working and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides down, grabs the back of your thigh and lifts, walking you backward like he owns the floor you’re stepping on.

You’re on the bed in seconds. Breathless. Legs parting before you can think, just to feel him there, all heat and muscle and sharp, chaotic want.

“You drive me insane,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You threaten me with scissors and then tell me to fuck you—what the hell is wrong with you?”

Your hands claw at his shirt, yanking it up over his head.

“I learned it from you, asshole.”

He laughs—dark and low, mouth brushing your collarbone. “Guess I’m a good influence after all.”

And then he’s everywhere.

His hands are rough, impatient, sliding under your shirt, dragging it up like he can’t get to your skin fast enough. Lips on your chest, your stomach, leaving bruises he wants you to see later. Mark is marking you—no pun intended—like it’s instinct, like he needs people to know whose you are the second they see you.

Your touching him back, his skin is hot under your hands—like he’s burning from the inside out, like if you peeled him open you’d find wildfire and want. His mouth doesn’t just kiss—it consumes, dragging over your skin like he’s trying to eat the memory of your friends, your doubts, your resistance. Like he wants to own every piece of you you’ve ever tried to keep from him.

You feel his smirk when you gasp, when your legs wrap tighter around his waist, dragging him closer. You’re not even sure who started it anymore. You can’t remember who kissed who first. Just that it was inevitable.

“You like this,” he growls against your throat, lips brushing just under your jaw as his fingers trail lower, dragging over your ribs like he’s memorizing them.

You try to sound strong. You try to bite it back.

But the sound you make when his hand slides between your legs? It’s not strong. It’s needy.

Mark fucking shudders.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re soaked.”

“Shut up,” you snap, flushed and breathless. He laughs, and the sound vibrates through you.

His mouth ghosts over your nipple, tongue flicking, teasing. He pulls your underwear down slow, smirking when you arch into him.

His teeth sink into your thigh, just enough to leave a mark, and he groans like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear you say that. And when he finally slides into you, it’s with a low, rough growl—like it takes everything in him not to lose it then and there.

You’re so full, so tight, so perfectly wrong for each other it makes your eyes roll back.

His hips grind deep, hard, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere beneath your skin. He’s panting in your ear, messy and raw, fingers tangled in your hair while yours scratch down his spine hard enough to leave tracks.

He likes it. You can feel it in the way his pace stutters, the way he moans—raw and low and real.

“I could ruin you,” he gasps against your lips. “You know that?”

“You already did,” you breathe.

And that’s it. That’s when he snaps.

He grabs your thigh, hikes it higher, and slams into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The headboard cracks against the wall, but neither of you care. The room is nothing. The world is nothing.

Just this.

Just him.

Just you.

Your moans turn to sobs, his name ripped from your throat like a confession. “Harder,” you whisper against his neck.

He doesn’t hold back.

Your bodies move like war and worship—teeth clashing, breath tangling, sweat slicking your skin. Every thrust is a promise and a threat.

You moan his name and he mutters, “Say it again.”

“Mark—”

“Louder.”

“Mark—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine.”

You don’t disagree.

He’s everywhere.

He’s everything.

And when you cum—shaking, gasping, half-crying—he watches you like he’s witnessing something holy. Like he’s the one being touched by God.

“Mine,” he pants, grinding deeper, chasing his own release. “You’re mine, you’re fucking mine—”

And when he finishes, it’s with a broken, desperate groan, spilling into you like he’s giving you a piece of his soul and doesn’t care what you do with it.

Breathless silence.

Only the sound of your heaving chests, sweaty limbs tangled, skin burning.

Mark buries his face in your neck. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “…You scare the shit out of me.”

You grin weakly, fingers threading through his hair. “Good.”

-------------

Part Two - Brunch Edition!

[bjornsmuse]

ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔱 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

{part 2 of of 2}

Summary: it’s just turned dark outside, the cicadas are chirping, the weather is getting warmer and your about to go to sleep after a long and exhausting day of dealing with cramps caused by your period- your about to lay down in bed until your interrupted by a knock on the door

Warnings (for last part): smut, 18+, vampirism, bloodplay if you squint, stalking, southern gothic, biting, oral sex (r!receiving), p in v, slight worship kink, dirty talking, slight Dacryphilia, soft! Remmick(not really more like very manipulative), period sex, touch starved reader

A/n: I wrote this at 3am so it might not make sense and I apologise for that, this ended kind of weirdly too but oh welll, smut is smut

The space between the two of you was just a flimsy door now, and his words hung in the thick, suffocating heat of your bedroom. His words were replaying in your mind, They were obscene. Wrong. Terrifying…And yet—every syllable had dripped like honey into the aching pit in your stomach, curling low, settling beside the pain of your cramps like something more dangerous. Something shameful.

You swallowed hard. Your legs pressed together involuntarily, the pulse between them stubborn and hot. You hated yourself for it, but something about him—about the danger, the way he looked at you—had crawled under your skin and refused to leave. You tried not to move, Tried not to breathe. Maybe if you stayed still enough, the night would swallow him. Maybe this was a nightmare and you’d wake in sweat-soaked sheets, cursing the heat and the heavy throb in your belly, cursing your stupid body for making you weak enough to even feel tempted by this. “You shouldn’t be in here,” you said hoarsely, trying to make your voice strong. It wasn’t, Another pause.

Then his voice came again—closer, deeper now, like he was leaning right up against the door, his mouth barely inches from the crack “Mm. But you let me in. That counts for somethin’.” A soft chuckle. “You gonna pretend you didn’t like the way I looked at you?, I can smell it on you, sugar,” he murmured, slower now, sweeter. “That ache in your belly… the kind that don’t have nothin’ to do with your bleed. You’re drippin’ like honey behind that little nightgown, ain’t you? Tryin’ so hard to be good.”

You let out a shaky breath, thighs pressing so tight now it hurt “You’re filthy,” you whispered with slight disgust for him in general and the fact this is somehow turning you on.

“Mmhm,” he agreed, no shame, no hesitation. “And you like it. Hell, you’re squeezin’ your legs right now just hearin’ me talk, ain’t you? Poor thing. Didn’t even touch you and I already got you throbbin’. That blood of yours’s got a scent I can’t ignore, sweet girl.”He sighs as if he’s disappointed.“How do you know what I’m doing, you don’t know anything about me?!, I don’t even know your name.”You snap back quickly. “It’s remmick darlin’, that’s not what you should be worrying your pretty head about- now that other question?, Cause’ I can smell how warm you are through the wood,” he murmured, like a man talking to a lover, not a stranger he’d cornered in her own damn house. “All that pain sittin’ heavy in your hips—ain’t right for a girl to suffer alone like that, and you’ve been feelin’ like that for a week now, can’t expect me to just sit round’ and do nothing can you?” He questions- it takes you by surprise by how he sounds more like someone with concern than someone trying to manipulate you into opening the door, even then you find yourself reaching for the doorknob, Your fingers moved before your mind could catch up — trembling, slow, but deliberate. The soft click of the lock felt louder than a scream.

You didn’t open the door wide. Just an inch. Then another. Enough for the thick heat of the hallway to crawl inside your room, enough for his silhouette to bleed through the gap like spilled ink. Remmick stood there, barely illuminated by the dim hallway light. His shirt was rumpled, collar open, suspenders hanging loose. His hair curled at the edges with sweat, though not a drop touched his brow. He looked… calm, patient, Like he knew you’d open the door. “Well now,” he said softly, stepping in without asking — without needing to ask now— and shutting the door behind him with that same careful click. “Atta’ girl”.

You didn’t move, not at first. Couldn’t. Your body was trembling in ways you weren’t sure were fear or something darker. Your eyes locked onto his as he moved closer — each step slow and measured, like a predator that didn’t need to rush, because he didn’t need to rush- he knew you weren’t going anywhere. “No need to be scared dove, told you I’d be gentle, and I will..for the most of it.” His hand reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with a tenderness that felt out of place. “Still scared?” You nodded, barely. “That’s alright,” he whispered, his palm now resting against your jaw, warm and rough. “I like scared. Makes it sweeter.”

And before you can even think about reconsider your decision, your laid back on your bed, his mouth is on your neck, not biting- not yet, just planting hot, open mouthed kisses along your pulse point and just above your collarbone. You didn’t notice his hand trailing between your thighs, not with the way his mouth was making you feel—like your bones were melting under each pass of his tongue, each low hum of approval that vibrated against your skin. You tilted your head for him, offering your throat like it was natural, like you belonged to this moment. You let out a soft moan when his fingers slipped between your legs, to your core which is already soaked and sensitive. He groaned softly against your neck like he felt your heartbeat there.

You gasped softly as his fingers stroked you—slow at first, careful, almost like he was testing your limits. But his mouth never stopped its path across your skin, pressing kisses down your neck to your collarbone, leaving a heat in their wake that made your thighs fall wider for him, welcoming. You didn’t mean to whisper his name. It just slipped out—breathy, helpless. “Remmick…”

And he froze. Only for a second, but you felt it—the shift, like something just beneath his skin twitched in response. His hand stilled, lips hovering over the hollow of your throat. Then his voice, dark and low, as he lifted his head and looked down at you. “Say it again.” There was something behind his eyes now—something feral, like your voice had sunk its teeth into him. You blinked, dazed “Remmick…”You mutter. His hand moved again, this time with more intent. More need. A groan rumbled from his chest like it had been caged too long.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You keep sayin’ my name like that, and I might just lose my manners altogether.” His hips push against yours, and you feel how unnaturally hard he is, Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, your body arching into him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more anything…And he gave it to you. His hand dipped lower, fingers slipping inside with ease, thick and warm and curling just right. You cried out into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt.

His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect strokes while his fingers moved inside you with the kind of rhythm that made stars dance behind your eyes. Your body was a live wire, strung tight. You felt possessed. Weightless. Completely undone beneath him, And the way he looked at you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, sweat slicking his temple—was almost reverent. Like you were some holy thing, and he was the last man alive allowed to worship you, made you twenty times more sensitive. Remmick can tell your close to coming undone so he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, gaining a needy whine from you- that whine quickly becomes a moan when you feel his mouth on you instead of his fingers.

Remmick let’s out a moan- a actual moan when he first taste’s you, he moans like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted “fuckin’ hell dove, reckon your the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.” He says against your clit, gently sucking, your hips buck at that touch but he doesn’t give up at all- he doubles his effort. His tongue is now buried inside you, working you over and earning moans and whimpers while his nose gently nudges your clit, your fingers are tugging at his hair, egging him on more until you eventually cum on his tongue but he doesn’t pull away- at least not until crying a little bit from how over sensitive he’s making you.

“Taste so sweet..blood and arousal, can’t get enough, got me bein’ greedy..” remmick mummers against your inner thigh, giving it a little bite before licking his lips as if savouring your taste. Remmick moves back up your body, kissing up your neck until he’s kissing your cheek “mhm, so sweet when you cry dove..I ain’t even gotten a taste of what it feels like to be inside you, and I’m already losin’ my goddamn mind.” He shifted above you, and only then did you feel it properly—hard against your thigh, straining through those low-slung trousers like it had been hurting him for minutes now. And it made your breath catch in your throat. “You want it, don’t you?” he asked with a crooked grin, dragging his hips just slightly against yours so you could feel him fully—hard, pulsing, hot through the fabric.

Your body tensed, caught between raw exhaustion and a second wave of wanting. A deeper one. Hungrier. And God, he was right—your body was still humming, still hot, still aching for more even though you should’ve been satisfied. He pulled back just far enough to look down at you properly, eyes raking over every inch of your flushed, sweat-slicked skin. His voice was soft again, too soft, like a secret between sinners. “You got another one in you, sweet girl?”He reached down, undoing his belt with one hand, slow and deliberate, the click of the buckle sharp in the stillness of the room. His other hand never left you.

“You give me one more,” he whispered, pressing his face to your neck. “Let me make you feel all the way full, like you’re s’posed to.” His trousers slid down, and he groaned low when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and aching. He gripped himself, sliding the head through your folds, coating himself in you. “Just one more,��� he begged, voice cracking just a little with how much he needed it. “I’ll be so fuckin’ sweet for you.”

He was bigger than you expected—thick and hot against your slick skin. He rutted against you once, just to feel the drag of your body along his length, and let out a groan that sounded like it was pulled from deep in his chest “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “Ain’t never felt nothin’ like you.”

Your back arched, body aching to pull him in, to feel that stretch, that fullness he promised. But he didn’t give it to you yet—he held back, teasing, like he wanted to watch you beg. Like he needed to see you come apart again before he finally gave in to what was driving him wild. “Can you beg for me darlin’? Just a lil’ bit..”he basically pleads- and you do beg, and it snaps whatever gentleness he had left inside him because as soon as he hears your voice begging him in such a soft tone- he starts pounding into you. “Feel like heaven, so warm..”he groans against your neck, cock aching inside of you.

You don’t have anytime to adjust to his size, you clench around him as soon as he starts moving- you basically go dumb, all you know while he’s inside you is the feeling of his cock nudging against that perfect spot, the feeling of absolute bliss and you honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, Christmas, ghosts, mentions of ptsd,

A/N: i'll be so honest. this is not edited i will come back during the day and edit this. it's 3am here man. welcome to Christmas in may

Previous part || Series masterlist

It was two nights before Christmas. 

Not to get too festive, but Bucky was already ho-ho-h-over this shit.

As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up. 

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store. 

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off. 

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free. 

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly. 

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?” 

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap. 

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it. 

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him. 

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead. 

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”  

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.  

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme. 

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly. 

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.  

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.  

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement. 

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

 “Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you. 

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested. 

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts. 

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him. 

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter. 

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.” 

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished. 

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday. 

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time. 

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge. 

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it. 

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown. 

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours. 

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount. 

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random. 

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas. 

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead. 

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands. 

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room. 

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs. 

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.  

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops. 

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway. 

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.  

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?” 

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you. 

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like. 

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes. 

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says. 

You  find yourself nodding before it even registers. 

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again. 

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently. 

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs. 

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while. 

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.” 

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself. 

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond– 

You come up empty. 

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you. 

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall. 

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened. 

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to. 

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides. 

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you. 

It damn near knocks the breath out of you. 

They look like you. 

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue. 

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately. 

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask. 

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?” 

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile. 

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.” 

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.” 

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile. 

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for  split second. 

When you look back down, you’re on your feet. 

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair. 

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.  

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it. 

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth. 

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t. 

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box. 

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

 “You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little. 

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.  

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence. 

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer. 

You stand quietly in the centre of it all. 

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out. 

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades. 

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can. 

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.  

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name. 

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty. 

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags. 

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else. 

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time. 

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago. 

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears. 

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake. 

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him. 

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one. 

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more. 

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves. 

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing. 

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing. 

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.  

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.  

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet. 

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace. 

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet. 

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas. 

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?” 

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off. 

It was too short, you looked too distracted. 

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past. 

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him, 

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.” 

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid. 

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one. 

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up. 

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before  looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red. 

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges. 

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him. 

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you. 

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time. 

It takes a while to register what it is. 

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite. 

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory. 

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room. 

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.  

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible. 

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost. 

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet. 

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead. 

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up. 

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else. 

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters. 

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months. 

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes. 

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious. 

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath. 

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever. 

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. 

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language. 

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”  

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly. 

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously. 

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters. 

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You fight random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air. 

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky. 

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.  

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him. 

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something. 

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it. 

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow. 

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth. 

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[pearlywritings]

'Mom' to his 'Dad'

synopsis: just a collective bulleted drabble of all the thoughts I had about raising Yanqing together with Jing Yuan (yet somehow not being married (yet))

pairing: Jing Yuan x fem!reader

tw: fluff, domestic fluff, modern AU, CEO!Jing Yuan (because why not), dad!Jing Yuan, adopted son!Yanqing, from co-parenting to dating, from friends to lovers

word count: 1.8k+ words

CEO!Jing Yuan who looks hella fine in any clothes, but especially good in gray and carmine red suits. Who absolutely hates wearing ties, but has zero complaint when you, after staying the night before, wrap one around his neck. He feels soft when you lecture him, but in the end say he looks good, smoothing the lapels of his jacket, making sure his appearance is intact before turning around and hurrying to check on Yanqing’s preparations for school.

CEO!Jing Yuan who is a great leader, a nice boss and obviously a great catch, but who also hasn’t shown any interest in any suitor who’s attempted to woo him in the last decade. And he is 33 already. There have been many gossips swirling in the company, most potent about you and him, rumored to be in a secret relationship and raising a kid together. Well… they are not wrong on the second part.

CEO!Jing Yuan who after the passing of his two friends took their eight-year old son under his wing. Who had never dealt with children, especially this young, but who was lucky enough to have you - a dear friend since university, now a coworker, understanding and compassionate enough to leave your house at 3am to drive all the way to his residence after just one frantic call.

CEO!Jing Yuan who will never forget that night - you, running into the house after he let you in, with hair still messy and clearly first clothes you dug from the closet thrown on you. You looked like a cute ruffled sparrow, which quickly transformed into a mother hen when he better explained his troubles about a little kid - now his adopted son - and how he couldn’t get him to fall asleep at the new place. You too didn’t know much about handling children, but you were willing to try and the white-haired man couldn’t ask for more. Both called off work the next day.

CEO!Jing Yuan who since then has a room in his house that belongs to you - over the years it got filled with your personal things, redesigned (twice!) to your tastes, and has been occupied over the years for almost half of each passing week.

CEO!Jing Yuan who adores Yanqing - the boy proved to be feisty, but at the same time he was very sweet and nice to have around. Jing Yuan didn’t think twice about adopting the little guy the moment he learnt of his friends’ passing, turning from a godfather to just a father. He, obviously, didn’t force Yanqing to call him dad, making up his mind that even if it never happens - it’s totally fine. Due to the age the boy could understand why his parents weren’t there and Jing Yuan was making all he could to give him a good life, a normal life. He was so lucky that you tugged along.

CEO!Jing Yuan who almost cried when Yanqing absentmindedly called him ‘dad’. The ten-year old didn’t even notice it, but to the man it meant the world. He spammed you with messages, all in caps and with weeping emojis, and felt his heart about to combust when you sent him a response full of excitement, congratulating him. And then messaged about how you wished to hear the boy call him dad the next time you were around. Damn, he wished so too.

CEO!Jing Yuan, who loves having you around. He melts when he returns to the living room after going to refill the snack bowl only to see Yanqing cuddled closely to you, staring at the screen with his head tucked under your chin. His lips tug into a wide smile when the boy asks you if you can be the one to get him from school tomorrow instead of Jing Yuan’s personal driver (and you always say ‘yes’, even if it means you’ll sacrifice your lunch break). A pleasant shiver runs down both his and the boy’s backs when you walk into Yanqing’s room to check on the two doing homework and gently scratch their heads. Jing Yuan loves the domestic life the two of you created.

CEO!Jing Yuan, who encouraged his son when a couple of years later he wondered if it’s okay if he started calling you ‘mom’. The man told him to approach you the next time you were staying over and ask your opinion on the matter. Which the boy did, shyly reaching out for your hand and when you gave it to him with a smile, dropped a bomb. Jing Yuan remembers the slight hesitation flashing in your eyes, how you lifted him and got him into your lap to be on the same eye level with him.

“Baby, are you sure?”

“Mhm. You’ve always been there. You raise me. And I really love you and want you to be my mom.”

“Even if I am not your father’s wife?”

“Maybe you should become her? But either way, yes.”

CEO!Jing Yuan who now can’t get the boy’s words out of his head. Yanqing is right - you’ve always been there. For them both. His, no, your son is thirteen now - meaning that for five years you’ve helped your friend raise the boy - you were not obligated to be there for his special events, you weren’t paid to take days off and sit with him when he was sick, no one asked you to kiss his forehead and tuck him into bed, there were no rules that said that you have to share his hobbies… Yet, you did. Always. And the man has always been very aware of that, but only his son’s words seem to open his eyes - both of you are his parents. Maybe it’s a shame you are not spouses.

CEO!Jing Yuan who feels kind of bad - you’ve spent 5 years of your life being a family to Yanqing and, admittedly, the man himself. You’ve given up searching for a partner, starting a family of your own just to make sure that the kid who has no relation to you grows healthy and happy. He can’t help but love and appreciate you.

CEO!Jing Yuan who finds out that you’ve been having similar thoughts about him after that conversation with your son. He really didn’t mean to overhear, he just wanted to drop by your office at the beginning of the break and offer to go get lunch together, only to stop at the mention of his name that passed through the door. Apparently, you sought advice from Yukong - the head of the logistics department, a fellow mother and one of the few who knew what your family dynamic was really like. You are concerned that you took the place that wasn’t meant to you - you worry that Yanqing got attached to you so strongly that should Jing Yuan start seeing someone, the boy would be too stubborn to accept.

CEO!Jing Yuan, whose heart skips a beat, when the teal-haired woman asks you, why you are not entertaining the possibility that you can be the one the man seeks a relationship with. The same heart drops into his stomach when you sigh and tell her of him never showing interest. Things seem platonic to you. Well, not to your coworkers, it appears.

CEO!Jing Yuan and you, who freeze in your seats, when at the end of the meeting a new secretary of the man asks if ‘Mrs Jing will also attend the event’ hosted by one of the company’s biggest clients. Confused, you look at your friend, who's equally stunned (but secretly, realizing what kind of mistake it is, fights back a tiny spark of delight). It turns out that the secretary thought the two of you were husband and wife and for that reason gave you the man’s last name. If it’s not the sign, then what is?

CEO!Jing Yuan who goes clothes shopping with you - because you both indeed are going to be at the event and the man insists the two of you buy something matching. When you ask why, he slyly smiles and promises that it’s his way of ‘showing interest’. At first you don’t get it. But when your cheeks heat up he knows the message is clear to you. You do call him a scoundrel and he heartily laughs at that, but you still reach out to his hand and he readily interlocks your fingers.

CEO!Jing Yuan who notices you getting flirtier, one time in particular not leaving his mind. He was comfortably sitting on the sofa, having everything he needed to push through the last bits of work he had decided to take home (‘everything’ being just his laptop and a mug of steaming tea). That’s when you approached him from the back, laying your palms on top of his shoulders, gently kneading the tense muscles, working a low appreciative grunt out of his throat.

“Yuan?”

“Mmm?”

“You look stressed,” fingers dug a little rougher into his flesh and the man groaned, shoulder flinching. Only for his whole body to go rigid when your voice fanned right against his ear, ”I know how to fix it.”

And then you innocently proposed to go to the gym together once he’d be done. Honestly? For a stunt like that Jing Yuan wanted to bite you.

CEO!Jing Yuan who does get his teeth onto you as you are trying to escape the trap of his arms after waking up from the cute cuddling session with Yanqing. Only for the boy to be gone upon your awakening (and you hear some shuffling in the kitchen) and a very hot man - your friend? boss?? unofficial-but-everyone-thinks-you-are-together lover??? - pressing your back into his chest with arms firmly circling your waist. When you attempt to move away, he suddenly surges forward and clamps his mouth onto the exposed juncture between your neck and shoulder. And nibbles.

“Jing Yuan!”

“Hufshf,” he mumbles into your skin, before releasing it and burying his face into your neck. “Don’t shout, you’ll alert Yanqing, and I want some more time with you.”

“...why?”

“Why?” He muses, and you feel a smile pressed to the back of your neck. “Because I think we’d make great as a couple.”

CEO!Jing Yuan who comes to an agreement with you that for the longest time it felt like the two of you were indeed a married couple. You share a place, you do most domestic things together, you go to places together, you raise a son together. And together you come to a conclusion that courting is due.

CEO!Jing Yuan who absolutely shares Yanqing’s sweet anticipation for when you will be able to legally adopt him. Which means - marrying his father (just let this man put a ring on your finger already).

[demie90s]

We Lost Time, Not Love

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Paige Bueckers X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader (clingy!soccerstar!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You and Paige grew up together, and somewhere between teammates, sleepovers, and game-day good luck texts, you fell in love with her—not just emotionally, but in a way that made your chest hurt when she wasn’t around.

⭑ genre: Soft angst, slow-burn, childhood-to-lovers, emotional craving

⭑ warnings: Emotional vulnerability, unresolved tension, crying, public confession

⭑ word count:

It starts small. Missing a rep. Forgetting your shin guards. Faking a stomachache so you don’t have to do post-practice film. Coach doesn’t say much at first, just asks if you’re feeling run-down. You nod because that’s easier than explaining what it feels like to walk around with a throat full of unsaid things and a ribcage that only knows how to house ghosts.

You don’t cry at first. You don’t let yourself. You just let the days get heavier. Let the lights get dimmer. Let the locker room feel louder, sharper, wrong. You let your spot in the starting lineup slip without fighting. You skip lifts. You stop icing your knees even when they hurt. Your cleats stay in your bag for a week and no one says anything because technically you’re still showing up. But you’re not really there.

Media day comes and goes. They post the graphics on the main UConn page—captains, key players, preseason standouts. You’re not in them. Not even in the background. Not even a tagged photo. No interview clips. No team spotlight. You scroll through the comments until your vision blurs and shut your phone off mid-breath.

You tell yourself you don’t care. But when you walk into the locker room and your photo isn’t on the wall anymore, just a placeholder that says “UCONN FC,” your chest tightens so hard you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom and throw up nothing.

They think you’re injured. That’s the narrative now. “Minor issue,” they told reporters. “Resting up. She’ll be back.” But you know the truth. You’re not back because you’re not you. Not since Paige.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She was your best friend. Grew up with her. You played different sports, sure, but shared everything else—air, routines, your damn hoodie collection. She was home before UConn ever was. And somewhere between the shared playlists and the 3am sleepovers and the way she looked at you like her hands already knew your skin, you fell in love with her. Slowly. Devastatingly. Deeply.

And she loved you too. You’re sure of it. Or at least… she did. You don’t know what changed. One day you were hers—maybe not officially, maybe not out loud—but you were hers. And the next, you weren’t.

She stopped texting. Stopped showing up to games. Didn’t repost your highlights, didn’t sit with you after late-night practices, didn’t even return your “miss you” voice memo you sent after a particularly brutal scrimmage. No fight. No reason. Just distance so quiet it felt surgical.

Everyone thinks you’re just overwhelmed. You’re the golden girl, after all—starting midfielder, two-time NCAA regional rep, the one who walked into UConn as a freshman and made varsity girls cry. But now you sit in the far corner of the bench like it hurts to be seen. Because it does.

Some nights you stare at the ceiling until 4am. You replay every interaction you had with her like it’s footage to be dissected. The way she said your name the last time. The way her arm didn’t wrap around you on the bus when it usually did. You convince yourself it was your fault. That you were too much. That maybe if you’d been quieter, smaller, easier to love, she’d still be here.

You haven’t eaten a real meal in three days.

KK saw you in the hallway and asked why you looked “extra emo.”

You laughed. It wasn’t real.

That night, you scrolled through your camera roll and stopped at a blurry photo of Paige sitting in your dorm bed, eating your snacks with her hair tied back and socks pulled over her knees. She didn’t even know you took it. She was just there. Like always. Like she should be now.

——————

Coach called my parents. I guess that’s when you know it’s bad.

I don’t even remember how many practices I missed. Four? Five? I stopped checking my phone. I stopped answering texts. My schedule went blank. The only thing I did consistently was nothing. And I did it in silence. Door locked. Lights off. Hoodie on. I wasn’t eating, barely sleeping, and when I did sleep, I woke up aching like my dreams kept dragging me by the wrist back to her. I’d lay in bed for hours, staring at the corner of the ceiling like it owed me something. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I didn’t. Most days I didn’t have the energy to cry. Just laid there numb, heart racing like it was trying to run away from me.

Coach left voicemails. My teammates knocked once, then stopped. But when I didn’t show up for film, didn’t log into the team app, didn’t respond to the check-in group text, he broke. Called my mom. Told her he didn’t know what else to do. Said I hadn’t been “present” since the start of the season. Said I looked pale, out of it, gone.

They drove in the next morning.

I was still in bed when they showed up. Still in her hoodie. Still unshowered, unbothered, undone. I heard the knock, the keys, the low voices. My mom’s shaky inhale. My dad asking Coach if I’d said anything at all.

I don’t know how long I laid there. Long enough that the sky changed. Long enough for the quiet to get heavier than my body. Long enough that when I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the hallway, I ran right into her.

Paige.

I froze.

She did too.

She wasn’t even supposed to be there. I found out later she was on her way to the gym. Said she hadn’t seen me in weeks and figured it was time to stop pretending like we weren’t walking around the same campus feeling the same kind of sick.

But in that moment, when I saw her? My knees nearly gave out.

She looked the same. Tired. Pretty. Lips slightly chapped. Her sweatshirt sleeves too long. Hands clenched. The way they used to clench when she was nervous or overthinking or standing in front of something she wasn’t ready to lose.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Then my mom stepped out of Coach’s office, saw us, and went still. She didn’t say it, but she knew. She saw my eyes and knew.

“You found her,” my mom whispered to Paige.

And I cracked.

I didn’t cry right away. I just stood there shaking, head down, fists curled into the hem of my hoodie. The tears didn’t come until Paige reached for my sleeve and said, soft and scared, “You’re really not okay, are you?”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

She stepped forward, both hands on my face, like she was checking if I was real or already halfway gone. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You did,” I choked. “You said everything when you stopped showing up.”

Her breath hitched. I felt it before I heard it.

“I didn’t mean to leave you.”

“You didn’t have to mean it.”

And then I cried.

The kind of crying that ruins you. That swallows sound and turns it into shaking. I sobbed in front of my mother, my coach, my old best friend—hell, maybe my first love—and no one told me to stop. Paige just pulled me in, tight and desperate, like she was holding the pieces together with her bare hands.

“I should’ve come sooner,” she said over and over again.

I didn’t say anything back. Just held onto her and let my body remember what it felt like to be touched by someone who knew me.

She didn’t leave after that. She told my parents she’d stay. That she’d help. That I’d been hers for too long to let me do this alone.

I didn’t go to practice the next day either. But she sat with me on the dorm floor, cross-legged, and read my syllabus out loud like it was sacred. She watched me eat soup like it was a miracle. She brushed my hair even when I flinched.

The healing wasn’t loud.

It was her handing me water. Her texting me even when I was across the room. Her sleeping at the foot of my bed like she couldn’t get close enough.

We didn’t say we were back. We didn’t need to.

She came back for me.

That was enough.

[macfrog]

secrets cowboy like me chapter fourteen

one day i'll rein my chapters back in. today is not that day. thirteen thousand words of...a little bit of fucking and a lot of fighting. i love you all and i still can't believe the love you continue to show this series. you're all actually insane. i present to you: the penultimate chapter of cowboy.

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: the one where...everybody finds out.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), a big argument, a lot of guilt, angry disappointed dad, one mention of alcohol consumption, lil bit of sub!joel, unprotected piv, tiny bit of degradation, tiny bit of praise kink, creampie, cursing, smut, fluff, angst 

word count: 12.9k (dry heaves) 

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

You haven’t slept a wink. Not one second.

You and Joel were awake until one in the morning on the phone; you – panicking, spilling words into the receiver, watching different cuts of your dad realizing everything as though projected across your blank ceiling, and Joel – monotone as fucking ever, batting every single theory away.

He doesn’t know a damn thing, he’d said. You didn’t miss the way his words hung over the edge of the sentence, trembling almost.

You scoffed and hissed back down the line. You don’t fucking know that! How can you know that?

You think he just found out about us and thought, Hey, better get some shut-eye before I deal with this? Really, baby?

I think he doesn’t know what he found out. I think he’s probably tryna convince himself that he’s wrong.

So, let him. He’s wrong. We go with that.

Joel knew he wasn’t doing anything to calm you down. Wasn’t offering anything you could seriously take on. You know he wasn’t trying to.

He was as worried as you were – he was just pretending not to be, because what fucking good would it do to have the two of you bouncing off one another with panic?

Still, he stayed on the phone the entire night. When he fell asleep, you lay in bed and tossed everything over in your head like tearing back the pages of a diary. Last night, then Frank’s, then the weekend before that, then the Hillcrest – all the way back to that first ride home. The pissing rain, the boxes of nails rattling in the glove compartment with each sway of the truck. Recalling every word spoken, every move made, every expression pulled and glance stolen and fucking breath taken.

Any sound from beyond your door shot a bullet of adrenaline through your veins, coursing through your body like ice. As if it was your dad, barreling in at 3AM to have it out with you.

You reckon you’d be ready if he did. Wide-eyed, fists clenched, heart hammering.

Joel groans back to life at eight. You hear the ruffling of bedsheets, the crackle down the line as he drags the phone across his mattress and pins it to his ear. You lift your own. Joel and 08:43:36, 37, 38 underneath it on the screen.

His voice drums low and groggy from the speaker. “You are gonna have my phone bill through the damn roof. I’m exhausted, darlin’.”

“I can’t think of anything else. He knows, Joel.”

He sighs. You can see his head falling into his hand, see his thumb rubbing circles into his temple. “Let’s just see what happens, alright? There ain’t any chance you left your phone in the living room ‘n he came across it, thought he’d keep it for you comin’ home?”

“I’ve barely left my room all week. Why would it be down there?”

Joel’s quiet. He just breathes down the line. After a minute, he clears his throat.

“Come over, would ya?”

“Huh?”

“Come over. I wanna see you. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Joel, I’m –”

“Hey. Don’t make me ask again, alright? C’mon, now. I got some errands to run; you’re coming with me.”

He doesn’t have to say much else to convince you; you’re already pulling your bedsheets back and hanging up. Your hoodie and shorts are still hooked over the foot of your bed. The sun filters through the drapes, edges you nearer the door. Your chest fills with something calling itself bravery, and slowly, quietly – you click the door open.

The hallway is silent. A blushing gold in the morning light. The house is still – eerily still. Your dad’s room door is open, bed made, sheets tucked neatly under the mattress. Like he had time to spend on it. Stuff to mull over as he made it.

The carpet softens your footsteps when you finally move for the stairs. The birds are singing outside. The wallpaper canvases your shadow, a little monster creeping along one step behind you, passing picture frames which dazzle with sunrays and mirror a half-lit reflection back to you. One side you – the other, missing.

You lean over the last step, craning your head and shoulders into the hallway. The clock on the wall opposite ticks to no one. Tick tick tick tick. And aside from it, from its taunting tutting, there are no other signs of life. His jacket hangs from the peg. His boots lying below, laces tangled.

The sun separates into brittle shards through the window, illuminating the way to the kitchen. You’re not fucking prepared to follow it.

Shoulders hunched, like it might make a difference, you step forward and lower your thumb and index finger over your keys, aiming for them like a shaky arcade claw machine. Tick tick tick. They jingle as you hook your fingertip through them. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hey.”

He appears around the corner like an apparition. The keys drop back to the unit with a violent clatter.

“Jesus!”

“Woah, woah.” Your dad holds a palm up, laughing nervously. “Sorry. Where you headed?”

“Uh, J– Sarah’s. Some errands she wants some help with.”

He nods. “Yeah? You don’t want breakfast first?”

You drag your eyes to meet his for the first time. He looks drawn, skin like webbing, as though it’s just draped over his skull. As though you could put your finger through it like parchment, just push straight through. He looks like he’s had about as much sleep as you have.

“No, thanks,” you say, the sunken, sullen sight of him crumbling your voice to dust. Your lips move wordlessly, waiting for another lie from your tongue to offer over. But between the way he looks, weary and forlorn, and the thin veil of truth left between you – nothing materializes.

“Why don’t you – why don’t you hold back a second?” Dad beckons you forward, folding his fingers to his palm. “Got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”

“Dad, I really gotta go, I –”

“Just – come on. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”

He disappears without waiting for a response. Shifts back into the living room, shadow following him like a cloak across the door. You hear the creak of his chair as he settles down into it, the unsettling squeal of leather and spring.

Your feet are planted to the hall floor. To move in either direction feels like a trap. To follow after him – sit opposite and swallow back what you think you know is coming. All of his suspicions stuck in your throat like a bitter, powdery pill. Or to turn away – leave him in an empty house, nothing but the sound of his own breathing and that tick tick tick affirming your guilt.

No more excuses filter through – none of Joel’s ideas, none of his explanations. You let your shoulders drop and your eyes close. The only image behind them is that six-foot, graying, droning idiot who’s probably sat waiting for you to pull up so he can take you to fucking Trader Joe’s or whatever.

And his shirt, which he’d probably drape over your shoulders before he’s even said hello. And his smile, which would draw you onto your tiptoes, draw your lips to his. And his hands, and his waist, and his pulse in step with yours as you follow him around the quiet store, the Saturday morning air daring you to hook your fingers around two of his every now and then. The longing a gnawing in your chest, burrowing deep beneath the cage of your ribs.

He's not here, though. It’s just you. And if you call him now, if he shows up unannounced – it’s only going to confirm what your dad thinks. Fuck it – what he knows.

So you unstick your sneakers and haul yourself through to the living room.

He’s rocking in the chair when you sink back into the couch. Balls of his feet pushing him back and forth. His fingers to his lips, like keeping the words at bay for now. Like feeling the jagged shape of them through his skin.

You throw a pillow over your legs, shaggy ivory fringe tickling your bare thighs. Your dad doesn’t speak. When you lift your head, his eyes flit from yours down to your restless fingers knitting the tassels of his pillow.

“What is it?” you croak.

“Mind if I ask you somethin’?”

You shrug. “Go for it.”

He waits a beat. A hesitation. Like he doesn’t want to ask the first question. He’s at the edge of a cliff. One more step and he’s plummeting down the rocky side, into a fog of cloud. Nothing will ever be the same. Only – you’ve already pushed him. He’s already falling. He just hasn’t realized it yet.

Maybe he feels the drop in his stomach, right now. Maybe the wind screams in his ears. He finally asks, “When were you gonna tell me about y’all gettin’ into a barfight on Friday night?”

Unexpected. But keep your fucking cool.

Your fingertip whitens, blood halted by the knot of the cushion fringe. You chew on a torn leaf of skin from your lips. “What?”

“You ‘n Joel. When he picked you up. What the hell happened?”

Your eyes slide from his to the patio door behind him, garden lighting up with the sun scaling higher in the sky. You stare there until it burns, until it’s all just a blur of color in your vision, and then pull a half-blinded gaze back in his direction.

You’re frozen, as if he has you at gunpoint. Shoulders tense, eyes wide. Dontshootdontshootdontshoot. “Who –? Who said that?”

“Hank. Was on the phone to ‘im last night. Anna said Joel was squarin’ up to some kid in Frank’s. You wanna tell me exactly what happened?”

“Nothing.” Liar. “Nothing happened. It was just some asshole. Joel was just lookin’ out for me. For us. Me ‘n Anna.”

“She told Hank he knocked the kid out. That Sam had to stop it from gettin’ outta control.”

He stares at you, and there’s no mask on his face. No cover, no disguise. He’s suspicious. And he doesn’t care that you know it. He’s not just asking about the barfight.

“Are you gonna say it or am I, hon?”

“Say what?”

Your last thread of insane hope that he’s innocently wondering about Frank’s is snapped in two by the words that tear out of his mouth, so quick they rip into your skin like shards of glass.

“What the hell’s goin’ on between you two?”

Your body suddenly drops further into the couch, the weight of your blood freezing to ice in your veins. Your joints seize, your jaw locks. Air passes across your open lips with no intention of carrying words back out the way it came. You forget any ability you had previously to come up with excuses, to cover up, to lie. Hell, you’re not sure you’d remember your own fucking name if he asked that next.

You say nothing. And he cocks his head, drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Say something.

“Nothing.”

Say something more convincing.

“Nothing?” you repeat, a shrill pitch in your voice like it’s a question. Like he’s dumb for even thinking there might be something weird going on. Like he’s the idiot.

The clock in the hall ticks to itself, amused. Fifteen little snaps. Each one sounds like a plate of glass beneath your feet, cracking a little more, a little deeper, a little wider. The abyss opening its wide, dark jaws beneath you.

Your dad’s expression doesn’t change. He crosses his arms, head leaning back a little. He almost looks sad. Almost looks like he might give in. Send you on your way, on your errands with Sarah.

But something recharges him, something must flicker behind his eyes, because he sits forward again and watches your reaction intently as he says –

“Then explain the text messages you been sendin’ each other.”

Another blow hits your stomach, rippling waves of white heat through you. You feel hot, a scorching panic right beneath the surface of your skin so hot that it mistakes itself for ice cold. A panic which radiates from your heart, pulsating through your entire body, every limb beginning to shudder involuntarily. Your silence is answer enough.

He sighs. Sits forward with his elbows on his knees. “I knew y’all were close, knew you cared about each other. You sure always talked to ‘im more ‘n you ever talked to me, even before you went off to college. But I’ve been noticing things lately…Something’s different. Something’s changed.”

Your eyes trace his form as he talks. It’s fucking dizzying. He’s animated, like a character from some eighties cop show who finally solved the mystery. He knows. He knows everything. Your jaw won’t move to answer.

“Seeing you two together – talking, laughing. The way you look at each other these days. ‘n you’re always near each other, ain’t you? Always hoverin’. It ain’t anything like before. That day the three of us went to Costco, that – I –” His anger seems to boil over, cascading from his lips in an angry burst of hot breath. “I felt like a spare tire in the back of the truck that day.”

“We’re…We’re just…f-friends…I don’t –”

He holds a finger up. Doesn’t want to hear it. Not until his speech is done. The sun moves behind a cloud; the living room suddenly drains of light. “That day you said you were spending the night at Anna’s. Said you were havin’ a pool day, right?”

“Right,” you whisper, eyes closing over. They feel heavy. Tired and teary.

“Right. Except,” he brings his finger down, aims it straight at you, “Hank says you weren’t never there. Anna was at Sal’s all day Sunday.”

Fuck.

“Dad…”

You’re pleading with him now. Enough, I’ve heard enough. I know you know. As if you might still be able to stop the train, dig your heels in and hold on tight to derail it. Derail his thoughts. Salvage the situation, string it back together with shame and atonement.

But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even hear you.

“’n that’s when I got to thinkin’ – last Monday, at Joel’s. I went over to fix his sink – you remember I told you about his sink?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I went over there, and he’s cookin’ this great big breakfast – pancakes, all of it – and there ain’t no one else in his house. Just him. Sarah was in Nashville, you remember?”

You take a deep breath. This is it. The ship’s beginning to disappear beneath the black waves.

“I thought maybe he had someone over, maybe expectin’ that girl from the plant hire…Anyway,” he bats his hand, bats the hopeful glint in Lois’s eye from his mind, “I’m walking downstairs, on my way out, and I notice somethin’ on the floor by the door.”

His chair squeaks timidly as he moves, his right arm lowering, scooping for something you can’t see yet. But when he shakily lifts it, your eyes fall to your knees. It hangs before you, apologetic and ashamed.

Joel was right. He knew it. You palmed him off. You told him your dad wouldn’t – couldn’t – put two and two together. And here he is, sat feet from you, holding the final piece to the puzzle in a quivering fist. Proof that, when he was in the house that day, you were only feet from him. Wrapped in his best friend’s shirt, dripping wet from his shower.

“This bag,” he hisses, and the tears finally drop onto your cheeks. They scurry to your chin, gathering and throwing themselves to your chest. Your shoulders drop, your eyes still low. You can’t look at him.

He speaks slowly. Speaks through his teeth. Every word like its own poisonous jab.

“Now you tell me: what in God’s name is your bag doin’ in Joel Miller’s hallway, at ten in the mornin’, when you’re supposed to be at Anna’s?”

Your fingers touch your forehead, a burning pain beginning to sting through your skull. You can feel your pulse in your temples. You’ve never wanted Joel to be stood in front of you so badly in all your life; just to deflect some of the interrogation off of you, just to give you breathing space. Just to protect you from the onslaught of questioning from your dad.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. The bag hits the carpet with a thud. “No, there ain’t no way. You were at Anna’s, right? You ain’t with Joel Miller, no way. I’m thinkin’, Please, God, don’t let that have been my daughter’s bag that day. But I’m right, ain’t I? You were there, weren’t you?”

You blink rapidly. The tears multiply quicker. The room is glossed in a protective film of salt and adrenaline. Give me something to say back. Give me something to say back.

“Where were you, hon? Musta been hidin’ somewhere, right?”

Give me something please think of something please come over please walk through that door please tell me what to say.

And then it comes to you. You blink the mist from your eyes. He said…he knew about texts you’d been sending Joel. How did he…?

“How did you know about the texts?”

“Pardon me?”

You straighten up and look him dead in the eye. Your voice feels hoarse. It sounds nothing like you. “How – did you know – about – the texts?”

“That’s your concern right now?”

“How – did you know?”

He begins to sputter, like the heat turned up under a pan on the hob. “Look, hon, you had me worried sick. Disappearin’ and I got no clue where you are. Always having an excuse to go off somewhere alone, no explanation. Don’t even get me started on those marks on your neck.”

Your hand immediately clamps around your throat, hot skin stained pink hissing into your palm. Joel’s teeth on you last night. His words cushioning the sharp bite. I love you. The heat hurts, now, when it felt so comforting just a few hours ago. It burns. It throbs. It feels like shame.

Your dad’s voice brings you back into the room.

“There’s another thing – last night,” he flings a laugh to you, “you were so quiet. So damn quiet. Didn’t say a word the entire time, and then I leave for all of ten minutes, and suddenly the two of you are headin’ over to his for – what was it? UCLA pamphlets?”

There’s a break between his words, a gap which makes you think that he wants you to answer. Like he’s giving you a chance, extending his arm. But he fills the space with a jeering laugh, and keeps talking.

“Where are they, huh? These pamphlets? ‘s why you were at Joel’s, right? Go on, go get ‘em. Show them to me.”

Your face solidifies. Lips tremble. There’s a scowl pulling your brows together. You’ve no right for it to be there. “Stop it,” you seethe. “Tell me what you did.”

“He’s the only one. The only one who could get you to talk. I had to check, kiddo. I had to know.”

Your stare doesn’t let up. Your lips bolt shut, refusing to say another word until he confesses. Which he does. Almost breezily.

“I looked through your phone. While you were gone. I – I went upstairs, ‘n I took it.”

He says it casually, as though he’s simply checked the newspaper. As though he’s just relaying the columns to you. Someone’s had a baby. Someone else won three grand on a scratch card. By the way, I know you’ve been messing around with Joel.

So it takes a minute for what he’s said to hit you. But when it does, the wave crashes over your shoulders so violently that it throws you to your feet, tasseled pillow whipped to the other side of the couch.

There are tears searing across your eyes. A twisted grimace of a smile on your face, a laugh breaking roughly from your throat. Some crazed, disbelieving, ugly little laugh.

“You – you checked my…my fuckin’ phone. You – you fucking –”

His head jerks back, offended. “Hey, now, listen to me –”

“I’m not listenin’ to another word! Am I twelve?”

You stalk over to the kitchen. The rattle of your dad’s chair tells you he follows.

“Well – you tell me, hon, ‘cause right now, you’re making a lot of real stupid decisions.”

That same ugly laugh echoes around the house. You grip onto the kitchen island. The room starts to wheel.

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?” you pant, eyes tight shut. Your thumbs begin to slip, sweat gliding between your skin and the counter.

“I’m your father! I’m lookin’ out for you, damnit! You think I wanna be havin’ this conversation with you right now?”

The granite countertop blurs in and out of focus when you open your eyes. You hook onto it, using it to haul yourself around the island until there’s distance between your wobbly figure and his. And you remember one week ago, when the same counter separated you and Joel, and you think of Joel, and think of his fingers around your wrist, and his fist against Knox’s jaw, and his teeth in your neck.

“Look,” your dad’s voice floats somewhere over the image of Joel’s eyes, “let’s just – let’s calm down. You ‘n me – we’re gonna talk this out. We’re gonna have a calm, mature discussion about all of this. You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s been goin’ on, and then I’m gonna head over to Joel’s – alone – and talk to him.”

But his voice doesn’t sound calm. There’s a tremble to it – a tremor as fragile as glass, as thin as ice. It’s crackling as he speaks. He can hardly keep a hold on it himself.

If he goes over to Joel’s – this you know – there ain’t anything calm or mature that will come of it. Suddenly the images in your head warp, and it’s your fingers around Joel’s wrist, someone else’s fist against his cheek, someone else’s teeth and the venom spat between them.

“Dad,” you pant, “it’s over. He ended it. It’s been done for, like, two weeks now. It was nothing.”

“Oh, nothing, was it?” He steps closer. You retreat. Edge further around the counter, further from him. His head tilts, eyebrows curl. He looks like a vulture, eyeing its prey. “Then what were the two of you up to last night?”

“We – we went for ice cream, that’s all. He wanted to make sure I was alright.”

He’s not convinced. And he shouldn’t be, either. He coughs a laugh. “For three hours? You were eatin’ ice cream for three Goddamn hours?” His cheeks wobble as he shakes his head. Then, in a softer voice, like he’s arming himself with a chisel to prick at the weakest parts of the sculpture, “What’d he do to you, girl?”

The marble cracks and snaps wide open. Anger floods out in hot waves. Any composure you’d managed to scrape together flushes clean out of your body.

“Nothing I didn’t want him to fuckin’ do. Stop treating me like I’m some kid who’s – who’s been tricked, or something. I’m twenty-three, Dad, I’m an adult.”

His silence sends another misdirected shot of panic through you.

“I was in on it just as much as he was,” you weep, fingers searching for a scratch of beard or kiss of flannel.

Your dad scoffs then, hands slapping against his thighs, and turns away. “There ain’t no gettin’ through to you,” he announces to the timid living room.

Still bracing yourself against the island, you take the break in his tirade to catch your breath. The only thought running through your head, losing velocity with each circuit, is Joel walking through that door. His face when he notices you with your flushed cheeks and wide eyes. His hands reaching for yours, through all the lies and hurt. Your dad, stood opposite, tight as an arrow and ready to fucking fly for him. Fists balled, teeth bared.

“He doesn’t even know,” you realize, staring at the glow on the floor cast by the front door. “You haven’t told him you know, have you?”

“’course I ain’t told him. I wanted to talk to you first. Not that it’s gotten us anywhere, huh?”

“I’m gonna text him.”

“Hon, don’t you d–”

“I am not having this conversation on my own. There are two people involved here.”

You pull your phone from your pocket and scrawl some messy message to Joel. Three messy messages. Something like he knows everything, can you come over? I need you. Some needy, dramatic, helpless message.

The typing bubble appears for a fraction of a second. So fleeting that you almost miss it through your tears, before it drops back to nothing. He doesn’t reply.

Doesn’t pick up, either, when you call him. Three times in a row. Three missed calls; three Hey, it’s Joel, sorry I missed yous.

The phone rattles off the counter when you drop it, your head falling into your hands. Your dad wanders back over to his armchair and collapses into it with a sigh, his fingers massaging his temples. The two of you mirrored, the same storm circling between you, only ice in his veins and fire in yours.

Fear keeps your feet planted to the kitchen floor; adrenaline alone keeps you upright. Your fingers push hard into your forehead, an ache sat directly behind that dizzies you. Blood thudding its fists against your eyes, screaming in your ears.

How the fuck did this happen? It feels ridiculous to ask, but it’s all you got. When did the two of you get so lazy? Start forgetting to cover your tracks? Or – maybe worse – stop caring enough to even try?

Of course, saying you were with Anna was a dumb fucking move. Her dad is one of your dad’s buddies. One of Joel’s, too. That was always going to fuck it all up. And you were too caught up, too hellbent on seeing Joel, too fucking horny to stop for five seconds and keep your damn story straight.

There’s nothing to say, nothing that might fix this. There’s no winding your way out of it. The trap has you by the throat. Your jaw aches from trying to free yourself.

Your dad sways side to side in his chair, staring silently at the wall ahead of him. Your face burns with shame, with anger, with embarrassment. Your heart stings from the hurt, from wanting Joel here, from his ignoring your pleas for help. And, most annoying of all – from letting your dad down.

It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. How you spin it. Sure, you’re twenty-three. You can make your own decisions. That much is fucking clear now. Doesn’t mean they’re always good. Even when they make you laugh until your cheeks hurt, make your stomach flip with excitement, make you scream from pleasure.

Make your heart do things you’ve never felt it do before. Things you never knew that it could do.

You let your dad down. He can barely look at you for it. You know damn well that it was worth every second, and yet, right now, nothing but thick, awkward, unbreathable air between the two of you – it feels like it should never have happened.

You’re bent over the counter, head resting on your folded arms, breathing still staggered – when you hear it. The squeal of brakes outside. An engine cutting. A door slamming.

Two knocks on the door, and Joel pushes it open. You’re already in the hallway, watching his heavy head and loose shirt cross the threshold.

He looks up and your eyes meet. His hair’s a mess, he’s in the same tee from last night. He’s gotten straight out of bed and into his truck, and he’s braced, like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Which direction to expect the first punch from.

Your knees weaken at the sight of him. The safe haven of his arms, the home of his chest. The beating pulse behind it whose language you’ve become fluent in. Even now, when everything’s fallen apart, his being here washes relief over you like cool water dousing an inferno. Your body relaxes, your breathing quietens.

Joel nods towards you. You okay?

You shake your head lightly, and he flicks his fingers. You’re in his arms before your brain tells your limbs to move.

“’s okay,” he breathes, lips lined with your ear. His chest is soft, warm; you take fistfuls of his shirt. He strokes your hair, mumbling, “Told you we’ll be alright, yeah? It’s goin’ to be alright.”

You weep into him, lips dripping with salty tears. They part to reply, when a low growl rips between your bodies. Joel loosens his grip and you step back, turning around to face the ghost of your father at the end of the hall.

“Get the hell away from him.”

He advances, takes a few steps forward. You meet him halfway, gripping onto his shirt, planting yourself firmly between him and Joel.

“Woah, woah,” you say, pushing on his small chest, “let’s all just calm down. Dad.”

He’s smaller, scrawnier, older, and weaker than Joel. He’s never going to lift a fucking hand to him. Not if he wants to keep it intact. He wouldn’t square up to a fly, never mind an actual worthy opponent – but your gut tells you to make damn sure he doesn’t even try.

“Get out of the way, hon.”

“No. No way. And let you –? No.”

He’s not even looking at you. You’re nothing but an obstacle. He’s staring a few feet behind.

“Baby,” Joel says, voice weary and surrendered. “It’s alright, now. C’mon, outta the way.”

“Baby?” your dad seethes. “You just call my daughter baby?”

“Called me it as long as he’s known me, Dad.”

“’s different now,” he spits. “What the f–? I mean, what the fuck, Joel? What were you even thinkin’? Putting your Goddamn hands on my daughter?”

You don’t usually hear your dad curse. All through growing up, even when you left home – you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard it. It sends a bolt of fear through you as if you’re five years old again, and he can’t do much worse than say bad words in front of you.

You don’t usually see your dad do any of this stuff. Raise his voice, ball his fists. Lean forward, feet planted on the ground, like daring Joel to make the first move. Joel – his best friend. The guy he was supposed to be able to trust more than anyone in the world.

Angry. Furious. And you think: if there were a time he had a right to feel this way, to act like this and throw threats around as though they’re light as air, if ever there were a moment – this would be it. A betrayal. A secret this big.

Joel takes a step forward. He doesn’t seem scared. More – placating. Letting the tantrum run its course. He holds his hands out. “Let’s just – let’s just talk.”

“Talk,” your dad repeats, spitting the word like it’s rotten in his mouth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. What the hell have you been doin’ to her? Hm?”

Joel shakes his head, shoulders lifting. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to her. That’s not what this is.”

“Hell,” your dad scoffs, “not what it is. Why don’t you explain to me exactly what it is, then, Joel? If it ain’t you takin’ advantage of a young girl? Takin’ advantage of my kid?”

Your head whips back to face Joel, hand lifting in a bracing motion. He sees it – sees the way your head shakes, imperceptible to your dad. Please don’t tell him. Not yet.

It’s bad enough that he knows you’ve been messing around. It hurts enough that he knows you’ve been lying for the entire summer. Telling him the full story – the conversation in the truck, the words exchanged over ice cream and the quiet tick of traffic lights across the street – would only hurt more. Would only sharpen his anger. He’d ask more questions; he’d drive his dagger deeper.

Joel pleads with you. His eyes do his bargaining. You don’t relent. Please.

“You know what I keep thinkin’ about,” your dad interrupts, “you know what’s runnin’ through my mind? That damn garden party. Those cupcakes. You puttin’ your thumb on her lip. I should’ve known the second you touched her what was happening. You arrogant, shameless son of a bitch, Joel, you got no idea what you –”

“Dad. Enough.”

Sure, you’re trying to calm him down, palms outstretched and motioning like he’s a wild horse, rearing frantically and threatening to crush you. But it also stings to hear him talking about Joel like that. Talking to him like that.

The same Joel he’d sling an arm around, knocking their beers together when the Rangers won. The same Joel you know he’d spent hours sat out back with, talking into the night and sharing stories and secrets with the stars.

The same Joel who covered your legs with his jacket last night, who held you when you were hurting, who reminded you what it was like to feel your heart again, beating rapidly in your chest.

He’s not talking about the same Joel. Not the Joel you know. Yours.

He’s still rambling. “…’n all this time, you pair have been closer ‘n you were lettin’ on.”

“You don’t understand,” you plead, “you don’t know him like I do.”

Your dad scoffs, twisted smirk on his face. “Oh, I know ‘im. I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer and a hell of a lot better ‘n you have, hon. Known him since he was fifteen, askin’ me ‘n my buddies to buy ‘im a case of beer from the liquor store. His little brother in ‘n outta jail like God only knows what. I know exactly what he’s like.”

“What he’s like?” you huff, exasperated. You spin on your heel, arms coming down on your sides with a slap. “Joel, help me.”

“Don’t you dare look at ‘im! Listen, kiddo, I know him. Know what he’s like at Frank’s, takin’ women home left ‘n right, then forgetting their damn names. Know he sure as hell can’t remember that schoolteacher’s name, can you, Joel? You remember her?”

“Quit it,” you tell him over your shoulder, still facing Joel.

Your dad laughs from behind you. It turns your stomach. “I’ll bet he never told you about that one, did he? That’d turn you off ‘im in a heartbeat, wouldn’t it?”

“Nah, he told me about Jess.”

Your dad’s voice cuts. Joel’s head finally lifts, his eyes ungluing from the floor to look at you.

You shrug back. “I figured it out. Sister’s name is Mia – she’s a year younger ‘n me.”

You swear he almost fucking smiles. Almost. It’s funny, or at least, it would be if you weren’t both in the middle of tearing your entire dynamic apart. Any other time, he’d nudge you, or tousle your hair, and say you were too clever for him, or something about being old again.

When you turn back to face your dad, he looks like he’s run out of words. So, he repeats ones he’s already said.

“I…Well, I know him, honey. And he ain’t someone you oughta be with.”

“How’d you figure that?”

He sighs. “I just told you my reasons.”

“’cause he wanted beer when he was a kid and he’s slept with people before? ‘cause Tommy gets himself into trouble – trouble that Joel then gets him out of?”

“No, I –”

“You don’t know a damn thing about any of this. You won’t listen to me. If you’d hear me out – hear us out, then you’d –”

“Don’t you dare tell me I’d change my damn mind. Don’t – you – dare.” Your dad’s voice is quiet and slow. Dangerous. Laced with something you’ve never heard in it before. It’s not worth finding out what.

Your head shakes, knee jerking with nerves. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to say.”

The fire flickers, loses light for a second. His voice softens. “Honey…This –” he waggles his finger between your body and Joel’s, “this thing y’all have been…It ain’t right. It is not right, what y’all have been doin’. You are far too young for him. He should know better, and the fact that he doesn’t – well.”

Your brows tighten, eyes pinching around painful tears. “I know why you’re mad. I get it. I’m sorry. But I can’t –” You sigh. “You are suffocatin’ me, living here.”

His façade drops instantly. He pushes his fingers into his eyes, groaning. “Hon, you’re not hearin’ me.”

“I hear you loud and clear, I –”

He cuts you off, throwing his arms up into the air with another loud yell. The words melt into one long drone, a mountainous ramble which peaks and falls in pitch; one minute low and angry and the next high and frantic.

You sigh, shoving by him for the living room. Joel reaches for your hand, your fingers brushing against his.

“Baby,” he says.

“Ah!” Your dad blocks his advance, shaky finger held to his chest. “You dare, son.”

You’re swipe the bag from the floor by your dad’s chair, your change of clothes still in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Slinging it over your shoulder, you whip past your father and lock your hand with Joel’s.

“Hey,” Joel says, slowing you down. “Darlin’, where are you –?”

“I wanna leave.”

“Huh?” he asks, brows raised.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

He glances over to your dad, dumbfounded by the stairs. “Where d’you wanna go?”

Your shoulders roll. Anywhere. Just take me away.

He doesn’t hesitate; barely thinks it over. He tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you toward him. Your feet stumble over the carpet.

“Where in the hell –?” Your dad’s snarling picks up again, his final chance. “I don’t think so –”

Joel’s backing up towards the front door, led by the pull of your hand. “Emotions are pretty high,” he announces, “why don’t we have this conversation once everybody’s calmed down?”

“Joel, if you take her, I’ll–”

“I ain’t takin’ her anywhere. She’s an adult.”

Liar. His hand wouldn’t let go of yours if you tried to pry it from his clutches.

“I’m leavin’,” he says, “she’s just coming with me.”

Your dad barks your name, and you freeze. Joel stops, too, allows you the time to turn. Like a deer in the headlights.

“I’m going, Dad,” you shakily tell him.

“I swear to God,” he says, “if y’all walk outta that door…”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean for any of this.”

He shakes his head. “Stay, hon. Let’s talk.”

“You’re not talkin’, though. All you wanna do is argue. I wanna go with Joel.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere with no one! ‘specially not him!”

You shrug, give your head a solemn shake. “Stop me.”

Joel hears the exhaustion in your voice, the scratch of your throat. The way the words melt into one another. He tugs on your hand, leading you through the front door. Your dad doesn’t speak again, and you don’t turn back to check on him.

The neighborhood is silent in the early morning. Yards empty, curtains still closed. No one, not even the sun, tucked behind a thin veil of cloud, sees when you pile into the front seat of Joel’s truck.

“Baby,” he says, pulling your seatbelt over your body.

Your eyes fix on the asphalt ahead. “Just drive.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

When you turn to him, he takes your jaw in both hands. “I love you,” he says.

“Still?” you squeak, eyes heavy with sleeplessness and tears.

“More.”

“This is fucking insane, Joel.”

He nods. “Yeah. ‘n you’re worth all of it.”

“Hey,” Sarah calls when the two of you spill in through the front door. She’s on the couch, Switch console in hand. “What’s up?”

“We have a – a lodger, for the next…little while,” Joel grumbles, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. He kicks off his boots and slides them to the wall, straightens up and looks to you.

You follow suit wordlessly, slipping out of your sneakers. Joel places them by his.

“Cool,” Sarah says, standing up. “How come?”

“Just – dad trouble,” you whisper, deflated. She’s wandering around the couch. A defeated sound rings from the console hanging from her thumb.

Her head tilts. “I…I got plenty room for you,” she flashes you a warm grin, “it can be like a big-ass sleepover.”

You return her smile, a slow, grateful breath filling your lungs. Joel’s arm wraps over your shoulder as your mouth opens to answer.

“No, uh…” He clears his throat. “She’ll be in my room. With me.”

Sarah’s expression is blank. She blinks between the two of you, arms limp either side of her hips. Your eyes flit from Joel to her and back again, wide, waiting. Waiting for someone to move, or speak, or yell.

Joel looks indifferent. Unbothered. As if he just told her it’s sunny outside.

She takes a step forward, and by instinct, you draw back. “Sarah…” you mutter, and she swings around the newel post. She dodges your outstretched hand, whether accidental or deliberate – you’re not sure.

“No, it’s…Okay. Yeah. I’ll – I gotta…Yeah.”

You watch as she climbs the stairs backwards, still looking from your pleading face to her dad’s stoic. She shrugs, wiggles the Switch and mumbles something about it needing charged, before she’s spinning and taking the last few steps two at a time.

When her bedroom door closes, you slump back. Joel doesn’t let go of your shoulder, catching you and pulling you into his chest.

“Fuck,” you whisper, lips pressed against his tee. He smells like pine, like mint, like you.

“’s okay,” he says into your hair, hand curving the shape of your skull. “She’ll come around. You know Sarah.”

You turn, ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. It doesn’t tell you anything new. You miss the days you used to listen for secret messages in the soft rhythm.

Joel’s chin rests on the crown of your head. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “None of this is your fault, you hear? None of it.”

“Now you’re just lyin’ to me. You know that ain’t true.”

A hum rumbles against your cheek like the earth readjusting, rearranging beneath your feet. You lift your head, loosen your grip around his waist.

“You need sleep,” he tells you, thumb swiping gently beneath your heavy eyes.

You don’t protest.

Joel takes your hand, leads you mutely upstairs and into his room. His bed’s not made. The shades aren’t even open. He lifts the sea of sheets, tosses them twice in the air and then pulls the corner back, letting you sit on the edge of the mattress.

He undresses you carefully, like your limbs might crack and burst at the slightest touch. He replaces your hoodie with a fresh tee of his own, one that still smells like the world before its end, and you lay back into bed slowly.

It’s shaped like you – the divot in the mattress. You slot back into it like you never left. The curl of your back and the fold of your knees. You’ve left little pieces of evidence all over the place – all over Joel.

He runs a delicate hand across your head, the repetitive movement lulling you off to sleep. Pushing the boat out.

“You need anythin’?” he asks.

You shake your head, arms wrapping tight underneath your pillow. “I’m good,” you whisper, and the waves pull you under.

His bedside lamp is on when you stir, the left half of the room a glowing honey color. His bare leg slotted between yours, your hands intertwined on his chest. His finger drifts back and forth against your palm, the strokes matching your breathing.

You’re still tired, eyes still rolling beneath heavy lids, but when some commentator screams at the game playing on the TV screen, you snap awake.

Joel curses under his breath, begins tearing the bed apart for the remote – but by the time he turns the volume down, your head is propped against his pillow, knuckles rubbing your eyes.

“Sorry, baby,” he sighs, kissing your forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“’s okay.” You flash him a lazy smile. “What time is it?”

“Almost five thirty.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “Slept all fucking day.”

“You needed it,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You want some dinner? Or – breakfast?”

You nod. “Sounds good.”

He disappears downstairs. The echoing of pots and pans and the hum of the extraction fan follow in his wake. You groan, stretching out like a starfish across the messy bed, forgetting for just a moment why you’re here, and what’s happened, and how different everything is.

It feels the same, even after eight hours sleep. Same guilt, and shame. Same anger and resentment towards your dad. Same punch to your gut anytime you picture his face, the wrinkled frown. The trembling fist holding your bag in midair.

The blow is soothed only by the swelling of warmth across your chest, looking around the room. The safety you feel here, as though you’re cut off from the rest of the world. Your father on pause the second you left the house; Joel’s room and his bed giving you time to catch your breath and recalibrate.

You’re not thinking about when you’ll have to go back home. You’re just not.

You knot your shorts back around your waist, take one huge swig of the water Joel left for you, and open his bedroom door, your head throbbing with each movement.

There’s a figure at the end of the hall, frozen in space like a phantom.

“Morning,” she says. Her hair is tied back, oversized hoodie over her shoulders.

“Hi.”

“You sleep good?”

“Must’ve. Missed half the day.”

Sarah smiles.

“Are you gonna kill me?”

“Hm,” her head tips back and forth, “not today. Don’t have the energy. Watch your back tomorrow, though.”

For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, a genuine laugh pushes its way past your lips. The knot in your stomach loosens, even if only a little.

“You wanna come help with dinner?” she asks, nodding to the stairs.

You smile. “Please.”

The three of you settle on pasta with some tomato sauce from a jar mixed through. You sit opposite Sarah as Joel sets the plates down, sliding into the seat next to yours with a gentle squeeze on your knee under the table.

The three of you talk. About nothing in particular – college, Rita and her cross stitch, some client of Joel’s whose wife got caught having an affair – but it soothes the ache in your heart. It feels like a blanket over your shoulders, a spot by the fire, a voice in your ear promising you that things are still okay. That they can still be this way: light, alive. The earth is still moving, the stars are still pinned up in the sky. Tomorrow will always come, and the day after that.

Sarah asks about LA. You tell her you didn’t know she knew. She grins and says, “Well, now that I do – you better put an application in.”

You hum around the fork between you lips. “Maybe.”

“Come on. The two of us out there together? For six whole months? You gotta do it. Tell me you don’t wanna do it. Are you gonna do it?”

Joel casts her a glower, his stony expression pushing her back in her chair.

Your eyes shift from hers over to his. He runs a slice of garlic bread around the curve of his plate, coating it in sauce, before he notices you staring. His face breaks into a tiny smirk.

“I don’t know,” you decide, turning back to Sarah. “I still gotta think it through.”

She nods earnestly. “Yeah, you should sleep on it. And then, first thing tomorrow, we’re doing it.”

The two of you let her have the final say, falling quiet until some new conversation is shifted onto the table, and then another, and then another. When you’re done eating, Sarah takes your hand and drags you back upstairs.

Sarah Miller’s bedroom has been baby pink for as long as you can remember. Joel painted it one summer while she was at camp, eliciting help from your dad to shift all the furniture. As she grew up, she covered the walls in posters, changed the sheets, changed the curtains, strung fairy lights to distract from what she saw as a kiddish color.

But she never asked to change it. Always wanted the same blushing pink her dad had picked out when she was ten – even if secretly.

Her blinds are tilted, golden light from the slowly lowering sun filtering through onto her carpet, stained with tiny dabs of nail polish. She throws herself down onto the bed, her curls igniting brown in the summer light, and you slowly sink down beside her.

“Nice Zayn poster,” you note, pointing to the straight-browed, dark-haired figure painted in a moody grayscale on her ceiling. “Interesting placement.”

“Was so I could dream about him every night.”

“You didn’t wanna take him to California?”

“Didn’t have to,” Sarah smiles, tapping her temple, “he’s all up here, baby.”

You snort. Your eyes flutter closed; hands clasped on your stomach. She sighs contentedly by your side, listening to the chatter of birds out front.

“I miss this,” she says eventually, her voice smooth and soothing. She elbows you lightly.

“Me too,” you reply. And then, with a deep breath: “Sarah…are you okay?”

When she turns back, the sunlight catches in her eyes. They twinkle, like she’s some doe-eyed Disney character. Someone who might be able to wiggle her fingers and make the last day disappear.

“Am I okay?”

“Yeah. With…everything.”

She shrugs, mumbles an I dunno. “What can I do about it? It’s weird, but…it’s none of my business. I guess…I guess if y’all are happy, then – you know. I’m gone half the time, anyways.”

“It is your business, too, though,” you tell her. “I don’t wanna make you feel weird.”

“I think you got bigger things to worry about right now. Sounds like your dad’s pretty mad.”

You sigh, looking back up to the boyband poster. “Yeah. He’s pretty mad.”

“My dad told me what happened. Well, parts. I can kinda guess the rest. Can’t really blame him, I guess.”

You shrug. “Guess not, but then…I am twenty-three, y’know? I’m not a kid. I can make my own mind up.”

She’s still staring at you, but you don’t return her glance. Something tells you that you already know what it says. Still, she verbalizes it.

“Would you be okay if I slept with your dad?”

That is so not what I thought you were gonna fuckin’ say.

You shoot her a look. “What?”

“’m askin’. Would you be okay with it, if I –”

You lift your hand to shut her up. “That is…so totally different.”

“How is that different?” she scoffs.

“Because…because…my dad’s not hot.”

Sarah gags.

“And – and also you’re not friends with him. It’s just different, alright?”

“You were friends with my dad?”

You’re laughing with her now. You can hear how pathetic your justification sounds. “Kinda, yeah. I was close to ‘im.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious, now, babe.”

You smack her arm and she giggles.

“I think he’ll come around. Your dad.”

“I don’t. Not ever.”

“Why wouldn’t he? His best friend would become his son-in-law, I would become his granddaughter-in-law –” She gasps and props herself up on her elbow, staring you down. “Does this make you, like, my stepmom?”

You spit out a laugh, and Sarah throws her head back against her pillow, clutching her belly.

“You’re my fuckin’ mom, dude!”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you reply, covering your face with your hands. “Aw, fuck,” you breathe, giggling.

You settle back into the bed, your heads leaning against one another as you stare up at Zayn and his audience of glow-in-the-dark stars. Sarah hums something softly to herself, her ankle rocking, her fingers tapping.

The two of you were raised together. Sisters, when neither of you knew what that word really meant. You figure she’s as close as you could find – someone who reflects all of your favorite parts of yourself and who calls out the uglier ones without hesitation. Someone who comforts you with a punch to the arm, a mocking quip about your hair or the something in your teeth. A safe little secret keeper, for all of your wildest dreams and biggest fears.

“I guess this is all why you were so down in the dumps last night, right? Your dad knew then?”

You shake your head. “Not at that point. He found out after we all left. Realized it all on his own. It’s all just…so fucking stupid…”

She sighs. “My dad – if he…if he makes you happy, then I don’t even know. As long as I don’t have to see it – we’re cool.”

One cinderblock of weight lifts from your chest, allowing a rugged breath to escape. “Wish my dad would take a leaf outta your book,” you mumble.

“He’s just mad,” Sarah says. “He’s just mad, and he’ll eventually calm down.”

“Doesn’t matter even if he does calm down,” you reply. “My dad has more of a…restrictive parenting approach.”

“Can you really parent a twenty-three-year-old?”

“He finds a way to try.”

She scoffs, saying, “I get it. My dad’s more, try it ‘n see. Your dad is, like, try it ‘n see…what your punishment is.”

You both erupt into laughter, and Sarah reaches for the TV remote.

“Exactly,” you tell her, tugging on the hem of Joel’s shirt. “Although, if your dad found out you were with my dad, I don’t think he’d be cool with it, either.”

“Yeah,” she smirks, flicking through Netflix titles, “y’all got what you deserved.”

The sound of Sarah’s bedroom door closing over stirs you. Her room is the color of rust; the stream of amber sunlight on the carpet replaced by that of the streetlights. Beneath the door, the sliver of light is shifted by the sway of a silhouette walking off down the hall.

Sarah’s snoring quietly beside you, still in her jeans. Keeping an eye on her, you roll off the bed and creep towards the door, a slow groan coming from the handle as you twist it. Joel’s at the opposite end of the hall, disappearing into his room as you shut Sarah back into her warm slumber.

“Thought you were sleepin’,” he whispers when you slip into his room. He’s already sat in bed, leant against the headboard. The room a thick darkness, a black cloud of dusk spiraling around you and cutting you off from the rest of the world.

“Heard you come in.” You wander over, pausing at the side of the bed. “Wanna stay with you.”

“C’mere,” he says, holding a hand out. You take it, pulling yourself into his lap. He slips his hands under the hem of your shorts, fingertips brushing the crests of your hipbones. “You okay?” he asks, thumbs swiping gently on the seam of your thigh.

“Never better. You?”

He sighs in response and looks off to the window, the light catching his eye. You tilt your head and bend forward, kissing below his ear. He smells like whiskey. You breathe it in, inhaling like the sharp scent might fold you under a numb blanket of inebriation, too.

Joel takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you from his neck, watching the shift in your expression before he kisses you – steady, bracing. The first time since everything went so wrong.

For a few minutes you pretend nothing has changed – you’re still sneaking around, shushing one another; someone’s in the next room, there are still secrets to be kept. You slip your shorts down your legs, kicking them over the side of the bed; Joel’s sweatpants follow soon after. His hands surrender and you push up on his chest, dragging your core against his stubborn crotch, lips never losing contact. Tongues rolling against one another, noses bumping; a tangle of breath between you until you’ve no idea which is yours and which is his.

It’s all you know how to do, after all. It’s how this started, it’s how it got out of control. The two of you taking out your needs on one another. Right now is no different. You need to feel something other than the dread in the pit of your stomach, the ache in your heart anytime you look at him and know he feels it, too.

You come up for air and suddenly the feeling dissipates; doubt sets back in and fear washes over you like ice water. Your hips cease, Joel’s hands lift from your body. He pushes the hair from your face to find his own expression mirrored in yours.

Everything has changed.

You watch his movements, the light trace of his finger on your bare skin, the pinch of fabric as he adjusts his boxers. The careful movements of his own hips, trying not to incite anything more.

“I love you,” you offer, when he doesn’t say anything. Whispered, like it’s a question, like something to dangle in front of him to make him bite.

At the very least, it unsticks his gaze from the cotton print over your chest and back up to your face – where he softens and says, “Oh, darlin’. I love you, too.”

He gives you a squeeze and pulls you by the shoulders closer, letting you feel his lips on yours again and again, until you’re out of breath. You nuzzle your head under his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart at your ear.

Joel trails his hands up and down your spine. He breaks the silence first – stammers his way through a question you’re not sure how to answer.

“Was I – was I hurtin’ you? All this time?”

You lift your head, looking blankly at him. “What –?”

“Was I hurting you?”

“Hurting me?”

He nods. “Everythin’ we were doin’. Everything we’ve done. You wanted me to be doing it, right?”

He looks…scared, as though forty years have been shaved from him over the course of one day. Eyes glassy like he might burst into tears; bottom lip almost trembling with uncertainty.

You sit up and cup his face; he breathes a sigh of relief when you look him dead in the eye and say, “I wanted you to be doing all of it.”

“All of it?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you nod, “nothing you ever did ever hurt me.”

He lowers his gaze. “’cept when I left.”

“You came back.”

His thumb curves beneath the slip of fabric on your hips, toying with the elastic. There’s more in his question, you know it. He’s not convinced by a word you say.

“It’s just…all such a fuckin’ mess,” he groans, fingertips massaging his forehead.

You hesitate, unwilling to agree and unable to disagree. It is a fucking mess – that much is true. But if that’s all it is, then why does your heart pause for breath whenever you see him? Why does the mere thought of his presence, the tiniest glimpse of him – why does it all send your stomach somersaulting?

How can something supposed to be so bad, make you feel so fucking good?

“It was wrong of me,” Joel says, “to flirt with you that night I first saw you again. To put you in that position. But I did, and we ended up here. And I’m glad we did, baby, you know I am, but…it’s on me. This thing with you ‘n your dad.”

“You don’t think he should back off a little? Don’t think he’s oversteppin’ a mark, even a tiny bit?”

He shakes his head. “I’d do the damn same, ‘n you know it. I shoulda known better. Shouldn’ta let it happen. You mean more to me than the world, and I – I caused all this hurt for you.”

Sure, it’s real noble of him to take all of the blame, but it wasn’t just him. You had a part in it, too: your batting eyelashes, your hands where they shouldn’t have been. Your jaw tightens when he says it, holding back from telling him you want as much responsibility in this as he’s taking, even if he won’t allow it.

But an argument with Joel, right off the back of one with your father, isn’t really something you need. It wouldn’t help anything. So, you swallow your words and whisper new ones.

“You shouldn’t have flirted with me?”

His eyebrows flick, concern knotting them together. He sits up, scooping you in his arms. “I meant I should’ve never let it get to this point.”

“’n what about the first time you touched me?”

The memory plays between you: the weight of him on your body, the sound of the stereo system firing up downstairs. One hand between your legs and the other pinching your heart.

The light in your eyes starts to bleed through your body into Joel’s, distorting the projected image of that scene in your bedroom. It ignites somewhere low, travelling upwards until his stare locks with yours: an understanding weaving between you both.

You lean back from him, drinking in the sight. “Nothin’ but trouble, right? That’s what you said, that first night. You knew damn well where it might go. ‘n you still wanted it, just as bad.”

“Darlin’, I’m not sayin’ I didn’t, I –”

“No, no, I get it. I get it.”

You push his shoulders to the mattress. Fire in your belly, some kind of twisted energy pumping through your veins, you grind down on him again.

That thing, about this being all you know how to do? About taking your needs out on each other?

Right now, you need distraction. You need something to tire you out, to drain you of energy, to stop your thoughts for five minutes. You need someone to hold you, and love you, and make you feel good. Joel’s the perfect distraction.

He’s still hard. You’re still wet. It’s easy.

You drag your hips lazily over his, cotton riding against lace. He’s growing harder, bigger; he’s pushing up into you. You respond by pushing down, and Joel groans.

“Hey,” he takes hold of your thighs, “baby, we don’t have to –”

“Then, let’s stop.”

He says nothing.

You reach down past the band of his boxers and take him in your hand. He bites back a moan, his head falling into the pillow. You’re stroking him: long, hard strokes, fist tightening around him, fingers dipping between your folds to apply your slick to his length.

“Say the word, Joel. We’ll stop,” you pant, unsure if even you buy the words you’re saying. “You said it: none of this should’ve ever happened. You should’ve never laid a finger on me.”

His arms lift, throbbing biceps curving around his pillow and crumpling it against his skull. He doesn’t tell you to stop, because he doesn’t fucking want you to. He needs this – needs you as much as you need him, needs you more than he needs the air in his lungs.

And you’re right: it is different now. Now, it’s out in the open. The whole world could know, for all the two of you care. And maybe that’s the kick to it, now. No more hiding. No more fleeing from shadow to shadow.

You tug his underwear down and lower yourself, dragging your folds up and down the width of him while sticky precome gathers at his tip, dappling the trail of hair from his navel. And when you can’t do it anymore, when the mere sight of him drenched in your arousal threatens to send you over the edge, you line him up to your entrance and sink down, slow.

He moans into the pillow, fabric muffling your favorite sound in the world. And he doesn’t stop, his chest doesn’t stop rumbling until you reach his hilt, where he gasps.

“Darlin’,” he whimpers, hands coming back down to hold you in place.

You bat them away. “Uh-uh,” you tut, pinning his wrists above his head. “Not a – fuckin’ – finger.”

Joel grits his teeth, eyes locking onto yours, directly above him as you slide up off his cock, hips circling as you do, and then back down. Your free hand curves around his ribcage, the solid flesh of his torso stabilizing you.

“Poor baby,” you coo, pouting your lip. “Can’t even touch me. Can’t put a hand on your girl when you need to most.”

“Fuckin’ – whore,” he grunts, and your hips grind to a halt. You release his wrists.

“That what you think of me?” you ask, sitting upright on his lap. Joel’s still buried deep inside you.

“No,” he’s breathing, lips curling, “no, baby. Keep goin’.”

“I’m not the one goin’ back on my word here.”

He flashes a thick, filthy smile. “I know, I know. Go on. Make me proud.”

You lean forward again and he sighs, the feel of your wet cunt wrapping like satin around him.

“You think he’d trust you, anyway, after everythin’?” you mewl. “Think he thinks I’m in a different room right now? Tucked up in bed, safe ‘n sound? Nah, baby, he knows. He knows what you’re doin’ right now. Keep your hands off me? You can’t keep your cock outta me.”

Joel moans in agreement, hands gripping into the sheets to ground himself, hips bucking up against yours. You place your hands either side of him on the mattress and start to bounce, skin slapping, bed shaking.

“You like that, huh?” you moan, feeling the sharp kiss of his head at your cervix. Nudging, nudging, nudging. Blunt pain, blissful pleasure. “Like me riding it. Takin’ what I – oh, fuck – what I need.”

He lets out a guttural moan, writhing around underneath you. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is, forgotten you guys aren’t alone in the house; drunk on the sight, smell, sound, and feel of you on him, not even trying to stifle his sounds anymore.

You close your eyes and hope Sarah doesn’t wake anytime soon.

You’re keeping the façade up for Joel, but on the inside, you feel the exact same. His words echo in your ears, shouldn’ta let it happen, and how quickly that melted into make me proud. Your head starts to swim, your eyes heavy, your body trembling.

The thatch of hair at the bottom of his cock brushes against your clit, a gasp drawing between your teeth. Pain begins to rip upwards on the inside of your thighs, forcing you forward.

“Joel,” you pant, leaning over him. “Fuck.”

“Gotta let me touch you, baby,” he whispers, hands lifting beneath the fabric of your shirt. His fingers ghost across the curve of your shoulders. “You need it, don’t you?”

You whimper in response and Joel slips past the moment of weakness, taking a strong grip of both shoulders and pulling himself upright on the mattress. The tee slips from your body in one breath, and his hands follow the incline of your neck to your jaw, holding you steady as he fucks up into you.

“You want me to fill you up?” he asks, leaning back with a palm flat on the bed behind to watch himself disappear between your legs.

You’re nodding desperately. “Mhm.”

“Gotta ask nicely, remember? Be a good girl for me?”

“Dick,” you hiss, draping your arms over his shoulders.

He pouts. Sweat gleams on his upper lip. His voice cracks, weakens like stone beginning to crumble. “’s not v-very n-ice, baby.”

“Comeinme,” you beg, your fingers swirling around the dark hair at the bottom of his skull. “Please, come in me.”

“Atta-girl,” he groans, and his hands instantly lock on your hips. You don’t stop him this time, letting him push you down as hard as he can onto his cock, coming as deep inside you as he can.

And then – that familiar feeling of being his. Filled with him, your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your cunt spilling with the sight, smell, taste and feel of him. He coats your walls, throbs deep inside you as he claims every tiny corner of your body.

He growls as his cock twitches, and you watch his expression go from determined, to blissful, to fucking exhausted when he stills and his head rolls forward into your chest. His breath hot and staggered between your breasts; light kisses peppered onto damp skin.

You watch him through a post-sex haze, the air between you thick and blurry, as he presses his lips into your chest. He sucks along the cushion of your breast until he reaches the nipple, lips cupping around it, tongue flicking with all the effort he has left in him.

When he lifts his head again, one final kiss to your sensitive flesh, you balance his chin under your thumbs.

“You come?” he asks, the words propelled by a heavy exhale.

You shake your head slowly. “I’m tired, anyway.”

“Alright,” Joel groans, flipping you over. He pushes your thighs apart, his spend leaking from your slit and running southwards.

“Joel,” you giggle, “c’mon, I’m tired. You don’t have to –”

He’s already pushing himself lower, whipping the dark cotton tee from his shoulders and brushing his naked chest over your stomach. You lower your arms to hook under his.

“Hey. Come here a sec.”

Joel blinks up at you. “What’s up?”

“Just – come here.”

He kneels back up to you, hovering over you with his hands under your shoulders. His limp cock lies against the inside of your thigh as he lowers his weight onto your hips. You tilt your head, mapping his face.

Your knuckle runs across his cheek, the jagged bristle of his beard on your warm skin. Like running your hand under water, unable to tell whether it’s scalding hot or freezing cold – there is no saying whether you’re so used to him now that the feel of him is unaffecting, or entirely all-consuming. There’s no middle ground. Not anymore.

“I know –” You sigh, your voice swollen with a soft cry. There’s no stopping the tears anymore. They just come. “I know you think you should’ve known better. But I am so fucking glad that you didn’t.”

It’s done nothing but pour all day. You woke up this morning to the rain battering against Joel’s window, your body hooked against his by his arm.

Day four. Still no call, no text, no nothing from your dad. You haven’t exactly returned the favor – the closest you dared was having Sarah drive you to your house while he was at work so you could dip into the hallway, grab your car keys, and drive straight back to Joel’s. You pulled up in his driveway alongside each other and she rolled her window down, checking your expression before snorting.

It’s like a damn Mission: Impossible film, she jested.

The pain feels blunter, more distant than it did on Saturday. Like your father has bowed his head, faded some into the dark background of upstage. You realize, a few days in – the movie nights and the meals homecooked by three chefs; the way Joel’s scent starts to become yours, his T-shirts hanging loose over your shoulders and his boxers snug against your hips – that you forget to check on the shadow of your dad. Forget the spot he once stood in, the thunderous cloud cast over his head. The same one that so regularly used to pour rain over you.

Sarah went out with her friends a few hours ago. She called to say she’d miss dinner, so you and Joel ordered Chinese. You’re sat with your legs in his lap picking away at some noodles, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while he catches up on some baseball highlights show.

“Fuckin’ – idiots,” he mumbles, fork angrily picking at rice.

Your eyes don’t lift from the Instagram caption you’re reading. “Fuckin’ idiots,” you flatly agree.

Joel’s head turns. “Alright, Miss Big Rangers Fan. I remember a time you pretended to be into ‘em to get my attention.” He attempts to grab your phone, and you swipe it from his grasp.

“Shut up,” you giggle, grabbing hold of your takeout box. “Joel – be careful!”

He snorts, settling back into the couch, changing the TV channel. You give his thigh a little kick, tugging your blanket up. As the TV switches from one showing to the next, your phone buzzes.

You glance down, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, and freeze.

Dear Candidate…

“Joel.”

“Hm?” he asks, eyes glued to the flickering screen.

“Joel.”

“Yes, darlin’?”

You unstick your stare from the phone, looking up to meet his perplexed expression. “They got back to me.”

He squints for a second before the remote is dropped to the cushion. “And?”

“I don’t know, I just saw the first line.”

“Open it, baby. C’mon. Whatever it is, you gotta know.”

“You know what,” you shrug, “I’m good. I don’t need to know. It’s all good.”

“Hey.” Joel snaps his fingers scooping your gaze from the floral, bohemian name on the header of the email and up to his own. “Open it, or I’m kickin’ you out.”

You mock gasp. “You’d put me out on the streets?”

“Worse. Put you back to your dad’s. Now open the email.”

Your thumb trembles as it hovers over the screen, one tap away from the biggest change in your life since you left for New York. Like it’s five years ago, and you’re sat in front of your laptop, psyching yourself up to open the response to your college application.

“Okay,” you breathe, slamming your thumb down. Joel leans in, staring at the screen from upside down.

It swipes across and your eyes flit down, focusing hard on the sentence beneath the opening line. You blink rapidly, waiting for the wash of tears to clear and dissolve it to Unfortunately, or After careful consideration, or We appreciate your interest.

But it never does.

Invite to interview stares back up at you, waiting for your face to break. Expectant, a little nervous. Jittering inside your shaking fist. Joel breaks first, when he spots it.

He almost throws his food onto the coffee table, taking your container from your hands and bundling you up in his. He pulls you into his body, presses heavy kisses to the crook of your neck as you laugh, your entire body quaking with joy and terror and relief and anxiety.

“What’d I tell you?” he says, kissing you roughly. “I knew it, babygirl. I knew you would – Fuck, I am so fucking proud of you.”

“It’s just –” sniff, “– it’s just an interview, remember. I might not get it, in the end.”

Joel shakes his head. “I don’t care. You’re a damn sight closer to gettin’ it than you were three days ago.”

You sit for probably twenty minutes, laughing and then weeping and then laughing again – until the food is cold, there’s a new episode of South Park rolling on TV, and Joel’s T-shirt is soaked with your tears.

“I gotta call Sarah,” you whisper, finger sifting through his hair. Your head buried in his neck, your knees either side of his hips.

“She’s going to lose her fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles into your shoulder, laughing to himself. “She’ll sit off-camera in the corner of the room, so they can’t see her, ‘n hold up cue cards.”

You giggle, letting it dissipate into something weaker, something unconvinced. In a small voice, you say, “We just got one step closer to being four states apart.”

He looks up at you, curving a hand around your jaw, and pulls your lips against his. It’s slow, tender – his every thought and feeling translated into physical movement, transformed into a spin of butterflies in your chest.

When you pull away from him, smiling dumbly, he clips your cheek. “That scare you?”

You hesitate, afraid to tell him the truth. But it’s Joel. He knows every thought that passes through your head. You nod, eyes filling with a salty sting.

“Why?” he asks.

You glance out to the street. “’cause I love you. I don’t wanna leave you.”

Joel nods. Considers it. Then says, “You know why it doesn’t scare me?”

You lift your eyebrows in response. Why?

“Because I love you. And we are gonna be just fine.”

And you believe him.

[redtsundere-writes]

john price x waitress!reader | mdni +18

Is there anything worse than working at 3am? You were already on your third cup of coffee of the night, it didn’t wake you up anymore, it just gave you heartburn. Being a waitress at a 24/7 diner is not for the weak. Putting up with long hours at the counter, cleaning toilets after the partygoers puked all over them, and serving truck drivers with a smile even though they catcalled your ass every time you walk by. This was supposed to be a temporary job to save up for college, but you’ve been here for 5 years now.

Tonight didn’t seem any different from the rest until you saw him arrive. Full beard, confident walk, know-it-all eyes, lumberjack shirt. “A damn soldier,” you thought annoyed. You already knew how to identify them since they were the worst type of customer. Besides the catcalling, they’re the ones who try to sleep with the waitresses on their nights off before returning to base. Luckily, he arrived alone so he wouldn't be much a problem.

You offered him the menu and coffee from the pot with a well-trained smile. He told you he just wanted a coffee. Strange that someone would leave their house at three in the morning for a $3 cup of coffee. Even stranger that he would add whiskey from a canteen to it. He seemed to notice your confused look.

"It's for texture." He said, mixing the coffee with his spoon.

"A bad night?" You asked.

"That's putting it mildly." He scoffed.

"There's nothing a cinnamon roll can't fix." You offered in your best saleswoman voice, looking to earn your tip.

He had a rich laugh, maybe it was the British accent, or maybe it was that he was a gentleman who invited you to chat while he drank his coffee with the cinnamon roll. You learned that his name was John, but everyone calls him Price. He was a soldier (you already knew that), but one of those soldiers who were excellent at their job. He was forty years old, he liked to gamble at the racetrack, and he was divorcing his wife.

You felt bad for him, really. Ending a marriage after 15 years had to be complicated. Especially if that marriage was filled with fights, conception issues, and long months of not seeing each other. Price told you that his wife had kicked him out of their house after another huge fight and drove aimlessly until she found the only restaurant open in the wee hours of the morning. Poor thing. You just wanted to make him feel better.

Fucking him in his car wasn't the way you were going to help him, but you weren't complaining. His hands, calloused from experience, held your waist tightly to keep you in place as he slammed his cock into your wet pussy. Your face was hidden in his neck, his beard tickling your cheeks. You moaned his name as he spread your ass to slam his dick deeper.

Price grunted incoherently at how good you felt. He hadn't had satisfying sex since his poor wife had her second miscarriage. He shouldn't be doing this, you were too young for him. But all morals escaped his reach as he felt your wet pussy, hugging his cock so warmly.

Before he could stop himself, he came inside you. It felt so good that you couldn't even get mad at the moment. You hugged him around the neck, sitting on his throbbing cock as the gentleman caught his breath. Price adjusted the skirt of your pink uniform. He gave you a couple of pats and a tickling kiss on the cheek before he got you off his lap.

The last you heard from him was that he left you a nice tip the next day to buy a morning after pill like a gentleman. To your terrible luck, it didn't seem to work out. Looks like the Shark Week premiere got postponed.

Masterlist.

[sugar-on-fries]

MY TWISTED DANDY AND ICHOR 'LORE' IS FINALLY HERE ^^

DISCLAIMER, i wrote this in the middle of night at 3am over like 3 days and i refuse to proof-read twice so i apologize for any grammar mistakes and if this makes zero sense.

Also this is literary 1900 words long of me yapping about ichor and dandy so y'know.

Ok so uhhh first. What IS Ichor? I'm not quite what it would be classified in-game and in my as BUT i can tell you how it works in my headcanons! Now, idk how the hell Arthur and Delilah could make an organism with the Ichor in the first place, but in my AU/headcanons the Ichor is basically a compound that can make something live and grow, and with it in your DNA it would be giving you most of the that your body would have whole systems for! I would go on about how ichor would make the Toons live and how they were made, But i'm not a damn scientist and i'm here to tell you what happens when you have too much Ichor in your system. But let's talk about the story for a second, we always have to start somewhere!

LETHAL || MAINS In mid 1986, Dandy was made by Arthur and Delilah for whatever reason, (don't ask me why that's not my department) After MANY failed attempts- Dandy was the first to actually breathe, live, and learn! But unfortunately, his DNA, his tissues, and whole body had WAY to much Ichor, at-least for a Toon, you could say it was a LETHAL amount but in generally his genetic structure was unstable. Delilah had originally declared Dandy a failure to Arthur and even if he would survive as for now and there was no doubt there was going to be consequences sooner-or-later, good or bad, and wanted to euthanize him, but Arthur opted out stating that 'He was already alive for almost 2 weeks now and he was already showing signs of learning his environment as well as attempting to communicate to the both of them, it'd be cruel.' also Delilah is dumbass and didn't tell Arthur that dandy could crashout and mutate due to the side effects of the ichor and him having so much in his system (we'll get to that) so yeah <3 Sometime after Dandy, in late 1987 the five mains we're made with what they learned with dandy, but bc they were still MORONS; Delilah and Arthur (mostly arthur's fault bc i said so) STILL made them with too much ichor, just with slightly less from what dandy has in his body, and since there was now SIX of these brats walking around here, Delilah and Arthur became permanent colleagues! and something something blah blah (i hate writing stories if u cant tell) - in 1989 they made the other toons and collaborated with a museum, and eventually got a tv show for the Toons to promote the museum.

ICHOR EFFECTS The Ichor has the ability to create life but that doesn't mean it can't kill it off too, in my lore the ichor is basically steroids on steroids. Its a weird ass supplement with the ability to make some organisms grow physically and mentally.

Imma get right into what I have made up so far, too much Ichor in your system can go right to brain, literary. The Ichor target's the brain, primarily the pituitary gland, the amygdala and, the frontal cortex. The Pituitary gland is mostly responsible for growth, specifically, it produces growth hormones which in toll promotes growth in bones, muscles, and other tissues, and the Ichor sends signals to the gland causing unwanted growth in the toon's body - now twisteds.

Now, the amygdala and the frontal cortex can (and will in this case) cause aggressive behavior with the amygdala playing a key role in recognizing and responding to threats, and the frontal cortex helping to regulate impulses and make decisions, but since the Ichor is now here - the brain is now getting signals consonantly to be aggressive due to the Ichor. also Ichor is kindaaa toxic to humans without the proper wear to handle it. hope this makes even a lick of sense <333 (also if ur wondering: "since the ichor makes them aggressive why aren't the toons aggressive???" they got media training or smth like that)

TWISTED DANDY Now that we know what the Ichor does to the brain mainly in my lore, now i wanna talk about my glorious king, dandy BUT FIRST lets talk about the mains real-quick. Like i said, the mains have more Ichor than the regular toons. this is my reason why the mains are larger than the regular toons and in my AU/Headcanons, more aggressive. and logically since they would grow WAY more than normal twisted, they would be in CONSTANT AGONY, always full of fear and anger. Now think about when it comes to Dandy, but multiply it by 6 /j I would talk about his in-game twisted form but guess what? this is about MY dandy and MY Ichor lore so idc about him rn, also lets talk about the story for once more! In-game there is a document by Arthur to Delilah about an incident that most likely got Gardenview shut down and it goes along the lines of this: "Delilah, we need to talk. I know you've kept reassuring me that what had happened wasn’t due to anything you had done. Yet I feel as if we still need to talk about this, you had to have known this could happen to him. You had to have known that this was even a possibility. If you did, why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me? Something like this doesn’t just happen."

Now, this COULD be about ANYONE but imma make it about dandy because I can and for lore reasons. (<- praying that this doesn't poorly age) In my AU-thingy, in this part Dandy didn't FULLY transform into the twisted form i have for him, he transformed into something that was more like his 'canon' twisted form (i dont feel like drawing it use ur imagination /silly) , but overall less aggressive and painful than his 'full' form he was still aggregated and in discomfort generally, fumbling around in pain - trailing Ichor everywhere, labeling the rooms Dandy entered as 'unsafe' and 'a health-hazard' (plus he was lowkey terrorizing kids in this state) and since he trailed so much Ichor that it was in the air EVERYWHERE, the building had to close and eventually got abandoned overtime.

Now back to present! In my designs, dandy is more centaur lookin' with him rocking two sets of arms and two sets of 'legs'! Pictures down below if u don't know what he looks like! Now his 'Front legs' were going to be his arms like in his canon form but he ended up still having his top half and his body turned them into legs. Now fully transformed (but terribly) and now his whole body is even more fucked than it would be if he only transformed halfway, Dandy is now in AGONY <333 !!! When turning into Twisted Dandy, his spine grows rapidly including his muscles, tissues, and literary everything. He would also have bones quickly forming and Ichor rapidly hardening to make his front legs, as-well as everything i just said. same with his tail and everything below the belt, normally in nature this probably wouldn't hurt due to them evolving really slowly BUT even in-game it seems Dandy is doing this within minutes! And even if he was doing this slower than maybe 3 minutes he would still have to transform rather fast, and also in-game we can say that the toons are probably REALLY SHORT probably being the size of 2 to 4 feet tall (i'm being generous with the height rn) and 'canon' twisted dandy standing seems to be really tall too, and being like 3 feet tall and turning into something that's maybe about 12-15 feet tall when standing within minutes, THATS OBVIOUSLY GONNA HURT LIKE HELL.

Plus he would be changing his whole bone and muscle structure- once again IN MINUTES, and that's not even close to everything twisted dandy would have to tolerate. Still in my lore, the Ichor would target his brain which in toll would make his own brain to start yelling at him to become aggressive and sending singles though his body telling it to 'GROW AS FAST AS YOU CAN' but bc i can ,it doesn't numb any of the pain and keeps forcing his body to change and grow as he suffers though it. ALSO my twisted dandy is VERY HOT. Temperature wise. Since he's like idk 3 feet tall its not hard to assume that he would most likely have a fast metabolism, and since he's turning into a giant beast, i would imagine his body regulate his metabolism into a slower one. Basically something like a hare (fast metabolism) can generate heat very fast but can't grasp onto heat as well, but something like an Elephant (Slow Metabolism) is not going to be able to generate heat as fast but can hold onto heat better, And since Gardenview is most likely underground and you most likely are going down, its probably gonna be somewhat warm/hot in the building, and since the museum is shut down I doubt the ventilation is on/working. So my Twisted dandy would be generally hot due to his body changing his metabolism and him not being using to his body holding onto heat for long-periods of times (this is also why I draw him without a shirt fyi)

Also I like to draw him smiling through his tears bc I like to think he believes that smiling can help reduce the thought of pain through the release of endorphins and other neurotransmitters, (personally I don't buy it) and he's crying for obvious reasons. Now Dandy would also go though the most pain due to one little fact ^^ He never gets the chance to get used to the pain. Since the other twisteds aren't switching back to their "normal form's" they had time to get used to pain and the changes to their body, BUT GUESS WHO HASN'TTT- Even though others twisted had the same happen to them (Via, limbs forming rapidly, spines growing, bones and shi acting up) Dandy deals with these changes over and over and over again, not having a chance to adapt to these changes for even a second.

Aghhhh this is getting way too long for my standards and imma end it here, feel free to ask me anything and thank you 4 reading!!!

Also if you want to know why the ichor targets the brain and why it does what it does. that's not my department!! i'm here to yap about the effects of ichor and shi bc theres literary NOTHING on it. Any story plotholes that i refuse to fix or give intel on can be interpreted however u want idgaf <3 ALSO don't take any science facts in here at face-value, i am a stupid child that is not equipped in science in anyway, if you want to learn more about anything REAL in this, please do your own research i am simply using google and my little knowledge in science.

ALSO ALSO ALSO i was originally going to include drawings into this to show what i was talking about but then i didn't end up doing it bc im lazy, but here are the doodles i did make for it ^^

[yourenzoo]

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE (SERIES MASTERLIST) masterlist

pairing: xu minghao x fem!reader

genre(s): non!idol au, college au, romance, fluff, angst, mainly written with smau parts

includes: SEVENTEEN (JEONGHAN, JOSHUA, JUNHUI, WOOZI, DOKYEOM, MINGYU, MINGHAO, DINO), LE SSERAFIM (YUNJIN), AESPA (KARINA), NMIXX (LILY), AND TOMORROW X TOGETHER (YEONJUN)

synapsis: was it fate?

for seven days, yn and minghao sat on opposite sides of the same café, drawn to each other in quiet glances that never met. neither knew why they kept coming back—curiosity, coincidence, or something else entirely.

on the eighth day, they finally broke the silence. and just like that, stolen glances became something more.

but what if what began in silence ends the same way?

CHARACTER INTRODUCTION: PT1 PT2

table of contents:

CHAPTER 1: day one CHAPTER 2: day two CHAPTER 3: :0 CHAPTER 4: the start CHAPTER 5: spill the tea bro CHAPTER 6: project? CHAPTER 7: *incoherent giggling* CHAPTER 8: help bro CHAPTER 9: damn that’s hot CHAPTER 10: that was quick CHAPTER 11: it’s already 3am??? CHAPTER 12: i love my friends *sarcastic* CHAPTER 13: jealousy, jealousy CHAPTER 14: dun dun dunnnn CHAPTER 15: what are we? CHAPTER 16: late night fun CHAPTER 17: who even are you? CHAPTER 18: k. CHAPTER 19: thoughts CHAPTER 20: wtf?? CHAPTER 21: yay cuddles!! CHAPTER 22: new friends!! CHAPTER 23: torturous CHAPTER 24: uh oh CHAPTER 25: ‘good job’ ?? CHAPTER 26: healing? CHAPTER 27: the last time (hopefully)

bonus chapters: (SEPERATE ENDING)

BONUS CHAPTER 1 (#28): it’s the alcohol’s fault BONUS CHAPTER 2 (#29): fuck him BONUS CHAPTER 3 (#30): new beginnings

TAGLIST: @whoisbaek15, @minghaosimp OPEN! (send an ask or comment and i'll be happy to add you!)

[yandere-paramour]

Kinda funny ask, but what if your yandere’s darlings get up to midnight shenanigans. How would your yanderes react?

(I personally have no idea what you mean by midnight shenanigans so I am assuming you mean Darling is up eating snacks and watching TV and otherwise not sleeping)

Atalanta is a pretty heavy sleeper, but if she reached over in the middle of the night and you weren't there, she would wake up concerned, alarmed, and PISSED. Her first thought is that you've tried to run away, and she tears out of the room with thoughts of sending a manhunt after you. But then she hears a theme song coming from the screening room and she slinks in to find you eating chips at 3am while watching anime. She's not really angry anymore, just kinda confused as fuck. What ensues is a small conversation like what are you doing, watching TV, it's 3am, I know, ... Go to bed. Atalanta is strict about your health and this is not good for you, so she's ordering you back to bed. If you truly cannot sleep, she will give you some melatonin and probably a lecture about how simply lying down is also restful. So, Ata is not the kind of person to have midnight fun with.

Vivien is a pretty light sleeper, but let's say today that he had a hard day at work and he was really tired. When he rolls over to try and cuddle you (and smother you in his running-too-hot body), and he doesn't find you, he would instantly be awake and so upset, calling your name and trying to find you. He's got the blanket around his shoulders and his hair is so messy and he just looks like a little kid who's working up the courage to tell his mom he threw up. When he finds you watching tv on the couch, he's a little too tired to join you in this fun, but he'll be damned if you'll be lonely. Scoot over, he's coming in. He'll wrap his large body around you and get in the perfect cuddle position, then conk right tf out. It's kind of nice, he loves you so much. Oh and when he wakes up the next morning, he's so confused as to how the two of you ended up on the couch covered in Doritos when you went to bed normally.

Noelle is an insomniac with terrible sleeping habits (Partly Atalanta's fault), so she's probably not sleeping to begin with. If you want to sit around and watch TV and eat snacks in the early hours of the morning, she'll join you. She'll be working/hacking on her laptop or reading the whole time, but she'll be cuddled up right next to you. This is so bad for her though, she already has so little time to sleep. She'll match you night for night with seemingly no effects except a slight increase in the caffeine shakes, but she won't complain. If it becomes a regular thing and she's really really exhausted, you might be privy to seeing her curled into a tiny ball, quietly dozing on your shoulder. Never mention this though, she'll get very embarrassed about that.

[dangerkittenclaws]

Are your requests still open? I’d love a fic where the (AFAB) reader is in a situation where she’s forced to share a bed with Vessel (maybe she’s a musician who’s touring with ST and the hotel is short on rooms? lol I know it’s super cliche) and in the middle of the night he wakes her up by initiating sex? 🥰

This was so fun to write, thank you!! And thank you for being my first request/ask, I'll never forget it! Sorry it took me a hot second to finish. To be honest, I feel I got a tad carried away but I hope I did our lean bean of a man justice! <3

vessel x f!band!reader

warnings: smut MDNI +18

You were waiting in the lobby of the hotel your tour agent had booked, spinning your luggage case lazily by its extended handle. The staff had been frantic as your large group entered the building.

 IV was at the counter talking to the man who was clicking desperately at his computer. Something clearly was wrong with the reservation, but you were so tired that you really didn't care, you just wanted to slide into a cozy bed and sleep like the dead. It had been a long day, not including the show tonight and piling into a van afterwards. 

Two of your best friends and bandmates, Alexis and Maggie were sitting on one of the lobby couches quietly showing memes to II. Vessel, III, and Liv, your bassist, were sitting on the bench right next to them. You all had gotten to know each other fairly well considering you inhabited a bus for numerous hours, watched each other practice, and went out to eat together. 

You had noticed Vessel staring at times the past few weeks. You didn’t particularly mind the man was checking you out, it felt good to be wanted in a genuine way. You were not opposed to something new. You had become aware of him giving you glances that were a few seconds too long, a hand grazing just a little slower, him waiting for you so he could walk with you to wherever you were going. 

And the teasing and bickering, god, it never ended. You didn't expect any different, being in close quarters with four boys and your three raunchy best friends, it was a constant war. You didn't quite know how to navigate these waters with Vessel though, it had been quite a while since your last boyfriend.

Your attention was brought back by IV walking back over to where you stood, a grimace on his face.

“Something happened to their booking system, they’re overbooked and we're going to have to share rooms until tomorrow.” 

Some sort of seniority took over his voice, “Maggie, Alexis, Liv you can share the two-queen room, II, III, and I will share the other. That leaves you and Ves with the last king room”, he said pointing between you and Vessel. 

Your eyes could’ve popped out of your head at that moment, but you schooled your expression hopefully before anyone noticed. You looked over to your bandmates and saw how Liv wanted to protest, but closed her mouth before she could say anything, knowing it was futile and everyone was too exhausted to care. It was nearing 3am and you were only spending two nights here before traveling again. 

Vessel's eyes instantly shot towards yours, a small smirk forming on his lips, his arms crossed over his chest. Those lips. 

“I guess it's you and me, then, love.” He gets up, standing to his full height before grabbing his duffel bag from beside him. The rest of the group rises and gathers their things, IV giving out key cards in silence. 

You look at your girls, bidding them goodnight with a small wave and suddenly your hands are empty. Vessel had taken it upon himself to steal your suitcase and start walking towards the elevators. 

Startled, Maggie giggles behind you at your expression. Breath leaves your mouth in a sort of sigh and laugh, and your tired legs begin to move in his direction. He is already in the elevator, keeping the door open for you. 

“Damn your long legs.” 

He turns to you once the doors shut, “I hope you have a little bit of energy left in you,” 

You look at him confused, “What do you mean?” You know what kind of tone he has, a playful, flirtatious one that makes you blush. 

“I guess you'll just have to find out, won't you?” the doors open to the new floor and he darts out, immediately walking in long strides and searching for the correct door. You try to keep up, watching him try the key card on the fifth door down the hall and entering. You walk into the blackness of the room knowing he's just in front of you. He nearly giggles as he turns on the bedside lamp and watches your face scrunch up at the sudden light. 

“You could at least warn a girl,” you yawn. Just as described, there is one large plushy looking king bed in the center of the room, a tv mounted to the wall, a little breakfast counter, and a door ajar on the other side, the bathroom. 

Vessel drops both of your bags at the end of the bed, “Okay, me first, I need a shower.” he announces. You scoff and nod anyway, both of you taking out your pajamas and toiletries you'll need to set them aside. 

Vessel puts his hand on your hip from behind you, the boldest move he’s made yet, “I’ll be quick” is all he whispers near your ear. The warmth of his hand lingers on you even though you hear the door shut. You finally breathe again, you had stood frozen for too long. Is this really happening? 

You finally search out the TV remote, finding some mind-numbing home renovation show. You watch a few minutes, zoning out entirely, before the knob of the door twists and you turn your head. Your eyebrows raise at the sight before you. 

He is a little damp, clothes in hand, the last few water droplets running down his lean torso, hair scruffy from the towel dry he did before wrapping it lowly around his waist. You almost drool before looking back up to his eyes. 

“My eyes are up here, darlin,” he smirks. You feel your entire being light up red hot before you want to implode for getting caught staring at the very… enticing area that he is putting on display. It's not like he wears those pants for no reason at shows, it leaves little to your imagination and he knows it. 

You jump up with your head down, grabbing your things and dipping into the bathroom without another word. You shower hot, needing an excuse to be as pink as you were with that fine man that you had been roomed with. Your pajamas were just an oversized Sleep Token shirt and a short pair of plaid shorts. 

After scrubbing the day off of you, you change into your pajamas before your hand hesitates at the knob. You breathe out. We are just sleeping. We aren’t even anything yet. Why am I being so dramatic about this? 

You summon all of your courage to open the door and look out to see Vessel in bed, scrolling his phone, the room only illuminated by the TV. You put your leftover toiletries and laundry on top of your bag before plugging in your phone and pulling back the covers on the other side.

Vessel looks over to you, “Come here, love”, opening his arms to you. You snuggle into his side and onto his chest, as his hand rubs up and down your back. You involuntarily let out a little sigh of relief, finally you can rest. You fall asleep like that, him holding you close and warm. 

You wake up a few hours later, having turned to your side in your sleep, one of his still around your middle and the other under your neck. 

You move slightly and become aware of something pressed against your ass. You immediately hold your breath.

You slowly breathe out, and try to inch yourself away. His arm tightens around you. Oh shit, he’s awake. 

Like he reads your nervousness, he starts to kiss along the back of your neck to the side, underneath your ear. You shiver at his warm breath. 

“Hmm, I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it with your ass backed up to me darling.” You smile and blush at his words, knowing the effect you have on him. He grinds a bit into you as his hand slowly moves towards the waistband of your shorts. 

You realize your shirt had bunched up just below your tits just as his other hand reaches up and runs through your hair, long fingers pulling just enough for your head to move back. You turn to your back when he easily grazes over your clit and you clench your thighs together. Vessel gives you a little growl in your ear and your thighs cave open as quick as your resolve. 

“I've wanted you for so long, sweet thing, and I've got you all to myself now.” His fingers move in slow, small circles over your clit and your hands go to his bicep, grabbing at him for more. You let out a small moan as you lose yourself in the feeling of warmth of both of his hands touching your body and the building starry sensation in your belly. 

You reach down towards his stomach, caressing down, trying to burn the feeling of his skin into your mind before coming into contact with the curls of his hair. You hesitate slightly and he quickly attacks your lips, like he's reading your mind again. 

You continue on to wrap your hands around his long, hard dick and begin tugging on it. He smiles against your neck and brings his other hand up under your shirt to massage your tit before pulling your nipple taut and thumbing over the hard bud forming. He does the same with the other while his fingers work their way into your wet cunt, one slender finger at a time. 

You are getting impatient now, kissing his lips and neck, sucking his soft skin into your mouth to leave your mark. He lets out a whimper before seemingly regaining control of himself. Noted for future reference. 

He slides down your body in a quick moment before licking up your slick cunt, making you nearly cry out. He tongues your entrance before making his way up to your clit and practically latches on. You claw at the bed sheets beneath you eventually finding his grown out hair to pull. You don't know if you want him to stop or if you want more, this is so much better than your own fingers. You buck up into his mouth and he locks his arm around your thighs to keep you from squirming away. That feeling in your stomach is burning. 

He makes a few deliberate swipes of his tongue in succession over your clit and he watches that you come undone beneath him. Your eyes roll back, your hips tighten, and you gasp out his name. He keeps his tongue flat against you, tasting your cum before coming up to kiss you. 

The moment you taste yourself on him is the moment you feel him press against your swollen pussy. You moan into the kiss, wanting more of him. He grabs himself to properly press his dick into you. He does it slowly, making sure you savor every inch. 

“Please, please, Vessel, please”, you beg him. 

“Please what, kitten?”, that slow devilish smirk comes back with a vengeance on his wet lips. 

“Please fuck me, I need you to fuck me.�� You mumble out, embarrassed but full of anticipation. 

He thrusts into you fully, making both of you moan out curses. Ves sets a pretty quick pace but makes sure to hit the one spot inside you that makes your pussy tighten around him on every pass. He bottoms out, touching the beginning of your cervix and you see his eyes roll back. 

“God, you are better than I ever imagined.'' He reaches his hand down between the both of you to play with your clit again. This time though, your orgasm is quick to approach with him inside of you. His fingers move swiftly as you grind yourself down onto his cock to meet his every thrust. 

You are scratching down his back trying to find purchase with how full he makes you feel. Soon enough, the pool of white hot in your belly is overflowing again and he changes the angle just slightly, fucking you through your orgasm. You moan out knowing your pussy is clenching around his dick in a vice grip. Just as you cum around him, he settles deep within you and his fingers dig into your hips. His thick ropes of cum spill into you and he pulls out to leave your cunt messy. 

You open your eyes half-lidded after a moment, trying to catch your breath, “Jesus, did you… did you plan that all along?!” 

He smiles wide at you, “Which part, the room sharing or the me-getting-you-to-myself?” 

“Either?” 

“The rooms being short just happened to play into my favor, but I was plotting to get you alone this weekend, my sweet kitten.” He pecks your lips before moving to the bathroom to get a warm towel for you both. 

You sigh out as you watch him, “I didn’t know what I was missing out on, really.” 

You hear his sweet laugh as he comes back in, gently running the towel over your pussy, cleaning you up. You squirm a bit but are easily distracted by the kisses he leaves on your inner thigh. You let out a small yelp when you feel teeth graze and a quick nip before he pulls away. 

He slides in next to you again, pulling you close, “If I have it my way, you’ll be mine forever.” 

“I’d really like that,” you murmured against his chest. You feel him press his lips to the top of your head before you fall back into a satisfied dreamless sleep.

[catboybiologist]

I went into Sue to measure her interior for a potential sleeping platform I might build, lay down on the foam mat that I was using to "test" how I fit in her, and I've been drifting in and out of sleep for the past few hours. This is genuinely more comfortable than my apartment bed.

I would totally sleep the night, but I'm literally just in the parking garage for my apartment complex. I don't have window tint or shades or anything, and I know parking enforcement makes rounds relatively early in the morning. But god damn, I'm feeling so good about her potential. I'm so goddamn excited, I can't wait to start using her for real stuff.

But holy shit it's already 3am and I do not want to wake up to a goddamn cop

[saintzweig]

I’m back. are you sick of me yet. anyway!! I’ve been OBSESSED with the idea of patrick studying law, like idk that just makes so much sense and with that I propose to you: patrick on the mock trial team, or speech and debate. all of the guys on the tennis team think he’s a fucking NERD for doing it, art thinks it’s cool tho! tashi is his go to for practicing his debates before tournaments and she purposely plays devils advocate to piss him off majorly. BUTT going back to u saying reader being a like.. journalism major and working for the campus newspaper, imagine her covering a speech and debate thing and seeing patrick and being like, hm fuckin nerd, but then she goes to a tennis match the next week (bc a friend of hers is like. obsessed with art or some other guy on the team) and then she realizes that guy on the speech and debate team is on the tennis team and he’s like, actually really hot. and then that night she’s at a frat party and she’s getting pulled into a bathroom by a hot as hell guy and, surprise surprise, it’s patrick again. he writes his phone number on some university promotional flier for speech and debate in bright blue pen (using art’s back as a table) and she dies right then and there (and every weekend after when his cock is in her mouth for “stress relief”) - 🎾

(I fear I need to come out of fanfic writing retirement.)

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONGG i thought about this hard with the very little juice left in my brain. not proofread bc its 3am ... might make the smut part a whole fic :")

you walked into the auditorium, a ‘stanford daily’ id hanging from your neck and a DSLR camera in your hands as you made your way through the sparse crowd to your assigned seat. you're in your third year of uni and elected co-editor in chief at the standford daily, so your job is mostly looking over the process and production of the weekly paper– this meant that you haven't been assigned to cover an event in a while given that you were the one assigning them. but the student who was supposed to cover this debate got sick, and no one else was available so you took it upon yourself to do the job. 

you were surprised to see tashi duncan and art donaldson a few rows in front of you, talking amongst themselves. they're well known on campus, being on the tennis team. you haven't seen or read anything about their life outside of the court, but why a debate event on a tuesday morning? were they that bored? or do they genuinely think that these events are entertaining? 

your unspoken questions were answered when the debate team was called to the stage, and there stood patrick zweig with a smug look on his face. you've never seen him in person before but he was a usual subject in the paper– being a reckless and easily agitated but damn good tennis player. now you're finding out that not only is he on the debate team, he is the captain. and a pre-law student? does this guy come from money or is he just a fucking nerd. 

you've always thought debates to be boring, even if you're a liberal arts student. but patrick zweig proved you wrong. it was mesmerizing to watch how smooth he was with his arguments, he knew the right words to say, the right points to make and the right buttons to push. he riled his opponents up but in a way that doesn't cross the line and break the rules. it was mesmerizing to watch him smirk, as if he found joy in proving others that they're wrong. you didn't even notice that you're on the edge of your seat, squeezing your thighs together. 

you brought the camera up to your face, squinting as you focused the lens on the members of the debate team. and as your camera pans over to patrick, he was already looking directly at you. smirking as he watched you falter for a moment before snapping the photo. you left in a rush as soon as the event ended, heart racing against your will. what the fuck was that? 

two weeks later, you find yourself being dragged by your best friend to a tennis game on campus. stanford versus pepperdine. the men's team are playing today and your best friend bribed you with food to get you to come with her and cheer art donaldson on. the first match started and it was a doubles, art and patrick versus two players from the opposing side. if the sight of patrick defeating his opponents in uniform got your heart racing, be prepared to see him do it in shorts. his thighs were godly and you couldn't take your eyes off it. 

you finally saw him play, seeing his personality on court that everyone was talking about. his serves were unusual but his backhands were fucking hypnotizing. the sounds of the ball being hit back and forth vibrating in your ears, your heart almost exploded when you heard how loud his grunts were as he plays. like before, you found yourself at the edge of your seat, squeezing your thighs together. 

during the break, patrick took the time to scan the crowd before his eyes landed on yours. your mouth gapes slightly open as you feel him stare into you, his lips parted and wrapped around the mouth of his water bottle, the liquid dripping down his chin. he wiped it away, sending you a wink. you don't think you've seen anyone this hot before. 

as if dragging you to a tennis game wasn't enough, you found yourself in a party at some random house that you (unwillingly) and your friend crashed. however, as soon as you walked in, she was taken out of your grasp into a bedroom by her situationship, leaving you to your own devices. you decided to grab a cup of the horribly sweet yet bitter punch in the kitchen before making your way through the house, dragging your fingertips against the wall and feeling the vibration of the music. 

you yelp as someone grasped at your arm and pulled you into the bathroom, the punch nearly spilling all over them. it was patrick, smirking down on you as he crossed his arms, flexing his biceps against the fabric of his polo shirt. “you're a journalist, right?” his voice was soft towards you, unlike the tone he used in the debate and unlike the rasp when he yelled victory during the game. 

you nod, a tinge of pink dusting your cheeks. he smiled at your appearance, you look so tiny next to him and the way you looked up at him, jesus. 

he grabbed a pen from his pocket, placing the cap between his lips as he pulled it off. he takes your arm, pants tightening as he took in the size difference of your arm against his. he chuckles lowly, scribbling his number on your arm. you only stared at him, the proximity making your core throb. “call me, yeah?” he smirks, patting your cheek gently with his large hand before exiting the bathroom. leaving you frozen and aching. 

[starryylies]

Hi !!! Idk if you've done this already but can you do my angel boy Gaz and Ghost with a girl who love scary movies ??? I feel like they'd totally have the mentality of "I gotta comfort her when she's scared" but Gaz specifically flinches and I think Si would like "brace" if that makes sense like wincing his eyes. I dunno if you've done something like that but your emo story reminded me of me and it made me so happy I'm a metalhead and I was gonna ask for more but it was already in there and that just mad emy day ilysm already okay bye -🫀

Simon n Gaz watching a horror movie with s/o

HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Again so sorry (I’m sorry for saying sorry sm) but like Omg I love this cuz I love horror smmmm!!! Insidious,suspiria,Bwp, conjuring you name it I love them omgggg.

So thank you so much for the awesome ask and I hope you enjoy it 🩷🩷🩷

Also I used the movies sinister and lights out for the references :))

SIMON-

♰ he thought watching the movie sinister will be fun cuz he thought he could protect you from the jumpscares

♰ he needs to be protected from the damn movie tho (okay this movie is fucked up tho and it’s totally normal to be scared)

♰in the beginning he thought it will be some poorly made movie with shit ass jumpscares but boy was he wrong

♰ when the scene of the family hanging themselves comes on he was taken aback and he lets out an audible wince shutting his eyes

♰ he genuinely finds the movie scary and gory, cannot help but find himself wince and shut his eyes whenever he thinks there will be a jumpscare

♰ as the movie progressed and the other tapes were revealed he just couldn’t take it anymore, his limit broke off when the mowing scene came

♰ but you seemed to be enjoying the movie, anticipating what the next scene will reveal

♰ he shut the tv before he could see further, it was too much for him

♰ “fuckin hell love this movie is a fuckin nightmare” he groans

♰ “noo It’s a well made film :( plus I enjoy a good scare ya know”

♰ god how could you be so chill with it, he can’t tell if he should admire you or keep his distance

♰dw he admires you :)

♰ keeps on ranting about how he’d never do such a stupid fucking thing

♰ says Ellison was a stupid fuckin idiot for getting his family there and curses him for the rest of the day

♰ asks you your opinion on the movie and who you think is recording the tapes

♰ ends up going on the net to see how the movie ends cuz he can’t let it go

♰when he finds out the ending he has an ‘aha’ moment.

♰ tries watching the movie again but ends up stopping in the beginning itself cuz he can’t handle it.

♰ probably doesn’t want kids after this movie

GAZ-

♰ Awh this poor guy just wanted to watch a scary movie with you to hold you when you’re scared but it kinda ends up being the opposite

♰ you both decide on watching lights out (I wanted to pick hereditary or mother but too much cuz I’m writing this at 3am)

♰ see lights out is a Pretty chill film but Diana is creepy as hell and sadly gaz became a victim to Diana’s jumpscares

♰ when she killed the dad gaz visibly flinched like on the edge of the sofa hoping the dad would survive

♰ but boom the bitch killed him :/

♰ felt really bad for the brother (Martin)

♰sympathised with him a lot by saying he’s a good kid and that he’s really strong.

♰ surprised on how you’re not getting scared or anything

♰ thinks that you have watched this film before

♰ gaz got shit scared during the scene where Rebecca and her boyfriend came and Diana creeped around them

♰ the end made him tear up just a lil :(

♰ you ended up comforting him holding him close cuz he felt bad about their mom

♰ thinks it’s adorable how you give lil facts about the movie from time to time though.

♰ cursed Diana for the rest of the day,

♰ if you take any medications, don’t worry you’ll never miss them now cuz gaz will make sure you eat yours on time

♰ keeps the bathroom and living room lights on that night

♰ will search for movies like lights out

♰ will never watch them though

♰ is proud that he got closer to you tho

♰ will definitely hold you the entirety of the movie

♰ will never have a horror movie date again tho

♰ but will watch a horror movie with you if you ask him cuz how can he say no to you :))