#He’s Sweet As Pie But If You Break His Heart He’ll Turn Cold As A Freeze (Vick ♡ Valentino)

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🍎 ｡:*• ─ HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN CHALLENGE.     ›  Day Thirty

[ Valentino ]

30. How would their perfect Halloween be ?  What would they do ?  Who would they spend it with ?

A night of partying that ended in "anonymous," costumed sex. He'd love to spend it with Vox, Velvette, Alastor, Vick, Summer, Nifty, Beelza, or Ozzie!

[seeingivy]

Hi!! Can you do an angsty song fic for “hits different” with Gojo? Love the ts series !!❤️

hits different

satoru gojo x f!reader

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

content: older brothers best friend!satoru, teenagers being dumb teenagers, drinking, satoru calls reader belle, reader spends a fuck ton of money on toji's credit card

an: HELLO SWEETIE PIE!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DA LOVE IM GLAD YOU'VE BEEN ENJOYING IT SO FAR. this ended up at a 9k so I hope you enjoy pookie

--

present day 

“Are you even listening to anything I’m saying?” he asks, his hands folded across his menu. 

You close your own menu, setting it neatly on top of the plates, as you look over at him - the look in his eyes downright murderous. Granted, sticking your nose in the menu while he was trying to talk to you for the past twenty minutes couldn’t have helped, but he should cut you some slack. You’re really hungry.   

It’s then and there that you see the look, that twitch in his right eye, and know exactly what’s going to happen. Toji Fushiguro, the accountant you’ve been dating for the last six months, is about to break up with you. 

“It’s like you aren’t even paying attention when I talk to you, when I’m trying to sit here and tell you how I’m feeling.” 

“Okay. So tell me how you’re feeling, Toji.” 

He flares his nostrils, exasperated by your response. You thought it was polite. But you’ve been told your tone is downright argumentative, like grating nails on a chalkboard. 

And then Toji lays out his final card, waiting for your broken expression. 

“I’m breaking up with you. You-you and me. We’re done.” 

No broken expression comes. Because you don’t let idiots like Toji think they have power over you, your feelings for even a second. 

“Okay. Well, I still came here to eat dinner so could you pass me the main menu?” 

You give him your best smile, sickly sweet, and it pushes him over the edge. 

“Are you fucking serious? You’re not going to say anything to that? Anything at all? I just broke up with your pathetic ass and you don’t even feel a bit sad about it?” 

You set the menu down again, crossing your wrists against your chest. 

“Do you want me to, Toji? Because I can if you want me to.” 

He gets even more frustrated, standing up at the table to yell his final words before he storms out. 

“Do you know what your problem is, Y/N?” 

“Please enlighten me. I’m dying to know.” 

“You-you’re shit to be around. Literally the most frustrating, agitating, irritating person I’ve ever met. You can’t ever take anything at face value - you just argue and argue because it’s the only thing you know how to do. True love could knock on your door and you’d send it running away with that cold, dark heart in your chest. Because you’re hard to love.” 

You clench your fists under the table, drawing blood against your palms. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t as agreeable as you wanted me to be. Surely the secretary you’ve been fucking for the last three months we were dating is a sweeter taste in your mouth than I am.” 

“Wait, what-” 

“If you’re going to fuck another girl while you’re dating me, make sure you don’t butt dial me while you’re doing it, sweetheart.” 

He furrows his brow, ears pink from what you’re sure is embarrassment as he storms off. You turn your head over your neck, lifting your hand to signal Nobara, Megumi, and Itadori to join you at the table. 

They all awkwardly take the empty seats at the table, Itadori immediately reaching for the free bread on the table and Megumi reaching for the bottle of wine. 

“You okay?” Megumi asks, a comforting hand on your shoulder. 

“Toji has this really, really shit habit of leaving his stuff everywhere. His sunglasses, his keys, his wallet.” 

You hold the wallet in the air, Nobara immediately snatching it from your hands and pulling out his credit card. 

“No way.” she says, immediately running through the menu to find the most expensive thing to eat. 

“He’ll cancel it tomorrow. So, we should make the most of it tonight.” you say, the three of them smiling back at you. 

“You know, I’d feel half bad about this but he cheated on you for three months, so I really, really don’t.” Megumi says, ordering another bottle of wine. 

Itadori puts his hand on yours, squeezing once as he asks. 

“Are you sad about it?” 

“Not really.” 

“Oh, come on. She’s heartless. Ever since that idiot she dated from her hometown took her heart and went running with it, she’s been cold ever since.” Kugisaki says, spreading the leftover butter on the bread she just stole from Itadori. 

“Exactly.” you say, smiling at the three of them. 

You tilt the rest of your wine into the back of your throat, the sensation burning as you push it down. 

You hate that after all these years, even the mention of him makes your head spin. 

Satoru. 

--

two years ago 

“Go fuck yourself, Y/N.” 

“Real clever, Getou. You really got me there.” 

Getou immediately knocks you off your chair and starts wrestling with you on the ground - the two of you yanking each other’s arms and pulling each other's legs. 

“Cut your hair, Getou. You look like a hillbilly with that uglyass manbun.” 

“Check your attitude, Y/N. You’re getting bitchier as time goes on.” 

You immediately reach up and grab a fistful of his hair, yanking hard as he elbows you in the eye. And you’re about to punch him straight in the stomach before you feel two arms around your waist, the hold firm, as you fight off the hold. 

“That’s enough from you two, alright?” Satoru says, his voice in your ear sending a shiver down your spine. 

“It’s not enough, Satoru. I need to give him a piece of my mind.” 

“You’re going to give him a piece of your mind with your fist, princess?” 

He finally lets you go, Shoko mimicking his actions as she lets Getou go on the other side of the kitchen. You’re both glaring bloody murder at each other, the stupid look on his ugly face only enraging you more. 

“Quit calling me princess, it’s stupid.” you murmur, lifting your hands up to fix the mess Getou made of your hair. 

“Cmon, Belle. Don’t be like that.” 

You cringe at the nickname, even worse than princess, as the memory comes straight to your mind. Third grade. Halloween Eve. 

You were going to be Cinderella for Halloween - all set with fake glass slippers and a sparkly blue dress and butterfly hair clips. But Getou and Satoru had come home straight from their soccer practice, all muddy and disgusting, and accidentally sat on your costume. 

The pretty blue dress you had saved all your allowance on was ruined and along with it, your hopes of impressing Haibara - the guy that you had a crush on at the time. 

Except Satoru, in his infinite kindness that he’s always shared with you, dragged you to the costume store the day after, his hands wrapped around your waist as he biked the two of you there in the scorching midday October heat. 

“Do you guys have any Cinderella dresses left?” 

“They’re all sold out. We’re so sorry, sir.” 

As the clerk walks away, Satoru turns over to you, a giddy smile on his face. 

“Did you hear that? That lady just called me sir.” 

“Really funny, Satoru.” 

You push him into the stand by the cashier, as you stomp to the other side of the store. You look up at the little catalogs, the sparkly blue dress in the picture with a red “sold out” sign stamped on top of it. He catches up, his hand soft on your shoulder, as he talks. 

“Sorry we messed up your dress, Y/N.” 

You can feel the tears building in your eyes as you start aggressively swiping them away, trying to hide the fact that you were crying in front of Satoru. Knowing him, he was just going to run home and tell Getou so the two of them could laugh at you. 

“No, you’re not. You probably did it on purpose.” 

“We didn’t, I-I swear.” 

“Getou literally told me yesterday that he thought it was stupid I wanted to be a princess for Halloween. That girls like me aren’t princesses, because they have a rotten attitude. He said I should dress up as the Scream instead.” 

You look over at the ghost mask - all elongated and scary - and it only sends more tears running down your face. 

“Hey. You can still be a princess if you want to be.” he says. 

“No, I can’t. Because you guys ruined the costume I already did buy. And I don’t have the money for another one because I-I spent my entire allowance on that costume.” 

Satoru pulls out his wallet and brings his hand down to yours, placing the crisp dollar bills in your hand. You look over at him and he’s smiling - the tips of his ears pink. 

“Now you have money for the costume.” 

“There’s still no costume, dumbass.” 

Satoru drags you down the aisle and points at the sparkly yellow dress, his hand now slung around your shoulder again. 

“They still have this one.” 

“Belle? You want me to be Belle?” 

“You’re more of a Belle than Cinderella. Getou’s right in the sense that you’re a little bit too harsh to be a Cinderella type.” 

“Geez. Thanks Satoru.” 

“But you’re smart, ambitious, headstrong enough to be a Belle. Cinderella’s the type of bitch to always back down from a fight. Belle on the other hand fights for what she wants, like you.” 

You look over at him and smile, your heart pounding in your chest as the two of you biking back to the house with the sparkly yellow dress in the bag in between you guys. 

“Just don’t fight to date a literal animal like Belle, okay? That’s bestiality.” 

“Shut up, Satoru.” 

You feel a hand on your head, shaking hard, and grounding you back in the moment. And at your irritation at Getou, who's still hurling insults at you from the other side of the room. 

“She started it, Shoko.” he says. 

“No, I didn’t. You’re the dumbass who-” you start. 

“I’m so fucking sick of you, Y/N. You’re always fucking nagging me in some way or another. You know, I heard you crying the other day about how you’re the only girl in your class who's never had a guy like you. Maybe if you took a look in the fucking mirror you’d realize why. You’re insufferable to be around.” 

You can feel the tears welling in your eyes - hot and angry - as you bolt straight out the door and down the street. You can faintly hear the three of them calling for you, but you reach straight for the bike on the curb and go as far as you can. 

You make your way five blocks down from your house to eventually stop at the lake, resting the bike against the dock before you walk down. You take your shoes off and dip your feet in, watching the sun fall behind the water and the sky turn brilliant, beautiful shades of pink, orange, and yellow. 

And when dark blue starts creeping in, you lay back against the dock and watch the stars trickle into the night sky, hundreds of tiny sparkling lights. Except your view of the sky is then obscured by Satoru’s face, upside down from your vantage point. 

“Hi Belle.” 

“Screw off.” 

He sits down, taking his own shoes off and dipping his feet into the water to lie down next to you. 

“Did you have to take my bike when you ran off? Yours was two feet away from it.” 

“Closest one. Cry about it, Satoru.” 

You both sit in silence, save for the sound of your feet splashing in the water as Satoru breaches the topic. 

“Never had a guy like you, huh?” 

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that? First, you watch Getou literally rip me a new one for no reason and now you’re here to rub it in my face?” 

“You know that wasn’t what I was doing. Have I ever made fun of you like that?” 

You sit up, running your hands through your hair, as you look down at the water, your leg sending ripples far beyond. You swallow hard, the tears rising to your eyes again. 

“No, Satoru. I haven’t had a guy like me like that. I’m the only girl going into senior year who hasn’t been kissed by a guy.” you whisper, the confession making you turn red with embarrassment. 

Satoru sits up, scooting closer to you so your knees are knocking each other, as you both look down at the water. 

“So why’s that a big deal, Y/N? You’ve never cared about what people think, let alone men. I mean, you’re basically a misandrist at this point.” 

You smile, looking over at his blue eyes, almost indiscernible in the dark of the night. 

“It’s a big deal because I want someone to like me. I-I know that you all think I’m mean and I argue all the time and-and whatever, maybe it’s true. But, I want someone to like me. You know, butterflies, first kisses, someone who saves all their secret jokes for you.” 

He puts his hand flat against your forehead, like he’s checking your temperature. 

“You feeling okay? Who are you and what have you done with, Y/N?” 

You shake his hand off, rolling your eyes at him, as you both laugh into the night. 

“You’re so mean, Satoru. I hate you.”

He lifts one of his legs out of the water and turns to his side, so that he’s facing you. You mimic his motions, the look on your face bored as you look over at him. 

“I’m going to tell you something, and it’s going to wound my ego a little bit, so don’t tell anyone okay?” 

“You with a wounded ego? I would live for the day.” 

He lightly nudges you before turning back down to the water, swishing the water with his legs. 

“What you said isn’t true, Belle.” 

“What part?” 

“About going into highschool and not having a guy like you.” 

“That guy who chased me around in first grade doesn’t count because he literally thought I was-” 

He brings his hands down on your face, squishing your cheeks so hard that you can’t get another word out. His eyes are closed, his face only a few feet from yours. 

“Princess, I really, really love it when you argue with me like that but can you please just let me finish?” he whispers, the words sending a shiver down your spine. 

You nod as he lets go, giving you a satisfied smile. He turns his head back to the water, leaning over the dock.

“That guy in first grade did like you. And I like you too.”  

He looks over and smiles and it makes your blood burn. You lift your hands to cover your pink face, the implication of the entire thing making your stomach burn with anxiety, embarrassment, and the gross, mushy gushy feelings you’ve had for Satoru for years. For the boy who always came to your defense when you’re fighting Getou, always came to your aid when you were crying, and the only, only person you’ve never argued with. 

“So quit crying about it, okay? My type has always been girls like you.” 

“Girls like me?” 

“Argumentative.” 

You nod as Satoru stands up, holding his hand out. And ignore the pounding in your chest when his skin touches yours. You both walk your bikes - you pushing his bike and him pushing yours back down the blocks as you cheese at each other in the dark, sharing a secret smile before Satoru ducks back into Getou’s room. 

--

three months later 

You push up on the counter, swirling the cup of lemonade in your hand as you watch everyone mill around the party. 

Your parents went out of town on a business trip. Getou throws the biggest party of the summer. And specifically tells you to stay in your room, because no one likes freshmen at a party. 

Yet here you are, drinking lemonade and watching everyone mill around the party. Getou’s trying too hard to hit on a girl way older than him and Shoko and Utahime are so blatantly flirting that its giving you physical pain to watch them pine the way they are any longer. 

But there’s one person you haven’t seen. Satoru. 

He should have been back from his family trip to Tokyo for the summer since school was starting next week and there’s no way that he would miss anything that Getou and Shoko planned. 

Even the thought of him makes your heart race, his swift admission of his feelings for you that were all but unrequited right before he left. You feel a tap on your shoulder, throwing you out of your thoughts.

“Hey. Can you hand me a cup?” 

You halfheartedly smile as you reach over, handing her a cup from behind you. She gives you a smile as she swirls through the random potion Getou was serving - a dark purple color. You’re sure there’s an unfathomable amount of liquor mixed in and that it tastes disgusting. 

“You want some?” 

“I’m good. Getou poisoned that for all I know.” you mutter, which elicits a laugh from her. 

“Interesting guy. He’s cute, right?” 

You gag, the thought making the lemonade you just drank roll over in your stomach. 

“Disgusting. He’s my older brother.” 

She laughs, pushing up on the counter to sit with you and smiles. 

“My bad. He’s ugly, downright horrendous.” 

“Thank you.” 

You smile as you look over at her, her eyes scanning the mess of people in front of you two. 

“Oh shit. Wait, you’re Y/N, right? Satoru was talking about you.” 

And any good feeling you have is now replaced with a green, jealous monster. And that part of you - the one that argues, the one that feels bitter, anger so powerfully is fighting its way out. 

“Y-yeah. How do you know Satoru?” 

“I don’t. I just met him upstairs. I almost puked in your room but he stopped me, helped me to the bathroom, and held my hair for a while while I threw up.” 

“He’s a real nice guy, isn’t he?” you say, the sarcasm dripping from you voice. 

Of course the asshole shows up to your house and flirts with another girl in your bedroom. Typical. 

“Yeah. Cute too.” 

Just then, Satoru and Getou walked up to you - with complete opposite expressions on their faces. Satoru is shining like the sun, his cheeks tinted pink which you’re sure is from drinking. And Getou’s glaring at you like there’s no tomorrow, his forehead scrunched up in irritation. 

“Y/N.” 

“Getou.” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Lemonade.” 

Getou snatches the cup from your hand and sets it down and by the look on his face, you know he’s about to start a fight with you. 

“Are you fucking dense? That’s not lemonade, dumbass.” 

“Do you think I was born yesterday, idiot? I took it from the unopened bottle in the fridge.” 

“You shouldn’t be here right now. You’re too young to be here.” 

“You’re one year older than me, Getou. And don’t throw a party in my house if you don’t want me here.” 

Satoru puts a hand on Getou’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear until he gives you one last glare and walks away. Satoru gives you a big smile but before he can talk, the girl from before cuts him off. 

“Do you want to dance now? I promise I got all my vomit out earlier so I won’t throw up this time.” 

She gives him a big smile, and you swear Satoru’s considering it by the way he pauses and looks at her, which is enough said for you. You push up off the counter, telling them you’ll be right back and run off to the lake again, this time stealing Getou’s bike from the curb. 

You’re pushing your legs so hard that they’re hurting, the tears biting cold against your skin from how fast you’re going in the middle of the night. And when you make it to the dock, you throw his bike against the grass and angrily kick your shoes off as you start taking your clothes off. 

Is it a good idea to go skinny dipping in the middle of the night, alone? No. But is every human person that would come to this park at the party? Yes. 

Which is the only reason you take the plunge and stare up at the moon, a tiny silver crescent in the sky. You hear a splash behind you after a few minutes and are met with Satoru, wet hair matted on his forehead. 

“Find your own lake, weirdo.” 

“You know. You shouldn’t skinny dip in public. People could see you.” 

You look over to his pile of clothes and shoes, neatly folded in the pile next to yours. 

“Same goes for you, pervert.” 

You roll your eyes at him as you cross your hands across your chest, turning to your back so you don’t have to look at him. He’s faster than you are, because suddenly he’s floating right in front of you, inches from your face. 

“Did I hurt your feelings, princess?”  

“Quit calling me that. It’s disgusting.” 

He brings his hands to your face, pushing away the tangled wet mess of hair on your shoulders. 

“You like it when I call you that.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do, Belle.” 

“Satoru.” 

“I’m not saying my piece till you say yours. And you want to hear mine, so talk.” 

You take a deep breath as you look at his face - all calm and blank faced like he didn’t just do the biggest asshole move he could have. 

“You’re a dick, you know that? First of all, you tell me all this shit about how you like me right before you leave. And then when you come back, the first thing I see is you talking to another girl? You were holding her hair in the bathroom, fondling god knows what in my bedroom and now you want to come here and skinny dip with me? I am not some consolation prize you get to have because she was bored of those ugly pool noodle dance moves you have and don’t ever think for a second that I will be.” 

You finish, your chest heaving and a shiver running across your body from the cold water. And instead of a sincere, kind-hearted apology, an acknowledgement of what he did - Satoru Gojo is laughing in your face. 

You reach forward to smack his face and he stops your hand in the air, tangling his fingers with yours. 

“You’re so ridiculous, you know that?” 

“You’re so fucking r-” 

“Fondling? Pool noodle? Where do you even come up with this stuff?” 

He brings his hands up to your cheeks and leans your head forward, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead. You can feel your head short circuiting at the sensation, your arms tingling from how close he is. 

“You’re so, so ridiculous you know that? I’m never going to get tired of you.” he whispers, the words making your hair stand on their ends. 

“What-you can’t just say that and-” 

“Why do you think I was in your room?” 

“What?” 

“I was in your room, because I was looking for you. And I thought I was being nice by stopping that girl from puking all over your sheets - because I know you hate laundry and Getou isn’t going to do it for you - so I took her to the bathroom.” 

You can feel the embarrassment rushing to your face for misreading the situation entirely, taking the palms of your hands and rubbing them into your eye sockets. He laughs as he tangles his hands around your wrists, placing them around his own neck. 

“Still the only senior who hasn’t been kissed yet?” 

“Huh?” 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. When I saw you last. Are you still the only senior who hasn’t been kissed yet?” 

“Oh. Oh, yeah. But I-” 

“Good.” 

He leans forward, tangling his hands around your waist as he presses his warm lips to yours, his hands squeezing you as he laughs into your mouth. You don’t have much to compare it to, but by the way he’s hanging off your lips, you can tell he’s eager. Way too eager - to be kissing you of all things. 

“Satoru.” 

“Hm?” 

“I like you too.” 

His face breaks out into a smile, so big that it makes you smile too. And when he cups his hand around your face again to kiss the tip of your nose, you can feel your insides screaming. For him. 

“No telling Getou. He’s going to kill me, okay?” 

“As if. He literally hates me, he’d be glad if-” 

“No. He can’t know. You-you’re his little sister. If he finds out I even looked at you this way, he-he’d end me where I stand. Trust me, Belle. If I break my promise, he'll never talk to me again.” 

“What promise?” 

“When we were little. He made me promise I wouldn’t like you.” 

“And yet here you are. Naked in a lake with me.” 

“You like to argue. I like to break rules. We all have our vices, princess.” 

You lean into his touch again, pressing your lips against his, as the moon shines a bright light on the two of you in the dark. 

--

four months later 

You and Getou awkwardly stand in the kitchen, by the open bottles of champagne, as you both secretly circle the glasses behind your back. Getou has his moments - and this is one of them. When your parents put you on display like shiny trophies for their coworkers, bragging about how smart the two of you are.

“You decided where you’re going yet?” 

“Tokyo or Kyoto, Toto.” 

“Toto. Ew. You haven’t called me that since we were little, idiot.” 

He brings his hand around your shoulder, tucking you into his arm as you lean against his shoulder, smiling. After Getou really realized you’d be leaving at the end of the year, he’s been nicer. Granted, he still fights like hell but he has his odd moments. Like this one. 

“You’ll always be Get-toto to me.” 

“I’ll get you a little Totoro plushie before you go, okay? So when those bastards you date fight with you, you’ll always be reminded you have a little bitch in you ready to fight.” 

“Why are you praying for my downfall? You’re not gonna manifest a sweet, warm love for me?” 

“Please. The guy you end up with will be all fireworks. Soft fireplace love has never been your thing.” 

He ruffles your hair as Satoru walks up, his tie loosened already. He gives you a smile and then shakes hands with Getou, the three of you leaning against the granite countertops, watching your parents mingle through the crowd. 

“D’you pick yet? Because Tokyo’s the right choice, Belle.” 

“I’m still thinking, Satoru.” 

“C’mon. Imagine it - you joining me and Getou in Tokyo. It would be really fun.” 

Satoru’s just trying to piss you off. He knows that you’ve already picked Tokyo, because it means you don’t have to long distance date anymore. No more driving up to see each other in between, getting pulled away from each other by the constraints of time or distance or really anything else. 

One of the smaller girls at the party tugs the end of your dress, whispering in her ear that she wants warm milk, which you happily oblige with. Satoru and Getou stay in their spots as you start rummaging through the kitchen, picking out a little glass and warming up the milk for her. 

“Honey?” 

“Yes, love?” Satoru responds, turning his gaze over to you. 

You feel your eyes widen and Satoru’s face turn red as he looks over at you, realizing you were asking the girl if she wanted honey in her milk and not calling him. You both look over to Getou, who has a very strange look on his face that you can’t really discern. 

Fuck. 

You hand the girl her milk and stand farthest away from Satoru, giving Getou a weak smile as you all stare at the party again. 

“Look. It’s Shayla.” 

You and Satoru crane your necks over the other side of the room, one of your neighbors daughters saying hello to all the guests. Which you’re sure you’re getting to get a lecture about now, since you didn’t want to spend the time saying hi to all of them. 

“Remember when you had a really big crush on her, Satoru? Since we were kids?” 

“Uh, yeah. But I was just really little, y’know.” 

You can feel your throat drying as Getou pushes on, each word making your heart burn in your chest. 

“Yeah, but. She was basically your first love. Who forgets that? Who compares to that?” 

“I don’t know if I would say she was my first l-” 

“Then who is, Satoru? Because it’s not my sister, right?” he asks, his voice firm. 

Satoru said that he would tell Getou when you officially announced you were going to Tokyo. Because once you lived in the same city, nothing would stop you from being with him - not even his best friend. 

“No, no, why would it be her? She’s been annoying us since we were little, arguing with us and all that. You-you’re right. It is her. Shayla’s always been my type.” he says, his gaze lowering to the floor. 

You feel your heart sink, twist into a jumbled mess as Getou smiles and gestures for her to come over. There’s a fair amount of protests from Satoru as she walks over, which you know is him trying to save face. He deals his final blow the second she walks up, definitively and wholly breaking your heart into pieces. 

When Getou starts setting the two of them up. When Satoru actually takes her number down. When she presses a kiss to his cheek and winks before she walks away. 

“I have to pee, Toto. Cover for me?�� 

“Yeah, got it.” 

And the second you walk away and Getou watches you wipe the tears from your face as you walk past, Getou knows he’s right. 

“Getou. You have to-” 

“No, Satoru. Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Wait, what- you can’t just-” 

“She’s my little sister. She’s not some toy you get to play around with till you figure out how you feel. And you don’t get to embarrass her by hiding her away either.” 

“We were going to tell you when she told you she’s going to Tokyo. You-you’re the reason I hid her away. I’ve liked her for years and I put that away because you didn’t want me with her. And now I-” 

“Don’t blame your shortcomings on me. Even if you did have to hide it in front of me, I would never call the girl I loved annoying to her face and throw everything she’s hated about herself in her face to make a point.” 

“I didn’t- Getou you’re the one who made her hate that about herself and-” 

“You love her?” 

“Obviously. Why would I go to the trouble of hiding something when-” 

“Talk to her again and I will literally break your face. In what world do you treat someone you love like that?” 

As Satoru watches Getou walk away and thinks about how hard you’re crying upstairs, he realizes he’s in his worst nightmare. Losing his best friend and the girl he loved on the same day. 

You and Satoru make promises that day. 

He promises that he’ll wear his heart on his sleeve from this day forward. You promise that you’ll tuck your heart away where no one can ever touch it again. 

--

present day 

“You’re no fun, Y/N.” Itadori says, pushing the paper into your space. 

“And you suck at tic-tac-toe.” you respond, sliding it back. 

Nobara and Megumi laugh as the three of you sink back into your chairs in the back of the conference room, your marketing manager droning on about stocks, the future of the company, and god knows what as you try to drone him out and focus on winning your seventh round of tic-tac-toe with Itadori. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t take much. 

“And lastly, we’ve employed a new marketing manager to work with the sales team. The four of you back there can decide who he’s going to be working with for onboarding.” says Ijichi. 

You nod as the four of you turn to each other, matching smirks on your face. 

“Rock paper scissors?” Nobara asks. 

“Deal.” 

It’s not that you’d hate to work with the new marketing manager. But the past three marketing managers were driven out by the end of the month because of you guys.

Megumi was too harsh with the first girl, who left crying when he asked her if she got her marketing degree from a trash can. Nobara drove the second guy away when she found out he chewed too loudly while eating lunch, claiming that he wasn’t a good fit for the company. And Itadori drove the last girl away, because she fell in love with him and he didn’t return her feelings, which made her resign the next day. 

“You know, logically. It’s your turn.” Megumi says, holding his fist up to Itadori. 

“Nope. We honor the rock paper scissors tournament in this friendship. 

You mince your words four rounds later because you’re the pouty loser getting stuck with the stupid marketing manager. You slide back into your chair as you massage your temples, preparing yourself for the upcoming headache for the next month. 

Either a lover, an incompetent idiot, or a loud chewer. 

Nobara and Itadori sling their hands around your shoulders, pinching your cheeks, as Ijichi swings the door open and the marketing manager walks in. He readjusts his tie - loosely hanging from his neck - and when you lift your head to actually make eye contact with him, you immediately sit up in your chair, your skin burning. 

Because Satoru Gojo is no longer six thousand miles away in Tokyo - out of sight and out of mind. He’s three feet away from you - taller, older, and more attractive than the time you saw him last. 

Everyone files out of the conference room, leaving the two of you standing miles away from each other, with you refusing to meet his eye. He walks up and holds his hand out, a shy smile on his face. 

“Satoru Gojo.” 

You put your hand in his - the touch warm, soft, all the way you remembered it. 

“Y/N L/N.” you respond, mimicking his voice. 

“Y/N, huh? You look more like a Belle to me.” he responds, smirking as he walks out to your cubicle labeled right across. 

You stomp right out, following him into your cubicle, as he takes the seat across from yours and starts eating the candy in your jar. You roll your eyes as you smack his hand, the smile on his face so big it's pissing you off. 

“Just so you know, there’s a very notorious reputation for running out the idiot who takes your position. And trust me, I’ll have you out by the end of the week.” 

“Is that a challenge, princess?” 

“You can’t flirt with me. I’m technically your boss, Satoru.” 

“You like to argue. I like to break rules. We all have our vices, princess.” he says, sticking one of your caramel candies in your mouth before pushing off your desk and making his way down the other side of the office. 

Six hours later, you’re face planting into the table at dinner, the words echoing through your mind. Along with all the memories you buried deep, deep down and tried to forget. Of running off to the lake all summer, Satoru washing your hair softly in the showers after, of nestling up in his arms to call it a day. 

Of Satoru rubbing circles into your back every time you fought with someone, of you kissing him after every fight he had with his dad, of whispering I love you against each other's lips like it was a sacred oath. 

“You look horrible.” Megumi says, sharing a judgemental look with Itadori. 

“Shut up.” 

“It’s just one of those lame interns. Just do what Nobara did - say he smells bad.”  Itadori responds, the three of them laughing. 

You dig your forehead into your forearms, only lifting your head to drink more of Itadori’s beer, as the thoughts race through your head. 

In all honesty, the problem has always been easy to avoid. Two years ago, Satoru smashed your heart into tiny pieces. You decided that you wouldn’t go to Tokyo or Kyoto like you planned and picked up everything and moved to New York instead. 

You didn’t say goodbye. To him or to anyone. Your parents drove you to the airport and Getou gave one of those weird, repressed older brother hugs and then you turned on your heel and never went back. 

You have a nice job. Friends who love you. Your dating life is abysmal at most - a long stream of guys you’ve ghosted, fought, and broken up with. Unfazed, unperturbed - calm, cool, and collected. 

It doesn’t bother you. Because you stuck by your promise. That you’ll tuck your heart away where no one can touch it. But it only takes five minutes of interaction with him and you can feel the concrete walls around your heart turning into clay, softened by the sweetness he’s always possessed, the softness he’s always shared with you. 

You have to drive him out of here as fast as you can. 

--  

Seven weeks later and Satoru remains at the company, steadfast and true. 

It drives you crazy, having him around. So up in your space, his smell lingering in your cubicle even after he walks away. He makes stupid jokes that make you smile so hard that you’re fighting the tears in your eyes and flirts with no shame like it’s breathing air. 

All in all, he’s everything you loved about Satoru, in your head again. In an even more attractive body, because of course time is nice to the asshole and he’s fit in all the right places. 

You ignore him the best you can, until you can’t anymore. 

You make it down to the parking lot, your high heels in your hand as you unlock your car and start loading your stuff into the trunk. 

That’s when you see him, slumped against his car with the hood popped open, with a very, very confused look on his face. You clear your throat loudly, which catches his attention. 

“Oh. Heading out late, Y/N?” 

“Looks like it. You?” 

“Ah. I actually meant to leave early today but my car hasn’t been starting so.” 

You take one look at his pouty face and give in. You slam the trunk of your car shut and whisper the words out, so fast that you can’t even think to regret them. 

“Get in the car.” 

“Huh?” 

“Get in the car, Satoru. Unless you want to stay here for the rest of the weekend, then be my guest.” 

He gives you the brightest smile you’ve seen as he all but jogs over and settles into the front seat of your car, slumping down in the seat that’s pushed all the way up. You back up out of the parking garage as he plugs in the address for his apartment, a modest thirty minutes away from the office. 

“You know, you can move the chair back. I’m not going to bite your head off if you do.” 

He laughs and you see his shoulders deflate as he adjusts the seat, his long legs now spread in the open compartment underneath him. 

“What a shame. I’m into that type of thing, Y/N.” 

“Always the perverted one, weren’t you?” you respond, smiling over at him. 

Stop it, Y/N. Stop it. 

“Who the hell sits up here anyway? A toddler?” 

“Oh. It was just this guy I was talking to. He was really short but he always felt the need to monitor my driving so he pulled the seat all the way up to watch the lines.” you respond, turning left onto the street. 

“Ah. One of your many romantic escapades, so I’m told. I’ve heard you’ve become quite the player, Y/N.” he says, leaning against the glass. 

“Learned from the best, Satoru. Except this time, I don’t get overinvolved.” you respond. 

He laughs, leaning back in the chair as you both fall into a comfortable silence, the tension hanging in the air eating at your skin. It hangs in the air, like an embarrassing elephant in the room. 

Satoru’s the one who pokes it. 

“Then, you should get involved with me. Again.” 

You keep your promises to yourself. But Satoru keeps his too. An oath to wear his heart on his sleeve is translated into him fighting to get you back. 

You slam the breaks so hard that his forehead goes straight into the sun visor, a groan leaving his mouth. You apologize and immediately reach forward, cupping the side of his face and eyeing the angry red mark on his forehead. 

“Yikes. I’m sorry, Cyclops. That caught me off guard.” 

“Be careful, there. Almost thought you cared for a second.” he says, smirking. 

You park the car in front of his apartment and look out the window, the words making your head spin. 

“You know, I can tell you want to.” he says.

You turn around and frown, reaching forward to flick into the soft skin of his cheek. 

“Please. You’re not even all that-” 

“You brushed your hand against mine when we walked to the conference room. I caught you staring at me during the company lunch on Thursday. And I know you just stopped talking to the short guy because Itadori told me. What’s the worst that could happen?”  

--

The worst has happened. Because for the second time, you are irrevocably and deeply in love with Satoru Gojo. 

Maybe you never stopped. 

Just like you were when you were seven, you’re incredibly drawn to him, like two magnets being pulled together. What was supposed to be one date, one lousy hookup like every other guy you’ve talked to in the past year turned into a complicated, mushy gushy feelings mess. 

You stayed over at his house that night. But then he was shirtless, singing in the kitchen as he made you breakfast in bed the next morning. And little by little, he’s crawled into every little part of your life. 

He insists on driving you to work, buying you a sugary overpriced latte you would never splurge on for yourself and a pastry to go with it on the way. He claims he doesn’t want any but reaches over the seat to take a bite and then press a chocolatey kiss to your lips. 

He hangs out with you and your friends after work. And like always, he always backs you up in the thousands of petty arguments he has with each of them and then tells you that it turns him on when he drives you home. 

He draws little shapes into your skin every night, asking you to guess the little drawings he’s making while his soft, smooth voice lulls you to sleep. And when you wake up, you can’t help but watch him, the little freckles he had when he was seventeen still the same. 

It makes your heart warm. The soft feelings you’ve always had for him, they make you warm. 

Which is why you curse yourself for ever thinking things could be different, when he drops the ball three months later.  

“Can you drive me to the airport on Friday, princess?” he asks, his breaths tickling your nose. 

“Where are you going, Toru?” you murmur, burrowing yourself deeper into his skin. 

“Home. The job posting was temporary, remember?” he responds, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

“Oh. Are- you’re not going to look for a job here?’ 

“Nah. Time’s up right?” he says, the question hanging in the air. 

And when you wake up the next morning, to find him in your kitchen with a bowl of cereal all poured out for you and a bouquet of flowers, you can’t help but yell at him. After the shit he pulled last night. 

“You should probably go to your apartment and pack your stuff up. Since you’re leaving tomorrow.” 

“We can do it tomorrow, Belle. Most of my stuff is here anyway.” he says, holding the bowl close to his mouth as he leans over the counter. 

“I can’t take you tomorrow. Megs said he will so you can ask him for help. He-he’s actually on his way now to get you.” you murmur, crossing your hands against your chest. 

He frowns, coming up close to you to wrap his arms around you which you quickly side shuffle out of. You push past him and walk into the kitchen, clutching the countertop hard. Satoru smiles to himself before he turns around, knowing he’s won the war. 

“Do you want me to stay, Belle?” 

You roll your eyes, the audacity of him even suggesting that just pissing you off more. Irritated, because of course he said that. Agitated, because he can read you like a book. 

“No, Satoru. Go home.” 

“You sure? Because it seemed like-” 

“Do you really think it would bother me if you left, Satoru? Do you really think you’re different from any other guy I talked to?” 

Satoru frowns, the angry look on your face the opposite of the love-struck, warm confession he was expecting. But then again, this was you. Argumentative to your core - so he just needs to wrangle it out of you. 

“I know I’ve been here longer than the rest of them, that’s for sure.” 

“And do you think that makes you special, Satoru? Do you sincerely, genuinely think any of that means I would want you to stay right now?” 

“Well, wait- I’m not just any other guy now, you and I, we-” 

“We what? Have history? A long term fling doesn’t make us soulmates, Satoru.” 

“That wasn’t a fling. You and I were-” 

“You and I were no different than what we are now, Satoru. You should have known to not get over involved. I told you from the start that this is how it would be. You leaving didn’t faze me the first time and it won’t faze me the second time either, sweetheart.” 

Satoru moves past you, yanking his hoodie on and grabbing his key off the hook as he swings the door open. And when he shuts the door behind you, his tear-stained face being the last thing you see, you sink onto the floor and can’t help but sob. 

For the first boy you ever loved. Who burned you so bad, that you burned him too. Who soothed over every angry, irritating, argumentative part of you, until it was something you unleashed on him too. 

You wonder why you let yourself into these sinkholes in the first place. 

--

“Hey, man. Have a safe flight home, okay? It was nice getting to know you.” Itadori says, lugging the last of Satoru’s luggage out of the back. 

Satoru gives Itadori one last hug before Megumi starts lugging his bags into the terminal with him, the intense feelings from the day prior still hanging on his chest. 

“You-you’ll take care of her right? After I’m gone?” Satoru asks, as he pulls into the line. 

“Who?” 

“Y/N.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I will. This time around though, I’m not letting Itadori and Nobara invite her to the bar.” 

Satoru smiles, the thought of you drunk, making his heart ache. One of his many favorite sights is you on your fourth glass of wine - when your lips are all pink and when you climb all over him, whispering the corniest, cheesiest things that come to mind. 

“Princess. You’re kind of cutting off my circulation here.” 

“Sss-sorry, Satoru. Wanted to get closer.” you whisper, tangling your arms around his neck and readjusting in his lap. 

“What’s closer than this princess? You’re literally on top of me right now.” he responds, cupping your face to push the hair away from your face. 

“Not close enough.” 

“The only thing closer than this is if you crawled into my skin and became a part of my bloodstream.” 

“Is there a way to do that? Because I would.” 

“You wanna be that close to me, huh princess?” 

“Even when I’m sitting right next to you, right on top of you, literally skin to skin - I still can’t get enough of you. I want to be this close, all the time.” 

Satoru shakes the memory from his mind as the people behind him gesture him to move forward in line, his heart hanging heavier in his chest. 

“She always drinks too much, doesn’t she?” he says. 

“Well, yeah. It’s usually funny. But now she’s going to go back into her moping, angsty teenager phase for the next seven months. I’ll probably be dragging her out of that bar on her legs, for all I know.” 

“Y/N? Angsty? That’s real funny.” 

“No, I’m telling you. When we first met her, all this girl did was cry in the bar. Her sadness was like…contagious or whatever it was making me depressed. One time she sang All Too Well, on the countertop while sobbing until the bartender literally had to kick her ass out.” 

“The first guy she dated when she moved here was that bad, huh?” 

“No. Itadori and Nobara have this running theory, they’ve been trying to figure out who he is for a while. The one thing we know for sure is that he’s definitely from her hometown and that she broke up with him right before she moved here.” 

And that’s when Satoru gets it. That you’re a goddamn liar. And that you definitely did want him to stay. 

Satoru does the only thing he can. Drops everything and runs straight out the airport to make his way back to your apartment. He’ll be damned if he makes the same mistake twice. 

--

You look up from your spot, sprawled on the cold tiles of your kitchen floor, when you hear a key turn in the lock. You immediately sit up to find Satoru, an almost angry look on his face, when he storms in and bends down in front of you. 

“Forget your diapers, grandpa?” 

“Shut up, Y/N.” 

“It’s a long flight. You don’t want to have an accident do you?” 

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, squishing hard so you can’t get another word. And what he says next, the same words he uttered to you in that stupid lake, sober you u pearl fast. 

“Princess, I really, really love it when you argue with me like that but can you please just let me finish?” 

You swallow hard as he gives you a satisfied smile, giving him a soft nod. 

“Do you want me to stay?” 

“God, Satoru. Just quit it with this shit, I already told you no and I mean-” 

“You also told me that it didn’t faze you when we broke up the first time. But then I find out, you were slurring my name in bars and crying about it for months.” 

“So? Do you want a cookie or something?” 

“So you’re a liar. And now I want to know the truth. Do you want me to stay?” 

His eyes are burning, bigger than you’ve ever seen them. The gaze itself is piercing, making the ends of your hair stand up on your arms and legs. You shake his hand off your face as you stand up, scrambling to the other side of the kitchen. 

“I don’t want you to stay.” 

“Yes, you do. You’re lying, Y/N.” 

“No, I’m not. One measly piece of information my friends mention in passing doesn’t mean it’s about you, Satoru.” 

He brings his hands around your wrist, curling his fingers around the skin and squeezing twice. 

“I made the dumbest mistake of my life. I had an opportunity, a real one to be honest about how I felt and I fucked it up, okay? I’ve regretted it every day since you walked away. You were going to go to school - with me. We were going to be together. But then you picked up everything and move to the other side of the fucking planet to halfheartedly date all these guys without a care in the world.” 

“What does stating facts do for you, Satoru? What is it you want me to say?” 

“You know what I want to hear. Say it, Belle.” 

“What? That I left because of you? That I loved you so much that it made my heart hurt? That every second I’m around you it only feels like my love gets bigger for you? That the only person I can’t bring myself to get over is you? Because what does me saying that do for me because you’re just going to-” 

Satoru smiles before he closes the space between you, pushing you into the counter and cradling your cheeks in his hand. He’s leaning into the kiss, so hard that you can feel almost his entire body weight on you as his lips press against yours. 

He’s shaking hard and smiling into the kiss, pulling you back in every time you try to stop, his hands running in your hair as he laughs into your mouth. 

“Was it so hard to tell me that you wanted me to stay?” he whispers, giggling into your ear as he presses kisses into your neck. 

“Was it so hard to tell me you wanted to? You just had to come have this big moment with me here when-” 

“Yes, I did. You deserved a big, lengthy love confession when you were seventeen, at that stupid party. I’m trying to do right by you through this dramatic shit now.” 

“Because this is doing right by me? Making me cry and then running back?” 

“It’s romantic, princess. I ran out of an airport for you.” 

“After we argued. That kind of puts a damper on it.” 

“Oh, shut up. You know argumentative girls have always been my thing.” 

You place your hands around his face, yanking his head out of the crook of your neck as you hold his face in your hands, the skin soft. He still has all the little freckles, the same eyes and nose that you loved when you were seventeen. 

That you love. You love him. 

“Satoru.” 

“Yeah?” 

“How did you get a key to my house?” 

He rolls his eyes as he breaks out of your hold, sticking his tongue out at you. 

“That would have been a really sweet moment for a confession. You ruined it, princess.” 

You smile as you make your way into his arms again, looking up at him from his hold. 

“I made a copy of your key, Y/N.” 

“That’s illegal, Toru. Breaking and entering.” 

“You like to argue. I like to break rules. Everyone has their vices.” 

You bring your hands back up to his cheeks again, the smile on your face hurting your cheeks as you press a kiss to the side of his cheek. 

“Isn’t love the greatest vice, Toru?” you whisper. 

“Maybe for me. Every normal thing hits different when it comes to you.” he says, closing the space between you two again.

--

the satoru as taylor swift songs series masterlist

taglist: @porridgesblog @k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @squirrelspoetry

[chaoticrebels]

You might fall in love when you meet her/him If you get the chance, you better keep her/him She's/he’s sweet as pie, but if you break her/his heart She’ll/he’ll turn cold as ice

[cupidthingz]

What’s it like having them as siblings?

Cast: Anastacius

Warnings: Siblings being annoying as usual.

Anastacius [Older]

Okay straight up he’s an asshole if you’re the younger sibling. Dude is gonna bully you like he’s the kind of sibling that would smack you across the head while your just doing your own thing and then both of y’all start an outright brawl in which you win obviously. (I have the feeling he’s the type to start fights and not finish them.)

If we’re talking about modern AU if you’re going to schools and stuff it’s going to be a private school cause ✨money✨ no one would know you’re related. It might either be because both of you look totally different and act differently from each other or nobody really asked if one of you had siblings.

He’s a caring brother but being an asshole comes first👍

“Hey y/n I bought ice cream!” Anastacius yelled from downstairs as he munched on the delicious and cold treat, as the air conditioner barely kept the room cold in the hot summer.

“Coming!” You barreled downstairs. “Okay where’s mine?” You asked noticing the absence of another ice cream neither in the bag nor in his hands other than the one he’s eating.

“Who said I bought you one?” He smiled innocently. “I just announced I bought ice cream.”

“You’re the literal worst.” You snapped at him as you turn to walk away back to your room. Something cold tapped on your head.

“Just kidding~ I bought some for the two of you.”

“You still suck by the way.”

“Oh you don’t want it? It’s fine I’ll eat it I was hungry for seconds anyways~”

“No you will not!”

He’ll totally spy on you if you go on a date with someone. Que a montage of him following you around in terrible disguises as he pulls Claude along for the shenanigans cause he didn’t have anything better to do but secretly he’s also making sure they pass the vibe check. Or they’re getting vibe checked if you know what I mean

If your significant other breaks your heart he’s going to comfort you while also simultaneously plotting their demise with Claude just doing some friendly research on the best ways to hide a body results were inconclusive.

Anastacius loves his two younger siblings. Even if he’s annoying, steals your stuff, eat your food, smacks you for no reason, leaves your door open after he enters your room for nothing. He loves you and it’s honestly a surprise he’s still standing without being bitch slapped but dw Penelope did it for you that one time

Anastacius [Younger]

If you’re the older sibling of this little demon, good luck with the random spurts of heart attacks. He was and still is the major cause of your grey hairs.

With his seemingly innocent face no one would suspect his extremely reckless ploy of getting back at other people for various reasons. The little shit holds grudges just like your youngest sibling.

He is a lot more sociable! He’s the social butterfly in the family but more of like a moth with his attraction to anything that might possibly lead him to be in a coffin. It’s just cause he trusts you and he knows you’ll always have his back thus the grey hairs.

“I feel like jumping.”

“And I’d kill you myself if you don’t die on impact.”

“Where would we all be if siblings don’t constantly threaten each other with murder?”

“A utopian civilization, with unicorns.”

“Take a joke will ya- wooahh-”

You pulled him back by the collar of his shirt before he fell off from the window frame.

“Aaand this is why I told you to get off of it.”

“But then how would I be able to aim clearly at the Principal’s head?” He says as he check up on his little weapon which is a sling shot big enough to fit a pie with filling made with things not so very sweet.

“And thus begins the tale of how y/n and Anastacius got expelled.”

“Well school can’t be for everyone can it?” He quipped mischievously.

“You- we shouldn’t be doing this Ana.”

“We shouldn’t be doing most things but look how far humanity has come because of it.”

He is more of the bad influence than you are as you can see, and he can be truly wonderful at convincing others to get on with his shenanigans. Just look at his senior Alpheus even he got roped into his little schemes.

I think he’d be more chill if you start dating anyone he trusts you can make the right choices in relationships. You literally took care of him and if both of you can survive that, you’re pretty much ready for anything.

But wait you’re heartbroken? Ice creams and cakes galore! But excuse me- I gotta take this for a minute. Oh! You mean there’s a body-

Overall he’s a cheeky little shit and you’re on 24 hours baby sitting duty even as adults.

He was the one who called you for advice when he had Jeanette. But that story is for another time~

 ★彡 Banana.Milkshake

[etherealeeknow]

the fwb rules

• rated m for mature

• pairing: fwb!hyunjin x fem!reader

• wc: 4.559

• tw: explicit language, light characterization of an insecure reader, unprotected piv sex (stay safe, lovelies!), fingering & oral (f), nipple play, cream pie— i think that’s all, please do tell me if you find more c:

• note: last time i said long fic isn’t my forte and this time i’ll still say the same hahahahaha. but still, i hope i don’t disappoint 🥺 please kindly note that english isn’t my first language. therefore, i apologize for any mistakes. feedbacks are always appreciated because i’d love to grow! thank you for waiting and enjoy 💞 pretty banner made by my bestie!! ilysm 😽😽😽

• tag list: @charlieshelves @es-kay-zee @formidxble @oh-my-sparkle @bobateastay @http-hyxnjxn @lyralurexrattle @hyunsluvv @healinghyunjin @sailorhyunjinz

—

what happened to the rules?

it didn’t start off like this. you can’t remember when exactly you started wondering about the five word question. all you know is that you were one bite away from gobbling a spoonful of jisung’s ice cream when it struck you: since when did you and hyunjin stop going by the rules? he’s been occasionally texting you out of the blue lately just to know what you’re up to, and today he even asked you to stay the night at his, and as much as you want to believe they’re all normal, again, it didn’t start off like this. from the beginning, you and hyunjin have come up with three rules so your relationship can work: one, be very casual. two, no strings attached. three, no fucks given outside of the, well, literal fucking. but look at you now, lying naked and out of breath under his blanket while facing his ceiling, driving yourself insane over the haunted question. you have to get it off your chest somehow, but how? 

“hey, why so serious?” asks the culprit behind your overthinking, causing you to jump slightly over his sudden appearance and your hands instinctively pull up the blanket to cover your naked chest, which as a result, makes him chuckle. cute. “here. it’s my cousin’s,” adds the topless man as he sits on the edge of the bed and hands you a white shirt that even under the dim light, you can already tell won’t fit you.

“your cousin? the model? hyunjin, she’s tiny,” you utter, hands still gripping onto the blanket. “i’m—“

“you,” he cuts you off, placing a hand on top of yours while carefully glancing at you to make sure you there aren’t any signs of discomfort. “are fine, y/n. now hurry up. i’m sleepy,” he adds before letting go, leaving behind a lingering warmth on your knuckles.

nodding, you turn your back on him to change, and the room falls silent, causing you to hear how fast your heart is thumping even more than it should have. is it because you had too much coffee this morning? or it can probably be because the shirt is too tight that it’s cutting off your air circulation, right? right, of course. you tell yourself because as much as you dislike both reasons, they are still far better than having hyunjin as the cause.

once you’re done, hyunjin already has his back lying against the bedhead, his head tilting slightly to the side, avoiding the light coming from the night lamp on the bedside table, while his eyes bore deeply into yours. unbothered that he’s been caught staring, he averts his gaze downwards till they reach your chest and spot how your nipples are sticking out through the thin fabric.

“see? it fits you just fine,” he says, turning his vision back to your face as he opens his arms and motions them at you, only to have you remain in the same position with your increasing heartbeat.

“aren’t you gonna, uh, wear something?”

instead of a proper answer, all you get is his laugh—hyunjin’s contagious laugh that usually always succeeds in making you laugh too. but today hits differently. has his laugh always sounded this lighthearted before? no matter what the answer is, one thing for sure is that despite how sweet hwang hyunjin and his laugh are, they have never made your cheeks burn like this before, and this is forbidden. it’s against the rules.

“an hour ago we were naked while sucking each other’s face, y/n,” he finally answers after a while. “besides, i always sleep like this. now, come on,” he adds, repeating the same gesture, except this time his hands are open wider, eager to have you near him again because the space around him is starting to make him feel lonely.

complying with him, you fall into his embrace and hyunjin immediately lets his hands travel to the exact places of where they want to be—one around your head and the other around your waist. despite the room turning less cold with his warmth directly passing onto you, your heart and cheeks conditions remain the same especially since you can hear how hyunjin’s heartbeats are beating just as fast as yours when he lets you lay your head on his chest.

“hyunjin,” you call out, hands fiddling with the collar of your shirt.

“y/n,” he replies, replacing the collar with his fingers instead, intertwining them with yours.

what happened to the rules?

“do... do fwb do these?” you ask, the bravery in you finally decide to show up, even just for a little.

“do this?” he asks back while squeezing your hand with all his might, as if he’s nervous.

no. not ‘this’, but ‘these’. not only the hand grabbing, but also the fact that he asked you to stay the night, that he’s cuddling you to sleep, and that you’ve been getting unusual symptoms over them until this very moment.

“yes, this,” you nod and hyunjin becomes muted, but his heartbeats are growing louder, and his grip on you has become tighter.

after what feels like forever, he whispers, voice slightly cracking, and hands getting a little colder, “yes. yes, they do.”

then the two of you become muted, but both heartbeats keep growing louder, and everything stays that way until sleep eventually takes over.

—

as a homebody, you’ve always against the idea of sleepovers. you believe home is the sweetest place and your own bed is the comfiest even when your mattress is older than a decade and your favorite plushie has had too many holes here and there. but waking up in hyunjin’s bed has broken your stigma—never in your whole life that you’d have thought someone else’s bed can provide you twice the comfort.

“looks like someone had a good sleep,” chirps jisung as he sits beside you, causing you to wipe off the smile on your face before going back to your laptop.

“wow suddenly my best friend’s a psychic?”

“hey, that’d actually make a great drama title!” he exclaims and you roll your eyes. “please do spill the tea though. what happened?” he adds.

“what happened?” you ask back, eyes still on the screen, but the corner of your lips are on the verge of breaking into the smile, knowing full well he’ll complain—which he does by lamely calling you a meanie.

laughing, you tell him nothing happened, but the way he rolls his eyes is a sign he’s not taking any of your bullshit. you are telling the truth though. besides spending the night with each other, nothing really happened, right? it was just another casual fucking session. yes, it was amazing, but that’s no news for jisung. the guy’s practically your wingman—setting you up with hyunjin was his idea because he believes you should, “live your life. have that dreamy college sex orelse you’ll regret it like my old man changbin!”

right on cue, a notification popped out on your big screen, and the sender’s name makes your heart pop too.

“aha, see!” jisung points at it. “y/n, where are you?” he reads out loud, earning yourselves all the eyes from every other student in class.

“oh my god, jisung. shut up!” right when you’re about to log out from the chat app, hyunjin sends another one.

“can i call you?” jisung reads once more and you’re only one second away from smacking his head, but your vibrating phone holds you back.

shooting jisung a glare, you make sure to close your laptop before leaving the class, answering hyunjin’s call even when you’re still half way through the door. right when you’re about to greet him hello, hyunjin beats you to it—his voice a bit raspy, but the softness in his tone still lies within, and it creates endless questions in your mind.

has he just woken up? so is this how he sounds in the morning? why is he calling?

and the list goes on because this isn’t like hyunjin at all. sure, he’s not validating the rules, but he’s breaking his character despite already alarming you to anticipate morning booty calls from him at times. he’s never actually done that though. 

“hi,” you reply, startling yourself with how small your voice came out.

“you left,” says hyunjin and you can hear him sighing from the other line, which somehow causes a slight pang in your heart, wondering if perhaps he is disappointed. “can you come back? wait, actually, let me go to you instead.” he says and you can hear the rustling sounds coming from his side.

“hyunjin, i have class. that’s why i left. i—” should you apologize? but why should you? casual, no strings attached, and no fucks given, remember? “i’m sorry.”

“oh.” hyunjin stops on his track before plopping back down onto the bed, smiling. “i’ll pick you up after class then. when will you finish?”

unconsciously, a smile creeps up your face too, but the realization hits you right after, then followed by the five word question, and you know—you know this is your guts telling you that now’s the time to ask him about it, but your heart hates confrontation. plus, wouldn’t it be rude to reply to someone else’s question with a question? “hyunjin, are you, uh, horny?”

just like yesterday, hyunjin laughs, and with the raspiness in his voice still present, he doesn’t fail to make you laugh along, but at the same time waking the butterflies in your stomach and makes you rethink your decision. mayhaps, you should’ve left him a note or told him that you’ll leave early in the morning; or even, you should’ve ditched classes today and stayed so when he wakes up, you can get him a glass of water, not leaving the boy uncared for like this. but who are you to do so? 

“isn’t it normal for a guy to have a morning wood?” he jokes before quickly adding that he’s not horny. “i just want to see you so let me go get you.”

pressing your lips together, you contemplate on whether you should let him. if you do, won’t you be turning whatever the two of you have right now into something far more complicated? but it’s only until hyunjin adds a desperate “please?” that all of your dilemma disappears, as if you’re being cast into his spell—“okay.”

—

while heading to the gate, you have the biggest urge to book a massage appointment. dodging jisung’s questions and running away from him after the first period was draining, but having to spend the day running back and forth between two buildings because thinking that volunteering as the lecturers’ teaching assistant was draining on a whole new level. other than feeling like your legs are gonna come off, your mind also feels like it’s gonna blow off—you can’t stop recalling all the things you need to start working on as soon as possible, but stepping into hyunjin’s car turns everything to 180 degrees.

you’d like to think that it’s because of the faint lavender aroma coming from his car freshener along with the heavenly cool air conditioner, but no. you know full well it’s because of the way hyunjin’s smile lit up, his eyes disappear into two small crescent moons, and his blonde hair which is becoming one with the warm orange sky that brings peace to your heart.

“hi,” he breathes out the moment you close the door, and you do the same except for looking at him, which causes hyunjin to furrow his eyebrows while speeding away.

the way home is silent, just the way you like it, but you know full well that it’s not hyunjin’s cup of tea. he doesn’t need to say it, his action is showing it all as he’s been fidgeting non stop, wiping his sweaty palm along his jeans while occasionally licking his plump lips. hyunjin’s a very vocal person. he’s talkative and loud—including in bed. you press your warm cheeks over the realization of your own thoughts, embarrassed. you can’t possibly suspect hyunjin for being horny in the morning when you yourself are being like this in the afternoon. it’s uncalled for.

noticing you from the corner of his eye, hyunjin calls out, asking you if there’s anything wrong, totally catching you off guard. what should you say? lying is not your forte, but being honest clearly isn’t the best option right now, at least, not before you shower and appear presentable in front of him—but wait, since when did that matter so much? a few months ago, you even fucked after you ran a marathon.

“y/n?” calls hyunjin for the second time.

“look, hyunjin, really, it’s okay if you’re horny. you can pull over and i can, uh, relieve you and i can just take the bus home after,” you spit out shamelessly while looking at him straight in the eyes, eager to get far away from hyunjin as fast as possible before you go out of your mind.

just like the night before, hyunjin laughs. and just like the night before, his laugh hits differently and it does nothing other than burning your already burnt cheeks for the worse.

“i swear to god, y/n, i’m not horny. i genuinely want to take you home. nothing more,” explains hyunjin, head straight at the road but eyes repeatedly stealing glances at you. “and nothing less,” he adds, voice barely audible but you caught it.

“o— oh.” is all you manage to respond before the ride quickly turns quiet and hyunjin’s hands begin fidgeting again, all the while you’re trying to decode what he has just said—what does he mean by genuinely wanting to take you home? do fwb do this too? what happened to no fucks given?—and it goes on until hyunjin hits the break in front of your old apartment building.

“we’re here,” says hyunjin, breaking the silence by unlocking the car door.

“we’re here,” you repeat after him, already opening the door and setting a foot out. “uh, thank you.”

“don’t mention it.” hyunjin shoots you his signature smile the moment you lower yourself to meet his eye level from outside the car; this time, you have no choice but to fall under his spell.

“hey, uh, you wanna come in?” you ask, biting your lower lip as a way to punish yourself for being so indecisive. one second you want to run away from him and the next second you want to be near him. come on, get a grip.

as if the punishment isn’t enough, hyunjin declines your offer, all while chuckling with his head thrown back. “for the third time, y/n. i’m not horny. go in and rest up.” 

“if you say so.” you shrug, giving him a small smile before turning around, making sure not to look back, only to fail when you hear the engine driving away.

—

you can’t quite tell—no, you can’t tell. you don’t get it. there’s an unexplainable empty space in your heart that is caused by hyunjin’s rejection. is it because you’re just not used to see him without having to fuck him? or is it because you’re hurt over the fact that he’s not in the mood to touch you? is it because of last night? is he finally sick of your flaws? things would probably be different if you had retouched your makeup or at least combed your hair before seeing him, would they? either way, you’re fully aware you shouldn’t be torn over your friend with benefits, yet your aching heart says otherwise.

and so when the doorbell rings only a few seconds after you get in and the figure you see through the peephole is no other than the man in question, you spare no time to swing the door open. hyunjin, in return, spares no time to lock his lips with yours right after he utters a brief apology. just like the way hyunjin sneaks his playful hands down your ass, you sneak your tongue in his mouth, and your action makes him smile into the kiss as he leads you back into the room and kicks the door shut with his long legs.

the way to your bedroom is actually pretty short, but with your tongues moving in sync, bodies pressing—glued, even, and eyes continuously closing in pleasure, the short way to your bedroom consists of endless stumbling, tripping, and bumping the door. once inside, you break the kiss and are about to undress yourself when hyunjin beats you to it, settling you down on the bed as he begins taking off your attire one by one ever so effortlessly. and in just a matter of seconds, his lips are back on yours again, floral scented hair falling and brushing against your cheeks, leaving you no time to wonder over the fact that it’s the first time hyunjin has ever undressed you. 

as the kiss continues, you can feel yourself gushing more and more that you start grinding on him mindlessly, needing to feel more than just his bulge poking you. your hands leave his blonde strands to tug on his hoodie, only to have him stop you—one hand around your grip and the other rests on your hip.

“what do you think you’re doing?”

“need you. need to feel you,” you mumble, desperation so visible through your cracked voice. 

“what happened to the girl who was all flustered to sleep with me last night just because i was shirtless?”

autumn nights aren’t supposed to be hot, but hyunjin has proven he has the power to make the impossible happen just with his words and mocking smirk. but the rising heat on your cheeks is nothing compared to the emptiness you feel below, clenching around nothing surely isn’t the best feeling.

“please, jinnie,” you whine, tugging on his hoodie once more, hips moving against his hold.

“fuck.” is all he manages to say before getting off the bed to disrobe himself—hoodie and track pants thrown across the room, now showcasing his toned body and thighs altogether as he hovers over you.

“please take this off too. it looks suffocating,” you say, index finger running faintly through the bulge forming from his tight boxer, making it stand up even more and hyunjin has no choice but to obey you. “put your hair up too please,” you add just when he’s about to dive right back in, and again, your wish is his command.

biting to pull off his hair tie from his wrist, hyunjin smoothly ties his hair back and you’re only given a few seconds to admire his feature before his plump lips coming in contact with your hardened nipple while he toys with the other using his fingers—rubbing and pinching, making your breath hitch over the sensation, fingers digging into his bare shoulders because you don’t want to mess up his hair, and hyunjin’s low grunts pretty much indicate he’s loving it.

“more, please. give me m—”

hyunjin retreats his hand and tongue away from your breast, moving them to your naked pussy,  drawing circles on your outer labia with his middle finger. he teases you just enough and quickly slides in his digit and at the same time sucks on your clit right before you’re about to complain, making you tingle from head to toe.

“you hear that?” he asks, voice muffled, the effect of being too tongue tied from licking every part of your heat, but finger working its magic perfectly, creating loud wet noises from your fluid. “drenched. my pretty y/n is drenched,” says hyunjin, and as much as you want to comment on him for the pet name, you’re too caught up on how his lips vibrate against you the moment he starts palming himself with his unoccupied hand. if he keeps it up, you know you would come undone there and then, and you don’t want that—not yet. so you ask him to stop and he instantly does as told.

“what’s wrong? did i hurt you?” there’s fear written across his expression and heard from his tone, but you’d like to believe your eyes and lips are just playing tricks on you.

“n— no. i just,” you pause to avoid his gazes, but something within you pulls your attention back on him. “i wanna cum with you inside me,” you confess, voice barely audible due to embarrassment; all this time, it’s always been hyunjin to say such things, but perhaps, all the strange tension lately has finally gotten the best of you. you hear him mutter a low “fuck” while his pupils shakes for a brief moment before they somehow appear a shade darker. licking his lower lip, hyunjin pulls you by your legs and rests them on his shoulders, and proceeds to align his tip with your entrance, once again teasing your throbbing core.

the moment you whine is the moment hyunjin pushes himself inside ever so gently, but the stretching still has you throwing your head back, while hyunjin letting our airy moans upon your walls clenching around him. none of you can tell how it’s possible for your vagina to remain so tight after all the countless fucking session for the past half year, but hyunjin doesn’t find that troubling. in fact, he lives for that and it shows from the way his eyes roll to the back of his head as he begins thrusting in and out of you—slowly but steady, veiny hands secured on your hips, vision goes back and forth from your half-lidded eyes to your parted lips.

hyunjin leans down to kiss you for a couple of seconds, and when he lets go, he quickens his pace—leaning down once more so his length can go deeper in you, hitting your g-spot. at that very moment, you mentally praise yourself for placing the bedroom mirror right across the bed. it presents you with the magnificent view of hyunjin’s rounded, firm ass bouncing rhythmically whenever he snaps his hips, and placing your hands around them, squeezing them, nearly makes you drool over the sight. with hyunjin constant thrusts, the familiar knot in your abdomen starts to bubble up.

“oh my god,” the two of you whimper in unison as hyunjin begins to lose his tempo, moves also grow sloppy, but never once misses your spot.

“y/n, i— ah— i’m so close. fuck,” he breathes out, sweat forming on his forehead, wetting his baby hair down to his neck and chest, and you can only drool helplessly at the sight.

“me too. please cum inside me, cum with me, hyunjin, please, please,” you beg, voice a pitch higher, almost sounds like you strain your throat, and it stays the same. when you feel hyunjin twitch inside you, your hands automatically reach for the bed sheet again, but it only lasts for a second before they’re being taken by hyunjin’s own hands—he has never done this. while intertwining your fingers, his cock twitches again and his eyes roll to the back of his head, jaw falls open as he calls out your name—you naturally do the same, fingers pressing flat against his white knuckles

“hyu—”

“cum, baby,” he cuts you off, averting his hazy eyes on you, and that’s all it takes for you to break—your orgasm washes over you like waves and you cum undone around hyunjin, shaking and mewling altogether while feel the wet coldness around your inner thigh. hyunjin follows right after, shooting his hot cement inside of you; the man can no longer keep his eyes open as he buries his face on the crook of your neck, his choked moans bring music right to your ear all a while his hot breaths bring goosebumps to your unrecovered body.

after riding out your highs, none of you move. hyunjin stays on top of you, his chest rises and falls according to your hard breathing. somehow, it’s calming you down, but it shouldn’t.

“hyunjin, you’re heavy.”

“oh, sorry,” he chuckles and even without looking, you can tell his eyes are smiling too. with his remaining strength, hyunjin pushes himself up and rests on your thighs to pull his dick out of you, momentarily admiring the mixture of his juice and yours dripping down your cunt before fixing his eyes on you to study your face—also something he has never done before. 

“i’m sorry,” he mutters a few moments later, eyes now on you.

tilting your head, you sit up, resting your upper body with your hands on the bed. “all of a sudden? i came? you always make me feel good.”

“that’s what i’m sorry about. i— i didn’t mean to— i mean, i—”

you reach out to him, gently patting his thigh. “hyunjin, calm down. this isn’t like you,” you whisper the last sentence, knowing that perhaps, now’s the time to talk things out, to stop whatever is going on, and go back to how things are used to be, maybe? your heart’s just been restless for too long and apparently, hyunjin seems to be in a similar situation too.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to keep using you like this. i genuinely meant what i said. i only wanted to take you home, but we ended up here and—”

“isn’t that what fwb do?” you pull your hand off his thigh, and a frown painted across his face as if he’s questioning your question. “that’s what we agreed on. we have our fwb rules, remember?”

“one, be very casual. two, no strings attached. three, no fucks given outside of the, well, literal fucking,” says hyunjin, proving he has memorized every words to the back of his mind.

nodding, you carefully bring back your hand to his thigh, repeating the same movement you did before. “exactly. so you don’t have to be sorry. don’t worry, i’m not feeling used at all.” you end it with a smile.

hyunjin mirrors you, he smiles too; his eyes fall to where your hand is. “but what if i’m breaking them? the rules,” asks the boy whose cold hand is now on top of your warm one. “what if i like you?” his eyes find their way back to you, and that’s when you know. the difference between your temperatures; the difference between your smile and his—the sadness that lies within.

that’s when you understand. everything finally makes sense; every one of hyunjin’s unusual acts. the constant texts and calls, the undressing, the pet names, the facial expression, the hand holding.

what happened to the rules? feelings. that’s what happened. to hyunjin, it’s his feelings over the rules.

but you, what about you? the butterflies, the irregular increasing heartbeats, the flushing cheeks, the overthinking, the disappointment at some point.

“y/n,” hyunjin calls out and you don’t get to get back to him because he’s already an inch away from you, momentarily eyeing your lips before he closes the distance. once again, his blonde hair falls down, brushing against his cheek before meeting yours and it tickles you, but not in the same way as how his kiss tickles your heart; giddy.

what happened to the rules? unwanted feelings. that’s what happened. to you, it’s the unwanted feelings against the rules. and for now, the unwanted feelings are too strong for you to push him away, so you pull him close instead. for now.

—

gen’s masterlist

repeating this!! special note: HUGE THANK YOU for my awesome bestie for the banner 🥺💞💞 ily, bish!! thank you for being my beta reader too 😽😽😽

[dreaminpetals]

Oog the Andrew appreciation is making me feel fuzzy and warmmmmm! Could we get some skin specific headcannons for Andrew? Like how his train conductor or "cheese" skins would act?

🧀 skin specific hcs for andrew . . . 🚂

desolate sand ;;

♡ sandrew (hehe) is a lot braver and stronger than his other skins but also more exhausted and gloomy.

♡ a person with albinism being stuck under the relentless sun of the south is a recipe for disaster.

♡ he's seen outlaws do awful, awful things to people which has left him with a grim outlook on life.

♡ though he'll do all he can to protect innocents, especially women and children. he views it as his duty on this earth.

♡ speaks with a southern drawl.

♡ views his horse as his best friend and companion for life.

♡ while people turn their heads and refuse to serve him at some bars, his horse, named after his late mother, has always been there for him.

♡ despite how rough around the edges and unfriendly this andrew is, he's an angel towards his horse and spoils her rotten.

♡ if he had an s/o he wouldn't want them to be a shooter or freelancer like him, he'd prefer a friendly face he could come home to.

♡ andrew has dreamed of a domestic life for far too long but being viewed as a devil means he has to hunt for resources and live in tents all on his own, never staying in one town for too long because he gets chased out with torches and pitchforks. he doesn't have a home as much as he desperately craves one.

♡ a romance between you and him would be slow and sweet, you'd potentially go months without seeing each other but every time you reunited he could relax and get a taste of paradise.

♡ i feel like you would be a hotel owner that was willing to serve him so he associates you with warmth and safety, during nights when he had nothing to do but hitch his horse and stare at the stars he'd think of you and how much he wants you to be more than a stranger.

♡ overall he's a wanderer with a good heart that's been stomped on and lassoed far too many times, give him some rum, apple pie, and a bath full of delicate kisses and touches please his weary soul deserves it.

train conductor ;;

♡ traindrew fares surprisingly well in the bitter cold that his train conducting job entails, he's built up a tolerance since he's been freezing since birth.

♡ a feeling he experiences often is that realization that all of his passengers are unique people with their own places to go, he feels proud that he's helped so many people and hopes they can remember him in a positive light.

♡ he's treated surprisingly well by his passengers, weary travellers view him as a demon who's redeeming himself by reuniting people with their families and homes.

♡ of course 'surprisingly well' for andrew still has to include being dehumanized for his condition, poor guy.

♡ still, he loves his job. a speeding train is much more comfortable than a drab cemetery where evil men are laid to rest, the cheers and laughs he hears from nearby compartments remind him he's doing a good job.

♡ loves hot beverages like tea and hot cocoa, he almost always has a mug in his hands.

♡ when he sleeps he kicks his feet up on a table and tucks his hat over his eyes it's so cute.

♡ he's bitter and deals with jealousy quite a bit, he envies how easy other people live and prefers to be alone or with animals.

♡ even when the train is empty andrew still watches over it, cleaning it and making sure nobody breaks in.

♡ so if he had an s/o they would have met on the train.

♡ you were a rising singer who frequently travelled his train when touring, at first he expected you to be a sheltered snob who'd ask for a different helper but you were one of the nicest people he had ever met.

♡ during the evening you order two cups of coffee, one for you and one for andrew so he could take a break in your first class booth.

♡ andrew had a sneaking suspicion you were only being this nice so your future train tickets would be cheaper.

♡ oh yeah, andrew can be pretty pessimistic and judgemental. when people are nice to him he always has a lingering fear they're trying to gain his trust only to stab him in the back.

♡ he wholeheartedly believed that you weren't to be trusted until he overheard you practicing for your new single.

♡ it was about falling in love with a gentle train conductor who had piercing red eyes and alluring white hair, ghostly pale skin cold to the touch that still managed you warm you up when your fingers accidentally brushed together.

♡ he's used to being a stoic professional so when he realized he was catching feelings he nearly fell overboard.

♡ andrew is so hardworking and curious about the world outside his train and he was so overjoyed to entertain the idea of a singer who travelled the world possibly.... showing him everything he was missing... djfndks he couldn't handle it!!!

cheese ;;

♡ while the other andrews are more closed off and sort of bitter with how the world treats them, cheesedrew wears his heart on his sleeve and never loses hope for other human beings. he thinks there's good in everybody !!

♡ instead of digging graves he grew up scooping ice cream, he's lived a happy life and no one can tell me otherwise 🥺

♡ still anxious and insecure though... he naturally struggles with anxiety and fitting in with others, the cruelty he faces for his condition doesn't make life any easier for him. but he is a ray of sunshine once you show that you're harmless, i promise.

♡ he gives people everything even if they don't care about him at all.

♡ still, no matter how many times he's kicked down, he gets back up and he's ready to prove everyone wrong, people can be good no matter what happens to them.

♡ cries super easily, this includes tears of joy (which happen any time someone is affectionate towards him)

♡ obviously he has a sweet tooth, he shivers so much and appears to always be hungry.

♡ give this boy a home cooked meal, he hasn't had meat or vegetables in so long.

♡ his poor diet combined with albinism leads to fits of dizziness and even fainting, if you let him lean on you he'll never forget it!!!

♡ this andrew is like a puppy, if someone is nice to him then he takes their words at face value and trusts them with his life.

♡ don't be surprised if he follows you around or stares at your hands thinking about how soft they'd feel in his larger ones, anyone can tell what he's thinking by looking at his facial expressions.

♡ he's the sweetest lover djfjsks

♡ compares you to honey, candy, sugar, everything sweet in the world, he can't get enough of you.

♡ let him show you how to bake!!!! please!!! he loves teaching people things and doing things that will make people remember him in a positive light, wanting a warm place in someone's memories is a universal andrew experience.

♡ he tries to hide his giggles because he doesn't like how they sound but they're so contagious.

♡ once you reassure andrew he doesn't have to hide himself around you and you love all his quirks he'll melt into batter when he's around you.

[yeojaa]

( LOVED YOU BETTER. )

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

pairing.  kth x f!reader.

genre + rating.   slice of life.  an angst angel food cake with a fluffy, strawberry centre.  general.

tags / warnings.  minor (ish) character death, heartbreak, kim taehyung is bad at feelings, summer romance, abandonment issues, moving on, healing.  idk. 

wc.  4.3k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ @snackhobi​ @midnighttifa​ 💖 i love y’all!

author note.  this was written for the 'a long hot summer' event hosted by @thebtswritersclub​.  my member was taehyung (obviously!) with the sense being sight.  this is my first project for a net, so i hope you enjoy it!  💖

He spends most of his childhood in Lyon, skirting the rivers in search of inspiration.  It isn’t Paris, his mother tells him, but it’s just as lovely - quieter and more peaceful.  She insists, one day, she’ll take him home, where his maternal grandparents are buried and she’ll show him all the parts of her world.  

The first time he paints - eleven years old, seated at the edge of the Saône with a brush held between his teeth and pigment smearing his hands - his mother is delighted.  He fills the house with his works: pretty watercolours that mimic the blue of the river, the white of boats, the amber of the sky.  She loves them and she loves him and she tells him day in and day out, offering praise as readily as he offers his heart on canvas.  

He’s sixteen when he migrates stateside, to where his father grew up and his mother’s accent stands out.  He hates it there.  It’s boring and bland and it stifles his imagination.  There are no sail boats, no rivers, no pretty girls.  The days turn grey and so does his mother, as if she’d left the best parts of herself back in France.  She still tells him she loves him, promises that they’ll go back someday. 

At twenty-one, he learns love isn’t real.  His father files for divorce and his mother withers away.  When he goes, he packs his bags and doesn’t look back.  It’s a slamming door in an already abandoned home.  Beautiful as it might be, love is nothing but infatuation - fleeting and easily broken and fit only for the books that line the study.  It exists truly, wholly, only in the blood that runs in his veins.  

At twenty-two, he realises absolutely nothing lasts, for his mother leaves too, taking her lilting laughter and rose perfume with her, buried six feet under soil she’d never called home.  Her death is a nail in the door, sealing his childhood shut.  

His father does not attend the funeral.  Hardly anyone does.  

The paintings - lovely portraits of her wide eyes and full lips, of Parisian sunsets and paved streets - are all he has.  They serve as memories, painful reminders of the woman his mother once was, of the life he’d once lived.   They fill the house that’s no longer a home - hasn’t been, for years - tucked away in a room he refuses to enter.    

His mother had called him her petit choux because he was born with dough-soft cheeks, sweet as pie.  As he grew older, the name stuck - even if the fat hadn’t, slipping off his face with each passing year.  By the time he’s eighteen, he’s uncut edges rather than honey brioche.  At twenty-seven, he’s hardened far more than she would’ve ever expected of her beloved boy.  He is week old bread, stale and hard to the teeth.

But he is still her petit choux and he thinks she’d love him regardless.

So Kim Taehyung promises to go back.  For her - to find all the pieces she’d left behind and fashion them back together.  What he doesn’t expect is to meet you along the way. 

He discovers you on a day that scorches his bones, Parisian sun shimmering pavement and cobblestone.  You are a whirlwind of colour, every shade of the rainbow presented in the glory of your smile.  You treat the Seine like a lover, living at the edges of its shores with bare feet and bare legs and a bare face that begs to be memorised.

You laugh and it’s radiant, pealing bells that ring in his ears long after noon has struck. 

You call him mon chéri like it means something.   

It reminds him of his mother and he wonders whether she ever did these same things, dancing across the grass with an apricot caught between her teeth.  He hopes so. 

“Come, come,”  you coax, with a mouth that threatens to tear his chest wide open.  It presents pretty, in shades of ruby and wine;  it draws him in, sticky sweet, and he’s defenseless to your whims.  He goes where you go, following the flow of your hair, the curtain that draws back and has him seeing in technicolour.  

He laughs when you laugh, smiles when you smile.  You bring him to all the places he’s never been:  the cobbled streets his mother once roamed, the darkened bars filled with champagne, the sunlit warmth of your bedroom where wisteria branches hang low.  He paints you in all of them - sweeping watercolours into the silk of your hair, the curve of your lips, the swell of your hips when his palms grip them tight. 

You’re an ingenue, a muse, everything he’s ever wanted.  But he doesn’t love you - because love doesn’t exist.  Not in the ways they portray on the silver screen, with heartfelt declarations and bundles of overflowing roses.  He can’t give you those things;  he’s grateful you don’t ask.

Sometimes, he thinks you might dare to.  Can see it lurking in the lovely shade of your stare, how you study him when you think he isn’t watching.  Furtive glances, made beneath the thick line of your lashes, behind the brocade of your sun-drenched strands. 

But he’s Kim Taehyung and he’s always watching - always aware.  He hates to miss a single thing.

Don’t ask me to love you, he tells you without words.  

“Should we go to Lyon for the weekend?”  

You’re draped across the bed, drenched in lavender and warm like baked pastry.  Your tongue licks cream from your lips, sweetness touched with honey.  He drinks in your every movement, dedicating them to canvas.  There’s a freckle on your knee and another just below.  One more on your ankle and three along the top of your foot.  A constellation he hasn’t named yet.

“No,”  he answers, devoid of the same delight that frolics behind your teeth.  

“Why not?”  You press, because it’s what you do - forcing each button until you find the one that stirs something to life within him.  A coin-operated boy, rusty and in terrible disrepair.  He thinks you’d be wary of the bright red warning light but you seem almost colourblind, looking through rose-tinted glasses that dress all of his actions in warmth he doesn’t deserve.  

He doesn’t answer, sweeping his brush back and forth.  Lilac filters into water, a lovely shade that grows lighter and lighter with each pass of bristles.  It’s not quite the same as your dress - a silk creation that begs to live on your skin - but it’s close enough.  He’ll settle for it.

It reminds him of the flowers in the garden back home.  Back when his mother was alive and she still breathed life into the greenery, trimming stems and drying petals.  

“I don’t want to.”  A simple enough answer.  

You wait for him to elaborate, pouting and pleading like you might break him down with the sheer force of your beauty.  If he were any lesser man, you might have.  

“Please,”  you purr, too persuasive for your own good.  You’d settle into his lap, twist his honey strands between your fingers, if not for the stare he levels you with.  One that screams be good and stay still because the last thing he wants is you ruining the painting.  He doesn’t want to start all over and the light is already waning, sun lost somewhere behind drooping branches and the gauzy softness of your drapes.

“No.”  

“Please.”

Brush to water, then to colour.  A sweet orange - the flesh of a fresh cantaloupe without seeds.  “No.”

“Mon chéri—” 

He booms out “No!” like a cannon.  It’s akin to being scolded, stilling the playfulness in your hands.  You’re ignorant to all the reasons he refuses to indulge you but you think of it as nothing but selfishness, a cold you can’t weather.  One you refuse to when flowers are in full bloom and the air outside lays a salt-crown  atop your brow.  This is your kingdom, your rightful place - you bow to no one. 

You stiffen, rise from the bed in a motion that disrupts every part of him.  Motions still, knuckles white.  No no no.  You’re ruining it.  You’re ruining—

“Get out.”

Taehyung can’t quite believe his ears - staring at you in such aghast you almost laugh right in his face.  He has the audacity to perform such theatrics after yelling at you?  How dare he!  It enrages you, brings your blue blood to a boil beneath your skin.

“Pardon?”  The sound rolls, trips, and stumbles, dirt on his palms and knees as he stares up at you.

“I said get out, mon chéri.”  You’ve unbuttoned the rumpled shirt - his, with his initials embroidered across the cuff - allowing it to drop from your shoulders and into his lap.  He glares down at it, stained now with the watercolours in his palette.  It’d be pretty if it weren’t so infuriating. 

“I’m not done.”  

You tch, a derisive sound that bites worse than your love, your nails painted in Chanel.  “I don’t care.”

“I’m not done,”  he repeats, perhaps a little lost.  It crawls out between his teeth, a lost man seeking solace.  He needs to finish this.  He hasn’t painted you this way yet, bathed in faded light.  It’s an empty slot in his album of memories.  He can’t let it go.

You’re unrepentant, dismissive.  A table turned.  “I don’t care.” 

He hates you then.  He doesn’t realise how close the emotion is to love.

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, lost itself to the wind and the rivers.  He only knows, suddenly, he was not a boy but a man, a miserable soldier made to walk the plank.  He thinks it might’ve been when she died, taking the last traces of his youth with her.  Gone was the innocence, the gentility, the voraciousness;  all at once, the ease - the glory, the good - had evaporated, leaving in its place a broken boy too angular, too angry. 

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, but he remembers all too well when her death had eclipsed the light, leaving him in perpetual darkness.  

It makes sense then - that his whole life is a charnel house, built on the foundation of someone else’s bones.  It’s only fitting it becomes a memorial to a long-gone mother, a weeping wife, a star burnt out too soon. 

He’s somehow still surprised when his kingdom - formidable, impenetrable, guarded - comes crumbling down, an overgrown old city ruined.  As if he’d expected those skeletons to hold him forever, to carry the weight of his desolation within their hollows.  He begs for absolution when it falls beneath a thousand leagues, lost to saltwater and liquor.  He drowns within it and it seeps, sticks, stirs - catching in his stare and trembling his fingers.  

Nostalgia comes like ghosts - old men lost at sea.

They’re dim, twilight, held behind a heavy fog.  Old memories on a carousel ride, spinning in perpetual motion.  They’re snapshots of his mother, his youth, his home.  They pass too quickly;  he can never catch them.  

Years old misery claws its way up his chest and he chokes on it each night, lying awake listening to the city groan, straining like a dying beast on its last legs.  He misses her, he misses you, he misses the person he used to be.  He aches for it - a nameless thing just out of reach.  

Something Taehyung begs and cries for until he’s blue in the face.

Something you’d given him, in the form of kisses and promises.  Something he’d only shoved you down into the dirt for - right where she was.  Because no one kept promises, and he didn’t want to hate you later.  (For loving, for leaving.)  

Instead, he hates himself, and that is a neater, cleaner way to end the story.  

He is bereft, drifting between days he has neither the desire nor wherewithal to consider. 

He sees women just like you - girls that run barefoot through the grass, fancying themselves dancers, muses, inspirations.  They laugh, they kiss, they cite vague poetry.  They preen when he asks to paint them, throwing exaggerated shapes with the lines of their necks, the flutter of their lashes.

Still, none of them are you - too soft and rounded. 

None possess the same insolence, polite phrases toeing the line of sophisticate and street urchin.  They are all wind-up ballerinas, dancing on rotation, with smiles not right, too tight.  They’re too flat, too freckled, reminiscent of rotting cherries and mint-green Ladurée bags you’d scoff at.  They leave his canvases better off bare, boring and one-dimensional.  Taehyung resents them. 

But he doesn’t love you, and he tells himself that whenever he misses you.

A victim of ennui, he slips into a pattern he abhors.  Supine lounging in the evenings, preceded only by listless wandering during the long hours of the day.  He drifts with the rise and fall of the sun, eyes blind to the beauty around him. 

Nothing feels quite right anymore - not in the way it used to.  There are no memories of his mother, no sweet tales told by a ghost.  It’s empty empty empty, only shit-stained streets and hollow bodies.

He prays for an answer, a sign, anything. 

It comes in the form of you - nearly three weeks later, beneath a stream of sunlight that casts you in chiaroscuro.  For the first time, he itches to paint.  The need thrums in his fingers, a million little nerve endings firing off.  He itches to touch you too, but he ignores that, shoves it into the deepest, darkest recess of his thoughts as he can.  He needs to focus on one thing and one thing only:  doing what he came here to do.

“Bonjour.”  It comes bare, undressed and vulnerable.  By the look on your face, it isn’t what you want.

You twist away, entire body angling uncomfortably in your effort to ignore him.  “What do you want?”  You’re cruel, capricious - a god looking upon a lowly farmhand with no offering.  It stings in a way it shouldn’t, pulls his expression into a frown before he can mask it. 

That’s better, you think.  He can practically read the smug emotion dancing in those pretty irises.

“You haven’t called.”  

“Neither have you.”  

“You told me to leave.”

“And you left.”

For every excuse, you have a rebuttal.  It’s a game of chess he’s bound to lose.  It’s as frustrating as it is enticing, stirring something warm and heavy in the cavity behind his ribs.  A little hummingbird come to life, wings beating relentlessly and kicking up all the dust of his childhood trauma.

“I’m sorry.”  It’s hardly an apology, too greedy to come the way it should.  Taehyung does this for himself, for his promise, for memories he refuses to let go. 

You see right through him.  “Are you?”  

“I am.”  

“You’re not.”

“I am.”  

“Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

The words I am are poised on his tongue and reduced to ash with your question.  He’s never had to try so hard a day in his life.  It feels wrong, messy, awful.  Every part of him compels him to rebel - to wax poetic about the things he’s done right, how what you’re asking is too much.  I cannot love you, he thinks.  

“I thought so.”  There’s nothing but disdain in your stare, turning it sharp like a knife that threatens to glide through his armour.  “You’re selfish, Kim Taehyung.  All you want is to take and take and take.  You refuse to give.”  

You’re not wrong.  He wears his sadness like a solid steel plate;  it curls around his vertebrae, writhing in his belly until he’s full, aching, complete.  He doesn’t know how to exist without it, apart from it.  It keeps him safe, satisfied, out of harm’s way.  It’s both a blessing and a curse.  

As you leave, he wonders whether it’s worth it.

Six long days pass.  Six too many, drawn out and miserable.  He aches to create, to sketch, to paint.  He calls you in a moment of weakness;  you come, nonetheless.

“What do you want?”  You repeat, mouthful of thorns and scar tissue.  

This time Taehyung has an answer.  He’s ready, confident in his recital.  It spills forth loosely, with abstract brazenness.  “I want you.”  There’s no room for uncertainty, zero leeway to be found in between the syllables.  It’s the most sincere he’s been all season, made true by the summer sun and your focused, unyielding stare.

“You want moi?”  It’s a dance with the devil - question poised like a hand.  “Do you even know what wanting someone means?”  You’re steady, unwavering, just as he is. 

He hesitates then, just barely, with a tick of his jaw, fingers curling around nothing.  You take that as weakness, delicate mouth curling into a sneer.  He sees it - all the I told you so’s poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to silence him.  He beats you to it, crashing his mouth against yours with a recklessness that thrums in his veins, sending his heart on a wild chase for that something.

He’s spent his whole life in pursuit of a feeling, a spectre, a bittersweet memory.  He thinks he might’ve lost himself along the way.

“I want you.  I want you - and us.”  

What he means to say is he wants all the things that come with it:  the bratty rebuttals, the early morning eagerness, the taste of you every night.  He wants the eyelashes on his pillow case, the lipstick stains, the scent of your perfume - citrus and nectarine blossom, cocoa butter, fresh cream.  He wants the trips to the countryside, the new memories, the paintings full of you.  He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.  He needs it like he needs air, light, art.

He needs you - his muse.  

He tells you, shamelessly, around a lump that forms in his throat and makes it hard to breathe.  “We’ll go to Lyon.  If you want to go, we’ll go.”  

The place where he grew up is different, wrapped in ivy and devoid of light.  Windows are drawn and everything leans grey, weeds sprouting beneath his expensive leather loafers.  They curl around his ankles, creep up the back of his knees;  they threaten to crush him beneath their weight.  He imagines his insides look the same - neglected and vacant.  

He wishes he hadn’t come.  This isn’t his home, his kingdom, his heart.  Not anymore.

“Come, mon chéri,”  you hum, stirring him from his reverie, pulling his thoughts through the seven circles of Hell until he’s back in the present, stiff at your side with your fingers interlaced.  You offer an affectionate smack of your lips - wine-stained and pretty - to his cheek.  He does not soften. 

“Let’s go.”  It comes despite himself, before he can help it, in a voice that isn’t his.  It’s too soft, too unsure - fifteen years younger and vulnerable.

You regard him closely, with a careful narrow of your stare.  He can read the pity there, the frustration that swims in the depths - circling sharks seeking out the scent of his blood.  It’s inescapable.  He wishes you’d stop.  He doesn’t need you to lecture him.  

Misery rises, licks up his throat like bile, and he worries it might spill out, red as the crimson sea.  Part of him wants it to - a defense mechanism he can’t control;  the other part of him knows he should swallow it down.  He has no reason to fight you.

“Come,”  you repeat, and he’s defenseless, lost to your siren song.  He steps back in time, white-knuckled and terrified. 

There are no longer peonies in the kitchen, nor roses in the front hall.  Dust settles over every surface, dry soil kicked up beneath his feet.  

Taehyung tries to recall the way his mother would busy herself in the garden, bent over her flowers like an altar.  How her knees were perpetually scarred, dirt caught beneath her nails, dark hair a braided wreath worn like a crown.  It was the only time she was anything but composed - full of light and laughter and a love for the alive.  He’d eat breakfast with her in the front yard, a shadow that would follow her every move.  Back and forth, he’d go - on his feet, with his brush, in his thoughts. 

Every painting was of her - of tulips and daisies, bare ankles and sun-kissed skin.  The shape of her mouth, the freckle on her nose.  Her delight when his father would come home. 

He swears he smells her perfume now, standing in the place he’d grown up.  He’s reminded of hot coffee and fresh bread, her fluttering laughter and brass watering can.  He’ll dream about it for days, memories rolling like a Super 8 film through his mind.

He cries I’m fine when he isn’t.  You hold him until he is. 

You sleep together on a Sunday afternoon.  

When you wake, the sun is low on the horizon and you’re the prettiest Taehyung’s ever seen you, features thrown in stark relief.  You’re salt-sweet and striking, dressed in linen whites and the shape of his mouth.  

He paints the pale soles of your feet, drawn against your leg, and the shade of your nails, a pretty colour he attributes to springtime and sonnets.  He indulges in the sound of your voice, soft and hazy in his ear.  You kiss him like he isn’t broken and you taste like memories - ones he hasn’t made yet, but desperately wants to.  He is both sinking and floating, as if you’ve taken his heart from his chest and hold it, beating, somewhere high above his head. 

He carries your perfume for weeks after, heavy on his skin.  Lingering, like you’ve become a part of him, like he’s fallen in love. 

Kim Taehyung had once surrounded himself with beautiful things - paintings and drawings and girls.  He’d thought if he fenced himself in with all things good, there would be no cracks for the outside world - the real world, full of misery and deceit - to seep through.  He’d kept his hands occupied by brushes, by thorns, by a million little material things.

He hadn’t realised all he needed was yours, warm in his. 

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

The confession comes at the end of summer, edges past the cage of his teeth into the quiet of the evening.  It comes and comes, so softly he thinks you might laugh, corners of your eyes wrinkling like the sheets in which you’re bare.

Maybe it’s the way your hair falls over your shoulders, a curtain he aches to part, to feel beneath his hands.  Maybe it’s the way you look at him with hungry eyes and wet lips and teeth that could crumble all of his walls as if they were made of papier-mache.  

Maybe it’s just you, skin like silk and eyes like the night sky.  

“I think I love you,”  Taehyung states, careful, with his entire heart in his hands. 

“You think?  

He nods, although he mustn’t.  He can’t, he reminds himself.

And yet he does, because there is no denying how well you fit each other’s curves, the truth that you are two pieces of the same puzzle.  He wakes up early each day with the taste of you still on his tongue, the memory of you seared into his palms.  Your body has become his home and it is real, flesh and blood, not broken bones buried six feet under.  

You fill his silence with your laughter;  it sounds like redemption and feels like hope.

Before he knows it, seasons change.

Autumn becomes a waiting room, a time between the unyielding heat of summer and the unbearable cold of winter.  Taehyung loves the quiet of it, the progression as steady as the chill that creeps beneath his clothes, within his bed - everywhere but in his head.  

He remembers his mother, his home, all the things he’s lost.  He pays homage to the woman who had raised him right but left too soon.  He finds the places she’d told him about and folds secrets into their corners.  He creates new memories, introducing his present to his past.  You call her mamman and tell her not to worry, promising that you’ll take care of him.  

He lives beneath the fading leaves that serve as a benchmark for which to measure the growth he’s undergone.  He imagines his life in film, in rolling scenes laid out in sepia tones.  He imagines weeks passing by and versions of himself doing the things he loves most.

Laid out under the copper sky, your head in his lap and a brush in his hands.  He doesn’t need to look at you - can fit you among the pages purely from memory.  The turn of your smile, the twinkle in your stare, the little freckle just beneath your lip.  He sees you in his dreams and he commits them to paper, filling his sketchbook as you fill his thoughts.

Wandering the streets, hand in hand, guided by your laughter and the smell of warm pastry.  Bare legs, echoing footsteps, the sight of your smile when he’s said something particularly funny.  You cry Mon chéri! and force a cherry between his lips, savouring the tart taste under the afternoon sun.

Upon your balcony, skin searing beneath high noon and the feel of your mouth.  He lets you paint him - sits terribly still as you show him who he really is - stripping his pretenses with each pass of your brush.  He is bare but not broken, a beautiful boy painted in earth tones and paired with intense eyes.  

Taehyung tells you your painting is beautiful and that he loves it - that he loves you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​

[echo-of-sounds]

hypersensitivities

How Aizawa, Toshinori, and Hizashi would help and support their s/o with hypersensitivities.

While hypersensitivities can be caused by many things (both mental and physical), mine are from ADHD and anxiety. I believe I kept these as general as possible so others can relate even if their issues aren’t caused by the same things as mine.

Aizawa Shouta

Aizawa’s the least picky person out there. Come home with a different smelling shampoo for him or a new comforter made out of your preferred material and he won’t bat an eye. If it works, he’s fine with it.

Rubbing. Digging. Scruffing. Itching. Constricting. You just can’t get away from it. There’s always something touching you. It makes your entire being uncomfortable and agitated. He’ll ask if there’s anything he can do. He knows you sometimes need space to breathe and calm yourself. Those times when you want someone to help, he’s there. If you need your weighted blanket, he can find it. If you need shea butter lotion, he can apply it. If you just need some skin-to-skin contact, he can provide it. Anything to get you to stop scratching and pulling at yourself, he’ll do because he hates seeing you so visibly distraught.

Having a strong sense of taste and an aversion to textiles can lead to a difficult food life. Onions are fine if they’re in this dish, prepared this way. Tomatoes, mushrooms, and bananas? Gooey and slimy. Seafood? Beans? Never. It’s frustrating to just eat. While Aizawa’s no connoisseur or nutritionist, he can (surprisingly) cook pretty well. And he sticks to plain, easy dishes. It’s great when you’re essentially limited to bread, some kinds of pasta, and some fruits and meats. He can help with any simple soups and basic meat dishes. 

If a truck’s horn or that ridiculously high pitch buzzing finally breaks your ears down to the point you’re crying, find Shouta. He’s always willing to cuddle. Even more so when you need comforting. He’s so safe and secure. Hands will stroke circles while lips kiss your temple. If you have to play rain or ocean sounds in your earbuds or from your phone, he’ll lay in bed with you, keeping you locked to him, and press kisses all over.

Whenever you leave the house, he reminds you to bring any glasses that you need: FL-41 for light sensitivity, blue blockers for computer screens, even category 4 sunglasses if your eyes need that amount of protection. He always remembers. You’ll be at the mall, squinting from the horrible fluorescents, and he’ll pull them out of his pocket for you.

His hair is perfect for hiding in when you’re out in public. It’s thick and smells like him. And while he dislikes PDA, he does make exceptions. Whenever you need a break from the lights, just turn into him, rest against his chest, and his hair will fall over your eyes. He’ll hold you close, patiently waiting for you to be ready to continue.

Please, never feel high-maintenance. If anything, having you in his life makes him more attentive to himself. He’ll eat better from any meal plans. He’ll clean his place more often so it’s enjoyable for you. He is especially aware of what cleaning supplies and detergent he uses. He just becomes considerate of how you’re in his life and what he does because he loves you.

Yagi Toshinori

Toshi developed a love for cooking. With his injury, his nutritional needs changed, so he’s learned to cook well to avoid constantly buying expensive foods. Any aversions you have, whether it be texture, smell, or taste, he’ll avoid. Can the slightest change in the sauce throw the whole dish off? His measurements are as precise as can be. Lettuce is fine, but spinach, cabbage, and parsley? It’s basically paper in your mouth. He’ll find recipes that include just lettuce and your preferred vegetables. You’ll come home to another new dish he made to surprise you.

Textile sensitivities are difficult to deal with. And clothes shopping becomes the worst task of them all. You have to test the fabric, the seams, where the tag is, how the shoulders and neck sit, the sleeve tightness, everything. Toshi will keep a list of the exact materials you like for blankets, pillows, towels, carpets, and clothing. And it doesn’t stop there. Is stoneware and glass dinnerware too irritating on your fingers? His next investment his wooden or metal dinnerware. Is cold press and rough drawing paper uncomfortable? He’ll be on the lookout for specific hot press paper.

The only thing he uses that smells is his cologne. It’s simple and never overwhelming. But if you need a different scent, he’s more than willing to go to the store with you so you can pick out something you like. 

Any scents that calm you, candles, incense, and those air freshener crystal beads, will be that scent. Vanilla or lavender. Maybe there’s some obscure scent you can only dig up online? Oh, he’ll find it. It’s incomprehensible how much he loves you. And your comfort is vital. Because if you can’t feel comfortable in your own home, then something’s seriously wrong.

The lightbulbs in your place are always free for you to change. If incandescent bulbs are what you need in the living room, buy them and change them out. If green LED lights help with migraines and pain, put them in the lamp near your bed while you rest. Install smart lighting so you can dim and change the lights whenever you need to. Toshi doesn’t care about the expenses. If it helps and protects your eyes, then money means nothing to him.

It doesn’t help that his smile is just so darn bright.

Overstimulation takes over so suddenly. You’re sitting in the living room, reading, when all of a sudden, the TV and microwave throws your hearing off, your bra becomes a boa constrictor and it’s only tightening, the flowers, food, and candles engulfs your entire being. It’s throttling, smothering, and you can’t escape. You’re left to drown. 

The minute you’re scratching, rocking, or crying, he’s prepared. Is your dog fluffy and grounding? Toshi brings her over. Do you need a hot or cold shower? It’s already running. Is fresh air the best for you? He’s walking you to the balcony or roof for a break. He can stay with you or leave you alone.

Yamada Hizashi

Hizashi is a little bit of a picky eater too. Certain vegetables and sauces like tartar, guacamole, and harissa bother him, especially if the sauces are chunky. He prefers smoother dressings/sauces. So he completely understands any food aversions you have and never makes you feel guilty for being picky. He spends extra care when choosing what restaurants to go to and what he picks up for takeout.

He loves jewelry, not just wearing it, but on his partner too: necklaces that highlight your collarbones and rings that emphasize your fingers. He wants to buy you jewelry and hates that you don’t like it. He isn’t mad at you or your preferences but at how uncomfortable you get in your own skin. He wants you to feel great. And those mornings where you change outfits nine times until you finally find something that isn’t suffocating, his heart breaks.

You can bet he’ll come home with five bras and ten shirts he found that he knows you’ll like. The shirts are soft and the exact size and shape you want with no annoying frills, buttons, or ties. The bras are cute and never have tight, prodding wires or scratchy lace. He’s like a bloodhound when he’s at the store. One whiff of a good pair of pants and he’s ransacking the isles for more like it. He wants you feeling cozy, comfortable, and sexy!

A lot of gum goes in his mouth. His breath and taste is always something. But mint is powerful. There are too many kinds- spearmint, peppermint, winter-something, sweet-whatever, polar-anything. They’re overwhelming, upset your stomach, soak into your tongue, and cling to your clothes. You’ll smell it long after he gives you a kiss. To help, Hizashi will buy literally every flavor of gum there is and let you pick the ones you like. Bubblegum? Classic. Berry Blast? He loves fruit! Apple Pie or Confetti Cake Pop? Odd choice but he can dig it!

Noise sensitivities will be a little tough to manage when living with him. And it’s not his quirk that’s the problem. He’s just a noisy guy. He’s bumping things, knocking them over. He hums, pops, and sings all the time. Music or instruments are often playing somewhere in the apartment. Sound canceling headphones would be a good investment because it’s near impossible for him to just stop making noise. It's ingrained in him. Though there will be days when he’s almost completely quiet so he can spend time with you… and press kisses all over your face.

If you need sunglasses, Hizashi is your guy. Styles, tints, frames, colors, he’ll make sure your eyes are protected and you look perfect. In your home, he’ll cover up any reflective or bright surfaces that bother you: throwing a blanket over the refrigerator and getting blackout curtains. And if you need the often dreaded eyedrops, he’ll apply them for you. He’ll reward you with chocolate and kisses.

Since he’s so in tune with his partner’s emotions, he can notice when you’re starting to get overstimulated. Your voice may get sharper. You're itching your arm till it’s red. Your squinting and tilting away from certain sounds. He’ll recommend you take a break. Go lay down with the cat. Read a book under your weighted blanket. Burn some candles while in the bath. He’ll massage lotion into your back after for extra comfort.

[e-m-p-error]

[ @angel-dust-bitch ASKED: ’(´∆｀*)’x 2; From Angel to Val and Vox ]

For every ’(´∆｀*)’ I get, my muse will orgasm.

[ Valentino + Vick ]

Bouncing on the toy poorly suction cupped to Vick's sleek, black leather couch, Valentino gasped when he felt Angel's hand slide over his cock. It throbbed in his hand, leaking another gush of soft pink precum from the slit. Feeling his hand over the barbells spanning the underside of the length of his cock was going to undo him too quickly. That, coupled with the toy inside of him, had him giving a low sob of pleasure.

One of Vick's hands held onto Angel Dust's hips to keep him in place as he thruat up into him, each one holding power even though he was somewhat slow. His other hand shifted to Valentino's thigh, where he delivered a pulse of electricity that made the moth convulse. Once again, his dick throbbed in Angel's hand and he whimpered softly, too proud to beg.

"Why don't you giv--Nngh--G-give Angel some h-help, Prince--Princess?" Vick offered, his voice crackling over his speakers as he gave another thrust up. He was close.

Shakily, one hand shot out to grip Angel's cock, stroking him a few times with a quaking arm. Leaning over, he paused in his frantic bouncing to take the spider into his mouth. While he wasn't able to bob his head very much like this, that didn't stop him from trying to suck Angel's soul straight out of his dick.

Valentino's antennae brushed over one of Vick's nipples as he lowered them, and the heavyset TV head gasped in surprise. His body went stiff and he used both hands to move Angel up and down a few times on his cock. It throbbed a couple of times fast before letting loose a torrent of glowing cum inside of him.

Reaching over, he tried to take Val's cock in hand alongside Angel's, delivering a controlled shock that had the moth crowing with pleasure. With Angel Dust's hand still in place, he found himself finally hitting the wall, coming with a loud wail. In the sudden silence, bathed in the soft neon lights in the room, Valentino forced himself not to slump over until he'd tasted Angel's cum, too.

[papergirllife]

The Boy Down The Hall

gif credits to owner.

RoommateAU (roommate to lovers)

warnings: explicit sex, unprotected sex, cream pie.

requested.

When you first moved out of home to college, you had no idea where you were going to live as most students either lived in the dorms or had already rented a place nearby.

As you walked around the housing area with your two large luggage bags, someone shouted at you at their porch.

“You look lost! Need a room?!”

That was a year ago, Mark Lee and his friend Jeno were the best roommates you could ask for. Although Jeno did bring back girls from the frat parties he goes to, there will always be Mark who would huddle up in the living room, binge watching netflix at full volume to drown out the noises from Jeno’s room.

The boys held a special place in your heart, you’ve watched Mark go through a break up with his highschool girlfriend, Jeno when he injured his foot when he accidentally dropped one of his dumbbells on it when he was drunk.

You had always regarded them as friends, you never dared to stray across that line, even when your thoughts had wandered to unspoken places in your heart. Jeno was always a flirt, throwing pick up lines here and there, but you knew he meant nothing of it. Yet he wasn’t the one that was occupying your thoughts at 3am.

It was always Mark. All the times when the both of you cuddled on the couch watching TV had an effect on you, was it even considered cuddling? Just like this moment right now, the both of you are having another Harry Potter rerun.

Mark always found the movies interesting even after watching it for so many times, you would’ve too, if your heart didn’t find Mark’s face to be mesmerizing. Although he’s not what girls typically find attractive in campus, you found his quirky and wholesome reactions to everything he sees to be beautiful.

The way he buries his head down onto his hands whenever you drag him to a rollercoaster ride, the way he looks so serious when he’s strumming on his guitar after a shower. These little things he does, was strumming your heartstrings just like his fingers on the guitar.

Leaning onto his shoulder, you snuggled closer into him, trying to focus on the movie after failing more times than you could count. You could feel his muscles underneath his thin shirt, and the way his aftershave smelled, making your head dizzy, and your cheeks heating up.

“Why are you squirming around?”

“What?”

When you looked up from his shoulder, his face was only inches away from yours.

“Why is your face so red? Are you having a fever?”

Bless Mark and his clueless heart for giving you an excuse to escape.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m feeling too well. I’ll head to bed first. Night.”

“Wait, Y/N! “

You left his warm embrace, to the disliking of your body, and ran to your room, slamming the door shut. Your chest heaved up and down, breathing in gulps of air to try to slow your heartbeat down.

That night, you went to bed with your thoughts swimming in your head as you toss and turn in bed, trying to get some sleep that you know would never come.

That incident that happened in the living room has passed a week now, you still have a crush on him, but your emotions were no longer out of control, as long as you distanced yourself from him.

Mark could sense your distancing towards him, but he didn’t know what he did wrong to make you this way. Instead of watching movies with him whenever Jeno had his flings around, you opted to head down to the cafe nearby, even by the means of walking in the cold.

On this particular Friday night, as you were going to huddle up in your room, reading the new book you’ve gotten, Jeno pops his head in.

“We’re going to a party.”

You looked at him quizzically, as if he was speaking a foreign language.

“No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. Stop being a hermit in your room and meet new people.”

“I have nothing to wear, Jeno. I’ll be a laughing stock at your frat parties.”

Jeno dumped a bag on your bed.

“That’s yours. Get changed.”

You looked into the bag and found a semi low v cut navy blue dress with small little stars all over it.

“You’re crazy.”

“Y/N, you act like a hermit, but you don’t look like one, don’t act like you don’t go to the gym everyday after school. “

“ That’s from my friend’s sugar daddy, of course I’ll utilise it to the fullest.”

“I can’t believe the people working there don’t notice scammers on their threadmills.”

“Shut up, Lee Jeno. Not everyone’s loaded like you.”

“At least I’m nice? Just go, okay? as a favour to all the food I bought you?”

“Fine. Get out, I’ll get changed.”

“I knew you wouldn’t say no to a hottie like me.”

You pushed him out of the room and shut the door on him.

When you finished changing and applying the bare minimum make up, you were out of the door.

You stopped in your tracks when you see someone waiting for you outside your room, it was Mark, but not the Mark you’ve known. Standing in front of you was a brand new Mark. His hair was styled to show his forehead, he was wearing a black silk button up and dark washed jeans with his usual sneakers.

“Mark?”

He looked up, and you swear your heart did a little skip. You stepped a little closer to him, his eyes trained on you. You could smell the scent of his cologne, making you addicted to the musky scent.

“You look great, Y/N. Really great.”

“You look good too.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen you all dressed up before.”

“Jeno, made me. I see he managed to persuade you too.”

“Yeah, he bribed me with food.”

He let out a small chuckle, a hand behind your back, guiding you out to the living area. His sweet gestures making you crave for more.

“Finally. Took you two forever.”

When you arrived at the party, the scene was wild. Or to you it was.

Jeno guided the both of you to get drinks. Just as you were sipping on your first drink, Jeno pulled Mark away to meet some girl.

You stood there on your own, a bitter taste in your mouth, and it definitely wasn’t from the alcohol in your cup. You never had the guts to express your feelings to Mark, even though your eyes always had a sense of longing in them whenever you were with him, he was just too oblivious.

You chugged your cup, refilling it once more, hoping that it will wash away your bitter longing towards your roommate.

As you were on your tenth? Or eight? You don’t remember. Someone walked up to you.

“What’s a pretty girl like you being here all alone?”

It was Sehun, the famous playboy in his senior year that made a reputation of himself  by sleeping with girls and leaving them heartbroken in the morning.

You looked at him, he was handsome, but you have enough problems in a lifetime.

“My boyfriend’s in the toilet.”

“I’ve observed you for a while now, doll. I don’t see anyone coming back for you. Let me show you how much appreciation I could show you.”

Sehun was tugging at your arm, dragging you towards somewhere you didn’t know.

“Stop. Sehun, stop!”

The alcohol in your system was stopping you from fighting back his advances, your mind foggy.

Just as he was about to lead you into a room, someone stopped him.

“Get away from her!”

Someone pushed Sehun away from you, but that person didn’t notice Sehun holding onto you, making you fall to the ground, your intoxicated state a blame for your lack of balance.

“Shit! Y/N!”

“Mark?”

Mark picked you up from the ground as Sehun scowled at the both of you.

“Pathetic.”

He said as he walked away.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

But as you tried to take a step forward, your left foot had a mild ache.

“I’ll carry you.”

“No, Mark. It’s fine.”

Ignoring your protests, Mark carried you, bridal style.

Mark was going to carry you down the stairs, but he bumped into Donghyuck, a gaming friend of his.

“Hyuck, can I borrow your room for a while? My friend injured her leg.”

“Injured her leg? Sure,sure.”

Donghyuck was quirking his eyebrows, suggesting some other activity. You could feel your face heating up from the suggestions Donghyuck was making. You were thankful for the dim lighting in this area.

“I’m serious, Hyuck.”

“Okay, whatever you say, first aid kit’s in the bathroom behind the mirror. And if you ever change your mind, please do it in the bathtub and wash it off after. Not my bed.” 

Donghyuck said as he walked away.

“Sometimes I question the friends I make.”

Mark mumbled as he walked towards the direction of Donghyuck’s room.

Mark pushed open the door with his back and placed you onto the bed gently. He closed the door and went into the bathroom, coming back with the first aid kit in his hand.

Mark knelt down and took off your left shoe to sprayed something on your leg, he wrapped some bandages for safe measure.

After he finished, Mark took your hands into his, his big starry eyes looking into yours. You were always a sucker for his big doe eyes, one of your favourite features of his. 

“I’m so sorry for hurting you, Y/N.”

“It’s not your fault Mark. You didn’t know. I should be the one who’s sorry. I made you miss your chance with that girl Jeno introduced you to.

Mark shook his head and let out a chuckle.

“Trust me, Y/N. I have zero interests in her. She’s even a slytherin.”

Mark has a grudge against slytherins after his ex, citing that they’re too complicated.

“I rather hang out with you, my felllow gryffindor. I’ll call Jeno and see when we can leave.”

He stood up and dialed Jeno’s number. You didn’t bother listening to what they were saying as you zoned out of reality, trying to calm your beating heart for the sweetheart in front of you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I called him while he was fucking. But he said he’ll be done in an hour or so.”

Mark said as he sat down on the bed next to you.

“Go get us a bottle of something Mark. I’m in the mood for a drink. Drink with me?”

You didn’t mean to sound breathless, but you just wanted a drink really badly, and the existing alcohol in your system was playing games to your head.

Mark gulped down his nervousness and agreed to find something for the both of you downstairs.

You kicked off your other shoe, grateful for the lack of heels, and laid down the bed.

As you were getting lost in your thoughts, Mark came back with a small bottle of what you assumed to be henessy.

“That’s some strong stuff you got there.”

“This is why we’re sharing.”

Mark took a sip from the bottle and handed it to you. He took off his own shoes and climbed into bed next to you, the alcohol in your system giving you the courage to snuggle close to his side as the both of you took turns drinking from the bottle.

It must’ve been forever when Jeno came looking for the both of you, the bottle long empty, with a drunk emotional Mark by your side. As Mark had drank more from the bottle than you, citing that you were barely sober before, he’s the one who’s completely hammered now, while you were just tipsy, an improvement from all the other times you had drank.

Mark was mumbling incoherently as Jeno held onto his arm over his shoulder, while Jeno’s other hand was held onto yours, insisting that you still had too much alcohol in your system to fend for yourself, to the disliking of Jeno’s fans.

“Mark, shut up!”

“Jeno, what’s wrong?”

“He keeps asking why I’m holding your hand, and when I say why, he keeps saying don’t. Something’s seriously wrong with drunk Mark.”

“Let’s just quickly get him into the car. You didn’t drink tonight, right?”

“No.”

After Jeno successfully sat him in the backseat, Mark reached for your hand and told you to sit next to him instead of the front. So you obliged to his request, sitting next to him, his head instantly falls onto your shoulder.

As all of you were halfway to home, Mark suddenly sat up and looked you in the eyes, trying to stable himself as much as possible in his intoxicated state.

“Y/N, I like you.”

No, he couldn’t. He’s probably not in his right mind and is just saying that as friends. But you couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up at his words. Why does he have to mess with your heart this way?

“Mark, don’t say things that you don’t mean and will forget in the morning.Whatever you want to tell me, say it to me in the morning when you’re sober, not now.”

“But I do mean it! I’ve liked you since the second month you moved in with us! I mean it, Y/N, every word. I’m not going to forget this in the morning. I’ll say it a million times.”

Mark then started to repeat that he likes you, each time getting louder. You could see Jeno’s shoulders tensing up at the noise, but the car had already reached the driveway.

You and Jeno carried Mark to his room with no big difficulties.

“Can you get him in the bed properly on your own? I’m really tired.”

“Yeah, sure. Goodnight, Jeno.”

“Night, Y/N.”

Once Jeno left, Mark started acting up again, whining your name.

“Okay, okay. I’m here now. Remind me not to let you get drunk next time. Who knew you could be such a whiny baby when you’re not sober.”

You said as you took off his shoes and placed his legs in his bed,covering him in his fluffy blanket.

You prepared to stand up when Mark held onto your hand.

“Cuddles?”

“I need to get myself cleaned up, Mark. You can have cuddles tomorrow, that is if you still want them.”

You shushed Mark who was acting up again by warning him of a grumpy Jeno next door.

So you left Mark and went back to your own room and washed up for the night. You slipped under your blanket, the warmth welcoming you. Just as you were about to fall asleep, someone slipped into your bed.

One whiff from your nose tells you it’s Mark. When you were about to tell him to go back to his won room, he speaks up.

“I love you,Y/N.”

You chose to not open your eyes as you didn’t know how to answer to his drunken love confession, instead you let him cuddle you to slumber, knowing that you were going to regret this in the morning.

When Mark woke up, he was surprised to see himself not being in his own room, then realising it was Y/N’s room, letting out a breath of air he didn’t realise he was holding.

Y/N was sound asleep beside him, her pretty face illuminated by the rays sunlight of sunlight peeking in through the curtains that weren’t drawn completely.

She’s beautiful, Mark thought to himself.

He observed further, the way your nose perfectly arches, the way your pretty lips are opened slightly, he couldn’t get enough of you. His thoughts took him back to the way you looked in that stunning dress last night, all dolled up, but looking at the person beside him right now, he prefers your face without a drop of make up more, the way he sees you on a daily basis, the Y/N that effortlessly made him fall for.

Mark climbed out your bed carefully, hoping his actions wouldn’t wake you up. When he got out to the kitchen to get some cereal for breakfast, there were already nutella sandwiches awaiting him, Jeno sitting at the other side of the island.

”Is there something wrong? You only make me breakfast when we have serious talks, did you break something?”

“No. But we do need to talk. I’ll let you listen to something I recorded last night in the car while you were drunk off your ass.”

Jeno placed his phone on the island and opened the recording app, tapped on last night’s recording.

Instantly, Mark whining about him liking Y/N from last night was all over the house.

Mark quickly shut off the recording and looked Jeno in the eye.

“What the fuck, bro? What if she woke up?”

“Then you’ll have the guts to confess. Look, I respect you as an older brother, but this has been going on for too long, it’s high time you should tell her your feelings. Y/N’s a nice and pretty girl, if you won’t confess by today, I’m calling Jaemin.”

Jaemin is the kid in Jeno’s department, that has had a crush on Y/N for months now.

“I’ll do it. Okay? Happy?”

“Eat up, then you’re going to make pancakes for Y/N.”

When Mark went back into Y/N’s room with the warm fluffy pancakes, she was still fast asleep,the only difference was that Y/N’s oversized shirt was ridden up to her upper thigh, exposing her beautiful legs.

Mark swallowed down the lump in his throat and pulled the blanket up to your waist. He placed the plate of pancakes on your nightstand and gently shook you awake.

“Y/N, wake up. I made you pancakes.”

Y/N roused from slumber at the scent of her favourite breakfast.

“Thank you Mark.”

Mark scratched the back of his nape as he sat down on your bed.

“Look, Y/N, what happened last night, the things I said, I really meant them.”

Y/N nearly choked on her pancakes.

“You remember?”

“Jeno made me listen to a recording of me trashing around last night on the ride home. I’m sorry if it made you awkward, but I do like you, and it’s fine if you don’t feel the same, we can still be friends just like last time...

Mark wouldn’t meet your eyes as he confessed, stuttering his words here and there, but this is the Mark you’ve grown to love.

“I like you too, Mark.”

“Really? But I’m just...

You shut him up by slamming your lips to his, he was shocked and frozen at first, but slowly reciprocated the kiss, his hands hesitantly placed on your waist as he gently pulls you closer to him.

You let your hands wander up his shirt, testing the waters. Mark took that as a sign to quicken the pace and shimmied his hands under your shirt, but being the clumsy head he is, his hands strayed too far up, fingertips grazed the underside of your right breast.

His touch sent tingles down your spine, a tiny moan escaping your lips. When Mark realised what he had done, he quickly pulled away to apologise.

“It’s fine, Mark. You can touch me.”

You took his hand back under your shirt, cupped his hand over your breast.

As Mark was busy toying with your nipples, you slid his shirt off, interrupting his ministrations. You had seen Mark shirtless a handful of times, but boy isn’t he a sight.

“Can I?” He asked as his fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt.

You took it off yourself, in a hurry to feel more of Mark. Mark’s eyes were filled with lust as he admires you being topless. You broke off his stare as you climbed on him, grinding on his obvious boner.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

“Mark, please. I want you now.”

Mark makes a quick action of taking off your panties and his sweats and boxers.

Your eyes darted towards the direction of his cock as his erection hits against his stomach as he freed it from its confines. You took his cock in your hands and started giving him a handjob, getting him lubricated in his own precum. After a few strokes, you put him in your mouth. Mark, being caught off guard from your sudden boldness, lets out a string of moans in between your name.

You bob your head up and down, trying your best to make him feel good, as Mark shut his eyes because of your sudden hollowed cheeks, you sneaked a hand up to cup his balls, making his light thrusts in your mouth stutter its movements.

He was close, but he didn’t want this to just be about himself.

“Y/N, stop. I want to cum inside you.”

Mark away from your mouth with a satisfying pop. He looked down to see your face covered in spit and his arousal, his need for you increasing by the second. 

You lay down onto the bed as Mark hovered over you, his eyes boring into yours like a predator to its prey.

Mark opens up your legs, your wet pussy greeting him in delight, he could see how desperate you are for him, the trail of wetness trailing down your beautiful thighs, all just for him. He pushes two fingers into you, the warmth of wetness of your walls greeting him, he could just imagine how good you’ll feel wrapped around his length.

Mark  shakes his head in disbelief as he witnesses  the amount of arousal dripping onto his fingers, he takes both of his fingers out and puts them in his mouth, tasting you.

“Fuck, Mark. That’s so hot.”

“You haven’t even experienced the full course yet, baby.”

You blush at the nickname Mark have given you, to his liking. Mark leans down to give you a kiss as he pushes himself in, your back arches at the sudden pleasure filled intrusion, Mark scatters kisses across your neck, wanting to take your attention away from the ache.

Mark had to hold back his primal side to give you time to adjust to his length, his mind being clouded by how tight and warm you are.

Slowly, the pain turned into pleasure, you rocked your hips to signal Mark to move. Taking it as a sign, Mark started thrusting into you, slow and deep strokes, it had you whimpering his name in his ear, moans and grunts bouncing off the walls of your tiny room.

“Faster, Mark.”

Mark takes your legs to let you wrap them around his torso, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, definitely leaving marks. Mark pulled out most of his cock, leaving only the tip inside you, and slams back into you.

You scream his name as he snaps his hips against yours, his length constantly hitting your sweet spot because of angle he switched to, your walls convulsing around him, making Mark throw his head back at the heightened pleasure.

You were sure the whole house could hear the sounds of Mark’s balls slapping against your ass, the snapping of his hips against yours, and the screams and moans falling freely from your mouth.

“M-mark, I’m close.”

Mark slips a hand in between your bodies to rub circular motions on your clit, urging you to cum quicker.

“Let go for me, baby.”

One last thrust from his lips with a mixture of your name falling from Mark’s pretty lips was enough to push you off the edge, your orgasm hitting you like a bus.

Mark’s thrusts stutters and gets sloppier at the way your orgasm fills up your cavern, warming him till the tip of his toes, a wave of pleasure pushing him to his orgasm.

He rides out both your highs as he milks himself into you. As the both of you come down from your highs, he pulls out of you, his cum dripping out of you.

“What a sight.” Mark confesses.

Mark uses two fingers to push his cum right back into your dripping pussy, and leaves to run you a bath in your bathroom.

Mark carries you into the bathtub as he strokes your head, making you fall asleep in your after sex bliss, with the boy of your dreams by your side.

[thatsbucknasty]

she used to be mine (viii) waitress au

summary: Inspired by the broadway musical. Y/N Beck is a pie baking force to be reckoned with. She’s pregnant with her lazy ass husband, Quentin Beck’s baby. As everything around her turns upside down, Doctor James Buchanan Barnes charms his way into her life.

pairing: Y/N x Bucky 

tags are open c:

it’s been a while and I’m sorry it took me so long to update, I hope you’re still enjoying this!

chapter 8: bad idea

What was I thinking? I can’t get involved with my doctor, no matter how sweet and handsome he is. I’m still legally a married woman. I don’t need any more drama right now. I gotta focus on carrying my baby to full term and building a life for us both.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to- please forgive me, I know technically you’re still married and I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you feel uncomfortable with”.

He stands up quickly and puts effort to keep himself a few feet away from me, and I find myself yearning for him to close the distance but also grateful cause right now I need space. I need to breathe.

“Please leave, Bucky”. I plead and my voice isn’t cold but he still looks at me with the saddest puppy eyes in history and my heart breaks as I watch him leave the room.

~

“Where are the cookie trays? I can’t find anything in this kitchen, I leave for a few days, that’s it, just a couple of days and nothing’s in its place!”

“Ooh, someone’s cranky today” Sam thinks he’s being funny.

“Sam, don’t. She hasn’t had a single cup of coffee in months now, I think the withdrawal symptoms are finally showing up, plus you should never call a pregnant woman ‘cranky’ if you want to preserve your well being”. 

“I’m right here, you know?” I yell at them.

“What happened, sweetie? You seem really upset”.

“It’s nothing, I just gave myself a deadline and I’m stressing over it, that’s all”.

“A deadline? What for? Do you need a planner too? Cause I accidentally bought two of them, so if you want-”.

“Thanks, Wanda, I don’t need a planner. The deadline’s for my savings. I have to make 36 pies today and another 36 tomorrow if I want to pay the hospital for my past bill. I already have more than half of it and if I have that bill dealt with by the weekend, I can start saving for the birth again”.

“I think I have a headache, that’s a lot of maths for me”. Sam chimes in from across the kitchen.

“Y/N, we already told you we can help you out! You don’t need to be doing all of this on your own and working extra time while pregnant isn’t exactly great for the baby”. Nat scolds me with her mom friend voice but I already told them, this is my problem and I’ll deal with it alone, I just roll my eyes at her and continue with my task.

-

“Okay, we know she’s stubborn and won’t let any of us pay for anything. I respect how hard working she is but now’s not the time to deny help from her friends”. Natasha explains to everybody in the room while Y/N is baking her 7th batch of pies where she can’t hear them. The diner’s closed and there are no patrons left, so the three of them are sitting in a booth.

“Do you think something happened with Doctor Ocean Eyes back at the hospital? First she seemed happy to be left alone with him and when we got back she was packing her stuff and screaming at us to take her away from there, it’s all so confusing”. Wanda scratches her head and Sam just sighs, sinking into the booth, clueless.

“Maybe, but she won’t talk about it”. Nat responds.

“What if someone asked Doctor Pretty what happened?” Wanda grabs Nat’s hand excited about her genius idea.

“I don’t know honey, that could make her even angrier”. 

“I’ll do it. I’ll go talk to him”. Sam straightens up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Y/N is like a sister to me, I should go see this Doctor of hers and demand answers!” He stands up, decisiveness in his eyes and Wanda cheers him up.

-

“Good morning, ma’am. Is Doctor Barnes here?” Sam walks up to nurse Maria’s desk.

“Sure, he’s with a patient. Does your wife have an appointment?”

“My wife? No, no, I’m just here to talk to him, I won’t be long, I promise”.

“Oh, well if you could just sit over there and wait till he’s free I can let him know you’re here to see him, are you a friend of his?”

“Uh, yeah sure”. He’s nerves make him lie to the nurse but she’s too busy reading a crime novel to pay much attention to his fidgeting.

-

“Doctor Barnes? Your ten o’clock called to say she’s running late but your friend Sam’s here to see you”. Maria announces and then leaves, while Sam enters the office.

“My friend Sam? I don’t- oh, hi”.

“Hi”. Sam stands next to the door awkwardly.

“So, you work at Nick’s Diner?”

“What? How did you-”

“Your uniform. Looks a lot like Y/N’s”.

“Right, yeah. Listen, I know this might seem weird and maybe it isn’t my place but-” Sam sighs, struggling to find the right words while Bucky eyes him, also nervous. A tall, muscular dude comes into his office, obviously there to talk about Y/N, he’s a little intimidated.

“Y/N’s one of my best friends. We’ve been there for each other since high school, I’ve seen her at her happiest and at her most miserable, and right now she is miserable. We don’t know why and she totally closed off and won’t let anyone in, which is not like her at all, so, if you know anything, please tell me. The girls say she was fine when they left her with you and when they got back she was freaking out. Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Well, I don’t-”

“Please man, I know we don’t know each other, but I need you to be honest”.

Bucky lets out a breath he was holding and sits on top of his desk. He looks defeated and even though Sam doesn’t know much about him he can tell, Bucky looks as miserable as Y/N.

“Yeah something happened”. Bucky looks down at his shoes.

“And?”

“And she said it was a bad idea. A mistake. I offered to help her out with the hospital bill and she accepted”.

“She did? Huh”:

“Yeah but then we kissed and I made things awkward, then she freaked out and told me to forget it, said she could pay her own bills and didn’t need anybody, called the nurses to tell ‘em she wanted to be discharged and took off”.

Sam could hear the pain in his voice but didn’t say anything.

“She’s important to me and I just wanted to let her know but I understand how it can be difficult for her to trust me”.

“Well, tell her that”.

“Nah, I think it’s best for me to just give her some space”.

“No, dude. Space is overrated, she needs to hear this from you. Hey man, I can tell you’re a decent guy. Nicer than Quentin for sure, and I can also tell you care about Y/N, she’s a tough gal and she can very well manage on her own, but I know she cares about you too. And if no one of you morons will take the first step toward something real and good, you’re gonna regret it”.

Bucky let out a laugh and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No ofense, but you’re both pretty stupid”. Sam smiles at him.

“Thanks”.

“Well, are you gonna talk to her?”

“Yeah, I’ll stop by the diner later tonight”.

“Great then! My job here is done. Good luck and don’t let her scare you away, underneath the tough surface lies a soft cheeseball who actually likes you back, she just needs a little push”.

“Thank you-”

“Sam, Wilson”.

“Bucky”.

They shake hands and Sam leaves. Bucky feels a weight lift off his chest and the small hope of seeing Y/N again begins to overflow his mind with memories of her smile, the shape of her hands and the smell of sugar and butter. He has something to look forward to today and that’s such a relief for him. 

He’s spent the last couple of weeks moping around the hospital, counting the days on the calendar for Y/N’s next appointment which isn’t for another four weeks. But now he’s giddy and excited cause that wait has shortened and he’ll see her in just a few hours. ‘Should I bring her flowers?’, he thinks. ‘No, I haven’t asked what her favorite flowers are yet’. He’ll think of something. He’ll make things right and get his girl tonight. His girl. 

-

chapter 9: you matter to me

[yzkhr]

Since today's my birthday, what better way to celebrate than torture myself and create this fic?

-

He was dying.

Being constantly followed by death, it wasn't rare for Japan's famous detective Kudo Shinichi to witness a pool of blood. However, it was a different matter if it was his.

The sticky red liquid was pouring out of his stomach continuously, with no sign of stopping. It dripped and dripped, making a trail of blood as he goes along the dark empty street in the middle of the night in Tokyo, settling in an alleyway.

Having no strength left to stand, he leaned on an old wall, not caring if it's dirty, knowing that it will be covered with his blood anyways.

Shinichi sighed, remembering what exactly happened that got him in such a painful situation.

When he chased after the serial killer, he didn't expect the man to still have one last trick under their sleeve—being a knife literally under the killer's sleeve— as Shinichi tried to tackle him. Unfortunately, the man managed to escape, leading to more chasing that the detective can't handle any longer with his condition.

He tried to call the police for back up but none of them are picking up. Detective Takagi and Sato are both in their honeymoon, while the rest are currently busy with a bombing case. He mentally smacked himself for being too confident, telling the Inspector that he can take on the serial killer on his own.

Seeing as how it turned out, he clearly couldn't.

He tightened the black blazer around his bleeding stomach even more, trying to at least slow down the rapid loss of blood but to no avail. Even if by some miracle someone were to find his battered body, it would already be too late.

He felt numb but at the same time in pain. He was losing so much blood that he knew he's about to pass out any second now. But he didn't want to yet. He still had to somehow give the police clues about the suspect. That was the least he could do.

He dug deep into his pocket, finding his phone that cracked when he tripped once from the pursuit. Luckily, it was still working. He opened his notes and typed every information about the murderer. Despite his trembling fingers and more blood loss happening, his perseverance was more than enough to do the job.

After he finished writing one last sentence, he pressed the home button and immediately regretted doing so afterwards. Because of it, the photo of him and Ran on their graduation day holding hands as his wallpaper appeared before him. His heart clenched almost in an instant, seeing the pure and blissful face of his girlfriend coupled with his embarrassed one.

And as if the world wasn't fucking with him enough, he heard a melodious ringtone from his phone that's only meant for her. She's calling him.

"Ran..." he muttered under his breath, seeing her name registered below the cracked screen. Shinichi didn't know what to do. For some reason, she always seemed to sense when he's in some kind of danger. His thoughts came back at the time when he first shrunk as Conan, her name flashing on his phone, signalling her call.

That time, he chose not to answer, knowing that he'll be humiliated proving to her that she was right about him getting himself into trouble with all his probing. Should he do what he did back then?

All of a sudden, the ache in his abdomen got worse as more blood poured out. The man's slice was a lot deeper than expected. With that, he came to a realization.

No. He has to answer her. Back when he turned into Conan, there was a tinge of hope that he can somehow return to his old body, that he can get through and treat his shrinking as nothing but a nightmare. But this is different. He was bleeding out blood for about an hour without any treatment whatsoever except for a piece of cloth—which is already too soaked— that he tied around the wound.

Although miniscule, there was coming back from turning into a seven year old. But dying? There was no redemption from something like being dead. He of all people knew that.

If he estimated, he still have at least six minutes. That's all the time he has. Six minutes until the pain is over, six minutes until he finally die. The least he can do was hear her voice one last time and to say goodbye.

Inhaling to somehow stabilize his ragged breathing, he pressed the answer button, slowly bringing the phone on his right ear.

"Shinichi?"

Hearing his girlfriend's voice made Shinichi forget for a second about his impending predicament. It was calm and soft, like music to his ears. A smile instinctively made it's way to his dry lips.

"Yo, Ran," he mumbled casually, as if the lack of blood wasn't about to make him pass out.

"Shinichi? Are you okay?" she immediately asked, worry lace in her tone. He planned on answering honestly, informing he didn't have much time left. For some reason however, things became different.

"Barou, of course I'm okay." the words naturally came out of his mouth despite his mind protesting, telling that what he was saying was wrong.

But after hearing a relieved sigh on her end, Shinichi started to rethink his previous decision. Is it really okay to worry her now when he knew she wouldn't be able to do anything anyway? Is it really fine to hear her voice change from it's usual sweetness into something bitter? Is it really right to break her heart for the remaining 6 minutes of his life?

'No,' Shinichi thought.

He didn't want his last minutes to be filled with sadness and regret. He didn't want the last thing he'll ever hear would be her cries over the phone, with him not being able to do anything to comfort her.

He can be selfish for just one last time, right?

"Mou, where are you exactly? You've been gone the whole day." she complained, her voice now having none of her initial panic, yet he can still hear the lingering concern. It made him realize once more how even after two years since the Conan incident, Ran still had nightmares and doubts about him going away. And now, he's about to leave her alone again.

Permanently.

"I miss you." he blurted out with sincerity, not wanting the regrets to eat him slowly. He leaned back further against the now bloodied wall, he despises how cold it is and wishing she was there to warm him up.

The line stayed quiet, but Shinichi imagined how flustered and red her face must have been. After returning to his teenage body, the detective didn't waste any time and made sure that Ran knows how much he loves her, to the point of overwhelming her sometimes. He took her out to countless dates, constantly saying sweet things, even being a bit more physical. Two years had passed yet she's still slowly getting used to it and he was fine with that.

He only wished he could stay longer until she finally did.

"I miss you too..." she quietly answered on the other line, a bit mortified. He couldn't help but let out a chuckle, delighting at her adorable reply. He got his karma however, when he ached on his wound because of the action.

Before he can tease, Ran quickly steered the topic away.

"Seriously, If you miss me so much, finish up the case faster. I'm making your favorite right now," she said, voice teasing and sweet, trying to mask her early embarrassment. True enough, Shinichi heard the slight whisking over the line making him also superficially smell the sweet scent of the lemon pie.

He imagined them five years later, Ran on her apron, standing behind the counter and whisking his favorite dessert while he hugs her from behind, wearing a satisfied expression. A flustered yet dreamy smile appeared on his face but he soon tasted a bitter feeling from the back of his throat wanting to be let out.

It wasn't vomit or blood but the disgusting taste of regret, him being aware he'll never be able to make his imagination a reality.

Wanting to forget the unsettling and resentful feeling on the pit of his gashed stomach, he redirected their topic by asking her about her day, feeling weaker and weaker as each second passed.

They managed to talk about a lot of things. They jumped from topic to topic, making jokes and flirting at the same time. It only lasted for four minutes, but it meant Shinichi's whole entire life. Within those said four minutes, he was also able to hide any sign of his painful situation, regardless of it getting worse and worse. Ran's gentle and kind voice also helped to calm him down, reminding him how he would break her if he showed any hints of distress.

Because of his experiences as Conan, Shinichi had built on a high pain tolerance when it comes to any physical injuries. He had his bones and muscles shrinking and growing time and time again after all. However, the blood loss was a different matter altogether.

He did well ignoring the dizziness and nausea, but his vision blurred even more than before, his world spinning despite him just leaning helplessly on the now bloodied ground, no longer capable of moving. Fatigue started to get to Shinichi as well, with him forcing his eyes to stay open despite it begging to be closed.

It didn't take long for Ran to notice, with his hearing getting weak and his voice slightly shaking from the shortness of breath. He tried to be firm, but he couldn't even breath properly anymore.

"Shinichi? Are you really okay?" she inquired, worry obvious and rising once again. He nodded his head languidly, as if she can see his answer.

"I'm....fine," he sighed heavily. "Just tired...."

"What do you mean tired? Where are you? Are you okay? Do you want me to end the call for you to---"

"No!" he cut her off, fear and desperation evident. Ran was clearly shocked, with only the echo of his voice being heard.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. Not at the idea of dying, but the prospect of dying alone. He knew it was selfish, but he wanted—needed her there with him. He needed her warmth and kindess to envelope him, needed her voice to embraced him and take the pain away. But she wasn't there. The only thing he had left was her voice, and the thought of it gone as well absolutely terrified him.

"Shinichi...." Ran broke the silence, with Shinichi realizing what he had just done. He closed his eyes tightly shut, reprimanding his own stupidity.

"Shinichi... where are you?"she asked quietly, but Shinichi just moved his head slightly back and forth, indicating a no.

"It's okay Ran...it's too late anyways." he finally confessed, predicting his time limit being less than a minutes.

"I..got... stabbed. Been bleeding out for the last five minutes..." he managed to chew out, with hís breathing getting ragged as each word got out.

"What!? Why didn't you say so earlier!?" she was going hysteric and he was sure of the things going through her head.

"Shinichi please... tell me where you are. I'm coming there right now... please..." she pleaded. Shinichi heard her aggressively shoveling through her stuff and running fast, the sound of her heels clicking rapidly being it's proof.

"Ran, looks like it's my turn to wait for you this time, huh." even speaking was a challenge to him, panting hard as he finished.

"No! Shinichi, come on! Just tell me and I'm coming for you! Please...."

"I can't... you'll cry. I don't want the last thing I'll see... is you crying." he tried to laugh, but only managed a small chuckled.

The lines stayed quiet for a bit until he heard her sobbing. She was trying to cover it, but it was loud and clear to him. He frowned.

"Barou, didn't I tell you not to cry?" he tried to sound annoyed, but the fondness was so evident that even he heard it himself.

"Idiot! How can I not!? Don't do this to me.... What happened? Please, Shinichi...." she was now just crying uncontrollably, with no sign of stopping.

"Ran, listen to me..." he coaxed, trying to alleviate her cries with his voice.

"No! You're leaving! You're leaving me again....." she let out in between sobs and Shinichi can't help but feel a sting, picturing her as she spoke such words and what she must look like at the moment.

She was right. He was leaving her again. This time, with the certainty of never coming back.

"Come on, Ran, you know I hate it when you cry. So please..." he wanted to do something—anything to make her feel better. But all he could manage was a gentle and cajoling voice that seemed to have no effect on his girlfriend's wails.

"Why, why didn't you tell me!? I could have helped you! I could have..." she uttered incoherently, hiccuping. He shushed her gently, wanting to reason out.

"It was already too late. I already loss too much blood at that time. I didn't wanna worry you."

Ran still tried to protest by mumbling and rambling, but her tears were practically choking her. She couldn't speak.

"Ran, I love you so much...." he said, wanting to tell her for the last time, just how much his childhood friend meant to him.

Ran wasn't just his first love, she was also his greatest and last one. Even if he wasn't about to die, he knew that he would still choose her.

Her breath hitched from his confession. It seemed to calm her down as she controlled chokes and sobs, and he once more imagined her sitting on the floor, face a crying mess, but she was blushing and a loving smile plastered on her, still making her more beautiful than ever.

"I love you more," she answered, voice filled with pain and sorrow, yet laced with all the love and sweetness in the world. With that, Shinichi felt like the luckiest man alive.

"I love you most...." he jabbed back, not wanting to be outdone(and knowing that it was the absolute truth).

"You stay awake there do you hear me!? Don't close your eyes yet! I'm coming there right now so please, I'll definitely find you and be the one to beat you up so wait for me, Shinichi!" she commanded with so much conviction that he wanted to obey, but his body just wouldn't cooperate.

"Hmm..."

"Shinichi? Shinichi come on!" he was aware of her screams but they fell deaf to his buzzing ears.

'Ran, I'm sorry.'

Shinichi, contented hearing Ran for the final time and telling her how much she meant to him, wore the most genuine smile as he slowly closed his tired eyes, having no intention of opening them again.

"Shinichi? Shinichi!?" were the last lines he heard on the phone, as it slipped on his hand and dropped on the ground, lifeless, just like it's owner.

[vampirecatboy]

haha ok this is going to be a lot but :3c

Kira:(5,18,20,27,31,39,40) / Rhys:(4,12,28,35,37) /Murdoch:(6,14,23 but circus troupe, 32 previous to merrow transformation, 38) / Petra:(any question you feel like answering for him? c:)

oh hell yeah buckle up

Kira:

What was their childhood fear?

I don't think it was "getting lost" because he wouldn't go wandering around so much if he was scared of getting lost. I think he was really nervous around his siblings' friends, because they were all so much older than him and bigger than him, plus they were like that candy-sweet, cloying level of nice to him that really rubbed him the wrong way. They babied him basically and it made him very uncomfortable, so whenever Aoife or Teague had friends over he would either hide in the woods or his room if it was cold/rainy.

If they could live or visit anywhere, where would they go?

I'll skip over "home" because that's obvious I think. I think he would want to go somewhere secluded and remote, like a cabin in the woods, or a lighthouse. He's never actually been able to discern anything from a map so there aren't cities he wants to see, but he would like to see Inverness someday.

What did they dream of “growing up” to be?

I have a line I've never been able use in any one shot, where he says "I wanted to be cool and sexy when I grew up, and I think I've checked both those boxes." In all seriousness, he wanted to be an adventurer like his mom, an expert archer like Nikita, and he wanted to study the plants that grew around his home.

Have they achieved any of their childhood dreams? Are they still trying? Have those dreams changed?

He's achieved all of them, surpassed the one about studying plants because he's seen so much beyond his home. Unfortunately, becoming an adventurer came at a cost. He hasn't been able to stop since he was sixteen. His dreams have changed. He only has one now, and it's to see his family again.

Who are they when they aren’t with the party?

That's a tough one. When he's not with the party he's either alone, or with one of his love interests, and even between those he's different. When he's alone, he gets kind of spacey and in his own head, because there's no one else to interact with, and he probably won't choose to interact with anyone. When he's with a love interest, he gets very affectionate, and typically matches their energy and behavior. It's sort of like unconscious masking. Sometimes I refer to him in my head as a "sexual chameleon" but it's not just levels of sexuality he mimics. He'll work with whatever they give him in all fields.

If someone could tell them anything about the future they asked, would they want to know? Would they ask?

He absolutely would want to know, but I don't think he'd ask because he'd be afraid of the answer. He wants to know if he'll ever get home, he wants to know how things turn out with Rhys (he might not believe the answer he would get lol), and he wants to know if he'll survive the prophecy he's a part of.

What sets them free?

A sky full of fluffy white clouds, the weight of his crystal pendant around his neck, the first chill in autumn, the warm embrace of a lover, the sound of an arrow hitting its target, his father's shepherd's pie

Rhys:

Who was their childhood hero?

If I knew more about the character I'd say Long John Silver from Treasure Island because pirate. Otherwise, it's his dad. When he was young, he was the type who dreamed of getting married and starting a family, because he saw how his dad was with his wife, and how he was with him and Elsie and Erin, and thought "I want to be like him." (and now Cat's in the Cradle is stuck in my head lol)

What were their favorite hobbies as a teen?

He was a shy little bookworm who loved to read. He used to get in trouble in elementary school because he would read during class when he should've been paying attention. There was a point when he was a teenager and doing his apprenticeship with the book binder that he considered writing for a living.

If they could change their class(es), would they? To what?

I don't think so, he likes being a rogue, but.... he's always been a little envious of people with magic. He'd stay a rogue, but that insult spell that Kira used to k.o. him was pretty cool...

What do they see in the dark?

The things he's hiding from.

What is their sleep/trance like?

He's a sleeper, and he's a deep one. There's a reason he doesn't take naps anymore, he'd wake up after four hours completely disoriented and feeling pretty much dead. He'll occasionally have nightmares, not really triggered by anything, just when his subconscious is like "Hey, fuck you :)" All that being said, lately he's been sleeping less, not for any emotional reason, it's just that the sparse times the cat wakes up have been late at night, and shh don't tell his sisters but especially don't tell Kira, but he loves that cat to death and he's happy to see him awake because that means Kira is actually sleeping. Also sometimes the cat will make a little noise at him and his icy heart melts.

Murdoch:

Did they grow up with siblings? What were those relationships like?

Murdoch is the super spoiled only child of Shiloh and Rosemary Heffernan. That being said he had a lot of friends growing up, so he was never lonely. His moms let him have a lot of sleepovers because they knew it would be good for him to socialize and learn how to cooperate with others.

What does their midday meal look like? One big meal? Lots of snacks throughout the day?

I don't think he really gets lunch breaks so much as someone else will run over to concessions and get him something to snack on when he's not performing. Minor spoiler for my follow up to Kira's disaster threesome (or something he'll actually do in a session, we'll see), but I was thinking a day or two after that night, Kira gets a candy apple or something from concessions and brings it to Murdoch which is unintentionally a very sweet gesture.

What is their role in the party? Not just their class on a meta level, but among the individuals who make up the party?

He's the idiot brother with a heart of gold. I said a while ago, before he was part of the circus in canon, that he dumbs himself down and plays the fool so he'll seem less scary? Like he's got the eyes and the teeth and the deathly pallor, he feels he has to make up for that with how he acts, so he seems less threatening.

Do they have any expectations of how they might die?

He always felt he would die young, and part of him hoped it would be in some poetic way. Killed by a lover, or for love, in some pretty bloodless fashion, like with poison or through, well, drowning. Idk if we have Shakespeare in universe, but to put it in a way that I think fully encapsulates his feelings: he read Hamlet and hoped to die like Ophelia.

Do they remember their dreams?

Not often. That's one thing that didn't really change after he died. His dreams while he sleeps are pretty scattered and strange, things that are so ridiculous and nonsensical that unless it really scares or arouses him, it fades within minutes.

Petra:

Did they grow up with siblings? What were those relationships like?

I chose this one for Petra because I had this sudden vision of him having a twin sister (Renate, pronounced reh-NA-tuh, Renny for short) who he's really close with, as twins typically are. They both got into all kinds of mischief together. Renny I think became an urban druid, she and Petra both developed an affinity with the environment. In Petra that looked like parkour and and a crossbow, and in Renny that looked like talking to pigeons and (eventually) shapechanging into them. They still live together, their parents actually gave them the house and moved out to the countryside when they felt the city had gotten too fast for them. And one other thing, they've both got the same purple eyes.

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (6)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

Ah this exchange... Despite the fact that you knew his name, you kept a cold-bloodedness that amused him. and your face when you faced him through the window...

“...ed...”

Your eyes so big that he could read your fear, the firm grip of your hand on the phone, those lips so thin and this skin so soft that he would love to …

“Jed! Hey Jed are you there? Hellooooo ? Jeddyyy ...”  

Melina's voice brought Danny out of his thoughts, making him blink several times while looking at her. it must be said that he did not stop that night coming home late enough and having slept just enough not to be tired. He stretched and put himself back in his seat, putting his glasses back in place.

“Sorry. What did you say?” He said rubbing his eyes.

“I said that we should find something about Hoggin’s computer in his office. Or in his desk. But it won't be easy to go into his office without attracting the attention of his gorillas. He paid the best in terms of bodyguards. You're really going to have to be careful not to get caught.” responds Melina by checking her notebook.  

“Yeah yeah...Sure.”  

“You look completely in the clouds since this morning. Are you sure everything's okay? Did you at least sleep?” ask Mattew worried.  

“Of course. Otherwise, I would be a real zombie with dark circles at the size of a balloon.” replied Jed with a little laugh.

“I'd say our little nerd is spending his night dreaming about someone. I don't know... A certain girl who runs the Nebula?” said Melina with a corner smile.  

“What? Come on... Don't start with that. I have already told you that I consider her as a good friend and a good neighbour. And it stops there. I'm too busy with the job to think about that.”

“Yes, well maybe you should think about your personal life more than your professional life. otherwise, you'll be a poor 50-year-old guy who lives with five cats. Look at Mattew he almost ended up like this if I hadn't convinced him to throw his feelings at Chris. How's he doing by the way?”  

“Hey! One, we already have 3 cats with Chris and maybe we'll have another and two ... He's fine. He's a little stressed out because of his mother's surgery. Although I try to reassure him that everything is going to be all right, he can't help but think of the worst. And we can't say his job makes things right for him. He's dealing with clients who are real assholes on the phone sometimes.” answers Mattew.

“Poor guy. I hope everything will be fine.” said Jed.

“Anyway, it's not halfway through your life that you're going to have to think about your love situation, Jed. So put the work-obsessed nerd aside a little bit and take care of yourself. You're far away, VERY far to be ugly.”

Danny rolls his eyes before refocusing on his work. But at the same time Mike landed both furious and worried before locking himself in his office. No one knew why he was in this state, but Danny might have an idea. Whispers were heard and Mike's colleagues Karen and Thomas chatted in their corner, a little out of sight. When they saw Melina's insistent gaze, telling them to come, they looked at each other, exchanged two three words, and then resigned themselves to getting closer to the trio.

“What happens to Mike? You threw his four truths in his face or what?” ask Melina.

“No... It’s just...You know Mike. He can be really upset for nothing sometimes. Answer shyly Karen.  

“Frankly, even I don't believe what you're saying here! Mike's been like this since last night. He received a threatening letter.” replied Thomas.

“Wow...how surprised I am! I'm surprised it happens to him when everyone here dreams of one thing: blowing his mouth.” said Melina ironically.

“it's not a letter from someone in the office... It's a letter from Ghostface.”

Jed doesn't react, but Danny made his most devilish smile. Once again, he was right and once again, he gloats inwardly imagining the face of that dear Mike as he read the letter. It must be said that what Danny had written... wasn't really very tender.  

But it had done him a great deal of good to let go of his anger and frustration in this letter, something he could and cannot do by being Jed. And the game doesn't end there. Oh no... Danny intends to make him suffer...until his last breath. But first, he has to kill McKellan. The hours went by and when the lunch break arrived, our trio went out to settle down at a small dinner in the area.

“Dude sometimes I wonder how you eat so much. You're not human, I'm telling you! Did you see the size of your burger? I'm sure if they did it in size XXL you would eat it without an eyebrow!” said Melina eating a French fry before noticing Jed lost in his though again. “Don’t worry, you’ll see her today. it's been a while since I want to go to the Nebula ... with everything I hear on it, I want to check for myself if her coffee and cakes are really better than old Joe's. I'm surprised that you offered her to come with us to the Hoggins reception. I wonder why...”

That's a question neither Jed nor Danny could answer. Why did he ask you to come? Certainly, to get to know you better, to get closer to you, like the spider approaching its prey ready to taste it starting with the bowels. But wasn't there another reason? A reason deeper, more obscure than either dared to admit. a reason more... Personal? Danny immediately chased this idea out of his mind, he did it for the only purpose of deciding if he would let you live, or not.

They left dinner after an hour, Mattew dragging his feet a little, completely full, his belly ready to explode. Melina made fun of him while Danny felt stuck by his colleague's remark. A little stalk tonight will clear his mind.  

As they entered the Nebula, they noticed that the room was practically full and that you were running around. But curiously we had no delays or any unscathed customers. As if having a little challenge or difficulty amused you even more than if everything was simple.

“Welcome to the Nebula! Where our pastries come from Outerspace!” you said before noticing Jed’s face. “Hey Jed! How are you? Are these two people with you?”

“A little tired but I’ll be fine. Yeah, this is Melina and Mattew, they want to check if what they say about your coffee is true. And yet I kept saying it.”

“Oh, you’re Jed’s colleagues and friends?? It's a real pleasure to finally meet you! Jed keeps telling me that his job would be boring if you weren't there. Settle in! I'll take care of you right away!” you replied with a bright smile.  

“Oh, yeah? I keep it very deep in my memory.” said Melina with smirk.

The trio sat at a free table at the bottom of the café against the glass. Mattew let go a sigh of relief, finally happy to be able to land and lay like a toad in his seat. Melina was seated next to him sneering at her colleague's position. Danny sighed as he shook his head. Not one to catch up with the other.  

You head to them with the notebook and pen in hand to take their order: A March cake and a Latte for Melina, a Neptune's pie and a Cappuccino for Mattew, and finally a Chocolate Jupiter's Thunder and a long coffee with sugar and cream for Jed. It only took you a few minutes to prepare their orders and bring them all to their tables. While smiling at them you leave at the counter you take care of two other customers.

“Young, your age I'd say maybe two years younger, pretty but not the kind to let herself walk on either. I think I'm beginning to understand why you invited him to accompany us to the reception.” laughs Melina before receiving a shot in the knee from Jed. “ouch! Okay that’s fair. Oh, shit I just realized that I'm going to need a proper outfit... I'll be surprised if they let us in with jeans and sneakers.”

“I don’t like the suits I feel like a penguin. But Chris must have one... we're doing the same size.” Respond Mattew.  

“I have one too. I needed to wear one when I was working as a journalist in Missouri.” Replied Jed.  

“By the way, what do you think of the Ghostface threat letter? I think it's crazy anyway. I wonder if Mike did anything to him in particular to get his attention.”

“He's an asshole, narcissistic, self-absorbed, violent, willing to do anything to get what he wants... Do you want me to keep going or is that enough for you?” Replied Melina.  

“Anyway, if he provoked Ghostface it's too bad for him. He will have looked for it. Sooner or later, you always reap what you sow.” continues Jed without empathy.

“Ghostface?” You said making them turn to you slightly surprised. “He attacked someone again?”

“He wrote a letter to one of our colleagues. and obviously it's not very pretty. Why, you're in trouble with him, too?” ask Mattew

“Well, he...He calls me last night. We talk a little and... he said to me that if I’m talking to the police, I’ll be his next victim. But for the moment he’ll spare me.” you answer slightly trembling.

“Why Didn't you come to see me? or call me? Things could have been different if I had been there.” Replied Jed worried while Danny held back a devilish smile.  

“I wanted to hang up but if I had done it, he would have killed you ... Sorry. I didn't want to bother you with that.”  

“Oh... I see. I'm the one who's sorry you did what you thought was right. But if it ever starts again... call me or come to my house. We can always talk about it.”

You smiled at him and after a few minutes the trio paid the bill and left your coffee. the rest of the day went quietly, Mike being locked in his office all day, no one had seen him even his colleagues. Danny went home doing two or three little things before leaving discreetly at night to do his second "work". He knew Mike's address by heart, having "politely" copied it from his notebook while searching Mike's office one day when Mike was not working.

He couldn't help but smile as he thought of you slightly trembling when talking about your little conversation with Ghostface. that's the kind of feeling, emotions Danny likes to see about his prey. This feeling of insecurity that he gives you without knowing that he is the author... Perfect. Maybe in the end he won't kill you. He will frighten you, remind you of his existence... but won't kill you. Just enough for you to trust only one person. Him.  

He parked in a rather secluded place, not far from Mike's house, his bag in hand to change into Ghostface and got out of the car. From there he entered the house. He was planning to leave a... little gift to Mike. A gift he doesn't intend to forget anytime soon.  

He placed the small package on the counter and took a bucket. a bucket filled with blood that he had hidden well. He stayed for a few minutes and once his masterpiece was completed, he took several pictures and returned to the car. He then saw him come out of his room and down the stairs. It's time to turn up the arterial tension of this dear Mike. With a disposable phone he dialled the number and while waiting for, a mean smile to appear on his face.

“Hello?” said Mike

“Hello Mikey... Did you like my letter?” respond Danny.

“You son of b***! Do you know where you can put your threats?? Do you think you're scaring me??”

“I conclude that you did not like my letter... I suspected it a little. I would have been more... Sincere. I have a little present for you. On the counter.”

“Go f*** yourself. If I caught you...”

“You're not nice. I give you a present and you don't even bother to open it? I'm disappointed in you.”

He then saw Mike walk to the counter and open the small package and back off both frightened and enraged.

“you... How did you get those pictures??? You... You broke into my house, you bastard!!!!” He replied

"and more than once. If these images arrived at your boss’s office ... That would be the end of your career. Though... You could still make a career in prison. You're good at lying. Oh, and I'm sorry about your walls. I put some blood on it.” respond Danny.  

Mike turned and saw the bloody inscriptions: Pedophile. Drug addict.  

“You only get what you deserve Mikey. And believe me... It's nothing compared to what awaits you. I intend to make you regret every moment of your life until your last breath. Did you want to be the star? Know that the only star in this city Mike... It’s ME. See you soon Mike... have a beautiful dream.” laughs Danny before hangs up the phone.  

His laughter got louder, more diabolical when he saw from his car, Mike throwing everything away. Seeing him explode with rage made Danny even more ecstatic. Killing him will be a real bloody pleasure because not only will he take revenge for all the blows he has taken, but he will also rid the country of a disguised plague of society.

He restarted the car with a demonic smile on his lips, ideas just as twisted as each other. He'd stalk you a little bit tonight, but he had another victim to watch tonight.

And his name was Horace McKellan. Death is getting closer Horace...  

And soon you’ll embrace her in such a painful agony...

But also, desirable.

***

(Done! I’ll hope you’ll enjoy it as always! And remember! If you got some questions just ask!  See ya! )  

[thiswasinevitableid]

PSL (OT4)

Prompt for the 14th was: Pumpkin.  The OT4, for new folks, is Barclay, Stern, Indrid, and Duck (every is dating except Duck and Barclay, who are metamors). This prompt could also be called “the silly things we sometimes do for love”

Stern absentmindedly taps the steering wheel as the last cars trickle from the visitor center parking lot. The last song before he dropped back into the NRQZ was “Bad Moon Rising” and so that’s what he taps in time to. The lights in the building can't go out soon enough. 

He’d only been in D.C  week, had skyped the others every night, but the sensation of missing them was so strong. It’s the trade-off, he supposes, for knowing there were three people waiting for him instead of the none he’d grown accustomed to. 

Even with the LAN, the signal on the Kepler end was too weak to show video most of the time, so he lay on the hotel bed, basking in their voices. Barcaly’s voice makes him feel safe the way a well-built house and a warm drink on a stormy night make him feel safe. Indrid’s is like something from  drem, familiar and alien all at once.

The car door swings open, letting in a burst of fall air. 

“Hey, darlin.” 

Duck’s voice makes him feel sixteen again. He never had a highschool sweetheart, but that drawl feels like it’s coming in through the open window in the summer air, promising something wonderful if he climbs outside.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

And then there’s him, sounding like a dork. But Duck just smiles.

“You have  an okay drive?”

“It’s been worse, and at least this time I drove past the city limit sign knowing where Bigfoot is.”

“In your room pinin after you?”

“I hope not.” Stern lies, blushes a little at the image. 

Duck moves to put his water bottle in the center cupholder, picks up the starbucks cup sitting there, and makes a face when he finds it mostly full.

“You feein okay? Don’t think I ever seen you leave coffee long enough to get cold.” Duck sniffs, nods in understanding, “uhuh, I see, not a fan of the old pumpkin spice?”

“No. I buy one every year, and every year it’s the same thing.”

“So...why keep buyin it?”

“Because it’s so popular and yet I don’t like it. It’s so frustrating, I feel like I’m missing something! And now I basically have this weird ritual where I buy one just to see if this is the year I finally taste what everyone else does.” He tosses a sideways glare at the cup, “I have to be missing something.”

Duck giggles as they turn down the street to his apartment, “Missed you a hell of a lot, city mouse.”

“Do you think Indrid will mind if I don’t come up? I’m ready to collapse, and his sleep schedule is so weird anyway-”

“Think you don’t gotta worry about it.’

Sitting on the foot of the outdoor staircase is tall figured bundled in sweaters. Once they’re parked, Duck leans over and turns Sterns face towards him, kissing him while running his hand along his leg. 

The passenger car door clicks open and Indrid’s hand appears. Duck takes it, winking once before leaving the car. There’s the sound of another kiss, and then Indrid bends down , bracing awkwardly on the seat, purring as he looks at Stern. 

“Hello, pet. I missed you.” 

“I missed you too.” Stern leans in without being told to, Indrid chuckling lightly before kissing him. 

“And yes,” Indrid says as he pulls back, “that surprise you’re thinking of will work nicely.”

With that, he’s out of the car in a rustle of fabric. 

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

His plan to surprise Barclay by waiting in the Sylphs room until he gets off shift does indeed go well. He gets fucked into the bedspread and cums with Barclays head between his legs, and that's not even the best part. 

Barclay is so happy when he sees him, clings to him afterwards, trails after him like a faithful dog as he puts his things away. They started sharing the room after the almost end of the world, partly because it’s further from everyone elses and thus they run less risk of being heard (Sterns love of letting Barclay know how well he’s taking care of him in bed stops just shy of letting everyone else know). It also acted as a sign that Stern meant to stay, somehow reassuring Barclay of that fact more than the agent’s own permanent assignment over the gate did. 

He’s never told Barclay the truth, which is that if it had come down to staying in Kepler or leaving the FBI, he’d have turned in his badge in an instant. Barclay alone is reason enough for that, and when you added Duck and Indrid into the mix, how could he be anywhere else?

Then again, maybe Barclay has guessed as much after Stern willingly dragged his boss into a closet to help them save the world. 

It scares him, knowing he might have put so much of his ambition aside to stay here. But it thrills him too. 

Right now, it seems deeply worthwhile; he’s laying on the couch, legs in Duck's lap, doing a crossword while the other man reads. The Sylphs are on the floor, Indrid using his claws to scratch and groom Barclays fur. They’re talking quietly to each other in what Stern now recognizes as High Sylph, Barclay letting our rumbling purrs as they do. 

Then he opens his eyes, looks at Stern, “No way. Babe, you don’t like pumpkin spice?”

Stern looks at Duck, confused. The ranger shrugs, “I told ‘Drid about it.”

“Just the lattes. I like pumpkin in other things.”

“I am the one who hates pumpkin in all forms.” Indrid says, handing Barclay his bracelet. 

“Hold up, not even pumpkin pie?” Duck sets his book down.

Indrid shakes his head. 

“But it’s a classic!”

“It is a trap. Pie is supposed to be sweet, not vegetal. And do not get me started on the wretched gourds themselves.”

“Do they make you sick?” Stern is already making a mental note to steer the Sylph clear of the bins of them by the Kroger.

“No. They resemble a fruit on Sylvain that is commonly grown near where I grew up. That fruit tastes sweet, like a melon. Not like horrid pulp.”

“Hmm, I wonder if seeds from one got through the gate and created the other.”

“Had to be the pumpkins goin to Sylvain, pumpkins have been growin in the americas for a long time.” Duck adds, then sighs, “can't believe I’m datin a fella who hates pumpkin pie. My mom made the best version in the world. Wonder if I can make it…”

“My sweet, I doubt even you are capable of as impressive a feat as making pumpkin pie not repulsive. But if you want to try, I will not stop you. Just go easy on the ginger, I am not fond of that either.”

“Indrid please, you’re breaking my culinary heart.” Barclay pouts. 

Indrid licks his cheek, “You will survive, sunburst. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check some futures. Joseph, you have a phone call.”

Stern stands, already moving down the hall  by the time the phone rings. Dating the mothman has some benefits. 

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

Barclay watches them go, rubbing his beard, then looks over at Duck with an unusually mischievous glint in his eye.

“Up for a friendly bet?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Bet I can make Joseph a Pumpkin Spice Latte he likes before you can make Indrid a pumpkin pie he'll eat.”

“What are we bettin?”

Barclay smirks, “assuming those two are up for it? Winner gets to be on the bed, loser gets tied up and has to watch.”

“You’re on.”

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

Barclay carefully measures spices into simple syrup, Joseph watching him with his usual curiosity from a stool by one of the prep stations. 

“You know you don’t have to go to all this trouble right? I’m happy to keep doing my nonsensical fall ritual.”

“Know you love you patterns babe, but I love a challenge. Once managed to recreate Dani’s favorite dessert from back home out of apples, peanut butter, and marshmallow fluff with a red licorice reduction.”

He glances over his shoulder to see his boyfriend making a horrified face. 

“She still asks for it for her birthday. Or she did, I assume she can get the real deal now,”

Returning to his whisking sends bursts of cardamom and ginger into the ir. He inhales, content, just as the music coming from Sterns phone quiets. 

“You’re also looking for a distraction.”

Damn FBI training. 

“What makes you say that, agent?”

“Your posture, tone, and the fact you keep changing the subject.” There’s a sharp sound of leather soles on tiles as Stern hops of the stool. Then he’s in Barlcay’s periphery, leaning back against the counter, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it. But if it’s something to do with me, please tell me.”

“No” he turns off the burner, sets the syrup side to cool, “not even  little, babe. I, uh, my first memory of fall on earth was getting exiled.”

“Oh, oh Barclay I had no idea.” Stern pivots, rests a hand on his hip.

“No one but Mama really does. It just means that all the stuff people like about fall; the leaves changing,getting to bundle up, building the first fire of the year, even the food...I still get this miserable feeling. Even though I’ve had lots of good stuff happen in the fall since then I find myself knowing what I was missing all those years. That was one of my favorite times of year on Sylvain that feeling. Having projects makes it easier to ignore.” When he turns his head his gaze is on the ground, “sorry, don’t mean to make things heavy when we’re just doing a goofy bet.”

Stern tugs him away from the stove, rests a hnd on each bearded cheek, “Thank you for telling me, Barclay. I’m sorry, I can't imagine how that felt, and if you ever want to talk about it...well, actually, Indrid might be the better person, but I’ll do my best. And,” he guides Barclay’s face up so he’s looking into brown eyes, stroking his cheek to coax out a smile, “I’m happy to be a distraction whenever you need me to.”

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

“Oh of course, how could I have missed that?” Indrid whacks his head into his notebook as Stern mentions his conversation with Brcly, “He told me once when in the year he was exiled, but I never put together what that corresponded to. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Me too. For now I’m taking him at his word that the bet is enough of a distraction.”

“Wise. Speaking of which; any luck, my love?”

“Nope!” Duck’s voice comes down from Janes attic. His sister is mostly sure their mom’s pumpkin pie recipe is somewhere in the boes up there, so Duck used his spare key to get into the house. 

“How’s the ltte?” Indrid dips his head to indicate the travel mug in Stern’s hnd. 

“I still don’t see what the fuss is. Barclay even used my favorite blend as the base.” 

Indrid looks down t his own mug, “do you want some of my white chocolate- oh dear”

“Ahfuck! Uh, ‘Drid, Joe? Can, uh, can one of you move the ladder back? Because I just kicked it.” Duck’s legs are dangling from the attic door, the stepladder on it’s side on the floor. Before Stern can grab it, two chitinous, slightly velvety arms paper.

“Just let go.”

Duck obeys, dropping into the mothman’s waiting arms. 

“Thanks, sugar.”

“You are welcome. Since you are about to say you did not find it, how bout lunch.”

“Sounds good. You comin, Joe.”

“Of course.”

‘...’Drid, you gonna put me down?’

“.......I haven't decided yet.”

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

“Okay, this one has condensed milk, less ginger, and a hint of caramel.”

“Mmm. Hmmm, no I mean, it’s not bad but it’s still not trendsetting.”

“Dang.”

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

“Jesus, why’d they keep all this stuff? These are report cards from first grade!”

“What is there to grade at that age?”

“Behavior, mostly. Huh, here are some cookbooks, maybe mom put that recipe in here.”

“While you search, I shall amuse myself with this box of photographs--you never told me you played trombone. Or had frosted tips.”

“That was one time in college, and gimme that box, you fuzzy menace.”

“Only if you come and get it, little human.”

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

“This one is salted caramel, pumpkin, spices, and vanilla infused heavy cream.”

“Nope, still not revelatory.”

“Grrrrr.”

“Was that directed at me or the latte?”

“The latte, but if you feel like being a little late for your meeting with agent Steele I can growl over you some right now.”

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

“...Thanks, Aunt Alice. Uhhuh, yep, talk with you soon.”

“No help from the extended family, I take it?”

“Nope. Just questions about when I’m gonna get married.”

“Oh dear.”

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

Stern sips from his Flathead Lake travel mug, the one where a monster becomes visible when warm liquid is poured in. 

“Oh my lord, Barclay, this is incredible! You’ve done it, I want to drink this everyday.” He sips as fast as his tongue will allow as his boyfriend rumbles out a laugh. 

“Well, yes and no. I did make that, but it’s not  pumpkin spice. It’s dirty chai with fall-spiced caramel syrup.”

“It’s amazing. I love you so much.”

Barclay laughs louder, reaches across the center console to squeeze his hand, “Love you too, babe. More I thought about it, more I figured you're a man of very, uh, particular tastes sometimes, and if you don’t like pumpkin lattes, you don’t like them. I’d rather spend my time making something I know you’ll love, rather than trying to make your tastes match everyone else's. I mean, I kinda benefit from your having weird taste. Um, so to speak.” He pulls up to the apartment, and as soon as the car stops Stern pulls him into a kiss. 

“Thank you, Barclay. I, um, no one’s ever gone to all that effort just to try and help me understand why people like something.”

“Any time, agent.”

Stern pulls his phone out, “I have something for you too.” 

Barclay reads the image of an email he saved, “You’re taking time off?”

“Yes. I, um, I was thinking we could go to Sylvain during it. I can't give you back all the things you missed being gone. But I thought maybe I could give you the chance to start making up for lost time. I love fall on earth; I want to learn how to love it on Sylvain too, with you as my guide. I want to do what I can so it isn’t a bittersweet time of year anymore.”

The larger man looks like he might cry, but Stern doesn’t get long to examine it, since he’s crushed in a hug. 

“Thank you, babe, thank you so fucking much. I, I’ve been kinda nervous to try and go back for things but I felt silly for being scared and I didn’t know how to ask and just...thank you.” He sniffles, pulls back with a watery smile, “Now c’mon, let’s go up. From the smell of it, Duck made pie.”

The apartment smells like the platonic ideal of fall, and Duck, streak of flour on his cheek, is putting the finishing whip cream touch on a pumpkin pie.”

“Where did you finally find the recipe?”

“In a book buried at the back of my closet, full of moms advice for when I got my own place. Haven't looked at it in close to two decades, and Winnie shredded the top cover, but the recipe was there alright.”

“Gotta admit, I’m impressed. That looks real fucking professional Duck.”

“Thanks man.” The ranger grins, cuts a slice and places it in front of Indrid (happily bundled in one of Barclay’s orange and grey flannels). The Sylph takes a forkful, scrutinizing it for a moment. Takes a bite, and chirps as he chews.

“Good?”

Wordlessly, Indrid stands, removes his glasses, and picks up the pie dish. 

“If anyone needs me, the pie and I will be in the bedroom.”

“HAH!” Duck whoops triumphantly.

“Hey, hold on, I gotta try this to see what the secret is” Barclay takes off down the hall after him.

“No, mine, AH! Unhand me, I am the court seer.”

Duck flops against Stern as he doubles over, laughing. 

“Fine, I gotta try it sir.” Barclays voice dips lower, and Stern sees him shift into his Sylph form. 

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, this pie is mineOHgoodness, put me down.”

“Wanna know the secret?” The ranger says between giggles. 

“Please.”

“I tripled the amount of sugar it called for.”

“Good thinking, ranger Newton.” Stern kisses him, “care to help me arbitrate a cryptid fight?”

Duck grins at him, love in every line of his face as laughter rings down the hallway, “lead the way, darlin.”

[cagestark]

Winterspider prompt if you're game! There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is (abo/soulmates/soulmarks/werewolf au for spice up to you)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

This prompt came into my house and stole my money. This is CHAPTER ONE. Because I was so inspired that I’m officially making this my first multichap fic. I hope this will appease you for now…And I hope you can forgive me for making it winterironspider (I’m a sucker for starker/winteriron so it all just clicked together nicely). Please come back into my inbox and let me know what you think so far.

Warnings in this chapter: graphic descriptions of being poor. Bucky says fuck A LOT. Peter is 24 but Bucky keeps calling him “kid” because he’s so small. Sickness. 4.1k

-

Bucky can pick a lock in ten seconds flat.

It’s a science: tension wrench goes into the keyhole, the slightest torque is applied, then his favorite pick—the Bogota with three rakes, as of late—goes in and he scrubs the hell out of it until the plug turns. Easy as fucking pie.

The hard part (and he’s not counting the guilt, the horror he would feel if Tony ever discovered how Bucky makes the money he uses to buy his lover trinkets) is scoping out the right apartments. He sticks to NYU residence halls, early mornings and late at nights because the security is usually lax enough to let him through without even checking his ID—if they ask? Oh fuck, I left my wallet in my Uber. Maybe he hasn’t left yet, one sec—and then he’s out of there.

Today, it’s the Lafayette Hall between China Town and TriBeCa, reserved for graduate students seeking their Master’s Degrees in science fields.

It should be empty. On campus is an expo featuring innovators from Sphere Fluidics, Fasmatech, AcouSort, and NanoTemper Technologies which—according to the flier Bucky read online—are huge names in the science industry, all displaying their scientific discoveries from the last business year and scouting for fresh blood.

Any science major worth a shit will be there, he imagines. But it’s mandatory for NYU grad students. Score.  

Content that the apartments will more than likely be empty, Bucky chooses the first hit at random after taking the elevator up: apartment 2B. It’s furthest away from the security camera at the other end of the hall—not that Bucky has ever left behind a reason for those cameras to be checked. It’s the principle of the thing, really. He keeps his back turned, hair in his face, both hands gloved (thank God it’s always cold and dreary in NYC, so his gloved hands don’t draw any attention) while he scrubs the lock. It takes him no longer than it might for anyone with a legitimate key, and then the door is open and he is in.

Bucky can see decently in the dark, the light from the hallway disappearing as the door is carefully closed behind him. Holding his breath, he stills himself, calls upon his enhanced senses, and listens: but there are no sounds coming from the apartment. Empty.

Then he actually takes in the place, and he realizes that that word fits in multiple ways.

The apartment is vacant, he thinks at first. There is the basic furniture all the NYU apartments come with: a refrigerator, a couch, a coffee table. But there is no television, no end tables. There are no curtains on the window across the room—and wow, what a lovely view of the brick building across the alley. The entire place smells musty and unused. Maybe it really is empty—

But no. Little signs of life appear. There are shoes by the door, ones that saw better days many, many days ago. On the wall, a photograph is tacked there, unframed, of two boys on either side of a pretty, dark skinned girl. A plastic grocery sack is dangling off of the drawer handle of one kitchen cabinet, sagging with contents that he can’t make out through the opaque plastic.

Someone does live here, they’re just terrible at decorating.

With careful, silent steps, Bucky moves deeper into the apartment. He doesn’t bother looking for a wallet—that will be with the owner—but usually there is money somewhere else. If he’s really lucky, he’ll find whatever he’s looking for.

Today, he wants blank CD’s. Last night, Tony showed him a movie where the teenage love interest burned—(“why’s it called that, Tony? You don’t burn the thing, do you?”)—a CD with love songs. It was real romantic shit; something Bucky never got to do. Something that he longs to do with this amazing man in his life. He can imagine the look on Tony’s face when he listens to a compilation of all the awesome music he’s introduced Bucky to, and it makes his heart race.

The Best Buy downtown sells a pack of five CD’s for $6.99 plus tax which brings the total to $7.61. That’s all that he needs. He could probably take that and more from any one of these apartments and the occupants would never notice. He isn’t hurting anyone. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Then—jackpot. On the counter is a line of change: neat stacks of quarters and dimes, taller piles of nickels and pennies. Palming it, he cups one hand under the counter and slides the coins home into his hand. A quick count tells him that it’s just $2.30. It’s probably change for the vending machines downstairs, maybe fare for the bus. Nothing that will break this grad student’s bank.

For a moment he contemplates leaving the apartment. He’s almost got a third of what he needs for the CD’s. But breaking into another apartment just escalates the risks he takes, unnecessarily so when the rest of the money could very well be in the bedroom or even in the pocket of some jeans resting on the bathroom floor. No. He’ll press on.

Walking silently, he brings up the floorplan of the apartments in his mind (NYU had all that shit online; didn’t they know how unsafe it was? This world made information so available). The bedroom is on the left, past the kitchen. In the dim light through the window, he can see the door, open, a dark gaping mouth that he slips through soundlessly. It is even darker here, and he stands still waiting for his eyes to adjust further. It’d be no good to go fumbling around in the dark, knocking into furniture.

It only took moments, but as soon as he could make out dim shapes, he heard it. A little whimper. The rustling of sheets. Everything in him went still except for the blood in his veins, propelled by his furiously pounding heart. Someone is here. Bucky broke into an occupied apartment. He is standing in the doorway to a bedroom and there is someone sleeping in the bed.

He gets a glimpse before he can slink back into the living room, and what he sees stops him in his tracks. It is a boy—or a very small man, perhaps, considering these apartments are for graduate students only. The boy is wearing just a pair of boxers, some dark color—red or navy or even black, perhaps, since colors are distorted in this low light—but there is no hiding or distorting how thin he is. The shadows between his ribs are little valleys to the pale, jutting mountains of bone, rising with his fast, shallow breaths. The collarbones protrude, limbs fine-boned and so skinny that Bucky could probably wrap his fingers around an entire ankle or bicep. His face is smushed against one pillow so features are indistinguishable, but the mop of messy curls on top is unmistakable.

There is no bed. There is no bedframe, no mattress, no box spring. A pile of threadbare blankets and sheets are entwined into a makeshift nest, like the kid is some little bird.

After taking in the sights, he takes in the smell. It’s strong—damp and musty, like the windows have never been opened. The pungent scent of sweat. The overly sweet scent of cough syrup, though the two bottles on the nightstand are upended and empty.

Mostly, the acrid smell of sickness. A bucket is beside the bed, and the smell of vomit gets stronger the closer he comes—why is Bucky walking forward? He should be walking away, far, far away.

The boy whimpers again, rolling onto his back more. Sweat coats his skin, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest is even more pronounced in this position, tummy a hollow little thing. This boy is sick, very sick from the smell and the heat that Bucky can feel when he places his hand above the boy’s head, hovering over the skin.

“Ben!” The boy shrieks. Bucky jerks away and nearly topples the trash bin of vomit. His heart is pounding, thinking I’m so sorry Tony, so sorry that I’m going to get caught and get arrested and that you’re the only person in the world I’ll have to call, and if you don’t want to bail me out I’ll understand, I really will—but the boy sleeps on, lips moving. He is dreaming the feverish dreams of the sick.

Carefully, Bucky stands. He backs from the room. On his way out, he takes in more details even if he doesn’t want to: a name-badge for the building and NYU campus (which he takes, which he should have seen on his way in and known that it would be wherever the student was—complacent, he’s gotten too fucking complacent), the silver duct tape on the bottom of the kid’s shoes which holds them together. The past-due notices on the refrigerator. The paper plate resting in the sink, plastic cutlery that has been washed and re-used countless times. The kid is poor. So fucking poor.

And he can’t help that it reminds him of another sickly poor boy from nearly a hundred years ago. He remembers it like it was yesterday, fuzzy memories that Princess Shuri helped turn clear: a thin pale Captain America, the chest-deep coughs that would rattle his whole frame when he was sick, sitting by his best friend’s side through the night just to mop his brow and make sure he didn’t choke on his own sick. His stomach aches, twisting inside out with phantom hunger pains. Stepping into that apartment made him feel like he’d entered a time machine back to the Great Fucking Depression.

Another thought comes: what if the kid needs a fucking ambulance? What if he’s in there, brain frying from his fever? What if he throws up and aspirates? That will be on Bucky. There’s no way that he can walk away from this—not if it could add an(other) life, like a notch, to his murderous bedpost.

Palms sweating, he looks down at the badge he left with. Peter B. Parker. It’s a cute name—Bucky’s always had sort of a thing for alliteration. The picture of the kid is shy with the closed-lip smile and the rampant curls falling onto his forehead. He was skinny to begin with, but not malnourished like he is now. The badge will let him come in through the back doors. Because apparently he is planning on coming back.

Bucky pulls out his cellphone, mostly unused, and makes a call. While he talks, he takes the stairs down so that he doesn’t lose the call in the elevator.

Tony picks up on the second ring. “Hey Bucky, everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” In the background he can hear the sound of a door closing, and Tony’s voice grows more familiar, softer and more comfortable. He must have been around company but left.

“You only ever call if you’re about to break the law,” Tony says fondly.

Is he really so predictable? Well, in this case, he’s already broken the law, though that’s hardly a point that he wants to make. “No. it’s—nothing like that. I was just wondering about the credit card you gave me.”

“Oh? Thinking about blowing the dust off it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. He hates it—hates being like the other million people in Tony’s life who just take his money. The fear that this man who has helped Bucky salvage himself, salvage the will to live life, to carve out a life he wants to live…the fear that he’ll think Bucky is just with him for the money is unconquerable. Tony gave him the leather wallet and the credit card years ago, and Bucky has never once used it. “Just a bit. Twenty dollars. Thirty at the most, Tony, and I swear I’ll pay you back—”

“Hey, hey, no need for the freaking out. Mi dinero es su dinero, polar bear. Buy whatever you need.” He pauses. “Are you in any trouble? I don’t know if you need me to emphasize this, but there’s probably no trouble you can imagine that I can’t get a person out of.”

“I’m not in trouble,” he says, hoping Tony doesn’t notice the unconscious inflection on the word I’m. “But I’ll remember that. I promise.”

“Okay. Great. That’s all I need to hear. Thai, tonight?”

Bucky can’t help but smile. He pushes open the back door to the building and steps out into the street, angling his face away from the security camera at the alley entrance on instinct. The wind is blistery, whipping his hair around his face. “I’ll be there.”

Tony hums. “I can hardly wait.”

They exchange declarations of love and say goodbye. Bucky feels a little choked up, how he always feels after hearing Tony say that he loves him. His eyes sting—but that’s just the wind. Honest. Down the street is a pharmacy and Bucky ducks in, head down. There’s an entire aisle for cold medicines, and he takes far too long examining all the bottles. Thank God there are ones that seem to treat everything: headaches, fever, nausea, cough. Everything except for the kid’s destitution.

He sees the chicken noodle soup and he grabs some of that as well.

Checking out is awkward; Bucky slides the card upside down at first. Then he’s unsure: credit or debit? He clicks credit since it’s first, but then he has to sign and he has a new dilemma. Should he forge Tony’s signature or put down his own? The card has his name on it, but it’s Tony’s money. In the end, he writes his own name. Forging feels too…familiar.

With less than twenty dollars spent, he trudges back down the block to the apartment building, and it isn’t until he’s swiping the key to get into the back door that he realizes he has no fucking idea what he’s going to do. Knock on the kid’s door? Hey, I broke in earlier and saw you were sick and out of medicine, here’s some. I’ll put the change I stole back on the counter. Sorry to fucking bother you?

Bucky Barnes, former assassin for Hydra, absolute dumbass.

Absolute persistent dumbass. Because he knocks on the door. He really fucking does. And when no one answers, he knocks again and again until he hears movement on the other side of the door (a chest-rattling cough that makes him shudder) then the door is cracked open and a bloodshot, honey-brown eye is staring out at him.

“Hi,” Peter croaks. His voice is wrecked, and it immediately does things to Bucky. Things that are wrong, especially considering that his voice isn’t croaky because of a cock nudging too persistently at the back of his throat, but because he is fucking sick. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to help you,” Bucky says. Peter’s eyebrows furrow. It’s cute. He’s wearing a shirt that is far too large for him, and pajama pants so long they slip down past the backs of his heels. “I’m—visiting one of your neighbors down the hall. You’re keeping everyone up with your cough, kid. I brought you some medicine.”

Peter opens the door wider, so that Bucky is seeing all of him instead of just a two-inch section. He rests against the doorframe because he’s swaying, struggling to keep on his feet, and he is so tiny, so, so tiny. The smell of him is foul, but Bucky would never mention it. “Gosh,” Peter says, and Bucky is horrified to see tears, real fucking tears fill his eyes. “I didn’t know I was keepin’ everybody up.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky says. People say that, sometimes, to horses that are likely to buck off their rider or men who pull out guns in gas stations. Bucky figures that he should probably use either of those situations as reference for what to do now, because how to comfort a crying kid was not in the Winter Soldier’s repertoire. “Don’t shoot.” Fuck. Try again. “I mean—it’s not your fault. You’re sick. Obviously.”

Fat tears roll down Peter’s cheeks. It impedes his breathing even more, until Bucky is afraid that he’s going to choke on his own phlegm. When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice even and clear through his hitching breaths. The shirt slips off his shoulder, bones protruding. “I-I-I know. It hit m-me a-all of the sudden. But now it won’t go away.”

“Have you tried going to the doctor?”

Peter’s smile is downright tragic. He looks like he wants to reach out and pat Bucky on the cheek, call him a sweet summer child, ask him what pipe he smoked to have such a dream. “I d-don’t have insurance. I’m still trying to p-pay off my debt from last year when I had my tonsils removed.”

“And they—what—they won’t treat you? Just because you needed treating once before? They’re fucking doctors!”

“I know,” Peter whines, rubbing a wrist at his leaking nose. The door opens even wider. “Would you like to come in?”

Bucky sees the irony. He really does. A half hour ago, he was in this apartment robbing the kid. Now he’s standing at the kitchen counter watching Peter make ramen noodles (“my aunt always said that when someone is in your house, you should treat them like they live there”). He nearly burns his hand on the pan, and that’s when Bucky moves to take over, stirring when appropriate, adding a packet of flavoring. Peter pulls one bowl down from the cabinet—the cabinet that is unbearably empty from the quick glimpse Bucky gets of it.

“I only have one bowl, I’m sorry,” Peter says, face red, eyes downcast. His hands shake while he ladles the soup and noodles in. He gives Bucky one of the plastic spoons—it’s clean, he knows—but the whole thing is so fucking sad. When Peter glances over the counter, muttering something about some missing rent money, that’s it. That’s it for Bucky.

I’m taking him home with me, he thinks, nudging his spoon against the noodles in his bowl.

“I’m Peter, by the way,” the kid introduces himself. Then his face goes white, shaking intensifies. “Excuse me.”

Bucky hears him vomiting even through the walls between them. There isn’t much to come up, but the retching lasts forever it seems, the boy dissolving back into tears. Instinct says to go to him, but Bucky doesn’t want to be anymore of a fucking creep than he already is. When the vomiting turns to coughing and then to gasping, Bucky decides fuck it. He is a fucking creep. But he’s not going to let the kid pass out and crack open his head.

Peter is in the bathroom, bowed over the toilet, curls matting to his forehead with his fever. Bucky goes through drawers until he finds a washcloth and wets it from the sink, the water stinking of iron, to at least dab at the back of the kid’s neck. He shivers, but sighs into it, his wheezing breaths slowing.

When at last he leans back, his cheeks are red and wet. “Thanks,” he croaks. Bucky just mops at his forehead, avoiding the comical look of relief and pleasure on his face.

“You need a doctor.”

“Can’t afford it,” Peter mutters, reaching out to flush the toilet. Bucky practically carries him back to the kitchen-living room combo, setting him down on the threadbare couch.

“I’ll pay,” Bucky says. Then he winces—because it isn’t really his money. It’s Tony’s money. How can he just promise Tony’s money to this kid? But he can pay Tony back. No matter how long it takes or how hard he has to work. He’s got decades and decades left to live. He’ll spend them all trying to repay Tony’s kindness and love as it is. What is this one extra debt?

“What?” Peter asks, his eyes glassy with fever. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“A trip to the doctor costs hundreds of dollars, not to mention if I’m really sick, I’ll need medicine which will cost even more. I’m not taking that kind of money from you.”

“I’m rich,” he half-lies.

Peter looks him up and down, the worn boots, the soft but unremarkable jeans, the gloves that he’s still wearing even though they are indoors. While he doesn’t look destitute, the idea comes across loud and clear: Bucky sure doesn’t fucking look rich.

He sighs. “Fine. It’s my boyfriend. He’s rich.”

“You want me to take your boyfriend’s money? I’m—what? I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Bucky,” says Bucky. “And my boyfriend is Tony Stark.”

Peter’s mouth clicks shut. His eyes clear a little, the name cutting through the sickness. “Tony Stark.”

“Yeah.”

“The billionaire.”

Bucky can feel himself smile against his will. “Genius, billionaire, philanthropist, superhero. Yeah, he’s the one.”

Peter reaches out and puts his burning hand against Bucky’s forehead. “Maybe you’re the one who is sick,” he teases weakly.

“I’m serious,” Bucky says. He pulls out his phone and Googles it—hopes the kid doesn’t see the tab of Lafayette Hall dorm room floor plans that was previously open. Then he brings up the tabloids. He and Tony aren’t in the news as often as they were years ago when they first started leaving the Tower together to do couple-things, but the articles last forever. There’s a nice one detailing all about Tony’s promiscuous love life, how everyone thought the bisexual ways of his youth were just a phase. Until Bucky.

The pictures are clear. Peter’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “You’re dating Tony Stark. Oh my god. I’m—I’m his biggest fan. Oh my god. I think I’m going to pass out. I’ve—” the kid goes red as a beet, “I’ve had a crush on him since I was like, like this tall.”

Judging by the height of his hand when he holds it up, Peter’s been harboring his crush on Tony since ever. And yeah, Bucky gets it. His lips can’t help but quirk upwards—Peter is so fucking cute, even with he way his cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken. He lights up when he talks about Tony. Bucky is the same way. Tony inspires that in people.

“I’ll pay for you to go to the doctor. See? I can afford it.”

Peter gnaws at his lower lip. “But why? I don’t get it. Because I’m keeping everyone on the floor up? That doesn’t—this is weird.”

“Because you remind me of someone I used to know. My best friend, from when I was a kid. He’s—he’s not around now. But you two would have gotten along well, I think. And he would’ve kicked me in the ass if he knew I just walked away when I knew you need help.” He can see the indecision on the kid’s face, the wavering teeter-totter of what he wants to say (yes yes yes) versus what he thinks he should say (no, but thank you). Bucky has an ace up his sleeve: “Why don’t you come back to the Tower with me? Meet Tony. He’ll tell you all this himself.”

“I couldn’t!” Peter nearly shrieks. He coughs, and Bucky waits patiently for him to finish.

“You could. You totally could. You will. I’ll call a car—”

“Oh my god,” Peter whispers under his breath, his whole tiny body going lax and weak like a woman from Victorian times, likely to swoon at any moment. Where are Bucky’s smelling salts? “Oh my god,” he says, soft and to himself. “I’m going to meet Tony Stark.”

Bucky can’t help it. He grins, pats awkwardly at the kid’s shoulder—and Jesus, he’s a tiny little thing, still burning up under Bucky’s grip. “He’s going to be thrilled to meet you.”

-

Peter insists on showering and changing his clothes. Bucky steps out into the hallway to call Tony back and warn him—and ask him to send Happy or one of the self-driving cars. Anything to avoid taking a cab or the subway.

“Twice in one day,” Tony says when he picks up the phone, forgoing a greeting. “Aren’t I a lucky man?”

“I’m the lucky man, ‘s far as I can tell,” Bucky says lowly. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Tony’s expression, the ridiculous fond face he makes when he looks at Bucky. “I had a favor to ask of you, though. A big one.”

“Anything for you, frosted flake.”

“Send a car to the address that I text you? And—order Thai for three?”