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looooooooomis · 3 years

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F I N A L G I R L | E I G H T

You were his final girl. And there was no chance in hell that anyone or anything was going to mess that up.

p a r t e i g h t | p r o m i s e s

masterlist here

pairing: Billy Loomis x f!reader word count: 5.4k warnings: s m u t (18 +!!!!!) this ones an antsy one. blink and you’ll miss it voyeurism kink. we’ve established this aint a healthy relationship lmao so do with that what you will x

You were both pushing it, at this point, that much you knew for a fact.

Ever since that night, the night you’d playfully dubbed Bloody Sunday where he’d fucked you senselessly as the two of you were covered in blood, something between you and Billy seemed to change. It wasn’t so much as a shift, per se, but a momentous fucking swing that the two of you were riding on and you were both holding on for dear life. You were being reckless with your endeavours, more reckless than before and a lot cockier, too.

It was as though the floodgates had been opened that night in respect to your relationship with Billy. While neither of you had really ever held back on the other before that night, now everything was on the table. He didn’t think twice about crawling between your thighs as a particularly bloody scene played out on the TV to eat you out. There was no shyness anymore, no awkward moments where Billy thought he had to hide his obvious erection as a girl with massive tits got absolutely bludgeoned on screen. Something about that night, about feeling your blood and slick on his fingers and tasting you on his tongue and having your blood coat both of your bodies as you fucked each other silly on your bed opened up an entirely new era in your relationship.

And, to be honest, you were loving it.

Billy was a man on fire now. He was hungry and rabid and the little self-control he’d had with you before that night was long gone. Everything was fair game now. Fucking in various areas of the school where your friends or classmates could potentially walk in on you, sucking Billy off beneath the bleachers, Billy eating you out on the hood of his car at the lake late at night. Public displays of affection were still very much something you both avoided in broad daylight, but come the shroud of darkness that would inevitably follow, the two of you came to life.

It was stupid. Reckless. Selfish. But neither of you had the willpower to stop it. It had officially progressed into something unavoidable. A habit, of sorts, that neither of you wanted to break.

Stu, being the godsend he was, had even given you free rein of his house whether he was home or not. Being the only other person who knew of your relationship, he was more than happy to be of assistance when the two of you needed a grain of privacy. He said it was free porn. You were loud at times, you knew as much, and as long as his parents weren’t home, Stu didn’t give a shit about how loud you were.

Billy often joked that he got off to the sounds of the two of you fucking and as you were greeted by Stu’s smirking face, you had no doubt that Billy was probably right.

Which only made the whole thing hotter.

The night that solidified just how truly reckless the two of you had gotten, however, was during one of Stu’s parties. A party where not only Sid was in attendance, but half of your grade. You could feel Billy watching you, feel the heat of his want through the weight of his stare and as Sid got wrapped up in a game of beer pong, you managed to sneak off to Stu’s room long enough to fuck each other senseless for all of ten minutes.

He’d had you bent over the end of Stu’s bed as he slammed into you from behind, grabbing and pawing at your hips hard enough to promise tiny bruises the following morning. He’d bit into your shoulder as he came inside of you, drawing just enough blood to make him moan into your back as his hands swept up your stomach towards your tits.

Thankfully, the music had been loud enough to block out your moans because you knew for a fact neither of you were being all that quiet despite Sid being a stone’s throw away. It was quick, though, and as the two of you crept out of the room and joined the rest of your friends downstairs, it was easy to get caught up in just how fucking easy it had become to lie to your friends.

How easy it had become to lie to Sid.

And while you hated yourself for it, hated hurting her, you didn’t have it in you to stop it.

The lies rolled off of your tongue with ease despite the constant guilt. Even that night, as Billy stayed behind to help Stu clean up, you’d managed to sneak back an hour later with the intention of using Stu’s spare bedroom as your cousins were visiting, leaving no area of your house private.

So, the three of you had gotten high, turned on a horror movie from the 1970’s and called it a night.

At least that had been your intention.

But whatever movie it was, it was graphic, sexual and macabre.

And Billy seemingly didn’t give a shit about Stu being in the room when he slipped his hand under the blanket strewn across your lap to finger fuck you.

At first, you were still and your breathing, though laboured, was quiet. Stu was right there. On the chair opposite the two of you.

But that didn’t deter Billy for a second.

As the movie continued, his pace on your clit only increased and trying to keep quiet as Billy’s dept fingers fucked you in secret was becoming more and more impossible. But you were only human and as a quiet, barely-there moan slipped out of your lips, you could recall Stu’s head lazily swivel towards the two of you. His eyes were red from the weed but his smile was wide as he realized just what the fuck you and Billy were doing.

“Holy shit!” Stu’s laugh was all you heard as he continued to watch Billy finger fuck you beneath the blanket. “Subtlety isn’t in your nature, is it Bill?”

“Shut up, dick.” Billy had bit back, not once pulling his hand away from you. Instead, you’d felt him slip two fingers inside of you as his thumb took over on your clit. That was when your moans got a little harder to control and Billy, having known this, only smirked as the two of you made eye contact. “This okay?”

You’d given him a small nod and spread your legs to grant him more room. And when Billy leaned in to kiss you, the room around you faded to black. You could feel Stu watching the two of you as your kisses grew more rampant and as the blanket that had shielded Billy’s hand from view fell to the floor, that free porn comment Stu had made once upon a time couldn’t have been more accurate.

What had once been something forbidden, albeit sacred, between you and Billy had somehow spiraled into a need so primal that it consumed the both of you, company and whereabouts be damned.

Which was precisely why it shouldn’t have come as a shock when Sid approached you and Tatum with glassy eyes and a suspicious frown at the lockers a week after your little voyeurism-fuelled escapade.

“Has Billy been acting weird to you guys?”

Eight words.

Eight words was all it took to set off a panic so blinding in your chest.

Tatum frowned in confusion and glanced down the hallway as though looking for the man of the hour. “No more than usual,” she shrugged, shoving her history textbook back into the locker. “Why?”

Sid too glanced over her shoulder before releasing a quiet sigh. “He’s just been off lately,” she muttered. “Distant, I guess.”

Your words were stuck in your throat as you chewed on your lip. You wanted to comfort her, wanted to tell her it was nothing and that Billy was just probably in his own head, but you couldn’t and it killed you inside.

It was easy to forget about Sidney being Billy’s actual girlfriend when the two of you were behind closed doors but as you stared across at your friend, guilt niggled away inside of your belly as you swallowed hard. Fucking say something!

“Is that weird for Billy, though?” Tatum asked, her tone skeptical. “The guy’s a space cadet at the best of times. Your version of distant could be his normal.”

Sidney frowned. “He’s my boyfriend, Tatum, I know when he’s being weird.”

Fuck.

As Tatum threw her hands up in surrender, you quietly cleared your throat and shrugged. “What do you mean distant?”

“Just…distant. I barely see him outside of class and when I do, it’s like he’s a thousand miles away.” She shuffled her feet and your guilt only grew. “Maybe it’s all in my head, I don’t know.”

You hated this. Your entire chest felt like it was on fire and your head was spinning as you attempted to formulate the right words to say. To deny her feelings would be gaslighting the fuck out of her but to legitimize them could jeopardize everything.

“Have you talked to him?” Your voice was higher than normal as a hot sweat broke out across your body. “Maybe it’s just a matter of communication or something.”

Sid wrinkled her nose. “Not yet. I don’t know what’s going on in my own head half the time, so I wanted to see if you guys had noticed anything before I mentioned it to him.”

Your right eye twitched as you buried your head inside of your locker in a lame attempt to hide your growing discomfort. Thankfully, it was Tatum who spoke next.

“If you’re worried, talk to him.” She simply said. “If it’s in your head, you’ve got nothing to worry about. If it’s not, at least you know and you can figure out why he’s being a fucking weirdo, right?”

You were nodding along silently, hoping like hell today would be the day someone pulled the fire alarm and you could escape this entire situation and potentially salvage Sid’s feelings for a moment longer.

Sid didn’t seem convinced as she mulled over Tatum’s words. And when her brown eyes found yours, you wanted to throw up. “Has he mentioned anything to you, Y/N?”

You had to remember to breathe as you blinked across at the brunette. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged again, “you two are close. You always have been. Maybe he said something to you in confidence or something?”

This was your chance. Not to out yourselves as a couple but an opportunity to plant a seed of doubt in her mind with Billy. If they broke up, that meant neither of you had to hide in the shadows. That meant Sid could finally be free of an incredibly one-sided relationship.

It opened up a swell of opportunity for you both to be happy together rather than in secret.

But this wasn’t you.

It was, but it wasn’t.

So, rather than do a damned thing to sway her on the idea of Billy, you smacked on your rendition of a breezy grin and waved your hand dismissively. “Billy and I are close, sure, but you’re his girlfriend, Sid. If something was up, I’m sure he’d tell you about it first.”

A lie. Another fucking lie to add to the long list of them you were already sitting on.

“You’re probably right,” Sid confessed, a little brighter than before. But still, you could see the uncertainty behind her eyes. The suspicion. But she was too fucking good not to see that all of her problems stemmed from the person standing two feet in front of her.

God, you hated yourself in that moment.

Hated that you were hurting Sid to the point that she was finally seeing a change in Billy. Hated that you were stuck in a situation that was entirely your own fault. Hated the fact that, even with all of this guilt in your gut and in your chest, you had no true intention of stopping your affair with Billy.

You were a fucking monster.

“Sid,” you found yourself pushing out just as the bell above you rang out.

When her warm eyes met yours, you swallowed back your nerves. You should tell her. She’d hate you, Tatum would hate you, you’d be called every name under the fucking sun but you’d deserve each one. This was your one chance to lay it all out there.

Too bad you were a fucking coward.

“Um,” you blinked and shook your head in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “If you ever need to talk or anything. I’m here. Whenever you need it.”

A slow, grateful smile adorned her lips as she adjusted the strap of her backpack. “Thanks, Y/N.” She reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re a good friend.”

It was all you could do to watch her and Tatum eventually walk off to their respective homerooms, just as the rest of your classmates did. But there you remained. Frozen in place with a hollow, shaky smile on your lips and enough guilt in your chest to consume you.

How had you gotten here? When had you become this person? Someone who was comfortable hurting those around her so long as it meant her own needs were met?

You felt sick. Dizzy. Your entire world spun on its axis as you walked past your homeroom and instead went outside towards your car. You couldn’t go home, that much you knew, but you had to get out of dodge for the day. You had to get out of your own head if you had any hope in hell in continuing on with the façade of you and Billy.

You just needed to go.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

So that’s exactly what you did.

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

A set of headlights lit up around you as you lazily lulled your head to the side to peer at your side view mirror. Hours had passed since you’d zipped away from Woodsboro and while you thought you were simply driving aimlessly, you’d somehow ended up at the fucking cabin.

Billy’s cabin.

The one place in all of California that had granted you enough peace that you’d actually managed to convince yourself that you could live with yourself despite the raging guilt in your chest.

A small part of you hoped that you’d feel shame in returning to the cabin, feel something other than tranquility because that was the furthest thing you deserved to feel. You deserved to feel guilty, to feel sad, to feel like a fucking monster.

But as the vision of the lake and the small cabin took shape as you drove down the gravelly road, that familiar stir of comfort began to blossom in your chest which just about broke you.

For three hours, you cried and cried some more. For Sid, for Billy, for yourself. For the shitty timing of it all. For the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of your decisions and the tight constriction of their repercussions wrap around your throat.

Hours had passed. Morning turned to night and the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon only to be replaced by a small orange sliver of the moon. Crickets sang all around you and the chill of the night felt bone deep as you laid there, moping in your own thoughts.

But then those headlights flickered off and for the first time since that morning, you weren’t alone with your thoughts.

The crunching of gravel filtered into your senses as whoever pulled into the driveway ran towards your car and as they drew nearer, you knew it was going to be Billy. What you hadn’t quite expected was the look of inherent concern marring his handsome features.

“Y/N,” he breathed your name out like a prayer and his entire body seemed relax the second his eyes found yours. “What the fuck? I’ve been looking for you for fucking hours.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead he walked around the car and opened up the passenger’s side door with ease before plopping down beside you. His eyes, however, remained steadfast as ever as he took in your red puffy eyes with obvious concern. “Hey,” he cooed, reaching forward to brush some hair off of your face. “What’s going on? Why were you crying?”

You opened your mouth and closed it a few times as you tried to formulate the right words. But as they died on your tongue, you settled for a pitiful sigh as you focused on anything but the intensity of his coffee-coloured stare.

“Y/N,” he tried again, “talk to me.”

“I can’t,” you bit back quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ll just end up crying again.”

“What’s going on?” He shifted himself so that he was facing you fully. The gear shift was definitely poking a bruise into his calf, but he didn’t seem to care as his eyes raked over your features. “Did something happen?”

You sighed again and squeezed your eyes shut. “I just feel so guilty, Billy. Sid, she—”

“What?” He leaned in closer, eyes penetrating, “what did Sid do?”

You furrowed your brows and blinked across at him in confusion. “What? Nothing. She didn’t do anything, Billy. We’re the assholes.”

Billy was quiet for a few seconds before he slowly fell back against his seat. “Yeah,” he muttered lowly. “I guess we are.”

“You guess?” You scoffed and leaned forward to rest your head against the steering wheel. “Billy we’re sleeping with each other behind her back. You’re spending more time with me than with your own girlfriend and she’s noticing that now. She asked me and Tatum if you’ve been acting weird and—”

“What did you say?” He asked his body tense.

You lulled your head to the side to face him. “I said we’re fucking like animals, obviously.” You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t say anything, Billy. Because I couldn’t.”

Billy sighed and reached across to gently squeeze your thigh. “When everything is settled, I’m going to break up with her. You have to believe me, baby.”

“She’s catching on to your neglect now, Billy!” You bit back with a scornful laugh. “She’s slowly but surely realizing that something is going on. Now is as good as time as any to put your money where your mouth is and end it because if you don’t, she’s going to find out. What would hurt her more? You breaking up with her before she finds out her best friend and boyfriend have been fucking behind her back all this time or her finding that little nugget of information herself?”

“I know,” he muttered, rubbing at his forehead. “I know what you’re saying. I hear you. But I—”

“Don’t want to hurt her,” you rhymed off knowingly. Bitterly. “But you’re hurting her now, Billy. We both are.”

Silence fell over the two of you like a shroud.

There was nothing Billy could say right now that would make the guilt any easier and he must have known as much because as you faced the cottage once again, you felt his eyes boring into you. Scraping over your face, memorizing every pore on your face, every eyelash, every inch of you. The air in the car felt tense, heavy. And as the silence spawned without resolution coming to light, the pit in both of your stomach’s grew bigger.

“I need to end things with Sid,” he admitted quietly. “I know I do.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, not looking at him just yet. You couldn’t quite trust yourself to look him in the face because the bastard had your heart and the second you looked at him, truly looked at him, your defences would surely wane. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No,” he leaned in towards you and shook his head. When your eyes remained ahead, his own heart fell into his stomach. “I know I need to end things with her. I do. No but, no nothing. I will end things with Sid. For her sake. For ours.”

“When?”

Billy opened his mouth but shut it as he thought it over. “I don’t know. Soon, though. I promise it’ll be soon.”

You scoffed. “Billy, that’s easy to say but you’ve been saying that for months. I don’t—”

“I have been saying it for months,” he agreed. He desperately needed to see your eyes, to feel that spark, that connection he had with you spark to life and it was killing him knowing that you were purposefully hiding them from view. From him. “But I can tell I’m losing you. Or, at least I can tell that I will if I don’t end this shit soon. And I’d rather die than lose you, Y/N.”

“Don’t say that.” You grumbled with a wince.

“Then believe me,” he reasoned quietly. “I love you. And I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you. I’ll end things with Sid. Soon.” He squeezed your thigh in desperation. “Please believe me, baby.”

This time, your eyes found his and his heart was in his throat as those gorgeous eyes of yours searched his face. “What worries me, Billy, is that losing you, breaking up with you, ending…whatever this is, wasn’t something I could even fathom. I came out here hoping that I would be able to put my own want aside for half a fucking second so as to avoid hurting Sid any further, but I can’t.” You sniffed and groaned as your head fell back against the seat. “And I hate myself for it. I love you too much to let you go, but I’m hurting people I love in order to keep you. To keep this. And it’s fucking selfish, Billy. We’re selfish fucking people.”

“We are,” he agreed quietly.

Another veil of silence.

“How did you know I’d be here?” You finally mumbled, slicing into the silence.

Billy’s eyes never fell from your face. “A hunch.”

Despite your mood, you a bubble of laughter slipped out of your lips. “A hunch?”

He nodded and his own small smile pulled up the corners of his lips. “I know you.” He reminded you. “In and out. Whether you like it or not.” Grabbing your hand, he ghosted his lips across your knuckles and nodded towards the cabin. “Can we talk about this more inside? It’s fucking freezing out here.”

For the first time since leaving the school parking lot, you managed to hobble your stiff body out of the car long enough for Billy to lead you inside of the cabin. That silence, the thick tension, followed the pair of you inside of the familiar house but, as you took a seat on the couch, rather than sit beside you, Billy knelt between your legs and latched onto your waist with shaky, desperate hands. “Please don’t give up on this, baby. I need to figure my shit out, I know I do, but I need you here. I need this. I need us.”

Tears blurred your vision as you reached out to gently touch his face. Billy’s eyes fell shut as your fingers danced along his cheek. He was relishing in the feeling of you as though he’d gone months and months without your touch as opposed to a measly twenty-four hours.

The last thing you wanted was to lose the man before you. You loved him with every inch of you, your heart beat for him and the idea of letting go of everything you’d built up thus far, be it ever so fucking toxic and secretive, seemed suffocating.

“I need us, too.” You sputtered out. “More than I’d like to admit.” The admission was enough for Billy to open up his eyes and look up at you with enough hope that struck you blind. You soothed your fingers through his hair. “But you need to talk to Sid.”

He nodded, melting into your touch. “I will.”

“And soon,” you told him. “Enough of this bull-shit of needing time. It has to be soon.”

He nodded and his arms slid down the sides of your waist before settling on your thighs. The way your body reacted to him being this close to you was distracting but you needed to focus on resolving this.

If there was going to be a future for the two of you, you needed to focus.

“I swear, baby,” he leaned down and kissed your thigh. God, this man. “I’ve said it before. You’re my final girl. It’s me and you, baby. Always.”

Tugging at his hair you managed to get those eyes to find yours as you shook your head, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Leave it to you to use a horror movie reference at a time like this. I’m being serious, Billy.”

Reaching up to touch the chain he always wore around his neck, Billy yanked it hard enough to break the string before sliding the ring that dangled off of it onto your right ring finger before kissing it. His eyes never leaving yours, not even for a second.

The ring belonged to his mother. It wasn’t her wedding band but a small, dainty thing that she’d gotten as a teenager at some point in time. Billy never left the house without it. He’d said it was like carrying a piece of her around with him.

And now, he was giving it to you.

“Before you freak out, no, this isn’t a fucking wedding proposal or anything.” He rhymed off, remembering your panic the last time he’d surprised you with a key to the cabin. “But I’ve never been more serious about anything or anyone in my life,” he assured you. “So, consider it a promise.”

Leaning towards him, your forehead fell against his and for a moment neither of you moved a muscle as you sat there, in the middle of the dark cabin, holding onto each other for dear life. But slowly, ever so slowly, you felt his hand scrape along your neck before your lips met in a bruising kiss.

His lips felt so good against yours, so natural and, as he deepened the kiss and pulled you even closer into him, your body melted into his touch. Into him.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips, his voice despairing.

Kissing his way down your neck, you felt his hand fiddling with the button of your jeans and before you knew it, he was tugging them down your hips and thighs, pulling your thong down with them as he went.

His motions were frenzied but slow. He was taking his time despite the desperation oozing from his touch. He needed you, urgently. Every bit as much as you needed him.

Oh, how fucked you were.

The vein in his neck pulsed against the skin as he yanked them off of you entirely, throwing them across the living room with zero regard before those familiar hands grasped onto your hips. You were sitting there in nothing more than a thin top as he kissed his way up your thigh, nudging your legs open with those broad shoulders you loved so much.

His eyes were hungry and you were soaked as that tongue swirled up the inside of your thigh. Every couple of kisses, he’d bite down on the sensitive flesh before finally throwing your legs over his shoulders to grant him full access of your cunt.

You barely had time to brace yourself against the couch before his tongue delved into your folds. His tongue was desperate, his mouth hungry, his grip on your hips almost primal. Your nipples strained against the thin material of your top as he hummed against your clit, lapping it up and suckling it as though he was a man, starved.

“Billy,” you moaned, peeling your top off to reveal your breasts. He wasted no time in reaching up to play with your tits, squeezing them hungrily as his tongue continued its assault on your clit.

You were breathless, your chest heaving, as you threw your head back against the couch. “Fuck,” you whispered raking your fingers through his hair. You could hear how wet you were, how wet he’d made you and fuck if his tongue didn’t feel like heaven itself.

This was the thing about Billy. About your relationship. No matter how you felt with him, how much guilt that bubbled beneath the surface, there was an unspoken connection that sparked to life behind closed doors. You needed him in every way, shape and form. And he needed you, he worshipped you, right back.

“I’m going to come,” you whispered, desperate to feel your body ignite on account of his mouth. That familiar sensation began to warm your entire body, curling your toes as he gave your clit one last, long suck before your orgasm rippled through you. Releasing your tit, he held your hips as you trembled beneath him, holding you against him to ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

“Look at me,” he whispered, sucking hard as you rode out your orgasm. You managed to focus in on him through the fog of bliss. He looked almost vulnerable as you rode his tongue, as he watched you squirm and writhe beneath him. The moan that escaped you was loud and guttural and, as he refused to let go of your clit even with the stars dancing behind your eyes, you tugged his hair and cursed his name.

Finally, after your body nearly gave out on the couch, Billy released you only long enough to kiss his way back up your body. He stopped at your breasts, swirling that incredible tongue along your nipples for a few seconds before continuing up until he was inches away from your lips.

Your eyes met in the darkness of the room. He looked like a fucking angel kneeling there, looking up at you with all the adoration in the fucking world. He nudged your nose with his so that your lips hovered above his own. “Come here.”

This kiss was soft.

Sensual.

Full of want and stained with need.

You could taste yourself on him, feel your slick on his lips but you didn’t hesitate to kiss him back with everything you had. In one swift movement and without ever breaking the kiss, he laid you back on the couch and climbed on top of your naked body.

Within seconds, you were tugging his shirt off of his broad back as that slow smile reserved only for you began to form on his lips. You were an idiot to think you stood a chance at overcoming your feelings for the man. He was a part of you at this point. He was everything.

Somewhere along the lines, he’d shed his jeans and briefs and as he slid inside of you, you gasped and buried your head into the nook of his neck. He felt so good inside of you, so natural. His cock filled you up entirely, leaving you breathless and hungry for more.

With each and every thrust, you allowed yourself to get lost in the feeling of him.

Gasping, your hands slithered from his face to his back where you scraped your long nails down the sensitive flesh. Blood coiled beneath your nails and Billy shivered and moaned at the sensation.

Fuck, he felt so good inside of you.

All at once, your bodies found a perfect rhythm. He was so close to you. Your foreheads touched, your noses bumped and every few seconds his lips would find yours, kissing you senseless as he pumped into you. He held you close as he came inside of you but for minutes after it was all said and done, he remained there, hovering over you as he brushed your now matted hair away from your face.

“You’re so beautiful.” His voice came out no louder than a whisper as he kissed the tip of your nose. “So fucking beautiful.”

Leaning up, you softly kissed his lips and cuddled up beside him when he finally rolled off of you to hold you close against his chest.

You had no doubt in your mind that this, right here, was where you were meant to be.

The rest would work itself out.

It had to.

a/n: trouble is looming pals. buckle up babyyyy. I've narrowed the ending of this series to two different ones. might make it a choose your own adventure.

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atsukashii · 4 years

Text

chapter 16 // tell me its over

Apartment 204 - Katsuki Bakugou x reader

<< sixteen >>

|| tell me its over ||

Word count: 4K - because i have no chill

In which Bakugou is your hellish asshole of a downstairs neighbour, and also the cute, broody regular at your work you’ve been hitting on for the past few weeks. Things get complicated though when the past makes a reappearance, then shit kinda hits the fan.

You glance down at your phone, the screen far too bright for your eyes in your dark room. Katsuki’s last message to you is staring you right in the face, sending a sharp pain straight into your chest. Black dots dance across your vision as you remember to breathe.

What is going on?

You know that you’re partially at fault for this, for not telling him even some semblance of the truth about your ex, but you were just trying to not be a damn burden. Why should he have to deal with that? You have had to do things on your own for such a long time, even your friends knew your boundaries - how does one even rely on someone without becoming so co-dependent that it hurts to be away from them? No, you think. Somewhere along the way, you became so used to seeing and being with him, that when you parted it hurt to breathe. Hanging your head in your hands, you press the heels of your hands into your closed eyes trying to stop the pressure from building behind them. How did you get to this point?

What a waste of time…

That line made you so mad. You knew he was hurt and mixing pure anger in with his already not-headed nature, you didn’t deserve to be spoken to like that. And you weren’t going to take it from him that’s for damn sure. Your mixed emotions were swinging between despair and anger like a wrecking ball going through concrete, and you knew if you weren’t careful it would crush everything and crumble the foundations of your very being. But Jesus Christ you just wanted to scream!

“What a fucking asshole!” You suddenly shout, feeling not even a sliver of the building pressure inside your release. You need some mood music, you decide, before you crumple into a useless ball of tears. Maybe you were just unlucky when it came to relationships. You were already aware that your communication skills sucked majorly, but you honestly thought that he was it. That he was that one person that was made just for you, and were you aware that it sounds cringe? Yes, you were. But you didn’t really care, though, if he thinks he can talk to you that way, oh he’s got another thing coming.

Getting up and walking to the stereo in the lounge, you connect your phone and turn the sound dial to deafening.

‘Look inside Look inside your tiny mind Now look a bit harder 'Cause we're so uninspired So sick and tired of all the hatred you harbor’

Turning the music up louder until you can physically feel the bass vibrating the floorboards beneath your feet, you let out a frustrated yell at your whole situation - you would rather be angry than the other option was miserable despair. You’d get to that point eventually, but right now you’re pissed as fuck.

What the actual fuck had happened?

One second, everything had been peachy and perfect, and the next he was accusing you of cheating on him? What utter fucking bullshit! Stomping into the kitchen, you open the cupboard beneath the sink and pull out the vodka you had leftover from your last girls’ night with Ochako a few weeks ago, and tear the lid off.

“What utter bullshit!” You snap at nothing, and raise the rim to your lips, taking one swig. Two. Three. Suddenly, there’s a thumping under your feet that doesn’t come from the beat and you know it’s your asshole neighbor. “Fuck off!” You mumble.

What a fucking waste of time.

You want to hate him.

You want to be violent, to punch him in the face, to scream and cry. You wanted to do something, so that he could possibly feel even a sliver of the pain you were currently enduring...but you couldn’t bring yourself to do even that.

‘You know he’s hurting too, that’s why he bit your head off’. You would call that rational voice in your head common sense, but tonight it could get the fuck out.

Because you know that the reason this hurt so bad, the reason you are breaking down is that you loved that brash asshole that scowls too much. The one that calls you a dumbass but did so with eyes full of admiration. The one that buys you coffee even though he knows you could get it for free from your work because he can, the one who will sit in on a fucking boring ass biology lecture at 8 am in his free time because he was bored and just wanted to be with you. The one that puts your education, dreams, and aspirations at the forefront of his mind, and knows you do the same. The one that helps you study for exams. The one that knew you loved PDA and would do stupidly cute things like hold your hand and kiss you in public even though he despises public displays of affection.

You should have told him about Shindo ages ago. You should have told him how when you’d met the raven-haired boy you were only ten. That you’d been enamoured with him until he finally had made his feelings known when you fifteen. He had been your first everything; first kiss, first love - everything. You had even chosen your current college purely so you could be with him. What a stupid move that was. He made promises that he never kept. Like the flip of a coin, his sweet and kind personality you thought you knew turned into something completely different. You could barely recognize him. Shindo Yo became the psychotic boyfriend that you should steer far clear of. Expecting you to be at his beck and call, you found that being around him no longer took your breath away as it had once before, but instead smothered you.

You should have told Katsuki how you had come home to your shared apartment to find clothing littered across the floor, leading to your bedroom. You knew what was going on before you even recognized what you had heard. You should have told Katsuki about just how much it crushed you, about how you crumpled to the floor after walking right out of your apartment. You should have told him about the slump you were in after. There were days when you wanted to scream and days when you wanted to cry. You should have told your boyfriend that your ex had cheated on you and that he was pestering you non-stop. You should have trusted him, you should have relied on him. But that’s the thing about looking back on something, you see every little mistake you’ve made and how you could have changed it, but you can’t change what’s in the past.

You know that you were partially in the wrong for this, but so was he. Who does he think he is talking to someone like that? You know he’s hot-headed and can be borderline arrogant, but the way he spoke to you? Maybe you didn’t need that in your life…

‘Your point of view is medieval…’ Lilly Allen’s voice sings through your speakers and you frown at the blank tv in front of you. You had every right to be pissed at him right now, and though you know you may never truly hate him, you could be fucking livid. The chorus hit and you stood up on your couch and shouted the lyrics along with the music.

“Fuck you! Fuck you very, very much. 'Cause we hate what you do and we hate your whole crew, so, please don't stay in touch!” You all but scream, not caring for anything but the anger and pain trying to burst its way out of you. Your phone vibrates in your pocket and faster than you would like to admit it finds its way to your hand.

Text from Unknown: Y/n...can we please meet up. I just want to talk to you again, I miss us. Hear me out please gorgeous... - Shindo.

You feel something inside you begin to crack as the tiny sliver of hope you had that it was Katsuki leaves you. There is no hesitation as you turn off your phone and toss it on the couch away from you.

“Why are all men douchebags?” You ask yourself, tears threatening to fall as your anger begins to shift to something else. No no no, you’re not going to cry. You are not a fucking crybaby y/n... Earlier, the idea of being alone sounded like what you needed, but now, the music blasting, your apartment felt eerily quiet and your heartbeat echoed inside your head in perfect synchronization with the beat. You just knew you as you had reread your boy- ex’s texts, you couldn’t have your friends right that second because you knew you would break down and burst into a useless puddle of tears and you were better than that. You were stronger than that. A boy wasn’t going to break your heart. Not again.

“Do you really enjoy living a life that's so hateful? 'Cause there's a hole where your soul should be,” you mumble along with the song, sitting on the edge of the couch just listening along with the words. Your brain wanders to your friends, and then automatically to Kirishima and Kaminari. His friends were so nice to you and were people you had started to think of as your own friends. Ones he was so rude to but fiercely loyal to. Why couldn’t he be this loyal to you…

You feel sobs building at the back of your throat and try to swallow them down. It hurt too much; his accusation was a force of relentless bullets that keep ripping new wounds into you. The thought of ever doing that to someone else, of someone having to go through what you had, it made you sick to your stomach. Your heart physically throbbed painfully inside your chest. Looking at the vodka, you decide against it and go looking for some water.

You wouldn’t have heard of it if you hadn’t had to walk past the door of your apartment. The vigorous pounding and a voice shouting that's muffled by the music. Your downstairs neighbor no doubt. Oh, you were so not in the right frame of mind to deal with this. The pounding force rattles your door and for a second you think it may just break off its hinges.

Jesus Christ is this person fucking insane?!

Your somewhat ‘war’ with them had been put on hiatus recently as you had spent a lot of time between Ochako’s and the boy’s apartment as its location was much closer to school. Also with everything going on with Katsuki, you had forgotten just how much of a raging asshole the dickbag downstairs was. But now you remember every little crappy thing they had done, the blender going off before five am, his constant complaints when you were up later than eight, oh and that fucking note! The audacity that they had to pull that crap... Fury fills your blood again as you stomp towards your door, finally ready to give them a piece of your mind. You don’t care if they were an old person like you had previously assumed, they were being an insensitive asshole! Can’t they hear you’re in pain? Sniffling, a burst of anger left your mouth as you yank the door open.

“Leave me the fuck alone you miserable-” what met your gaze stopped you in your sentence, cementing your feet to the ground.

No, this can’t be happening right now. The horror in your eyes stared back at a pair of red vermillion ones, as your next breath rushed out in a gasp. His bloodshot eyes previously filled with rage that rivalled yours quickly morph into shock.

You stare at the boy that broke your heart not even an hour ago. You look at Katsuki Bakugou and his beautiful face, and everything that happened today tears through you like a wave of blades. A pathetically broken noise comes out of your throat and you immediately slammed the door in the blonde's face.

Oh my god…

Your legs collapse beneath, you causing you to fall to the floor. Oh my god, he was your neighbor. This whole time, he had been downstairs. Katsuki had been the one to drive you fucking mad whilst also make you feel so weightless and happy. The shock causes your body to shake as sobs rip through you, no longer able to hold anything in.

No, no please don’t let him be here. He can’t be here.

And the previously cracking piece inside of you shatters.

❀ ❀ ❀

You’re not sure how long you stay there for, back against the door, weeping as if a limb has been severed from your body. The only indication of time moving on around you is through the ever-changing music seeping from your speakers. By the time your world somewhat comes back to focus, Kodaline is playing in the background.

There's a gentle thump on the door, and you, for a moment, ignore it. You don’t want to see anybody. As if hearing you, you feel the next tap right on your spine followed by a soft voice.

“Y/n…” You force yourself to stand up and look through the peephole of your front door, the music playing too loudly for you to determine who is on the other side. You brace yourself for the worst, not really though knowing what that is - but the sight that meets you is a welcomed one. Another broken sob rips out of your chest as you see a pair of heterochromatic eyes that you have known since you were a child. You sling open the door so fast, the slam of it hitting the opposite wall is felt through the floor. Without a second of hesitation and without a single word, you throw yourself on your best friend and let your sobs be muffled by his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” Shouto says, holding your head against his chest. Never before, have you been so glad to see them in your entire life. You’re not surprised at all by their arrival, however, because they knew you, just as you knew them.

You feel Todo walk you inside and sit on the couch, with you tucked up next to him in silence. The music is turned off and they don’t ask what happened, doesn’t demand anything from you, Todo just holds you as Izuku whizzes around your apartment like a man on a mission.

“He-he…” You try to say, making both boys stop to look at you. Your voice is hoarse from your crying and your throat burns at the attempt, but you need to get it off your chest. Todo’s serious gaze encourages you to find your voice again and between sobs, you manage to get it out. “He was my neighbor. Downstairs.” they look at each other before looking at you, a mix between anger, disbelief, and shock.

“You’re going to come and stay with us for a few days,” Is all Todo says in response, not leaving any room for discussion as you break down crying once again. Relief floods through you, both at having them here, but also for not having to be in the same building as Katsuki.

With haste, they gather what you need and you quickly hurry down the stairs, the boys glaring at the level below yours as if tossing up the idea of getting into a physical brawl. You know that had they known just who occupied the apartment below yours before arriving at your rescue, they would have made a quick pit-stop at apartment 104. Shouto opens the passenger door for you and quietly, you slip inside. You wipe your nose on your sweater sleeve and try to muffle your sniffles. Once the car is started and you’re buckled in, from his spot behind you, Izuku wraps his arms around your shoulders, hugging you to the chair. You lean back into your friend’s embrace as he kisses you on the head.

“You want some chocolate?” He asks quietly, and Todo actually snorts.

“Contrary to popular belief, chocolate doesn’t fix anything Izuku.”

“Really? Because I have proof that it does,” he sasses back, resting his head on your chair.

“I’m good for now, thanks Zuzu.” You look between your two friends and try your best to give them a sad smile. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Whatever you need, we’re here y/n.” Shouto says, and your lips wobble. God, they were so precious to you. Sensing your inner turmoil, Izuku squeezes you tighter and you chastely peck the arm across your chest in thanks. You don’t know what you would do without them, or where you would even be.

The rest of the trip is relatively quiet, only Zuzu’s humming as songs play on the radio fills the car, and you’re grateful for even that distraction. When you finally make it to their shared apartment, you open the door and there’s Ochako, pacing and looking so damn worried. Meeting her halfway, you let her pull you into her as the silent tears you can’t seem to stop, run down your cheeks.

“We’re watching movies,” she says, leading you into the lounge where you find three mattresses on the floor. You give them all a watery smile in thanks but turns into a broken attempt at a laugh as your eyes lock onto the three bags of KFC now in Shouto’s hands.

“You feed a small army with all that food.” You smile, wiping your nose.

“We’re basically the same thing.” Todo points out as you all sit down and get comfortable on the floor. With your friends surrounding you, you give them all another sad smile and try to wipe away the uncontrollable tears as they fall.

“I love you guys so much.” You sniffle. Pulling you into him, Todo wraps an arm around your shoulder, and Ochako hugs your waist.

“We love you too chickadee, more than you will ever know.” But, you think as you look over them and then at the Disney opening on the tv screen, you do know, and you love them just as much.

He stands outside the door of the apartment above his own - your door, staring at it with wide eyes. No fucking way were you his neighbor. He wasn’t a moron, or inept, he would have known that. Surely he had walked you home before?...no, you had been staying at Ochako’s a lot because it was closer to your work and classes… Your love for abba, your fucking sass, and annoying tendency to take no shit from even him that he adored.

God, it was so obvious. How did he not fucking know?

Turning down the stairs, he all but sprints back to his room, clenching his phone so tight in his hand it almost cracks the screen. Fuck he needs to talk to someone or hit something. Some divine intervention that could prevent his phone from certain death emerged through an incoming call. Without hesitation, Katsuki answers, knowing full well who’s on the other side and his mouth moves too fast for him to comprehend. Looks like it’s talking and not hitting something.

“She was my fucking neighbor Kirishima.” he blurts out, his ass falling onto his couch as he speaks. Leaning back and he looks up at the ceiling as if he could still see her broken face when she had answered the door and seen him. He was sure that the shock on his face mirrored hers, but then the pain that it turned into... Good! She should be feeling what I felt. His brain argues against the very words, but he doesn’t care.

Katsuki manages to catch a very confused reply from his friend and rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“She’s my upstairs neighbor.” He repeats, the situation finally daunting on him. The girl he had been dating for months was living above him, making his life hellish whilst doing the opposite when she was with him. Fuck my life.

“Fuck man,” Kirishima says distracted, and Katsuki can’t blame him. “I’m assuming you saw her or something then?” The redhead asks carefully. A growl rips out of Katsuki’s throat and he stands up, fisting a hand in his hair. He so wished that he hadn’t seen you. That someone else had opened that door, instead of your broken expression and bloodshot eyes. The way you had looked at him was as if he were something between a ghost and your worst nightmare.

“I wish I fucking hadn’t,” he admits.

“Bro, she obviously meant something to you so I’m not surprised that you’re hurting-”

“Well, she doesn’t anymore. That shit’s done and thank god for it.” He wants to be fucking livid at you but no matter the shitty things he says about you, all he can see is your pained face and the feeling dissolves into nothing, leaving only despair in its wake. The words actually hurt as he says it, and Kirishima sighs from the other side of the phone - as if he could hear the turmoil in his voice. But the redhead doesn’t mention it. Good, because there would be hell to pay if he had.

“I’m currently staring at a half-full bottle of scotch from work right now, and am feeling kinda pathetic about drinking myself. Want some?” Katsuki knows that his friend doesn’t want to fucking drink. He works as a personal trainer most mornings during the week, including Saturdays, so getting slammed on a Friday night was something he often opted out of. But for this situation, for what his friend was going through, he’d do it. Or at least would watch over Bakugou as he got roaring drunk.

“That is fucking pathetic shitty hair,” he replies, shaking his head at his friend’s antics. “Bring the fucking bottle or you’re not coming in.”

“I knew you’d think so. I’ve got spiced ribs too just sitting here, I’m going to bring them too.” Katsuki would have to be an idiot to believe his friend would have one of his favourite foods just hanging around, but he didn’t object to it. “You’re second favorite bro might also make an appearance. But we can decide that depending on how much he pisses me off in the car.” For a moment, Katsuki’s lips tick up, but quickly drop again as he hears the sound of a door closing coming from above him. You’re leaving.

Without realizing it, his hand has moved up to his chest where he gently rubs the skin above his heart.

“I don’t care, Kirishima. Just hurry the fuck up and get over here.” He can hear Denki in the background and chooses to ignore them both before with a final curse at his friends, he hangs up the phone. His feet drag him to the window of his apartment that looks over the car parking of your apartment complex, and it’s like the world has a vendetta against Katsuki Bakugou this past week. Because there you are, getting into a car as your friend with the half and half hair closes the door behind you. From this angle, he can see you clearly through the passenger side window, and he can see the tears running down your cheeks. He has an urge to run to you, one that he blatantly ignores because you don’t deserve it.

He’s better off without you.

Your green-haired, freckly friend wraps his arms around your shoulders - and then the car is gone. Katsuki turns his back on the window and walks towards the kitchen.

He’s better off without you. The whole thing was a fucking mistake. He doesn’t need anyone. His aspirations will take up everything he is, and he would much rather focus on that than you.

Anything otherwise isn’t even worth a fucking thought.

a/n: whew, that was a doozy. Sorry if its a bit wordy, I just had to get it all out. This will be the only written chapter of this series, so everything from here on out is back to the social media format. We’re so close to the end now its so scary. This smau is my baby and I love it lots so its really sad.

Tag list below. Wanna be tagged? shoot me an ask!

@alexismiszczak

@anastar-legion

@ambitchousaf

@a-timeheist

@bakubatty

@bikinibrattoms

@breaking-ur-kneecaps

@bubbzibubbles

@ew-i-hate-that-goaway921

@fangirls-are-scary

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if your name has a strike it wouldn’t tag :(

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slitherofgold · 4 years

Text

I loathe you Pt 1- Sam Fender Imagine

Standing before the mirror, you were impressed with the reflection. You had made an effort with your appearance (for once) and the result wasn’t too bad. You were looking forward to tonight, finally getting the chance to catch up with the boys who had been on tour for months. You had missed them, in fact your home town didn’t feel the same without them. The plan was drinks at your local pub- the Low Lights Tavern- just so you could catch up and see how everyone was doing. Well, not everyone. Thankfully, Drew had convinced Sam not to come for your sake. It wasn’t as if you hated the guy, but he always seemed to kill the mood with his sulky attitude and blunt remarks. It was almost as if he despised you and just couldn’t stand your company, so you kindly asked Drew not to invite Sam.

You hopped in the taxi and headed towards the tavern, getting more eager by the second to see your friends. The pub was your guys spot, whenever someone needed to celebrate, whenever someone was sad, whenever someone needed to let off a little steam, you’d always meet at this spot.

You walked in and instantly looked towards your usual booth.You would’ve been happy to be reminded of your friends faces, but unfortunately to your dismay, Mr Sam Fender was sat with them, blatant of your arrival. You were tempted to walk back out, to come up with some petty excuse for you to leave, but it was too late, the gang had noticed you. “Y/n!”, Dean waved you over, obviously happy to see you. You quickly plastered on a smile and strutted in their direction. You were not going to let Sam ruin tonight.

“Hey guys, long time no see.” Dean squeezed up, allowing room for you to sit. Within an instant it was like they had never left. They told you stories from on tour (like Sam threatening to break into a Greggs after a particularly messy night out) and they had asked about what you had been up to too.

“So y/n you seeing anyone”, Drew asked, whilst side-glancing towards Sam. Great, you were going to be reminded YET AGAIN that you were still single, and you were certain that Sam basked in your sad, single loneliness.

“Yep obviously. I think I just defer guys with my presence.”

“Obviously”, Sam muttered under his breath. You pretended to ignore him but you couldn’t help but notice the sharp glance Drew gave him from across the table. He quickly attempted to assure you. “Nah that’s not true, I knew a bunch of guys who had a crush on you at school.”

“Yeah, like who?” You raised your brow out of curiosity.

“Sorry that’s classified information. I promised I’d never tell.”

“Drew, school was nine years ago.” You folded your arms across the table, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah but it was a pinky promise and you know how sacred they are.”

“Sure, now I’m gonna go get us some more drinks before you bore everyone with my non-existent love life.” You left the table and headed towards the bar, hoping they’d change the topic by the time you’d get back. It wasn’t as if your love life was non-existent it was just very much unsuccessful. For some reason you had a certain type for dickheads, the kind who loved to walk all over you and cheat whenever they felt like it. In a way you were grateful for your chain of ex-lovers, they had made you tougher to a certain extent, and boys knew it too. In fact, most of the time, the boys refused to meet whoever you were dating. It was almost as if they could see right through each and every bloke, and decided that any guy would never be good enough for you or their time. “6 pints please.”

“That’s a lot of pints for a small thing like you.” You hadn’t even looked at the bartender, but his voice seemed to pull you out of a trance. You quickly realised how good-looking he was. He was roughly in his late 20s, dirty blonde hair and kind brown eyes. He was charming in some sort of way and he had even kinder smile. Shit, you were still staring. He must think I’ve got something wrong with me.

“I wish they were, but I’m pretty sure you’d have to roll me out of here if I even attempted to down all six.” He laughed and started pouring out glasses, locking eyes with you every so often. “So are you new? I haven’t seen you around here before.” God, you were cringing so bad. You knew you were a bit rusty but this ‘flirting’ was just a shit-show.

“Kinda, some of my relatives live down here but I don’t live too far either. I take it you’re local?”

“Sadly, yes. Hopefully I can get out soon if my job picks up.” You were hopeful, but it was the truth. Although you loved Shields, you didn’t wanna stay here forever.

“It’s not too bad around here, where would you wanna go, when you do get out?”

“I’ve not thought that far ahead yet, maybe down South or maybe even somewhere else in Europe.”

“I’ll have to tag along if you don’t mind.” He folded his arms across the bar and leaned down to your eye level. God, talking to this guy was so easy, you could stare into those eyes for hours. You hadn’t even realised that he’d poured all six drinks!

“Sure, I could use the company.” You played along, silently hoping he’d take you up on the offer.

“Isn’t your boyfriend good company then?”

“My boyfriend?!” You gave him an unsure glance, you were certain that you were single.

“Yeah, the guy giving me the evils.” You turned to look. “Don’t look!” He lightly grabbed your arm stopping you from turning. “God, don’t make it too obvious”, he laughed. “The guy in the white-shirt sat with you and your friends, blondish hair?”

“Ohhhhh, that’s Sam”, you laughed. “We’re not together.”

“He’s been giving me the evils ever since you strutted on over, I took a guess thought you and him were a thing or something.”

You snorted, “Sam basically hates me, he treats me like shit or ignores me half the time.”

“Trust me, coming from a guy, he’s definitely feeling something other than hate for you.”

“And trust me, knowing Sam for nearly 10 years, basically makes him my brother.” You couldn’t put anymore emphasis on that, you and Sam were not a thing. Period.

“Well if you’re adamant that there’s nothing going on between you, I’d love to take your number?” You blushed but willingly took the guys phone and dialled in your number.

“Y/n by the way.”

“Archie, lovely to meet you y/n.” He smiled and you and you smiled back effortlessly. God, his smile really was something.

“You too, now I’d better get back to my friends before they start screaming for their beer.” You walked on ever to the group, careful not to spill the drinks.

“Oi oi, look at you gettin’ ya flirt on”, Dean whistled. You blushed again, knowing full well that Archie could hear.

“See told ya guys fancied you, you just can’t see it half the time.” You instantly thought back to Sam and glanced in his direction. Sure enough, he was sulking as usual.

“I’m going for a ciggy”, Sam announced, and with that he stood up and stalked on outside- ruining the mood once more.

“Think I might join him”, Drew said and quickly left after him. You shrugged and sat down next to Dean once more. Dean started talking about the good old days, laughing about the stupid things you guys did when you were young.

“Remember that one time you hit by the swing playing chicken, and Sam felt so bad he pedalled home to go get you a plaster.”

“Omg and by the time he got back, I had stopped crying and we had started a new round.”

“He was so mad, I remember he wanted you to sit out to rest your “injured” knee. It was literally the smallest cut ever!” You both laughed at the memory. You remembered that you had argued with Sam that day, you refused to sit and watch whilst the boys had all the fun. “I miss those days man”, Dean continued, “when we didn’t have to worry about anything other than going to the park after school.”

“Yeah but you enjoy tour life right? You’re travelling, meeting new people. I’m sure you got girls throwing themselves at your feet as well.”

“That’s one bonus, I get homesick though. Actually, Sam was saying how you should come with us when we go on tour next.”

“He did?!” The news took you by surprise. He wanted to spend time with you.

“Yeah, he said you could be our own personal groupie”, Dean chuckled. You? A groupie for Sam? You loved there music, there was no doubt about it but you weren’t sure how you felt about him as a person. You’d known him for a while but you didn’t really KNOW him that well. He was a difficult person.

“Yeah sounds good. I missed you guys whilst you were away.”

“We all missed you too, especially Sam. It was kind of annoying actually, he complained about you not being there with us A LOT”. God, Sam just seem to escape the conversation tonight. Everything just sounded so unlike him. It never acted like this around you, and he certainly hadn’t said anything nice about you to your face. It was definitely a shock.

“Speaking of the buggers, I’m going to see what’s taking them so long.” You needed some air anyway, it was so stuffy inside. As you reached the door you heard a quiet a conversation. You wouldn’t usually snoop but you recognised the voices. It sounded like a very important conversation. Their voices were tense yet quiet, ensuring that no one would be able to hear. No one but you obviously.

“Drew leave it. Nothings ever going to happen between us. We wouldn’t work. We’re two VERY different people who have VERY different lives.” Sam. You wondered who he was on about, was he seeing someone? Why did you care?

“Mate you’ve had a crush on her since we were 12. I know you still like her, and you can’t deny it.”

“Yeah and so what. We date. It goes wrong. It fucks up our whole gang. Things become awkward. The end. That’s what will happen. End of.”

“Well, you’ll never know until you try. All I’m saying is that you better man up quick, otherwise someones gonna beat you to it.”

Wait, known since 12, fuck up whole gang, that only narrows it down to one person. Me, Sam likes me, you thought, and with that, you heard the boys stomping out their fags ready to re-enter the tavern and face you once more.

#sam fender #sam fender x reader #sam fender imagines #imagines #angst #fluff

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emmy-writes-sometimes · 4 years

Text

The Hoodie Problem

A wardrobe mistake costs you and Henry the privacy of your relationship.

“No,” you groaned as your heard the dreaded chiming of the Alexa alarm. “No, no, no, turn it off!”

“You have to say its name, dearie,” a tired Henry grumbled in response. You could feel him pull you tighter, deeper into his warm arms. “Alexa, stop the alarm.” The alarm stopped right after.

“It’s currently 6:20 AM. The weather in London, England, is currently 6 degrees Celsius and will be sunny for the rest of the day. There are no unread emails for your .edu or gmail.com account. One package, containing 3 makeup brushes and dog treats will be arriving to 102…’

“Will she shut up?” You groaned in response, turning back into Henry’s warm body. The room was freezing cold, and the dog had already gotten off the bed.

“I don’t think she’s done yet.” In a single second, the opening riff of Back in Black started playing. “Alright, love, you actually need to go.”

“No,” you grumbled. “Fuck class, I don’t wanna go to class. I hate it anyway, and I don’t wanna sit there and listen to my history professor talk about an asshole and defend his work when it’s already shit anyway.” Henry chuckled, sending another wave of heat through your body, making you want to stay even more.

“You won’t get to argue your vulgar point if you’re late.” You sighed and started to sit up, yelling at Alexa to stop playing music. “Go, darling, otherwise I won’t get out of bed either.”

“You’re such an asshole in the morning,” you responded, wrestling yourself onto the floor. A gigantic ball of fluff followed you, expecting his breakfast. “Can I borrow a hoodie? Left mine in the laundry.”

“Which you only did so you can borrow one of mine. They should all be clean, just find one that can cover the bruises on your neck.” You sighed, spying a hoodie from a charity Rugby match Henry had done the month before, and after slapping deodorant onto your under-arms you pulled it on over her sports bra. You hoped it would be enough. Quite honestly, you didn’t care who saw the hickies on your neck. Anyone who was going to see was an adult who should act like an adult about it. Your hair would have to do since it wasn’t too greasy, and after deciding just to leave it down, you finished up in Henry’s adjoining bathroom and walked back to the bedroom.

“Covered?” You asked.

“Yep. Leave me your keys, take the Merc, and I’ll pick it up from the shop after my workout, I want them to check the paint on the hood, too.” He looked you up and down, sitting up in bed as you walked over to give him a kiss.

“Thanks, babe.”

“You look beautiful,” he responded with a smile.

“I do not.”

“You do!” Without bothering to look at the back of the sweatshirt, Henry got out of bed and went into the bathroom. You yawned as the massive dog zoomed down the stairs, waiting for breakfast. Kal sniffed around as you set foot on the stair landing, probably wondering why your vanilla perfume was mixed with the scent of Henry’s strong aftershave. Truth be told, you were glad. It was a comforting smell.

“Be a good boy, Kal, Papa’s gonna feed you in a minute.” The dog panted in excitement and went to go stand by his water bowl, where he would inevitably drool for the rest of the time until Henry came to feed him. You placed your things from the dining room table, your makeshift desk, into your backpack, refilled your water bottle, and took a few seconds to exchange your keys with Henry’s keys. With another glance around the house, making sure you didn’t leave any chargers behind, you walked out the front door and began to adjust Henry’s car to fit your height. You felt like something was off, but you couldn’t describe it. Instead you went to go get your coffee and find a place to park before your frightfully early class.

“You look knackered,” a voice said behind you as you finally climbed out of the car an hour and a half later. It wasn’t the first time you’d borrowed one of Henry’s cars, but at least it was the humblest of the three he had. The McLaren wasn’t something he even trusted himself to drive sometimes, he’d finally gotten rid of the Clio collecting dust at his parents’ house, and the Aston was his precious baby you didn’t dare go near. But you were endlessly grateful he let you borrow the Merc. You just wished it wasn’t so flashy. It was ten times flashier than the seven-year-old Hyundai you’d inherited from your mother. Especially in the parking spot right in front of the building ten minutes before class where people could see you getting out of it. The voice who’d spoken was Anna, your best friend, and supposed roommate if you ever came home.

“Trust me when I say that man needs a new coffee machine, because I’m sick of having to leave the house at seven in the morning to go buy some,” you groaned in response, swinging your backpack over your shoulder. It was heavy as hell, but you were carrying most of your things in it because you didn’t have time to go back to your barely lived-in dorm room. Your other hand held your gigantic coffee, the biggest one you could buy because apparently British people preferred caffeine-free tea in the morning. People called you absolutely crazy for getting cold drinks when it was cold outside, too, but you didn’t care.

“You realize your neck is completely purple, right? I doubt an espresso machine is the reason you’re so tied.” You scoffed at Anna’s statement. In reality it hadn’t been crazy sex keeping you up for the past few nights – you’d been working so late that Henry came up to you the night before and wouldn’t stop biting at your neck until you agreed to come to bed, hoping it would embarrass you into having better sleeping habits. But sex was a much better story.

“Is it really bad?” You asked.

“No. Not from the front.” Anna started walking backwards up the building’s staircase, opening the door for the two of you. Your classroom was the first one on the left, a massive auditorium, because everyone had to take the History of Wagnerian Opera class for some stupid reason. You took your normal places in the bright room, taking your laptops out onto the desks. You fully expected to have to plug it in, but Henry, the ever helpful boyfriend, had plugged it in when he found it half dead the night before.

“Had a rough night, did you, Yankee?” Another voice asked behind you. It was Isaac, another student you’d been friends with from the moment you stepped on campus.

“What on Earth gave you that idea?” You asked as you took a sip of coffee. Isaac leaned closer, looking down at the back of the sweatshirt you were wearing. The hood barely covered the top of the lettering on your back. It read Cavill in white letters, and underneath it was the number 01. It was obviously customized, and well-loved judging by the fading English rose that was the logo for Henry’s favorite team. It was about three sizes too large, too, adding to the evidence that the hoodie didn’t belong to you. Isaac and Anna knew you were dating Henry, but most people had no idea. It wasn’t like you were hiding it, because you weren’t. Henry just wanted to protect you from the craziness that came with dating him, including paparazzi and prying eyes that would try to find their way into every little thing you did with or without him. You hadn’t signed an NDA or anything, but Henry was insistent on protecting you for as long as he could. You were fourteen years younger than him and he loved you dearly and nothing could change that.

“You do realize that the back of your hoodie says HIS name on it, don’t you?” Isaac said quietly, hoping no one else in the auditorium heard.

“What?” You asked in response. You could feel your face going red.

“It says Cavill 01.”

“Oh, shit.” You couldn’t take it off because the only thing you were wearing underneath it was a thin sports bra, and of course Henry’s car was so spotless on the inside that there was no chance of there being an extra shirt in there. Come to think of it, he’d been lounging around in the sweatshirt the night before. Shit, you thought. How could you miss it? How could you screw up that badly? What if this ruined everything?

“Oh shit is right,” Anna remarked.

“Does my hair cover it?” Isaac looked down at your hair. The lecture was about to start, but the thought of maybe losing Henry over a hoodie made you want to sit in the corner and cry.

“No. Neither does the hood.” You sank lower into the seat.

“Maybe people won’t care. Cavill’s a common last name here.”

“No, not really. And I think they will.” You sighed, crossing your arms against your chest.

“Just don’t mention it to anybody and wear your bag when you can. Problem solved.”

“I’ll get you something else later,” Anna cut in. In reality everyone already knew something was up. You had mentioned a few times, offhand, that you had almost moved into your boyfriend’s house and was commuting from Kensington. And you mentioned one day that he was an actor, much less that he was one of the most well-known actors in the entire world. Your phone had his name as Hank, and even though the connection wasn’t immediate, it was still enough to make someone think of the name Henry. Damn the British and their overly common name diminutives.

“I swear to God, I’ll strangle whoever even thinks about it,” you sighed in response, putting your head down until the professor started class. You didn’t need to take notes quite yet, and pulled up the messages between you and Henry. The last night it was just on my way, got the food! And you are an absolute angel. Drive safe. His name wasn’t completely revealed at the conversation.

We have a problem. Henry started typing immediately.

You didn’t crash the car, did you????

No, but that probably would’ve been better…

Please explain.

Promise you won’t get mad?

What’s wrong???

I picked up your hoodie from last night and it has your name on the back and it hides my neck but it has your name on it and there’s nothing under it so I can’t take it off and I’m freaking out because you don’t want people to know and I’m sorry, I just screwed up so bad. I’m such an idiot.

It’s okay. Calm down. You’re not an idiot. You’re an absolute moron and I love you anyway

I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t want anyone to know.

The only reason I didn’t want anyone to know is because I didn’t want anyone to make you upset because I’m stupidly in love with you and people will try to tell you otherwise. It’ll be okay. If they find out they find out. Don’t worry about it. Really.

I feel like an idiot now.

I’m sure you look better in it than I do anyway. Don’t worry about it, love. I’ll see you at home and we’ll figure it out.

Thank you.

I love you!!!!

Love you more dimples.

You smiled a little, sitting back into your chair and starting to type out notes about the dark undertones within Ride of the Valkyrie. For the rest of class, it was fine. But you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t nervous for your next class. Isaac wasn’t there to back you up, and Anna sat on the other side of the room because you always distracted each other. You were on your own, taking in the scent of Henry’s aftershave that was left on the sweatshirt from the night before. It helped you calm down at least a little, even if the name on the back made you nervous. You sat lower in the chair than usual, but it didn’t stop at least one person knowing.

“You like Henry Cavill too?” Elizabeth, the most annoying person on Earth (and a completely mediocre pianist with no sense of emotion who only got in because her father works for the royal family), said as she strained to read the sweatshirt on the way to her seat.

“Yep.” You tried to play it off and wipe out the conversation before it even started. Never before had you wanted to listen to your old white professor rant about other old dead white guys. “He’s a good actor.”

“I’m, like, so in love with him,” Elizabeth responded. Henry rolled his eyes every single time you said a word about Elizabeth, but you’d never tell her that. “Like, he’s just so dreamy.”

“Oh, yeah,” you responded without even thinking. “He’s gorgeous.” You didn’t even realize what you said until Elizabeth’s eyes danced with a grin that matched her mouth.

“You know him?” She exclaimed.

“I mean, um, yeah, my internship…” you tried to cover, but it definitely didn’t work.

“Shut up, you know him? Or, oh my gosh, is he the guy you’re dating?” You could tell that all of the color drained from your face and the room suddenly felt hot. You weren’t going to lie about it, but she would also be one of the first few people to know. And it wouldn’t be long before she blabbed her mouth to her followers.

“I heard he likes younger girls anyway,” Ellen, the girl who sat behind Elizabeth, said. That was the cue for you to realize that everyone else was listening, too, and they couldn’t just mind their business. Your hands shifted uncomfortably inside the pocket of Henry’s sweatshirt. The room was definitely getting warmer.

“Yeah,” you responded quietly. “We’ve been dating a few months and didn’t want to tell anyone yet. But you figured it out, so congrats.” You swallowed a lump in your throat. On the one hand you were glad that it wasn’t going to be a secret anymore. You didn’t want to hide how much you loved the curly-haired idiot who was too large for his own good.

“Oh my GOD!” Elizabeth said excitedly. She was a little too loud with it. You just turned back around and pulled out your phone, hands shaking from the anxiety of what Henry had said. He said you were good enough, but what happened when the world was able to judge you?

Well, Elizabeth figured it out. Not long until she spills to her 22 followers. And then their 22 followers.

At least I can post that picture you took with me on the beach…

The ugly one where I almost drowned after? Nooooo please!!!

Oh that’s not what I was thinking about, but now that you mention it, my fingers might just slip…

This conversation is DONE, fat Cavill! I swear I’ll punch the dimples right out of you.

You underestimate me, little one.

Cavill, this class is an hour long and I swear if I get out and you did something I will make you sleep on your own couch for the next year.

Guess you’ll just have to fight me when you get home…

With that, the conversation was over. Most people in the room didn’t seem to notice or care, but Elizabeth and Ellie did. Your friends didn’t for the most part, but you would assume some would turn on you. And you could tell that they were going to do whatever they could to make sure everyone knew that they knew before anyone else. It was strange to think that Henry was being so cool with it, that he wanted there to be a before people knew and an after. You shut your mind off and did your best to focus, even though it wasn’t very well.

You got up at the end of class and packed your things, ready to brave the library until your next class, but you exited the room and there was someone standing at the entry hallway. Henry. And he was holding another coffee in one hand, and draped on his other arm was a shirt. He’d never been in public with you without some stupid disguise on, much less to bring you coffee in between classes.

“Henry?” You asked, slightly too loudly. Elizabeth and Ellen turned toward you, but you blew past them to see Henry. He was grinning, from ear to ear.

“So apparently, according to the internet in the past few minutes I’ve been in the car, I’m cradle robbing. Apparently you’re Instagram-model material, which I could’ve told you,” he said. “I brought you another coffee for dealing with bullshit, and I brought you another shirt in case you want to change.”

“Can I keep this one?” You asked, looking down at Henry’s that you were still wearing. “And you didn’t post the bad picture of me yet?”

“No, I was waiting for your approval,” he responded. He reached for his phone and handed it to you, and it was opened to a set of pictures he hadn’t posted yet.

@henrycavill: The real Mission Impossible is getting her to stay still long enough to take a picture with her favorite old man. To be clear, though; she is MINE and I couldn’t be happier. I will sword-fight ANYONE to defend her honor!!

It was a series of five pictures, all of them the two of you together, some of them cuter than others, and you just grinned. You couldn’t believe he was okay with everything, and you couldn’t believe that he was actually standing there with you, braving the people in your class just to hand you a coffee and offer you a shirt.

“I love you,” you said quietly. He smiled in response. “Really.”

“I love you too. I don’t care who knows.” You laughed and hugged him tightly, even though he was still holding your coffee. “But I do want the Merc back, your car is outside.”

“Whatever you say, cradle-robber.”

A/N: I’m in an opera history class right now and it’s so frustrating that I’m definitely taking it out here. I hope the person who requests this loves it as much as I did because omg I love this 😭

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill imagine

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vitalityofficial · 4 years

Text

Vitality LORE ACT 1 - The Girl: Prologue

VITALITY LORE // A1 - The Girl

Summary: We are introduced to a young girl whose life is about to change forever. After suffering a devastating loss, a mysterious man will eventually come into her life and begin his dark path of vengeance. The girl is only the beginning.

Warnings: Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Bullying, Depression, PTSD, Anxiety

Wordcount: 1,778

School had been out for an hour now and all her friends had gone home. Why hadn't her parents come yet? They never took this long! And why haven't they called? She took her phone out, dialing her father's number and it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

"Dad! I'm still waiting. Are you okay? I'll wait for fifteen more minutes and if you aren't here, I'll walk home! I'll take the special kimchi route, okay? I love you!"

The 'special kimchi route' is a series of alleyways littered with various family-owned shops - one of those shops owned by an older woman who had the best kimchi dishes around and one her family ate at often.

The girl frowns after the fifteen minutes are up and finally hops off the swing, grabbing her book bag and sighing. "Traffic must be bad today," she reasoned, leaving the gated school property and making the long trek home. She still found it odd that neither had contacted her, but her mother's cellphone was being repaired and her father was old and sometimes didn't pick up service well. They lived far up in the hills - the rather "poor" part of Seoul, tucked far away with the main city in the distance - and any nearby payphones were broken and left to rot.

As she walks and walks, she can't help but to hum a happy tune, feeling perky despite everything. Her birthday was in 5 days and her parents had promised to take her to Busan for a whole week! Her best friend had moved there last year and the two didn't get to keep in contact so it was the perfect way to celebrate a special day.

"You! Child!" A gruff voice spoke from a darkened corner and she yelps when a frail hand grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Grandma! You scared me!" She laughs, hugging the older unrelated woman. She was a well-known resident to all in the small neighborhood and the girl's family was very familiar with her.

“It’s so awful, child! Truly terrible!” The elderly woman murmurs, her eyes wide and pupils as big as saucers. The girl frowns and a look of concern comes over her face - word around was that Grandma was not well and often spouted eccentric things but the other residents often did their best to take care of her as there were no known relatives around. “Are you okay, Grandma? Shall I help you home? It’s getting chilly out.” The girl softly grabs her hand, guiding her in the direction of the woman's house.

“I am so sorry, my sweet girl. You are to endure so much pain and it is not fair for you were destined for so much good.” The old lady rambles as they walk but the girl brushes it off, use to it. When they reach the final hill - which happens to split off into a fork - the girls home on the right and a cliff just across the weather-beaten road and the woman’s on the left - they are overwhelmed by the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance.

“What’s going on?” The girl panics as she takes everything in, immediately dropping the old lady’s hand as she rushes towards the commotion. She had never seen so many people gathered around this area and to her horror - right in front of her house!

"Was there an accident? What happened?" She pleads with an officer, who immediately stops her from crossing the tape barrier. "It's not safe, young lady. Please stay back!" The female cop grasps the girls shoulders, pushing her back. It wasn't soon enough though as the girl peaks around her, seeing a trail of blood that went over the cliff edge - something truly abnormal and mortifying.

“That’s my home! Where's are my Mother and Father?” She was panicking now - something clearly wasn’t right. Her parents were never late picking her up from school or activities and to come home to this...mess...The girl knew now that something terrible had happened and there was no hiding it from her. “Mama? Papa?” She screams desperately, tears instantly flooding down her cheeks.

The officer gave her a solemn look before turning to her superior, the two whispering among themselves for a couple of minutes. When they returned, the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the commotion, sitting on a bench with her - a bench the girl often sat on with her Father when they ate breakfast and waited for the school van to pick her up each morning.

The officer didn’t waste much time breaking the news. “My dear, I am afraid your Mom and Dad had an accident and are no longer with us in this world.” Though her voice was gentle, it was clear that breaking such awful news to a child wasn’t something she did often, or even wanted to do.

The girl sputtered, unable to form any words. She looked around for the Grandmother but the woman was nowhere in sight now. “Mama...Papa?” She cries out weakly - the thought of never seeing them or speaking to them ever again filling her with an overwhelming sense of despair, leaving her gasping for air.

Everything went black then.

7 Years Later - (2016)

“Yah! Chaewon! Are you even listening? Hey! Watch out!” A firm hand grabs the girl's arm and yanks her backward just as a delivery scooter races past, beeping madly. “Are you spacing out again? What is with you?” Areum looked at her friend worriedly, the rapper of the triangle kimbap she was holding in her opposite hand crinkling loudly.

“Huh? What did I miss?” Chaewon snaps out of her funk, a tentative smile on her face. Areum groans in response, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her snack. “I said,” she begins with her mouth full of food, “I was thinking of asking Kangdae out. Isn’t he handsome, yeah? He’s not like the other boys in our class.”

“He’s a bit dumb, isn’t he?” Chaewon mutters. Sure, he was cute and had muscles but he wasn’t exactly known to be bright and was at the bottom of their class in terms of grades unlike Areum, who was in the top five.

Areum groans and smacks her friend on the arm. “Don’t be so rude, Unnie! He’s not stupid, okay? He just doesn’t really like studying but he’s a good person! He wants to get into music and he’s really good at it too! You should listen to one of his tracks he’s produced!” She goes to pull out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through some files.

“Maybe another time, yeah?” Chaewon waves dismissively at the cellular device her friend holds out to her. “I have to get home.”

“Let me walk you!” Areum offers, linking her arm through Chaewons. She was understandably concerned about her friend - who had been experiencing sporadic blackouts for a couple months now - and wanted to make sure she got home safely. “I mean, you did just nearly get shit on by a scooter while having one of your...moments.”

Chaewon shook her head, “No! I’m fine! Plus you know how my parents are.” Areum pouts, grumbling. “They have to be the lamest parents on earth if they won’t let their daughter bring a friend home. We’ve been besties since forever and I’ve never even met them! Ugh...”

"Yeah. They’re...strict and really embarrassing, to be honest. You’re not missing out on much.” Chaewon huffs, checking her phone for the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” She forces a smile at her friend, pulling her school blazer around her tighter as suddenly a chilly breeze whipped through the air. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

As Chaewon walked, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so distant lately. Areum had been a true friend to her ever since her move to Gwangmyeong. She was the first student to welcome her. The first to defend her against the snotty students who picked on Chaewon for being sullen, quiet and “weird”. Prior to the...incident, she had no real issues with bullies and was rather well-liked by her peers. She had since become the opposite version of former herself - the girl her parents adored was gone and she had no proper concept on how to defend herself or react to the other student's harsh words and actions.

So why was she so rude at times? Why did she lie to someone she considered her best friend? Chaewon had come to the conclusion that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. The only way she could deal with everything was by lying about her life outside of school. It made it easier to pretend - the façade she had created was an escape, albeit still very bleak, much like the truth.

The sounds of the city center grew more distant as she reached the iron gates of her “home”. Her slender hand gripped the cool iron and pushed it open slowly, the squealing of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Laughter could be heard flittering from the playground behind the old stone building that housed 13 other kids just like her:

Orphans.

The Seojun house for orphans wasn’t too terrible - the food was edible on most days and the rats and roaches were few and far between as of late. The couple who ran it weren’t the kindest and had clearly become burnt out after running the institution for the past 20 years. If they hadn’t been getting a good sum of government money to run it, they most definitely would have abandoned the ominous place long ago. What made the place tolerable were some of the staff, like Mr. Kim.

“Welcome home, Miss Lee!” Mr. Kim - the designated maintenance and security man -- greets Chaewon with a cheery smile as she approached the front door. He even stops raking to open it for her, bowing and motioning with a hand for her to enter as if she were royalty.

“Ah! yes! Home sweet home! Thank you, Mr. Lee.” She manages to muster a smile, bowing as she walks through the familiar doors and sighing loudly. Her smile falters as she is out of the caretakers sight and the familiar sense of dread slowly overcomes her once again.

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cockasinthebird · 4 years

Text

“Truth or dare?”

“What?”

When it was time to go home from yet another high school party, both Billy and Steve had agreed that they're definitely too wasted to drive, and Steve doesn't live that far away, and the sky is clear with a near full moon, stars painting the black above.

“Come on Stevie, I'm bored and the silence will literally put me asleep,” Billy blurts out far too loud, and swings back another sip of his beer.

In his other hand, he holds on to Steve,

Who's trying to balance on the edge of the sidewalk, normally not something all that dangerous, but given how everything dances around him, it's best to have a safety net in hand. Billy's hand. Clasped tightly and warmly. But they're both too far gone to realize.

“Fine,” Steve gives in, his gaze locked on his feet as he concentrates. “I gotta say I don't trust you enough to do a dare; I know how reckless you can be, so truth.”

“Hm, boring.” Billy smiles never the less. “What's your favorite color?”

And at that, Steve stops walking on the curb like he's a dancer on a tight rope. He moves up to where Billy's waiting, patiently, and smiles right back at him. “Really, Hargrove? We've been best friends for who knows how long, and you don't even know my favorite color?”

Their shoulders bump together, eyes stuck in a staring contest, hands lingering. “I'm not a very good listener,” Billy chuckles.

Moves his hand out of their grasp to run it through his hair. And even as he looks away, face flushed from the alcohol and lips wet with the taste of beer, Steve keeps staring. He can count the freckles from here as clearly as the stars in the sky.

“Blue.”

Billy turns to catch his gaze again.

“Blue is my favorite color,” Steve repeats with more intent; wants to be certain that Billy hears it this time.

And Billy hears him. Licks his lips clean, and maybe his face grows a bit more red, maybe he's suddenly so shy about meeting brown with blue, as he looks at the road ahead.

“Your turn,” Steve says and bumps their shoulders together. ��Truth or dare?”

“Guess I'll say truth too, since we're being huge pussies tonight,” he laughs and bumps right back.

Steve's eyes fall a bit as they walk side by side. Billy's shirt is unbuttoned as always, showing off the tan pecs he works tirelessly on. “Do you wax your chest?”

Billy grins and sticks out his tongue. He bites briefly on it before nodding. “Yeah, but it's not the only thing I wax.” Winks at how Steve's staring, honeyed eyes goes from his bare chest to where his lips curl around the beer again.

“I don't need to know more than that,” Steve laughs, face red from embarrassment as if he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to. And perhaps he isn't. “I'll say truth again.”

“Have you ever walked in on your parents doing it?” Billy had that one ready real quick, and continues grinning wide.

And Steve laughs, a sound that quickly falters to something... somewhat pained. “Yeah, but... not with each other.”

Silence is quick to settle between them as Billy's drunken mind has to figure out just what that means, when-

“Oh.” They both look ahead. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”

“No, no it's... it's ok, don't worry about it.” Steve tries for a smile, but it lacks that spark of joy. “So, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Hmm...” Steve hums in thought and runs a hand through his hair, before looking at Billy with a raised brow. “What's the first thing you'd do if you woke up as a woman?”

Billy's laugh is a pleasure to hear, and he looks at Steve with a knowing grin. “Oh I would find the nearest clean dick, and ride it till my pussy broke.”

And Steve can't keep his own guffaws down, throws his head back to let it out. “Of course you would!”

“What, like you wouldn't?!”

“Of course I would! What guy wouldn't just go chasing whatever available cock just to try.”

Billy's grin twists into something more... mischievous, and he bites down on his tongue. “You make it sound like something you've considered before, princess,” he teases.

Words that makes Steve's inviting lips part, gaze quickly looking down at Billy's bawdy, crooked smirk, then up before he's caught staring too long again. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

He would. But instead, he says, “Come on, pick dare this time, I promise I won't make you run down the street naked or anything! I dare you to pick dare.”

“Fine.” Steve cannot possibly be expected to deny Billy that pleasure; not when he's practically begging. “I choose dare.”

“Well, then I dare you to sing.”

“Sing?” Steve cocks a brow. Grateful and relieved that that's all.

“Yeah, just, sing me something.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” Billy nods with a smile, ready to laugh his ass off.

“Okay, but don't forget you asked for this, right?”

“Right.”

So Steve takes a few long steps to get ahead of Billy, and grant him some mercy from what he's about to hear. But he did ask for it.

Then he whips around and points at Billy. “Won't you come see about me? I'll be alone, dancing you know it baby.”

Billy's cheeks hurts from smiling this wide, eyes just as expansive, as he watches Steve rather awkwardly move and “dance” with no music.

“Tell me your troubles and doubts-”

Oh.

“Giving me everything inside and out and, love's strange, so real in the dark-”

Oh.

“Think of the tender things that we were working on.”

Oh no.

It doesn't sound terrible; he's not going to make it in the music business if that was ever an idea, but it's... not as bad as Billy thought it would be. It's actually kinda... nice. Maybe if Steve wasn't super blasted on all the numerous things he's consumed tonight, it could be good.

Steve's voice excites his heart far too much.

“I'm not- I'm not gonna sing you the whole song,” Steve laughs and hides his face behind hands.

“Yeah, no,” Billy manages to utter and takes a final sip of his beer. “I've definitely heard enough.”

“Shut up, I warned you!” Steve smiles brightly and falls back into a rhythm with Billy, as they continue staggering home. “So, truth or dare?”

“I'll take a dare too.”

“Alright...” Steve looks around the sleeping street as he considers his options. When they pass by a house with the most gorgeous front yard, and his lazy smile turns for the worse. “Ok, I dare you to piss on that flowerbed.”

And Billy follows the way Steve's pointing, to a row of yellow somethings, what does he look like, a gardener? “You want me to... piss on a strangers flowers?”

“Yup,” he pops the p.

“Isn't that illegal or something?” Billy turns to look at Steve, who huffs out a little laugh.

“I dunno, but has that ever stopped you from doing something before?” He crosses his arms and waits expectantly.

Well, he does have to pee, but this is just... “Turn around.”

“What?” Steve laughs incredulously.

“Turn around!” Billy shoves at his shoulder. “I'm not about to whip my dick out and take a piss in front of you!”

“It's not like I haven't seen it before!”

“Oh so you're admitting to taking a look in the showers?” Billy feigns shock, as he knows Steve's been looking. Billy's been looking, too.

But Steve simply scoffs and turns 180 degrees. Hears the zipper, soon followed by a familiar splashing sound.

“So, truth or dare?”

“You don't... you don't wanna finish first?” Steve stutters awkwardly.

“Come on, Harrington, just pretend we're standing at the urinals or something. Truth or dare?”

“Uhh, truth.”

“What's the naughtiest thing you've done in public?” the grin on his face ardently clear in his tone, as Billy watches his steady stream knock down a flower.

And Steve hesitates to answer, but they're drunk enough for it to seem harmless to say, “I once got a blowjob in a drive-in cinema.”

A loud snicker escapes from Billy. “From who? Nancy? Can't imagine little miss perfect being ok with that.”

“For your information, no, I never asked her to do anything like that.” Steve shakes his head, but he keeps smiling. Cheeks warm with the memory of lips around him so publicly, the sounds and imagery of it still so vivid, it could excite him too much right now. “But that's it, I answered, you can't ask me about it any further, ok?”

“Yeah fine, don't get your panties all in a twist,” Billy groans and rolls his eyes.

“So are you done soon, or?” Steve plants his hands on his hips and strikes a rather impatient pose.

“Hold on, lemme just...” And the zipper goes back up.

He then pats Steve on the back and moves his hand up to squeeze by his shoulder.

“I take truth, if you're just gonna waste the dare on stupid shit like that.”

“Well it sounded like you really needed it, so-”

“I said truth, pretty boy, come on.”

Steve laughs at the irritation by the edge of Billy's voice, and turns his head to look at how close he's standing, shoulder by chin.

But Billy's set in just staring straight ahead, ignoring how near they are.

“What's the dumbest thing you've ever done?”

And there isn't an answer for a good long while; it feels almost as if they're just silently passing underneath streetlights for minutes, Billy's heart working overtime as it thrashes around in his chest.

He almost looks... scared, when he says, “Fallen in love.” And he doesn't meet Steve's gaze. Can't look at him now, not when his entire soul just feel so... vulnerable.

“So,” his voice suddenly all rusty, and he clears his throat. “Truth or dare?”

“Give me another dare, then!” Steve says with an upbeat tone, trying to keep the mood between them light, because it'll be all too easy to drink their sorrows away once they reach his home, and that's just... depressing.

He doesn't think twice about it when Billy stops walking, stands dead beneath one bright lamp. Not until he's several feet ahead, and turns with confusion written across his brows. “Billy are you ok-”

“I dare you to kiss me.” It feels like Billy's heart is about to break his ribs from the inside, stomach a hurricane of fire, but the words are out there now, and there's nothing he can do but wait.

Wait a whole two seconds, before Steve nearly runs at him, grabs him by that broad jaw, fingers dipping into golden curls, and lips softer than he could ever have dreamed. Billy has to take a step back or they'd fall onto the sidewalk here, Steve pressing into him with such unexpected vigor, as if he's the one who's been waiting impatiently for this opportunity.

The empty bottle clinks against the concrete below, as Billy swings both arms tightly around Steve's waist, fisting at his jacket and forcing them as close as possible, as if he's attempting to merge bodies with the other, who sighs something so satisfied into their rough yet intimate embrace.

Steve eventually pulls off, but keeps Billy's face in his hands, a thumb gently caressing his burning pink cheeks. “You have... no idea how long I've wanted to do that.”

“I think I do,” Billy nearly sings along with how jubilant his heart is, and slips out of Steve's grasp as he dives for another kiss.

#Harringrove #My Writing #Childhood Friends AU #On AO3 too #fluffy fluff fluff #cw alcohol #tw alcohol #First kiss #sorry for the barrage of anons #so have this!

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astralsweetness · 4 years

Text

I can’t be honest (but neither can you) || Changkyun/Reader (m)

➣ I cannot believe this is my first contribution to Monsta X, this is really how I’m entering the writing side of this fandom OTL Also hello idk how to write short summaries?? I proof-read this at 4:30 AM so please tell me if I missed something lol. Fair warning I switch P.O.V.’s often in this and with absolutely no regard to any writing rules

➣ Changkyun/Reader | Angst[?] with a surprisingly happy ending that I didn’t mean to write | Showcases some bad coping mechanisms from both he and the reader | Mentioned Wonho/Reader, but it’s purely platonic in a sexual way | Smut warnings include: mentions of choking, pegging, fingering, mentions of a ruined sexual scene, sort of self-imposed edging if you squint, hair-pulling, facesitting

➣ It’s been almost a year since he called off the relationship and your name still tastes like a mixture between sugar and ash on his tongue when he says it, your picture is still saved in his camera roll, and he’s taken the plunge these last few months to reach out to you to be friends again. His hyungs tell him it’s a bad idea, and he tells them he knows, because he does, really, he swears he does. It’s just that his heart soars when he gets to talk to you and he can’t remember why he was ever scared of letting you in past that last wall he’d put up, and he’s going to your place and he hates himself because instead of “I love you” he says “please fuck me” and even now he can’t be honest to you about his feelings.

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s standing at your door, speaking in English with that deep voice of his, and you just blink blankly at him - he hadn’t called or texted to say he was coming over, and to be completely honest you hadn’t seen him in over a week. The silence is uncomfortable, but his eyes are intense, and he refuses to shift shyly under your blank stare.

“..well, come in I guess.” You invite him in with raised eyebrows - he goes easily, knowing your apartment like his own home. It’s been almost a year since you two broke up, but he hasn’t forgotten anything. That same stupid plant he hated was still on your table. He had no idea how it was still alive.

“So.. we aren’t together anymore, we haven’t hung out in a while, but you decided I’m the person you want to fuck you. Suddenly.” Your tone of voice conveys your lack of belief - this sort of feels like some very strange joke, but you have no idea who’d ever come up with one like this.

“You fuck Wonho-hyung all the time, and you aren’t dating him, so why can’t you fuck me?” His words are said in a rush, the first sign of nervousness, and you cross your arms and cock a hip. It’s your default power-pose, lets you feel like you’re in control when you have no idea what’s going on.

‘Is that really all it is?’ you want to ask, but you stay silent. He doesn’t seem aware that when you’re with Hoseok it’s more for the other man’s emotional well-being than it was just to get laid. Sometimes people needed to be broken apart and pieced back together lovingly just to feel okay. For Hoseok, you were a friend he trusted enough to let break him and then take care of the pieces that remained shattered on the floor.

“If you tell me why then maybe.”

“I’m not doing shit for a maybe.” He fires back instantly, gaze narrowing. His shoulders have tensed and he’s widened his stance, an unconscious reaction to the way your own body language had changed. Whether he actually felt it or not, at a subconscious level he believed he was being threatened.

You step forward and snag him by the forearm - the fight goes out of him instantly, replaced by pure innocent confusion as you lead him to your bed. He notices dully that you’ve redecorated your bedroom - though it makes sense considering he was the one who had helped you liven it up before.

“Sit - and try to relax. All the muscles in your shoulders are tensing up.” Your words have the opposite affect you wanted them to have - he tenses more, seemingly thrown off by your care, your notice of his minute actions.

You watch the way his gaze drifts over your room – it catches and lingers on a group picture of you and the rest of his group, tucked safely into the frame of your vanity mirror.

It’s a nice picture, though you really don’t remember taking it. You’re fairly certain everyone was drunk though, since you’ve got your arm thrown around Minhyuk’s shoulders in it, pressing your cheek against his.

It’s cute, even if looking at it is bittersweet. You can see the question on his face, the ‘why did you keep this?’.

“It’s not like I stopped being friends with them just because we broke up.” You feel defensive over your choice, face heating – you weren’t even near him in the picture, on completely opposite sides in it. He just murmurs a soft “oh” that sounds dejected, and you desperately don’t want to think about it.

“Anyway –“ You’re desperate to move on at this point, and he seems to feel the same because his attention snaps back to you. “You’re not really in a position here to argue and make demands, but fine -“ It was just sex, right? For you, anyway. “I can’t literally right now, I have a class in 30 minutes, but if you tell me why then we can negotiate.” You feel like some sort of fucking dealer.

He seems vaguely surprised you’ve agreed so easily, but he works his jaw and tries to figure out how to explain his reasoning to you - whatever it may be. You let him think and go in search of your computer bag. Online classes were a pain, especially those that required attendance in the form of a webcam. The bag has been thrown into a corner of your room, and you sigh and bend down to begin your annoying search.

“Well, we’re not together anymore, so..” You crane your neck to look at him, even as you continue to rummage through your backpack for your computer cord. Damn thing was in there somewhere, you knew. “I don’t have to worry about what you think of me anymore?”

He finishes his statement with an accidental upwards inflection that turns it into a question, and your hands pause before you turn back around and continue searching, mulling over your word choice carefully. ‘You never had to worry’ sits on your tongue, something that is desperate to be said, but you swallow it back down. He wouldn’t believe you and it’d cool the current mood.

“I see.” You finally settle on, standing and popping your vertebrae back into place as your prize - the fucking charging cord - dangles from your hands. Your two words could convey many meanings, and you can see from your peripheral that his brow has furrowed. It’s not the answer he was expecting, though you think he probably didn’t know what he’d been expecting in the first place. “Then - what is it you want?”

“For you to fuck me.” He answers again, and then swallows as he notices your blank stare has returned.

“I know that, you said that. I meant what specifically are you looking to get out of this?”

“I want it to hurt.” His words make your breath catch in your throat, emotions swinging between vaguely turned on and worried. Sure, he’d had some masochistic tendencies in bed before, but - “I mean - I don’t – not physically -“ He’s switched to Korean in the wake of your silence, a comfort language, and you wonder if he even realizes he’s done it.

“Okay.” You respond simply in Korean back and he stops his rambling, just blinks at you. You see the tension finally start to drain out of his shoulders and switch back to English purely for your own sake, because it was easier, definitely not because you wanted to be able to hear his voice speaking your native language. “So long as you promise to use safewords, I won’t ask. I’m not your therapist and I’m not -“

“My girlfriend.” He finishes your sentence quietly, back to English as well, and your mouth goes dry.

“And I’m not here to judge you.” You remedy - you weren’t going to mention anything about your past relationship, and he looks away quickly at that realization. “You mentioned Hoseok -“ His hand twitches at his side when you call his hyung by his real name, but you mercifully don’t call him on this. Maybe this was a bad idea, but you’ve gone this long purely on the denial that he regrets breaking up with you, and it’s too late to stop that now. “- so I’m going to treat this situation exactly like that.”

“Okay?” Changkyun has no idea what that means, his fingers curling into your bedspread. You check the time - 20 minutes until class.

“I’m your friend, and I want to help you. This doesn’t change anything between us, this doesn’t add some extra dynamic, some extra layer.” Your voice has gone business mode and he’s stiffened his back at it, an ingrained response from being in the music industry for so long. “I’m not doing this just because I want sex - if you are, that’s fine, but I’m just doing this to help you out. Is that clear?” He nods once, eyes wide. You think he’s cute. You’ve always thought he was cute, and it reminds you of how cute turned into smitten and smitten turned into perfection and perfection turned into love and love - well, he ended love. “Changkyun - do you promise this is just about sex or release of some kind and nothing else?”

Your tone had softened, and he’d been let out of whatever thrall your no-nonsense voice had put him into. The question hangs in the air heavily, dripping of a nectar so sweet it’s sickening.

“Yes. I promise.” His voice is hoarse, cracking and quiet - and you think he’s lying.

But you’ve held on to your denial for so long. He had said before that the spark was just gone - and what were you supposed to say to that? It wasn’t his fault; people fell out of love all the time. You could barely believe he’d ever been interested in you from the beginning and you refused to believe you were worth falling in love with for a second time. The fact that you had managed to remain friends is more than you could have ever hoped for.

“Okay.” You repeat his assurance, more for your own benefit than his. The room is quiet, and thunder rolls in the distance. Fuck - a storm meant spotty WiFi for your class.

You check the time again - 15 minutes.

“We can use the stoplight system -“ His gaze has blanked so you take the time to roughly translate it into Korean, explaining until his brow smooths out, and then you’re back to English. “Aside from that, though, I need to know what you’re interested in, what you want to happen or don’t want to happen. You can hang out here if you want during my class, or leave, I don’t care - but take the time to think over what it is you want in this session.” Your words are too clinical, you know this, but you can’t keep yourself from doing it that way. You know most of the things he’s into and not into, but if you don’t take this route then it all feels too intimate. Besides, he’d always kept a very careful hold of how much control he’d let go around you before, never wanting to slip too far into subspace, always wanting to seem in command, even when subbing for you. You wonder if that’s changed. You certainly don’t remember him ever blatantly asking outright to have something done to him before.

Memories flash across your mind eye, his back covered in your scratch marks, the way he moaned brokenly when you pulled on his hair, the way he came when you pressed your fingers to his throat. But he never asked for any of it - you had to ask if it was okay to do to him, and he always brushed off any of your attempts of aftercare.

You swallow again, feeling vaguely sick. Things had been broken in your relationship long before he called it off, but neither one of you wanted to admit it. Your heart hurts for multiple reasons, but when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye you know the biggest one: ‘I hope I didn’t hurt him by not talking about it’.

But he didn’t talk about it either. Did he care about whether it hurt you?

“Is that okay?” He’s been talking to you, and you startle out of your thoughts - a half-formed little smirk dances at the corners of his lips, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. He knows you well enough to know when you’ve been drifting. “I said, I’ll stay here if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, it’s fine - sorry, was just.. thinking.” It doesn’t really surprise you that he’s decided to stay - he’s confident to a fault, it’s true, but there’s a slash of shyness that strikes through his character, and you know that if he left he might not be able to come back. The thunder rumbles in agreement.

You half-watch him as you set up your computer on the coffee table – he’s looking around your apartment with thinly veiled curiosity, though you don’t really blame him. It didn’t really look anything like when you two had been together, and yet.. you felt it still had his subtle touch all over it. You wondered if he noticed that.

The class is boring, as it usually is – you’re watching the screen but your mind is far away, listening to your admittedly enthusiastic professor talk about the hyoid bone and articulations while your focus is on Changkyun. He lingers around you with a nervous type of energy, clearly not feeling allowed to roam around your apartment (it’d be kind of weird if he had, you admit) but also not feeling comfortable enough to sit on the couch next to you, even if he would have been off camera.

It’s almost like it was before, and you half expect him to sit down next to you anyway and throw his arm around your shoulder, always just off-screen, sitting next to you during your classes while he amused himself with his phone, just so he could be near you.

You’re just about to be able to feel the phantom warmth from the memory of his arm around you before he coughs and you startle, eyes snapping to him – he looks back wide-eyed, not understanding your surprise but murmuring a quiet apology anyway.

God you were so fucked.

.｡..｡.

“So?” The instant your class had ended you’d snapped the computer lid shut – you hadn’t retained a single thing said, what a complete waste. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d skipped and focused on Changkyun in the end after all. “Did you decide on what you wanted?”

You’re so flippant with your question that he feels like he’s being asked about what it is he wants to eat instead of how he wants to have sex – the entire hour of your class he’d been nervous, and those nerves had by now tightened into a very tight ball at the base of his spine that periodically sent white-hot flames licking along his muscles.

“I –“ His mouth is so fucking dry and he hates how small he suddenly feels – he’d never felt like this around you before, but usually it had always been you asking if you could do something to him, hadn’t it? “I said it earlier. I want you to fuck me.”

He watches your reaction with pin-point precision – the small widening of your eyes, the way your gaze darts to the side like it always did when you were thinking something over – it wasn’t like you hadn’t ever fucked him before, but he’d never asked you to do so, and you clearly hadn’t expected him to come out with something like that so easily.

Why the hell could he say something like that and not something as simple as ‘I love you’, or even ‘I miss you’?

“Okay.” You’ve wrested your thoughts back under control – it wasn’t fair of him to say something like that, looking so utterly and effortlessly attractive. “As long as there’s no kissing I’ll fuck you any way you like, Changkyun.” You were over him and he was over you and this was just sex.

If you said it enough you’d start to believe it, right?

Changkyun just nods at your terms, looking a bit despondent – you can’t help the strong surge within you that says to fix it, fix whatever upset him, but you have a feeling you knew already. He’d always been a bit fixated on kissing you, but you knew if you let him this time then it’d all be over.

“I don’t remember you ever falling this far into the ‘submissive’ side of things, Changkyun.” You’re desperate to regain the upper-hand, and he flushes a bright red at your comment, grumbling out a weak “shut up” that has you smiling.

“Have you been experimenting?” You’re still teasing him but he bristles at the insinuation that he would have been with anyone after you – you had no reason to think he hadn’t been but the mere thought of being with anyone other than you makes him ache deep in his chest, in his soul.

“No.” He tries to keep his voice calm, but it wavers still and he digs his fingernails into the soft leather of his belt, pausing. “I haven’t been with anyone since –“

He can’t say it, but you understand regardless – he doesn’t like how surprised you look, ducks his head and lets his hair obscure his view of you as he refocuses on undressing. It’s not that you’d been wrong to be surprised with his decision for today, either – before you, he’d never really definitively considered himself particularly dominant or submissive, happy with having the choice to be either at the drop of a hat. That changed with you though – you had been so uncompromising with your power, beautiful and self-assured, and he knew without a doubt that if you so much as even hinted at it he would be on his knees for you every single time.

Not that he had ever told you that, of course. He’d never told you anything he really wanted to. Even now, with you looking at him softly, trying to see if you’d crossed a line with your little teasing jabs, the words ‘I’m happy being this for you’ get stuck in his throat and all he can do is tug his shirt over his head wordlessly, fingernails clicking nervously at his belt as he undoes it. You pretend not to notice the way your heartrate accelerates as he reveals his body bit by bit to you, slender waist but powerful figure, beautiful skin, beautiful body.

“Well, then – lie down.” You gesture to your bed and he swallows down the stupid fucking butterflies he gets at the gesture – he’d been on your bed before, he’d been in this position before, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

And still, despite his nerves, a pleasurable chill runs down his spine when he hears the cap of the lube being clicked open, and he forces himself to exhale as he shifts and tries to get comfortable on a comforter he no longer recognized, in a room that had no trace of him in it anymore.

You look at him with a level gaze, always so calm, and he ignores the erratic beating of his heart and nods his assent for you to begin, immediately shifting his gaze to your ceiling.

Why the fuck was he so goddamn nervous?

(He tries to forget the way he instantly whimpers when he feels your finger, slick with lube, probing at his rim, tries to forget the way he gets hard in under a minute from your heavy gaze and one finger alone, and god he aches for more, aches for anything you’re willing to give him.)

“You’re taking this awfully well.” The teasing comes out unbidden, spilling past your lips before you can even think about the words – but it’s true, for someone who had claimed to not have been with anyone since you he was taking your fingers incredibly well.

“My own hands – fuck – exist..” His snarky response turns into a shaky moan halfway through when you decide to carefully – but quickly – add a third finger. There’s something erotic (and interesting) to you about that, thinking over the fact that Changkyun had been finger-fucking himself ever since you two broke up.

“You look good like this.” It’s an attempt to make up for the previous teasing but all it does is cause him to groan and throw a forearm over his eyes, legs spreading wider when you hit that spot deep inside.

“Fuck, jesus – fuck..” It’s a broken sob instead of an actual sentence (though he manages to stick with English), a familiar feeling already building deep in his gut. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s been so long since he’d been fingered by someone else or if it’s because it’s you doing it, complimenting him while doing so, or if it’s a combination of everything, but his back arches against his will and he knows he is seconds away from coming undone already.

“Stop – stop, oh my god –“ At his desperate plea you stop moving completely and he wants to sob as the pleasurable feeling slowly ebbs away, an almost painful drag as it settles back into a dull burn. He’s gasping, tiny whimpering sounds as he sucks breath back into his lungs, chest heaving – his eyes are wide, fingers curling into your comforter. He looks frantic, frightened almost, and even if it wasn’t your responsibility you knew you’d be desperate to fix it.

“Changkyun, ar –“

“I’m fine.” He bites it out angrily, doing his absolute best to look like he had been anything but moments away from an orgasm five minutes into.. whatever this was. He’s shutting you out again, before anything even begins, and it fills you with such an irrational anger that you have to suck in a breath of your own to keep from lashing out, taking gentle care to extract your fingers even as your blood boils.

“Stop fucking lying to me.” You can’t keep the ice from your words, even if you manage to control the volume and pitch – his dark eyes snap from the ceiling to you in surprise. There’s a panicked feeling bubbling up in his chest, because he really doesn’t know if he can handle you calling him on his true feelings for you right now, doesn’t want to have to admit he still loves you while he’s naked and so vulnerable.

“I’m not –“

“Stop it.” His mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth, so sudden is your cut-in. Your brow has smoothed out, no longer angry, instead immensely sad, and he’s not sure this is any better. “You said you wanted to do this because you didn’t have to worry about my opinion. So why are you still doing it?”

He can’t breathe, and the lube is drying sticky on your fingers, and for a moment neither of you are aware of the position you’re in, the way the thunder has become your constant background music – he’s looking at you unblinkingly and you’re staring back, and it’s too intimate, too much, but neither of you look away.

“Please stop.” He speaks and it’s barely a whisper, the sound of someone’s heart breaking louder than his voice. You don’t know what to say but open your mouth anyway.

Lightning flickers outside your bedroom window and then your apartment is shaking from the resounding thunder, the power flickering and then plunging the two of you into darkness. Suddenly you can breathe again, and you’re quickly trying to slide out from in between his legs because he said ‘stop’ and he was fully coherent even if he hadn’t said ‘red’, because he said ‘stop’ and you have only ever wanted him comfortable.

“Wait –“ He is frantic, grabs your forearm with frigid fingers as he leans half off your bed to catch you from retreating too far. It’s hard to see him but you get flashes from the light outside your window, electricity reflecting off his dark eyes in starbursts.

“You said to stop.” Your voice is broken and you feel so powerless, sick inside because while you rarely manage to ruin a scene it still tears you up inside each time, and Changkyun wouldn’t let you try to fix it with aftercare and you don’t know what to do anymore.

“I meant –“ Stop talking, stop laying me bare and open, just fuck me and make me forget everything, stop being you so I can stop loving you. “I just want to be ruined.” He says instead, and his voice is so low but so weak that you barely recognize it.

“I can’t do that if you don’t let me.” Your clean fingers curl around his and gently pry them from your arm – but then you keep holding them, and you want to let go but you can’t remember how to tell your body to do so. “Will you let me, Changkyun?”

The air is still and silent aside from the rain slashing angrily at your windows – there is no thunder, your own heartbeat loud enough (or maybe it was his, you didn’t know anymore).

“I want to.” He answers instead, voice quiet but a bit stronger than before, and your eyes have adjusted so you can see the features of his face vaguely now, follow the line of his brow to his cheek to his lips, and you’re leaning in and you hate yourself because you had promised this was the one thing you wouldn’t do.

“Let me wreck you then, baby.” And oh that nickname was a mistake but you’d said it anyway, a ghost of a whisper against his lips, a proposition and a plea all in one. He moves forward the last centimeter and connects your lips as an answer, a sound that is almost one of pure relief being ripped from his throat.

It’s like he’s been waiting years for this moment, doesn’t even fight as you grip his jaw lightly and angle him into a better position so you can scope out the inside of his mouth with your tongue, relearning things you had known long ago but had thought were forgotten.

There’s a flighty feeling in his chest, one of nervousness and expectation – he doesn’t want to give you control so easily, he doesn’t want to be opened and laid bare in front of you, he doesn’t want you to see something you dislike in him – but more than anything he wants you to touch him and keep kissing him and god he fucking misses you, has missed this. He’d asked you to ruin him, you’d asked to wreck him, but he knew he was already both ruined and wrecked just from being near you again, from having your lips on his own.

You try to slide your hands back down his body but he stops you, continues to kiss you as his fingers curl around your own, and the act is so intimate it almost feels wrong.

“Just – hurry up, I’m ready enough.” He manages to say scattered between four different kisses, never apart from your lips for more than a few seconds. You hate yourself for not even trying to stop him, leaning into them each time.

“You can stretch yourself some more while I get ready.” You have to pull away from him completely to say this, and he follows you like you’ve got some magnetic pull on him before you’re off of the bed and the connection is broken.

Even with your eyes adjusted it’s hard to properly get the harness on, fingers fumbling with the straps but managing in the end. You can hear him breathing harsh, anticipating – you can tell from the sounds alone that he hadn’t taken your advice, but you’re not surprised. Always your little pain slut, even if he had never wanted to admit it.

When you approach him again his eyes are wide, brow furrowing as he notices you’re still fully clothed – he keeps his mouth shut tight though, gaze darting in the dark. The storm still rages on outside but neither of you even notice it anymore.

Your fingers on the inside of his thigh startle him – he jumps, trying to close his legs, but you force them back open again. Something about that simple action makes a moan trickle into his throat, but he swallows it back down stubbornly.

He can’t conceal the next sound he makes when you press the blunt tip of the strap-on to his opening, though, a rasping whine as you push in slowly, so fucking slowly. Even with all the lube he knew you’d slathered over the toy it still takes a bit of work to get it into him, and every slight stretch makes him grit his teeth in a masochistic type of pleasure, feeling so full by the end that it makes him so painfully hard his head spins. It hadn’t taken long to get him worked back up, but he’s not really thinking about that right now.

All he knows is that he wants to be close to you, wants to feel good, wants to make you happy – he wants so much that he doesn’t think he can even begin to put any of it into words. It always ends up at ‘I love you’ and he already knew that was a phrase that lodged in his throat like knives.

“Please.” This he can say – you don’t know what he’s begging for but he’s begging all the same, the word ‘please’ becoming a chant that slowly shifts back into his native tongue when teeth mark his throat, fingertips pressing insistently into his hips as you fuck him hard and rough. He hopes, distantly, that it bruises. He wants to be able to remember this for as long as possible.

If he was present enough in the moment he might have been embarrassed by the sounds he was making – his naturally deep voice has transformed completely into high breathy whines, all trace of his ‘savage rapper’ persona gone when you bite his lip hard enough it throbs before you’re flipping him, pushing his shoulders down into the bed with one hand.

The feeling of your palm, small but blindingly warm on his back, makes him weak enough that his thoughts stutter, head a chaotic mess of fractured thoughts and sensations. His eyes are open but unfocused – it’s dark in the room anyway, but he’s unaware of it, cognizant only of your presence and his, that warm fuzzy feeling in his chest competing with the white-hot fire you were stoking lower in his pelvis.

You want to cry at how beautiful and perfect he is for you, the way he arches his back instinctively, presents himself as your own personal plaything – but he wasn’t yours, you had to remember that, remind yourself over and over that this was just sex. (If you repeated it enough it started to stop sounding like real words, and that was equally as dangerous as forgetting them in the first place.)

The head of the strap-on teases his entrance and he groans, clenching his fists into your pillow – you’d taken it out when you’d flipped him and he was fighting against every fucking urge and want and need his body was screaming at him to just take the plunge and force himself backwards. (But another part of his brain is telling him to wait, to make you happy, to draw this out as long as fucking possible because he has no idea if he’ll ever get to experience it again.)

“Can you tell me what you want?” Your voice is soft as silk, quiet, and a fluttery feeling rises up in his stomach at the sound, at how you’ve modified an order to be a request. He doesn’t know how he feels at the realization that you were taking it ‘easier’ on him verbally, that you had at some point come to understand he was having trouble letting go completely.

“I –“ He tries, he really fucking does, but like always the words get stuck in his throat. He just can’t seem to bring himself to admit what he really wants out loud and it is destroying him. One of your hands smooths down his side, lingering at his hip, and he feels like you’ve left behind a line of pure fire on his skin, almost burning away the shame and hatred he feels at himself for his fucking inability to be vulnerable, his cowardice.

“Just fuck me.” He says instead, defeat coating his words – and he can feel you hesitating, because it was obvious he’d meant to say something else and hadn’t.

He opens his mouth to say something, though he has no idea what, at the same instant you decide to slide the strap-on back into him. Whatever he’d been planning to do is gone from his mind instantly, his world reduced to just the dull burn, the frustratingly slow drag against his innermost walls, the way you manage to somehow brush up against the spot that has him trembling and dropping to his forearms. He curses in a strange mixture of Korean and English and you laugh softly at the sound, even as you slide out and thrust back into him hard enough that he jolts forward.

He feels, in a sense, like he is being broken in all the best ways – all he can focus on is you, all he can feel is the way you’re fucking him, grabbing at his hips. His breath is caught in his throat and he just knows he is going to ache later, bone-deep and satisfying.

But it’s not enough, never enough – you’re not asking to do more to him like you had in the past and he can’t manage to tell you what he desires most (though, at this point, he’s not totally sure he could say anything coherent anyway). He reaches back with one hand, groping – your fingers wrap around his and he drags them up to his hair, a wordless plea. He hopes you understand what he’s asking for.

A broken moan is ripped from his throat when you fist your hand in dark strands and pull backward, forcing him into an arch – his mind has blanked into varying shades of white, electricity on his skin and molten lava running through his veins, your heat against his back overwhelming.

You know it’s a bad idea before you do it, but you lean down and press you lips to his shoulder anyway, teeth scraping over feverish skin – the hoarse whine he gives at the feeling makes wetness pool between your legs, uncomfortable and wrong because this was just sex, this was just supposed to be for him.

The urge to mark him up is so strong it’s almost distracting – your hips falter in the bruising pace you’d set as your mind drifts, Changkyun groaning at the sudden shift in speed.

“Let me –“ He’s gasping, feels like he’s been running a fucking marathon or drowning (and oh, he has, drowning in you, in his expansive and terrifying feelings for you) but he knows your hips have to be sore by now and to be completely honest he is just downright greedy, wanting to feel you deep inside, wanting to –

He just wants so much. He reaches back to press at you gently and you let him move you instantly, trying to figure out what had bothered him – as soon as you realize he just wants a change in position you’re grabbing at his hips again, tugging him over your legs. His cock drags against the fabric of your shorts and he nearly sucks in a breath, trying to focus on lining himself up instead of the way it throbbed (or the way you were looking at him, hair splayed out on the pillow and yet so in command still).

He thinks he should feel more in control like this, on top of you, hands braced on your shoulders – but he doesn’t, not at all, and he knows instantly that he isn’t when you snap your hips up to meet his and he falls onto you, moan vibrating against the skin of your neck. He can feel your fingers in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, can feel the infuriatingly teasing way his cock is rubbing up against your fucking shirt you never took off. It’s gone untouched for so long that it’s absolutely aching by now and he thinks he might actually be able to orgasm like this – but he doesn’t want to, not yet, even with how border-line painful its become. He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to have to go back to a world without you in it.

His hips stutter on top of yours when you tug on his hair again, grinding hard against the strap-on, and you lift his face high enough you can press your lips to his, all hot breath and panted moans. He tastes of honey and heartbreak and you want nothing more than to make him cum and fall apart, trembling, on top of you.

“Am I ruining you properly, baby?” Your voice is dark red and sinful, and he trembles at the sound and tries to seek out your lips again, a whine lodged in his throat when you tighten your grip on his hair and keep him in place, rolling your hips languidly up to meet his frantic movements. “Tell me.”

“Fuck..” He responds instead, deep and rough in his chest – it cracks into a high moan when you punish him with a harsh upwards thrust, fingers curling into your shoulders. Your soft laugh, amused or delighted he’s not sure, makes a feeling like electric butterflies break out across his skin. If you had let go of his hair he’d have buried his face into your neck again to hide his expression – but you haven’t, and he knows you can see everything, every part of him, every expression he makes.

He thinks he must look stupid, embarrassing – but all you see is pure beauty. His brow has furrowed and sweat drips down to his collarbones, bruised lips parted slightly, glistening from where you’d kissed him earlier. Hazy eyes try to look anywhere but your face failingly, allowing you to see the foggy galaxy residing in their darkness. You’re not sure if what you’re seeing is his pupil or iris, but you find it gorgeous all the same, intoxicating.

“I’m going to make you cum, Kyunnie.” He shakes at your dangerous words, your knife-sharp gaze. You’re aware he never responded to your last question. “You’ll fall apart up there, ruined, just like you asked to be.”

Your words wrap around him, coiling tightly like chains – he feels caught, trapped, and he wants nothing more than for you to make good on your word, even if it sends a sharp trill of fear through his stomach.

The grip on his hair lets go suddenly and he sags forward, as if your pull on him had been all that was keeping him upright. He’s left a mess of pre-cum on your shirt, flushes a dark red when you drag your fingers through it thoughtfully.

“Messy boy..” You muse, heat spreading through you when you see the way his cock jerks at those two simple words, so red and aching, so fucking beautiful and desperate.

Fuck, you wanted so badly for him to be yours.

One of his hands flies to your wrist when you finally wrap your fingers around him – more of his weight is on you now but you can’t find it in yourself to mind, not with the way he’s breathing hot and wet against your neck, the way he doesn’t stop you when you move your hand, just clings to your arm desperately like he’s not totally sure he wants to be touched yet.

A choked sound leaves his mouth, lips bitten bloody, and you turn your head so you can breathe against his ear, let him press his face further into your neck. “Such a little whore..” You murmur, and he sobs open-mouthed against your skin and thrusts weakly into your fingers and then back onto the strap-on, unsure of which feeling he wanted more of. “So beautiful. So perfect.”

A part of him feels like he’s dying, unsure if he was really okay with being so vulnerable with you – but another part of him, the larger part, feels like he is fucking soaring, like this is all he had ever wanted and more. There are flames licking at his body, coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last like this.

“You can fall, Changkyun.” Your voice is in his ear, like the sound of silk sliding over skin, fingernails tracing lightly along the back of his neck. He hates the way he reacts so viscerally to it, climax surging forward at the sound, at the way your fingers slide wetly over the head of his cock pinned in between the two of you. “It’ll be okay, you can fall to pieces. I’ll catch you.”

He orgasms with a wail that makes him flush a dark red, and he would have been mortified at the sound if every nerve ending in his body wasn’t currently sparking, his muscles spasming as he tries to keep thrusting into your fist even as the lightning bolt sensations turn from overwhelming to painful. He doesn’t even realize tears have slipped from his eyes until he feels your lips kissing them away, and he is hit with such a wave of emotion that he can’t breathe all over again (and it is just pure emotion, he couldn’t identify a single one of them if he tried).

After you slowly pulled out and settle him on the blankets he watches, distractedly, as you slide the straps down over your hips, leaving it on the floor to be dealt with later. Impulsively he reaches out to catch the edge of your shorts when you try to head to the bathroom, tongue sliding over chapped lips when you turn that powerful, beautiful gaze of yours on him. One of your eyebrows has raised, appraising him as he slowly tugs you back to the bed until you’re resting on your knees next to his waist. Sweat is drying sticky on his skin and he’s trying not to feel like he’d done something wrong, reacted in some undesirable way that you’d remember and relate to him for the rest of your life - but above all that, he wants to taste you. It’s the only consistent thought running through his mind, more prevalent than the lingering unease at having bared so much of himself to you.

“Please.” Again, it’s all he can say, eyes so dark and wide, pleading – his fingertips rest lightly on your hip, over the waistband of your shorts, lips parted ever so slightly. It’s so obvious what he’s asking for, and you want to say no. You’re pretty sure you need to say no. “Babe –“

You surge forward to cut him off mid-sentence with a brutal kiss and he gasps – you didn’t want to hear that, and you can tell from the way he’s frozen that he hadn’t meant to say it, even as his body returns the kiss on pure muscle memory alone. This entire experience had been a mess, a mistake, and yet –

“Okay.” It’s more a breath against his mouth than a word, but the way he smiles at your soft agreeance makes your heart hurt. You were in so deep, had fallen so far – how foolish of you to think you had been over him. How fucking stupid you’d been.

He wastes no time, pulling your shorts and underwear down like he’d done it hundreds of times before – because he had, you note dully – fingers wrapping around your thighs. When you sink down onto his face a tension drains out of his body that neither of you had even noticed was still lingering.

All he can smell is you, all he can taste is you – you surround him and this is all he’s ever fucking wanted, to be possessed by you, to be as close to you as possible. He’s not even totally sure what he’s doing aside from the fact that he’s putting his absolute all into it – he’s just trying to taste every inch of you he can, tongue delving as deep as possible before switching to suck on your clit. There’s no rhyme or reason to his method and it has you letting out a quiet sigh that borders on a gasp. He tries to memorize the sound instantly – any sound he could get out of you was a treasure in itself, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to hear them again after this.

There is no particular build-up to your orgasm – it’s at first lingering briefly bone-deep and then suddenly it is upon you in streaks of lightning, hips grinding against his face but mouth stubbornly shut. You can’t let this be any more intimate than it already was. (And yet you instinctively reach down and lace your fingers with his, and his thumb smooths across the back of your hand as he continues to mouth at your cunt, drink up your fluids. You are so utterly and completely stupid, your heart in your throat.)

There is a moment you want to carve out afterwards, a small bubble in time where the two of you could just bask in the afterglow and pretend like nothing had changed from a year ago – but you can’t let yourself do that, pushing yourself up off the bed even as every fiber of you begs to remain beside him for a moment longer. His fingers remain holding yours a moment too long before dropping to your bedspread, defeated.

Your heart suddenly felt like it was three sizes too big for your body, filled to the brim with love for a man you knew you’d have no second chance with, and you clench your teeth tightly to keep it from oozing out between your teeth like bittersweet sugar.

He’s still panting when you return with a damp cloth, reaches for it as if he really expects you to make him clean himself off. You scoff and catch his hand with your own, setting it back down on the bed as you begin to clean off his face first. Whether you wanted to avoid intimacy or not there were things you simply refused to throw to the wayside just because you wanted to remain distant, and one of those was taking care of him after sex. (He’s more receptive this time than he used to be, not fighting you and claiming he was fine, letting you dote on him with a sort of hesitant and soft acceptance. It makes your heart hurt all the more, the pure ache and want almost unbearable.)

“You’re always so messy..” It’s meant to be a light comment but the two of you accidentally lock gazes when you say it, your hand stalling in its motions. He looks like he wants to say something, lips parting – your breath catches in your throat, waiting, but he ultimately just shuts his mouth, gaze darting away from you. Your breath leaves you in a small burst. “Just relax, Kyun, I’ve got you.”

It’s the typical words you say to a sub after an intense session (with an accidental affectionate nickname that you bite the inside of your cheek for), but you mean them, and you don’t want to, but you do, irrevocably. You know that if he needed it, if he asked for it, you would let him stay here for as long as he wanted. You knew that tonight you wouldn’t be asking him to leave. And for that you are so, so incredibly fucked. (You wonder if he is too, judging from the way his eyes widen at the nickname and his breath stutters – but you crush that thought instantly, don’t dare to get your hopes up.)

He’s surprised that you take the time to clean him up, bring him water and a change in clothes – they aren’t his but they’re clearly a man’s, and he wonders if they belong to Hoseok considering the size. Something deep in his chest hurts at that thought. He’s even more surprised when you pull on an oversized shirt instead of telling him to leave – he faintly realizes that he recognizes it, a soft violet that hung down to your lower thighs and always felt soft against his chest when he’d hold you – crawling into bed next to him after changing into it, though he’s automatically moving to accommodate you, perfectly content to throw the thick comforter to the floor to be dealt with in the morning.

“Is.. this okay?” Your voice is quiet, so tentative and soft and hesitant, and all he wants to do is tell you yes, this was more than okay, this was everything he had ever wanted.

“Yeah – I mean, it’s your bed, so..” He hates himself for the way he responds, swallowing hard but taking the initiative to slide his arm over your side, nose in your hair. He can feel the way you tense, but you don’t say anything against it or try to pull away. “And.. this? It’s okay too?”

“…it’s okay.” It’s a small response but he inhales deeply in relief, drinking in your scent half by accident. It’s the same smell he had missed for so long, the one he’d dream of and wake up thinking there was a chance it still lingered on his pillow, heart dropping through his ribcage when he realized it wasn’t.

Despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach you fall asleep fast, mentally drained and physically exhausted - his fingers trace the line of your shoulder, head pillowed on his own arm as he watches you sleep. There is a purely warm and happy feeling trying to spread through his body, but it doesn’t make it very far before the remembrance that you still weren’t his and he still wasn’t yours freezes it in its tracks. He feels like his heart is melting, dripping through his ribs and oozing into his stomach and making him sick.

He’s shaking your shoulder before he even knows what he’s doing, and you’re half-awake and groggy but so fucking beautiful and every single one of his nerves feels like a live wire underneath his skin, buzzing and loud and painful, and he is so scared, but he is also tired. Tired of hurting, tired of missing you, tired of the way Kihyun will be talking about you but stop awkwardly when he notices Changkyun listening, tired of the way he smiles so big his cheeks hurt when the two of you talk on the phone, tired of how he swallows down the words “love you” every time you hang up – and he’s fucking tired of being scared most of all.

“Changkyun, you better be fucking dying..” You’re angry, always angry when woken suddenly, and he just wants to kiss you.

‘I love you, I’m stupid, I was scared, I always loved you, I never fucking stopped, did you know I would dream of you? Did you know that you were the only thing on my mind? On plane rides, in the vans, backstage, all I could think about was you and my hyungs all told me I was just hurting myself and I knew that but I still hoped that somehow you and I would end up happy together.’

Like always he can’t say any of it. It sits on his tongue and he just utters a quiet ‘fuck’ instead, throat tight. Why couldn’t he fucking do this?

“..Kyun?” He’s sitting up now, and you are too, side by side – your expression is open, sleepy but worried, and he has a sudden urge to take your face in his hands and kiss your eyelids.

The scariest part of telling the truth, of laying yourself bare for someone, of letting them in, was that they could take one look and never come back. And maybe he’s not afraid of loving you – maybe he’s never been afraid of loving you, with your eyes that hold the only stars he ever wants to look at. Maybe he’s been afraid of not being loved back.

He swallows hard, reaches for every bit of confidence and courage performing has ever given him, forces himself to be brave the way the industry has taught him to be. Moonlight filters in through the window and he thinks your eyes might actually house the milky way in them somehow.

“I love you, still – always. I never stopped.”

He can’t breathe because you’re just looking at him, stunned and disbelieving, tears collecting on your lash-line but not falling, never falling, and he feels like the fucking worst for telling you now, this way, this bluntly – but he knows if he didn’t say anything he would have never said anything, and he’s not sure he could have survived that, so the words had fallen from his lips hard and heavy and desperate to be said. (And a part of him is still surprised he even managed to say them at all, rushed and frantic as they were.)

“I –“ Your brow is furrowed and your voice is thick, but when he reaches to brush your tears away you let him and his lungs start to tentatively fill themselves with oxygen again.

When you smile it is watery and weak but it is there, and he feels like sunlight has reappeared in the lining of his skin, bright and blinding and warm.

#sub!changkyun #sub!monsta x #changkyun x reader #monsta x reactions #monsta x imagines #monsta x scenarios #i don't usually do happy endings but this one just happened #i'm going straight to hell for this

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

Text

Stars Die (But We Don’t)

What is up everybody?! I’ve brought you more anxceit! This is the next story in my Space and Everything In It Series, which if you missed the first installment of, you can find it [here]!

Summary: Janus and Virgil have a talk about Scars, Death, and Names. Space is still a really big place.

Word Count: 7178

TW: talk of scars, survivors guilt, death

Quick Taglist: @alias290 @chelsvans @coyboi300 @dante-reblogs @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders

Read on AO3 || My General Writing Masterlist

“What am I supposed to say?” Janus said indignantly. Virgil hadn’t thought it was possible to miss the sound of something so annoying, but here he was, somehow grateful to hear the way that Janus’s tone conveyed absolutely no remorse for his actions. Condescending, patronizing, and snooty.

Apparently, very little about him had changed at all in the three years he had been declared dead, funneled through space, and ended up a very loyal member of Remus Prince’s Sucky Space Crew Extravaganza. The warmth in Virgil’s chest seemed spread, until he couldn’t quite place if it was an emotion or just part of being close to Janus again, like the way that Roman’s tail wagged the more Erefrens he was around.

“You could start with “Hey Patton, sorry for almost shoving a knife in your eye”.” Virgil suggested as he pressed the alien aloe to the cuts on Janus’s face as lightly as he could. Janus still hissed out a curse-- one of the many he seemed to know. Virgil thought that maybe that was his specialty because he had lost count of the scraps of languages that Janus had spouted.

“Sorry, Sorry,” Virgil muttered, “This is the last one.”

“That shit burns,” Janus whined because he was still the untouchable golden boy who had never even skinned his knees before he met Virgil.

“Sorry,” Virgil said because he was still the stupid kid who hated seeing others in pain.

Janus pulled back slightly, just an inch or two out of Virgil’s reach. His eyes danced with a mischievous light, as he fluttered his eyelashes ever so innocently. “Kiss it better for me, Vee?”

“Kissing?” Virgil repeated, pretending like he wasn’t already leaning forward just a bit, like he hadn’t been eyeing the soft pick of Janus’s lips through their entire previous discussion, like the fact that Janus’s shirt was not his own through this whole thing was entirely coincidence and not by both their designs. “I don’t know, Jan…. on my Christian Minecraft server?”

Janus laughed, and Virgil was almost certain that sound alone added seventeen years to his lifespan. It felt a bit like serotonin being directly injected into his bloodstream, making him absolutely stupid happy. Or perhaps that was just part of being near him, like the warmth in his chest. Maybe somewhere in the three years they had been apart Janus had developed a superpower, like an off brand power ranger who had a really pretty smile.

“Oh, chastity,” Janus said, “Thou art my biggest foe!”

Virgil rolled his eyes, scooped a glob of the aloe on two fingers, and swiped up to catch the bottom of his chin. Janus tossed his head back hissing.

“Betrayal!” He whined scooting away.

“Janus!” Virgil laughed, “Come on, stop being a child!”

“My own best friend!” Janus continued, “Betraying me!”

“Is that what this is?” Virgil muttered chasing after Janus with the aloe, “Trying to take care of you is a betrayal, now?”

Janus hissed again as Virgil made contact and the aloe did its job accelerating the speed at which the scars on his face were healing. It had only been two days since the incident-- two days since they had come face to face on that Pol’turian ship, two days since Janus had nearly killed Patton with a knife, two days since their very close call in the teleporting room and just barely managing to get back to their own ship. But even so the cuts on his face already looked several weeks old. The new scar tissue was pale and light and looked hella cool in Virgil’s opinion.

He just wished that the way that Janus had gotten said scars wasn’t because he had nearly been dismembered and literally sold for parts.

“How will I ever recover?” Janus playfully batted Virgil’s hand away again. “Oh Brutus! My brother! What have I done to incur a wrath like this?” He swung off the medical cot and fell to the floor in an over dramatic heap. He rolled over to stare up at Virgil, languidly draping his arm above his head, and smiled. Virgil who had seen galaxies, had seen suns and stars, had seen distant moons and auroras and nebulas, still thought that he was the prettiest site.

“Et tu, Brute?” Janus whispered.

“Oh my god,” Virgil snorted. “Please stop being a dramatic whiny bitch, will you?”

“Ah, but my dear Virge,” Janus kicked his foot up to tap Virgil’s own swinging feet, “Dramatic whiny bitch is my defining character trait.”

Virgil had a response, he did. But like every other instance where he ended up staring up at Janus for an extended amount of time, all his rational thought evaporated. It was definitely some sort of superpower and Virgil would defend that theory until the end of his days. There was something about his eyes that were so hypnotizing, something about his lips that were mesmerizing, something about the softness of his skin and the twitch of his nose that made the whole world melt away. Virgil could stare at him forever if Janus let him; could drink in the sight of him and live on just the glimpse of his brown curls bouncing to the tune of his voice.

Even when he was lying on the floor there was a way that he held himself that was so undeniably Janus-like, Virgil couldn’t really explain it. He was smooth as silk, with a tongue sharper than a knife and twice as cutting. With just a word or expression he could change the atmosphere of the entities around himself, befriend a foe, slaughter a friend, raze the world and all its inhabitants. Janus Ekans had always been something that very few people could look away from.

But so very few people had been able to actually see him. In light of empty words and pretty promises and cheshire smiles, Janus had become a master of the English language (and Spanish and Japanese too) and then used those syllables to build the facade around him.

Virgil had taken a sledgehammer to that facade once and no one had forgiven him for it.

“Are you even listening to me?” Janus cried out from the floor, pitifully whiny and offended and all those things that rich white boys were when they weren’t the focus of attention. “Virgil! How can I complain about the state of your betrayal when you aren’t even paying attention to me?! This is an outrage! The disrespect!”

He tossed his other arm up and over his head letting them both sit on the pristine floor and the sliver of his stomach peeked from under his borrowed shirt. (It was Virgil’s shirt, the cleanest one he had and it fit him well all things considered.) Virgil’s eyes were drawn to the pale skin like a moth to a flame, drawn in and frozen in place.

Janus’s laugh died, “...Virgil?”

Virgil placed the open container of aloe on the medical bed and hopped down to the floor, so he was right next to Janus, his fingers hovering lightly over where the shirt had been moved and the pale skin that was marked by a crisscross of healed flesh. It was an old scar, but it wasn’t an old scar.

Because Virgil had seen Janus before, shirtless, like that time they had snuck out of Janus’s Mansion to go for a dip in the pool on a dare from one of them and Janus had tossed his shirt to the side right before doing a subpar cannonball. Or that time that they had gym and been forced to play some bastardized version of kickball and Janus had sweated his team's way to victory and peeled off his shirt halfway back to the locker rooms. Or that time that they had been hiding from the sweltering heat in the library during the summer and Janus had striped in front of about seven different people and made one girl faint.

Virgil had seen Janus shirtless before.

He had not seen that scar before.

So it was new, despite how old it looked.

“Oh,” Janus said chuckling, and lying back down with his eyes closed, “That’s from a Sblorp attack.”

“A what.” Virgil repeated because there was no way that Janus had said that so casually.

Janus waves a hand up in the air in a flippant dismissive movement. “A Sblorp attack. You know Sblorps? I’m sure you’ve seen them before: Feathers? Fangs? An adoration for fresh flesh? I’m running out of words that start with F, here.”

Virgil carefully pressed up the lip of Janus’s shirt higher, hesitating in case Janus was about to smack his hands away. But all the other boy did was breathe deeply and sigh through his nose, watching him the way that he might have watched saturday cartoons (if Janus had ever had time to watch Saturday cartoons between his extra studying and being stupidly perfect).

The scar was a criss-cross, matching Virgil’s memory of the pointed teeth shape of a Sblorp. The jaw of it had definitely needed to unhinge in order to make the marks, digging in and gripping with the barbed notches. Sblorps were known for consuming flesh raw, for surprise attacks of unhinging their jaws to catch creatures wriggling on the ground, for latching on and never letting go.

Virgil’s fingers ghosted over the old wounds, touching as featherlight as he could.

There had to have been a lot of blood, a lot of pain. And yet somehow Janus was still holding on to that passive smile, as if the memory was more fond than agonizing.

“It was my fault,” Janus said in lieu of explaining, “You know how Sblorps are afraid of anything bigger than them, right? Well Remus neglected to inform me that their fight-or-flight instincts are more like freeze-and-bite. I didn’t even see the thing until it was two inches from tearing out my large intestine.” He chuckled softly in a way that caused Virgil’s hovering fingers to make contact with his skin again.

“Ooh, cold,” Janus hummed, reaching down to catch his hands and weave their fingers together. “It took them forever to get that thing off me. Remus was laughing so hard he started oozing his goo or whatever it is.”

“Toxin,” Virgil managed, “They… its a poison, that ignites all the pain receptors in the body.”

“Yeah that,” Janus squeezed his palm, then squinted and turned Virgil’s willing palm, “What’s this?”

At first Virgil wasn’t sure what had caught his eye. His hands were slender, but they had always been that way, more for the steady grace of piecing together electronics than for getting into fist fights, despite what the teachers at school always thought. He had calluses from work around the ship and a few scrapes on his knuckles from where he slammed it on the doorway yesterday while talking to Janus. His nails were bitten down to the quick from nineteen plus years of anxiety and three years of a miserable, directionless void when Janus had been dead and gone and past and Virgil was missing the company of his ghost.

But Janus tilted his hand and revealed the faded red line along the side of his palm that ran from the base of his pinky to the heel of his hand. Janus rubbed his thumb along it, as if Virgil was delicate and breakable and fragile.

It almost made him want to snort: the idea that of the two of them, Virgil was the one that needed to be protected. Like Janus hadn’t been placed on that pedestal for all to see and never to be touched, like Janus hadn’t been the one who had chunks of his face carved into by an alien, like Janus hadn’t been declared dead by everyone back on Earth.

Janus looked at the mark, scarcely a scar and more of a reminder, and tutted softly. “What happened?”

“It was nothing,” Virgil said.

“You are a terrible liar still.”

Virgil blew out a breath, somewhere between annoyed and comforted by the way that he was so easily read by the other human.

“Come on, I shared about mine,” Janus sat up as he spoke until they were sitting only a hair's breadth away from each other and their hands linked between them.

Virgil stuck his tongue in his cheek and glanced around the rest of the medical bay. It was empty except for the two of them, although it really shouldn’t have been. With the amount of damage Remus had taken he shouldn’t have been up and walking for weeks, but Remus wouldn’t let a simple thing like his own personal health and wellbeing stop him from terrorizing Roman. Virgil wasn’t sure where he had snuck off too, but after two days and dozens of escape attempts, Virgil had just stopped caring. Remus was Roman’s problem now.

Janus leaned forward. “Virrrrrgil!” He sang. “You can tell me anything!”

“Oh, can I?” Virgil said, also leaning forward. “Anything at all?”

“Absolutely! I’m a great secret keeper!”

Virgil leaned in, leaned in so close he could feel Janus’s breath on his cheeks, leaned in and squeezed their fingers together. “Hmmm…. Okay, how about this: I am in love with this boy.”

“No way,” Janus faux-gasped. “You’re gay?”

Virgil struggled to keep the smile off his face. “I am in love with this boy and he’s really pretty. Like super pretty.”

“Just pretty?”

“Oh no, He’s pretty and he’s a smartass.”

“You think my ass is smart?”

“Who said it was you? I was talking about Roman.”

Janus squawked, reeling back, like the words were a physical blow to his ego but he was laughing all the way. He tried to separate their hands but Virgil held tight and Janus yanked him forward. Before Virgil knew what had happened, he was lying on top of Janus, his forearm framing Janus’s head, and pressing his stomach to Janus’s chest.

“Hey,” Janus said in that same soft tone had that haunted Virgil’s most cherished memories: the late nights in Janus’s room, the early mornings when Virgil was trying to sneak out before the Mayor's security caught him, the quick greetings in the library before a study session.

“Hey yourself,” Virgil said, his own breaths tickling the wisps of his own hair falling over his eyes. He gently brushed his fingers through Janus’s own hair strands, teasing a lock or two between them.

“So you really don’t want to tell me?” He asked, “After I shared my silly story?”

“I’d hardly call getting eaten by a Sblorp a silly story, Jan.”

“Perhaps you just lack imagination.”

“Perhaps you’ve spent too much time with Remus.”

Janus paused for a moment, offered a half shrug, and then conceded the point because he was such a good person. He smiled again, a bit of a crooked thing, craning his neck so that they bumped noses.

“What if I said please?” He offered.

Virgil sighed, although he guessed it was really more of a laugh after all. How had he forgotten how stubborn Janus could be? How he could latch onto a concept (such as how a golden boy and a rebel punk could be friends) and simply will it into being with nothing but his determination?

“You can’t laugh about it,” Virgil said. “I’m serious.”

Janus happily squirmed under Virgil’s body weight, part of a victory dance that made Virgil want to kiss away that smug expression again. Instead he leveled a look down at his face-- a mistake if he had ever made one. His eyes were almost impossible to look away from once he started looking that deep. They were black holes, dilating when he looked at Virgil until they sucked him right in and promised to never let him go. His left eye was gold, like the summer sun rays through the tree branches back on Earth, his right eye was brown, like fresh chocolate chips ready to become ammo in an impromptu food fight, and staring at them both reminded him of the best days of his life.

“The truth is….” Virgil sighed, “I fell down a flight of stairs.”

Janus laughed anyway, because he’s a liar at heart and for some reason Virgil found that very attractive and liked him anyway.

“Wait, really?” He giggled-- honest to god, giggled. Virgil shook his head, but laughter like that was contagious and it had him swallowing back a smile.

“Yes, really,” Virgil pursed his lips, “We were on this little planet, uh, K3-450-something, and I had caught this cold from some Dreyfel that we were ferrying across the sector and Patton had regulated me to the medical bay, but in my lovely sick haze I thought that it was some sort of virtual reality escape video game where the damage didn’t translate over--Oh god please shut up.”

Janus laughed so hard he actually dislodged Virgil from on top of him. “I can’t-- I can’t--!! Oh my god, a game?”

Virgil hid his face in his sweatshirt sleeves. “You said you wouldn’t laugh, asshole!”

“I--I’m s-sorry!” He did not sound sorry at all, Virgil noted. He sounded like he was taking immense pleasure in making Virgil’s ears turn brick red with embarrassment. “But I said... no such t-thing. A game? Did you have a health bar too?”

“I think you're due for a date with the airlock.”

“S-sorry can’t... hear you!” Janus wheezed. “Over the...sound of-- fucking video game!”

Virgil groaned folding his arms over his head and hiding as much of his face as he could. “See this is why I didn't want to tell you!”

Janus’s laugh filled the air, his gasping breaths, making Virgil’s heart do some type of improvised dance routine without his permission. He peeked, because of course Virgil wasn’t going to miss a chance to see the mirth adorning Janus’s face. He peeked and sucked in a breath at the way Janus laughed with his whole body, kicking his feet and curling around his abdomen as he imagined the 99 million ways that sickly Virgil had managed to toss himself down a flight of stairs and gain a scar for his troubles.

“Are you done yet?” Virgil said breathlessly. He had to keep a reputation after all, didn’t he? He didn’t want Roman or Logan glancing by and assuming that he was anything other than a grumpy, nervous disaster human, after all. What would they do if either of them realized Virgil was soft and weak for Janus’s smile?

“No- No!” Janus gasped. He rocked back on his spine and lifted his leg in the air so he could roll up his pant leg, and showed off a series of two slashes on his lower calf. “Okay! You see this?”

He waited for Virgil to drop his sleeves from covering his face, waited until he could see Virgil’s beat red embarrassed face himself, waited with a grin and tried to catch his breath against the threat of giggling forever at Virgil’s stupidity.

“Yes.” Virgil said.

“This,” Janus traced his calf muscle, circling the very clear mark, “This I got from a little old lady on T7-365 who was selling these bad luck charms in a market place, except that she was an undercover police force or something and when she saw that I was a Deathworlder she leapt the goddamn table--I’m not joking! This lady had to be like 400 years old and you know that Shylans rarely live past 200, right? I thought if I defended myself she was gonna shatter!”

Virgil poked his leg, “She did that?”

“Yes! Those claws….” He shook his head, quirking his lips upward. “Remus tackled the lady off me. I swear he nearly crushed her entirely. And the entire police force chased us all back to the ship. I thought we were gonna die. Almost left behind Bowers and Kyle in the frenzy and--”

Janus stopped. Virgil felt his own stomach hollow out and his breath catch in his throat in an insurmountable lump. The words had left Janus’s mouth so suddenly they had bowled over the others and reality had locked back in place around them.

The medical bay, the cuts on Janus’s face, the death of the rest of his and Remus’s crew.

The friends and family that they had lost and that everyone had done their best to tiptoe around and not bring up. Virgil knew that it had been wrong, to just pretend like none of it had happened to him, but at the same time… he was watching Janus's spark of happiness drain from his body and leave an empty coldness in its place.

And Virgil had always been a bit of a coward.

If he still had nightmares about the strangers he had been forced to fight in the Welsor fighting rings, of the dust and the pain and the terror, of the bloodlust and the memories that were so obscured by his need to forget that he could not remember the faces of those that he killed….

If Virgil was still haunted by ghosts without names, he couldn’t imagine the horror of being haunted by those that had them.

Janus curled up slightly, the same way he had done once upon a time when they were strangers who thought they knew each other and Virgil’s parents refused to be proud of him for anything and Janus’s refused to be disappointed in him for everything.

He forced a laugh. “Its stupid, you know?” He said in a way that made Virgil think that it was absolutely not stupid at all in any way shape or form.

“I keep…” Janus huffed, “I keep thinking...if we had just... God, Virgil there were so many times…if we had just been a few minutes slower and gotten caught by the police, or just hung out longer on any one of the moon bases... maybe they would-- they would--”

He sucked in a breath and let it back out, long and slow and painful in a way that was beyond physical.

(Compared to Remus, he had very little damage done to him. No lasting bruises, no broken bones, no head injuries. Virgil hadn’t had to ask why; they all knew that Pol’turs like their merchandise to be as undamaged as possible.)

Virgil wanted to say something, wanted to say anything to bring back that smile to his face, wanted to tell him it was okay but even twelve years of school could not have prepared him for this type of bullshitting. It wasn’t okay, and he didn’t need to force Janus to call him on that lie too.

“It was bad, Virgil.” Janus said, with his eyes closed and voice so soft it could have been drowned out by the silence of space.

He sucked in a shaky breath, one that caused his entire body to tremble, one that made Virgil want to reach out and hold him tight and make himself a human shield between Janus and the pain of memories.

"I wasn't even close to any of them." Janus admitted, "I mean Remus picked me up off a dwarf planet, and you know being a human and all...no one wanted to get too close." He laughed humorless, "They thought I was gonna rip their throats out in their sleep for a while."

"Deathworlder perks," Virgil whispered.

Janus snorted, nodding, "Perks, yeah right." He sighed into his hands.

Virgil watched him, watched him as he ground the heel of his palms into his eyes, watched as those hands trailed upwards and hooked on his bangs, watched as he tugged on his hair the way he used to when they were studying chemistry and Virgil understood it immediately when Janus couldn't figure out the differences between intermolecular and intermolecular forces.

"I should've…" Janus started. "I should've--"

"Hey," Virgil cut in. Because his heart was twisting, because his chest was aching, because his eyes were burning. Because Janus was in front of him and he was doing a song and dance that Virgil had done three years ago when that detective showed up at his house and asked what Virgil had been doing on the fourteenth of the month and if he had anyone to collaborate his alibi.

He reached out and tapped on Janus's hands and slipped his fingers under the palms and wedged open the tight holds.

"Hey," Virgil said, waiting until Janus looked at him, "It wasn't your fault."

"I should have--! Virgil! I should have--!" He floundered, flubbed, scrambled for words in a way he was completely unpracticed in. He yanked at his hands but Virgil was stronger and held him, "I could have...done something!"

"Like what?"

"What?"

Virgil moved so he was directly in front of Janus, so that there was no missing him, so that there was no mistaking him. He squeezed Janus's hands tight and ground and pressed their knees together. "Like. What.” He repeated, “What could you have done, Janus?"

He was shaking, or maybe that was Virgil. Maybe it was both of them. Shaking together, shaking apart, shaking.

"I--"

"Tell me what you could have done," Virgil said lowly, "that wouldn't have cost you your life in the process?"

It was a selfish thing to say, but Virgil was a selfish creature. He hadn’t meant to be, hadn’t grown up being taught that way at all. If his parents had caught wind of how selfish and stupid and mean he had become they surely would have both had strokes.

No, this was a type of selfishness that Virgil had learned and learned and then learned again. It was the selfishness that had reared its ugly head that night that Janus had caught up to him and begged to know how Virgil had known--known-- when the dirty little truth had been Virgil just being an awful person. It was a selfishness that had snuck into his heart when his feet had dangling off the fenced balcony and his lips had tasted like “Blackberry Breezer” and Janus’s had tasted like “Bahama Mama” and Virgil couldn’t decided if he liked the taste of them together or not. It was a selfishness that had torn him to pieces when he couldn’t tear his eyes off the empty desk next to him in Spanish III, when the police would show up at his house four days of the week and follow him around the town whenever he left, when he’d been told that he was not invited to the funeral and he said he refused to go anyway because Janus had not been dead, couldn’t be dead, he wasn’t dead, damnit!

It was a selfishness that Virgil hadn’t remembered he had until the moment that he had seen Janus again on that Pol’tur ship, alive and breathing and real--

He squeezed Janus’s hands, held him tight, held him here in this moment.

Because he was selfish enough to want to tear Janus away from the past. Because he was selfish enough to be grateful. Because Virgil was a terrible, awful person and he was happy that Remus and Janus’s crew had been torn apart because it had meant that Janus hadn’t been.

It had been two days since everything, since the escape from the mercenary ship since they had recovered Remus and Janus, since Virgil’s entire world had been desperately turned upside down.

Two days since Virgil had been gifted back a part of himself he thought he had lost forever.

Janus had been an ingrained part of him. The Ying to his Yang, the inverse of himself, the funhouse mirror reflection at the world's crappiest funfair. When he had disappeared, Virgil had spent a year searching, waiting, hoping, praying. And it had gotten him nothing.

Virgil had seen first hand how big the universe was, seen the most distant stars, escaped from the galaxy police, visited breathtaking moons-- Virgil had seen how massive Space With a Capital “S” really was.

And Virgil could have been on a distant moon. He could have been in space jail. He could have been back on Earth. He could have been anywhere in that massive amount of Space.

And Roman, Logan, and Patton could have been a few hours slower, a few days slower, they didn’t have to have gone after Remus at all, or Roman and Logan could have gotten Remus and then decided it was too big of a risk to go track down the mysterious last crew member--

And Janus could have died.

And he would have been just another nameless corpse.

And Virgil never would have known what had happened to the boy with two different colored eyes who had looked at him like he was something worth remembering.

Virgil leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Janus’s, rubbing his thumb over Janus’s fingers, mixing their breaths together in a warm series of exhales and inhales and something else Virgil was too afraid to put a name too even after all this time.

“What could you have done?” He asked again, possibly a little desperately, possibly a little harsh, possibly a little mean and selfish and bad, “That wouldn’t have ended with you dead?”

Janus was shaking his head, moving it back and forth. There were words, incoherent and empty and Virgil heard them and felt his chest compress with every syllable.

“Jan…” He said, dropping his hands to cup Janus’s face. His fingers haunted the marks on the cheek, reading the raised, healing scars like he was an expert in braille, trying to ignore the memory of blood where those cuts were.

“If I had just been faster...” Janus said brokenly. “They wouldn’t have been… I couldn’t...It should have been me, Virgil. I should have been--”

“Listen to me,” Virgil whispered, “Listen to me real well, Janus. Are you listening?”

Virgil brushed back a lock of Janus’s hair, brushed away the strands so he could stare into those nebulas he called eyes, brushed away the falling tears that reminded him of falling stars. It made his chest ache and heave with something distant and awful, made the words on his tongue feel meaningless and worthless. He wanted to understand, wanted to make Janus understand-- How could he not understand?

“I should have--” Janus said.

“No.” Virgil told him, “There’s no should haves or should have nots, okay? It happened, Jan. It happened and it was bad, but you can’t change it. If you keep thinking of things that should have happened, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

But no that’s not right, Virgil thought even as he said it. Because the should-have-been-theres hadn’t driven him crazy. It had made him doubt himself,yeah, made him talk and beg deities he didn’t believe in, made him hate himself and the world and everything in it, but it never once made him crazy.

Empty, though.

Empty was an entirely different story.

Janus had disappeared and Virgil had laid awake at night feeling like someone had removed the lungs right from his chest cavity and sold them to some Quitans on the black market.

And Virgil wouldn’t wish that feeling on Janus’s crappy parents, much less Janus himself.

“I keep thinking…” Janus whispered, “I wish it had been me. Instead of them. Why didn’t they take me first? Aliens don’t adhere to “best for last”! I don’t even adhere to “best for last”! I wish-- I wish--!”

Virgil’s throat went dry, too dry. “A very smart man once told me that wishing on stars is a stupid and pointless thing to do,” Virgil breathed softly. “Remember that?”

Janus huffed out a harsh laugh, a sarcastic, angry laugh that told Virgil that he was well aware of that sort of advice and who it had come from.

“The stars don’t give a fuck about us.” He quoted, parroted, mimicked a version of himself that was four years younger, four years stupider, and four years a memory and nothing more. “I guess... I was right... about one thing, huh?”

The words he was going to say, all of the billions of them, got wedged in his esophagus, leaving barely enough room for him to breathe. He wheezed after Janus’s voice breaking, after the whimpering tone, after the crystal tears.

How could he explain that Janus was always right? That Virgil would trust Janus over himself every time?

He hoped that he could convey the message through telepathy or through his touch or something. Because if he had to say them out loud he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself from crying too.

Time passed, and Virgil didn’t think either of them really noticed. The lights in the medical bay didn’t change or dim and the door never opened. The halls of the rest of Roman’s ship were a respectful quiet that Virgil knew had nothing to do with either of them as much as Patton was reorganizing the cargo hold and doing an inventory check while Logan went through the communications they had missed and decided what job requests they should adhere to, and Roman and Remus were up on Bridge several floors away probably arguing because they had yet to stop really.

Time passed, and Janus didn’t say anything more, lapsing into that silent crying that he had perfected in the bathroom at their middle school because god forbid someone find out that Janus was fucking miserable being the center of attention every second of his life. Virgil kissed his temple featherlight and softly pressed their foreheads together. He didn’t move, even after his knees started to ache and both his feet started to fall asleep and Janus’s tears soaked through the sleeves of his sweatshirt and left his wrists feeling cold and uncomfortable.

Time passed, and Virgil counted Janus’s breaths the way he used to count the stars, back before he had ever thought about the possibility of actually going into space and the concept of alien life was as debatable as the idea of meeting Mothman one day.

“I…” Janus sniffled. Virgil waited patiently for him to finish, but he must have changed his mind because he just burrowed his head into Virgil’s shoulder, and breathed out shakily.

Janus fell into him like he was a blackhole, and Virgil did his best to hold them both up and keep his heart rate low and even and calming. He restarted his mental count of Janus’s breaths, feeling each inhale and exhale through his fingers that were rubbing circles on Janus’s shoulders.

Somewhere around a sleepy, soundless three thousand, Janus stirred back into himself. He inhaled deeper and pulled back from Virgil’s shoulder wiping away the leftover tear tracks with his pale and clammy hands.

“You said,” He started, with a measure of exhaustion that Virgil felt deep in his soul, “You said...back when you first saw me….Did my parents really declare me dead?”

Their Pride and Joy, they had called Janus once, twice, a billion times. If Virgil closed his eyes he could see them there: Janus’s mother who still looked to be in her late twenties despite nearing fifty now, with long blond hair that curled in perfect rings and so much glittering diamond jewelry that she was hard to look at in in the flash of paparazzi cameras, and Janus’s Dad, the Mayor, who’s dark brown hair and charismatic smile had been plastered across the city every election year. They had shown up to every event that Janus had been in, and had turned it into a showcase about how great and fantastic Janus was. Every award ceremony, every spelling bee, every sports game, Chess club, Robotics, Art shows--

Perfect, flawless Janus Ekans, they called him. Gonna grow up to be the finest President of the entire United States, whether he wanted to or not.

With a life like his, no one had ever really considered the idea that he might have run away. And two weeks without a ransom note had led everyone to assume that he had been murdered. According to the lead detective, kidnapped teenagers rarely made it past the first twenty four hours, no matter how much people loved him.

Virgil’s expression must have given him away because Janus blinked hard again and furiously scrubbed away a new wave of tears.

“They…” Virgil swallowed hard, “They waited. A whole eight months. But there was no note, no ransom call, nothing. The detective wanted to close the case.”

Virgil didn’t tell him that he had been barred from the service, that Janus’s parents who had always hated the bad influence that was Virgil hadn’t stopped glaring at him, that the media had picked up on the cold exchanges and crafted their own story on what happened. Virgil did not tell him that everyone had eaten up that story, including Janus’s parents, and the rumors had spiraled into a noose strategically wrapped around Virgil’s neck.

Virgil didn’t tell him anything about the last four months he had spent on Earth, and definitely didn’t tell him that sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat wondering if the Weslor Fighting Rings were really worse than life back on Earth.

“Virgil I…” Janus’s hands reached forward suddenly, twisting around the edges of his hoodie and tightening. “Virgil, I’m dead, right? They killed me.”

And Virgil was ready for the sadness, ready for the harrowing realization that his parents had turned their backs on him, ready for Janus to realize that he had lost something important again.

Virgil was not ready for the blissed out relief on his face.

“I’m dead,” He whispered again in the silence Virgil left behind. “Virgil, I am dead.” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t ever have to go….” He tugged on Virgil’s jacket again, then let go quickly and smoothed out the fabric over his chest, as if he was afraid of offending Virgil somehow.

(As if Virgil wasn’t fully prepared to give him anything he asked for already.)

“Do you,” Janus asked, “Do you want to go back?”

His tone was entirely too level, too even, too emotionless for a guy who was overflowing with negative emotions. It pricked at a memory Virgil once had of a night far too long ago and buried in a Janus sized coffin: it was the voice he used to use in public when his parents were bragging and Janus was praying that they would stop putting him in the spotlight but knew deep down they would never knock it off.

It was the tone, the voice, the expression he used when he was afraid of the answer, but resigned to the fate of it.

“Do you?” Virgil asked back, because even if he knew the answer he needed to hear him say it. Out loud.

To make it real.

Because if Virgil had read him wrong, if Janus wasn’t drowning in relief, if this wasn’t hope of never needing to go back to Earth-- Virgil would-- He would--

He would ask Logan and Roman and Patton to take them back, if that’s what Janus wanted, if that was what made Janus happy. Virgil would leave all of the cosmos, all the distant planets, all the alien races, all the dying stars to follow him back to Earth. He would forget all about the great, huge, endless expanse of Space and stay with Janus on their tiny, little deathworlder planet in their tiny, little hateful city.

“My parents buried an empty coffin,” Janus said. “I think...that’s the only good thing they ever did for me.”

Virgil’s heart did a pitter-patter in a way he wasn’t sure it was supposed to do.

Janus scooted towards his side with a great amount of effort. Virgil watched him, cataloguing the sudden weakness in his arms, the tiredness of his expression, the fatigue that clung to the very essence of him. All that just to flop his head on Virgil’s shoulder. When he exhaled again, it sounded a lot like him letting go of a billion more unsaid words.

“I want to let Janus Ethan Ekans stay dead,” He admitted.

Virgil tilted his own head so his cheek pressed against Janus’s and breathed in deep. He smelled like the alien flower shampoo that Roman liked to use. Virgil hadn’t hated it, but he also hadn’t adored it all that much. Now though, he thought he might be okay if that was the only thing he smelled for the rest of his life.

“I’ll have to find a new name to go by, I think,” Janus continued, his tone dripping with exhaustion.

“Oh?” Virgil humored him, like he was prone to do.

“Yeah,” Janus smiled a little as his eyes fluttered closed. “I got...a few ideas already. Had them for a while.”

“Do I get a hint?” Virgil asked, settling back so that he could rest against the leg of the cot for support. He shifted a bit to get a good adjustment, and Janus very patiently whined while he did because he was still a brat.

“I was thinkin’,” Janus said, “maybe Janus Storm, instead.”

Virgil’s heart fluttered, like a butterfly’s wings on a billion butterflies that he could feel bumbling around in his chest all at once. For an absurd moment he flashed back to all those times in his Chemistry class where he scribbled “Virgil Ekans” in the margins of his notes enough times for him to be too embarrassed to bring them out after Janus had asked him for help studying.

Janus Storm. Janus Storm. Janus Storm.

It made his chest feel light, but his stomach feel hollow. He hadn’t called himself Storm in two years, not since the Yurinks picked him off of Earth, not since the whole world had determined that Virgil Storm was a cold blooded killer, not since the detective had asked him to confirm for the record that he was indeed Virgil Storm, seventeen, male, son of--

“Nah,” Virgil said softly. “We should make our own. Something different from either of our families, you know?”

Janus breathed out part of a sleepy laugh, “Like Johnson?”

“Janus and Virgil Johnson?” Virgil tested.

They made twin faces of dislike.

“Smith? Hernadez?” Janus offered. “Miller?”

“Let's make a list,” Virgil suggested tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “I’ve always wanted... to be an Anderson.”

“Ugh, like Kyle Anderson?” Janus muttered. “He used to cheat off my Spanish homework.”

“So did I.”

“Yeah, but you’re cute.”

Virgil snorted. “What ‘bout….Davis?”

“Jones?”

“Janus Jones? You really want to be a JJ? ”

Janus made a noise of recognition, something disagreeable and agreeable at the same time. Virgil hummed in his own chest as he listened to it. The soft huffs of air from Janus’s lips lulled him into a calmness, of quietness, of peacefulness. By the time he realizes that Janus hadn’t responded, his own eyes felt too heavy to bother trying to open again.

Janus and Virgil. Virgil and Janus.

“We’ll think of something,” Virgil murmured and let himself fall asleep as well.

[Next Installment: Happy Little Stars]

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #Janus Sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic deceit #Alien Au #17 pages of Virgil finding increasingly complicated similies to say how gay he is for Janus #humans are space orcs #mentions of poor parenting #survivors guilt #janus needs a hug #Virgil's happy to give it to him #Hurt/comfort #this is so gay guys #anxceit #i'm going to amass an army of anxceit lovers if its the last thing i do okay

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trikxx · 4 years

Text

Song for this chapter

•just might - summer walker

• rehab winter in paris - brent faiyaz

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"Bitch the only old skill I have is stripping-" y/n stopped to think. "Boom. There you have it. And you have everything you need already so whats the issue?" Cearia said.

"What if my manager finds out?" Y/n asked. "Well lets ask him." Cearia says.

My manager. Carlos Cre. Cearia's boyfriend. Im mean yea he probably wouldn't give two fucks about me having a OnlyFans. Its mostly my rep thats on the line.

"Yoo!" Carlos said. "So Y/n wants to know if she can have a OnlyFans since ya know the income is getting low." Cearia says. " i mean yea its her life."

"Really?" "Yea, do you just don't ya know get hurt."

____

"Ok, wait thats it? That was quick." I say to my self. I walk to my room I used to practice in but now use to relieve stress. "What should I put on for my first post?" I ended up putting on a bunny outfit.

And some clear heels. I set my camera up, started recording and started my music.

____

Y/n slow walked to the pole grabbing it and walking around it. Then she jumped a little putting one leg the pole and leaning back while turning one leg and one arm holding onto the pole.

_____

Y/n ended in a split at the bottom of the pole. She the paused the music and stopped the recording.

*Incoming call from Taleé*

Heyyy Y/n!

Hey Tal

Im good what about you?

Good just a little stressed about work.

We all are right now. With no shows there's not really a lot of income for us.

Yea. Cee told me about that one site called OnlyFans.

Are you gonna do it?

I might im still debating tho and Carlos said it was ok.

DING

Hey Tal im gonna call you back.

Ok talk to you later babe.

*call ended*

I threw on some sweats and a white tee and walked to my door slightly opening it to a red haired male standing outside heavily breath. "Dud- oh shit im sorry i think have the wrong apartment." He said. I noticed that he was bleeding from his side. "Its o- hey are you ok?" I yelled as the male fell to the ground.

Not having enough time to pull him into the apartment. I quickly knelt down next to him and hovered my hands over his wound.

White speckles formed around us forming a shield. Making us invisible to the human eye.

___

The male's eye fluttered open realizing he was in a unknown room. He was laying in a soft bed under a weighted cover. "Wait my clothes." He whispered.

The boy got from under the cover noticing he had on some black sweat pants that fit perfectly. He walked out the dark room with his guard up not knowing where he was. He heard music coming from a room which had colorful lights beaming out of it.

As he got closer to the door he could clearly hear what the song was saying "yea, I just might be a hoe." He heard a voice sing along with the music.

"Oh Hey, your woke." The girl said before he could get close to the door. "I know that your a hero red riot but can I get your actual name since ya know...I saved your life."

"You did? And is this your house?" He said. "Yes now name?" "Ok it's Ejirou Kirishima. Just call me Kirishima though." Kirishima says. Y/n nodded her head "My name is y/n." She continued and walked past him to the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Uh yes kinda." Kirishima continued to look around the apartment. "Want a tour?" "Huh?" "I said do you want a tour of the apartment." Y/n repeated.

"Uh sure but did you happen to see my phone in my hero suit?" Kirishima asked "Yes its in the room you were in."

"Thanks." Kirishima said walking to go get his phone.

*10 missed calls*

5 unread messages

Bakubro💪: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU SHITTY HAIR!

Bakubro💪: DAMMIT KIRI YOU BETTER NOT HAVE GOTTEN CAPTURED.

Bakubro💪: ANSWER MY DAMN TEXT.

Kirishima: Sorry Bakubro I went to the wrong place and passed out from blood loss but when I woke up I was healed and in someone's house.

Bakubro: Its about time you answered. Send me your location im coming to you.

Kirishima: ok *location*

*Two unread messages*

Karma.: Kiri are you ok. Bakugo told me you weren't answering.

Karma.: Kirishima. This is serious just answer me this one time. for bakugo.

Kirishima❤️: im ok and i already texted Bakugo

Karma.: ok thank you babe💗.

*read*

___

Kirishima scoffs. "was she really his last resort or did she just know because of her quirk." He said to himself before coming out of the room. "Ok you can start." " ok this is the kitchen..obviously."

"This is nice." Kirishima said. "Thank you. Now heres the living room."

"Mmm." "Ok, so of course the room you were in."

"Mhm." "Guest bathroom."

"When we are done you can shower and have not there is clothes the will probably fit you in the closet in the room. Follow me up the stairs."

Kirishima makes a "o" with his mouth as we go up the stairs to my room and bathroom. "My room."

"And you live by yourself?" Kirishima asked. "Kinda. My friend stays over a lot so the guest room is kind of her room." "Mhm." "My bathroom."

"You must really love marble walls." Kirishima said with a small chuckle. "Yea."

"What about the room you were in earlier?" He asked. "Oh that, its nothing just chill room." "Can i see it?" "He Uhh.."

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

"OPEN UP RIGHT NOW UNKNOWN BASTARD!"

Y/n looked a Kirishima with an irritated look. "Do you know who that is?" Y/n said walking down the stairs. "Uh yea thats my best friend he's also a hero."

"He seems like a fucking hothead. He got issues?" Y/n said. Kirishima nodded "ok" y/n says swinging the front door open. "Would you keep it the fuck down other people live in this fucking building." Y/n said. The man looked in amusement. "W-WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU TALKING TO!" He yelled again. Y/n look him in his eyes and shut the door.

She turn to a surprised Kirishima. "I'll show the room if you tell your guard dog to back down." Y/n said. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY EXTRA!" The male yelled through the door.

"Ok."

Kirishima opens the door. "Bakugo calm down. She saved my life." Bakugo rolled his eyes and walked in taking his shoes off. "Need some water or tea after all that yelling?" The girl said. "I'll take some water." Bakugo said. "There's some room temp waters in the counter and cold ones in the fridge. I recommend the warm ones to ease the pain."

Y/n motioned for Kirishima to follow her. "Ok. I don't really care if you judge me it's just a at home hobbie.

(I depth about the room. Its like this but smaller and it has more lights and a pole i front of a mirror. There are silks and the hoops but its only one of each. Also theres a curtain in between that side and a side with a small couch and a desk with a computer and etc.)

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU." Y/n yelled. Bakugo looked scared. "YOU CANT JUST GO OPENING SHIT YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS OPENING STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!" "I-I'm sorry."

"don't apologize. just leave. Kirishima you hero outfit is in the closet in the guest room." Y/n said in a calm voice.

____

"Hey y/n can i get you number before I-" Kirishima was cut off by a piece of paper being shoved at his chest. "Here."

"Thank you." Kirishima said walking to the door. "Thank you for saving me."

1437 words

Yooo. Next chapter date is TBD.

•Y/n doesn't want many people to know her past. Only Cearia, Carlos, and Santana know.

•When Bakugo saw y/n his heart kinda fluttered but he didn't know what to do so he kept yelling.

•y/n has a second quirk that almost lost control after what Bakugo did.

Fav emoji? Heres mine 😗.

✰L O V E Y A B E B E S✰

#mha kirishima #mha x reader #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x you #kirishima x y/n #bnha kirishima #bnha eijiro kirishima

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supernaturaldesires · 4 years

Text

A Descent Into Insanity - Chapter One

Based on request by @sweetpotato-97

Could ask for a fic of Yandere Dean with a reader who sees him as a best friend and a form of brother for them, of course in the beginning Dean was not a yandere but he changed with the passage of time?

Note: the reader in a way is innocent and does not know that Dean is in love with them.

Pairing: None (yet)

Characters: Dean & Sam

Warnings: none, other than a slightly protective Dean

Word Count: 1,802

One Year Ago

As you pulled up to the old abandoned shack, you checked against the photo in the newspaper on your passenger seat. This was the place, without a doubt. You had stopped about 150 yards away to avoid drawing any attention or raising any alarms within the shack. If the stories you’d heard from the townsfolk were true, you were expecting just a couple of vamps, max three. It appeared to be a relatively new nest since the attacks only started a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue. You reached into the backseat, grabbing your machete and hip-flask. You took a swig of whisky from the flask for good measure before shoving it in the glove compartment and heaving yourself out.

There was a gravel path leading up to the shack, but you opted to walk along the grassy verge in an attempt to keep as quiet as possible. When you were about 50 yards from the shack though, you noticed a ‘67 Chevy Impala tucked behind some large shrubs, just off the path. Strange. It wasn’t a large town and all of the attacks happened within a couple mile radius of the shack, so you couldn’t imagine much need for the vamps to have a set of wheels. Nevertheless, you pushed on.

As you approached the front porch, you noticed that the door to the shack was already open, creaking back-and-forth with the breeze. It was at that moment you heard a blood-curdling scream, followed by shouting. Armed with your machete, you launched through the front door towards the noise.

Two beheaded bodies already lay on the floor, and ahead of you there were two figures wrestling on the ground. “Sammy!” Shouted the man who was pinned to the ground, trying to fend off the snarling vamp with his bare hands. His machete lay on the ground nearby, but just out of reach. Without a second thought, you flew forward, thrust your machete down on the vamp, slicing clean through its neck. The head bounced off the man’s shoulder, to which he jumped up, shuddering and wiping himself down. “Hey, thanks man-” He looked up at you for the first time and blinked. “Oh, my bad. Sorry, didn’t mean to assume.” You lowered your machete, wiping the blade on the clothes of the dead vamp. “No biggie,” you shrugged in response. “You get used to it in this line of work.” You flashed him a knowing smile.

Another man entered the room through a second door, to which you instinctively raised your weapon again, but he immediately stopped and raised his hands in self-defence at the sight of you.

“He’s good,” the first man said. “That’s my brother. All good, Sam?”

“Yeah,” the tall man said, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “There was another one in there but I managed to catch him off-guard.”

“Sweet. Well, this young lady saved my ass before I became a vamp snack,” the first man chuckled. “Thanks for that, by the way, um...?”

“Y/N,” you said. “As I said, no biggie. I wasn’t expecting such a big nest, so if you guys hadn’t got here first, I’d probably have been the meal anyway.”

Both men laughed at that. “I’m Dean, this is my baby brother Sam. Come on, let me buy you a drink to say thanks.”

Present Day

“Dean, can you please put a different tape on now?” Sam moaned for the fifth time. “I swear this is the tenth time I’ve heard this song.”

“Sorry Sammy, you know the rules,” his brother smirked. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam turned in his seat to face you in the backseat, hoping to get some back-up but he knew he was outnumbered when he saw you playing air guitar.

“She’s got eyes of the bluest skies, as if they thought of rain,” you sang along gleefully. “C’mon Sammy, how can you get tired of Guns ’n’ Roses? I could listen to this all day!”

Sam groaned, shifting back to face forward and slouched grumpily against the car door. “Don’t encourage him, Y/N,” he grumbled. “And I’ve told you, not even Dean’s supposed to call me Sammy, you’re definitely not allowed.”

You leaned over the back of the front seat, throwing him a pout before motioning a tiny violin between your thumb and forefinger. Dean roared with laughter as Sam grunted, folding his arms with a strop. “Tell me we’re nearly there, at least.”

“Only another 50 miles to go, little brother,” Dean hummed. He shot you a cheeky look and you knew exactly what was coming next. You both sang at the tops of your lungs:

“WoooooOOOoooaahhh sweet child of mine!”

As you arrived at the bunker, you jumped out of the car and stretched your legs before hauling your overnight bag out of the backseat. “I’m jumping straight into the shower, I still stink of werewolf.”

“Yeah I know,” Dean remarked, scrunching his nose comically. You punched him playfully in the arm, which he then clutched in feigned agony, staggering.

“Whatever, tough guy,” you huffed as you made your way into the building.

After showering and feeling refreshed, you pulled on a pair of joggers and an oversized hoodie and made your way to the kitchen. Sam was already sat at the table, staring intensely at his laptop screen and scribbling notes.

“I’m feeling pancakes, Sam, you want some?” The tall man just shook his head, his eyes not moving from the screen. “You know you’re allowed to relax every now and then, right?”

The elder Winchester sauntered into the kitchen then, also looking much fresher. “Did I hear pancakes?”

“Yep, you know where the ingredients are,” you smirked, plopping down into the chair opposite Sam.

Dean threw an irritated look at you before reluctantly rummaging through the fridge. “Asshole,” he muttered.

“Jerk,” you retorted without missing a beat. “You boys up for a drink tonight? I fancy going out, celebrating our victory in taking out that pack.”

“Sure,” Dean answered. “Let’s get some grub in us, then we can head over to the bar.”

Sam continued tapping away at his laptop. “You guys go ahead, I’ve just found this interesting article about this new legal case over in Wisconsin. Check it out, so this guy-”

“Yawwwn,” Dean interrupted. “Sometimes I wish I’d just left you at Stanford, you nerd. Anyways, Y/N and I are gonna go have some fun. Maybe you can look up the definition of the word sometime, Sammy.”

You and Dean had settled at a table at the bar, chatting about everything and nothing for about an hour, already four drinks in. You couldn’t forget that impressed glint in his eye when he first realised that you could not only hold your drink, but could also keep up with him quite easily.

You were howling with laughter as Dean told you a story of Sam losing a rabbit’s foot and the chain of unfortunate events that followed. “So I’m there on the phone to Bobby and I could tell Sam was mucking around behind me doing some stupid shit but I wasn’t really paying attention. Next thing I know, I turn around and he’s looking at me with that goofy puppy-dog face. ‘I lost my shoe,’ he says. Dropped it down a damn drain, the dumbass.” You wiped the tears of laughter from your face, shaking your head and taking a swig of your drink. “Anyway, gotta go empty the tank. I’ll be back.” Dean pushed away from the table and headed off to the men’s room.

One of your favourite AC/DC songs came on the jukebox, so you started tapping your foot and bopping your head along with the music. You didn’t really notice the stranger approach you until he helped himself to Dean’s seat. “Hey there, little lady.” You looked up at the guy, he was your typical jock-type, wearing a football jersey and a baseball cap. He was a little broader than Dean, but several inches shorter. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” you said, smiling politely. “I’m here with a friend, just having a good time.”

“Yeah, I saw your friend,” the guy scoffed. “I promise you, come with me and I can show you a real good time, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. “I said-” your tone was harsh now, your words sharp. “I’m here with my friend. I’m not interested.”

“Aw come on sweet cheeks, I saw the way he was looking at you. He ain’t interested in you like that. I mean, he’s a fucking fool for it, but I’d be happy to step into the shoes if he’s too much of a pussy to fill them.” He tried to wrap an arm around you then, and you were just about to shove him off when his whole body was suddenly ripped away from you, and the next thing you knew, he was on the floor.

Dean towered over him, his eyes sparking with anger. “Did you not fucking hear her when she said she’s not interested?” By now, the rest of the bar had fallen silent, all eyes on the unfolding scene.

“Hey, dude, chill out,” the guy muttered. “It’s not like you were making a move.”

Dean grabbed the collar of the guy’s shirt in his fist, getting right in his face. You jumped up, preparing to intervene. “What I do is none of your fucking business, if you come near her again, I swear-”

“Dean!” You shouted, grabbing his other fist which had raised, ready to take a swing. “Leave it.”

“Oi!” The manager peeked out of the backroom, having heard the commotion. He jabbed a finger at Dean. “Get out of my bar, now!”

You could see the fire in Dean’s eyes redirect towards the manager, but you tugged at his shirt. “Dean, please! Just leave it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Dean paused for a moment before releasing the guy’s shirt, letting him fall roughly to the floor. He turned his attention back to the manager, eyes like daggers. “You oughta get some better clientele in here, mate, instead of little bitch boys.” You hooked your arm through Dean’s and dragged him out the front door. He let you pull him away, but all the while throwing glaring looks between the manager and the man who had tried hitting on you.

You really did love your new life with the Winchesters, basically considered them your brothers now, but they tended to find their newfound protective role a little too seriously sometimes. You decided it wasn’t worth an argument this time, instead letting Dean cool down as you both made your way back to the bunker.

Chapter Two =>

Dean tags: @akshi8278

Divider credit: @firefly-graphics

#supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #a descent into insanity

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zombieratt · 4 years

Text

Alright so forewarning this is LONG as FUCK specifically because i came up with this idea in early high school and was just today POSESSEd By the Spirit Of Musical Theatre to put it to paper— er Tumblr.

So without further ado:

DEAR EVAN HANSEN BUT EVAN ISNT A TERRIBLE PERSON AND CONNOR LIVES.

the beginning is the same, canon diverges just after waving through a window.

*this ended up getting written is script format? i also just sorta ignore alana’s whole exsistance bc in this version of the play she’s unnecessary*

In the moments before he talks to Connor evan decides to omit Zoe from his letter, having resolved himself to move on from her. (instead of being a hella creep.)

Connor: “dear Evan Hansen,” what are you writing letters to yourself? *he laughs*

Evan: its, uh, its for my therapist. its just a stupid little assignment that she says is supposed to help me process my feelings or— uh or something

Connor: hm. here. * hands Evan the letter*

Connor: your cast. no one’s signed it.

Evan: uh no. no one has.

Connor: gotta sharpie?

Evan: huh?

Connor: gotta sharpie? im gonna sign it.

Evan: *handing the sharpie to Connor* w- whuh uh why?

Connor: *shrugs* feels right.

Evan: i wish i could do that

Connor: what?

Evan: UH, IMEAN—

Connor: no wait- dude.

Evan: i mean uh, i meant that i wish i could just be, y’know impulsive like that.

Connor: Why Cant you be?

Evan: i uh, my heads pretty messed up, and stuff like that just, makes it worse i guess.

Connor: well theres some thing we have in common— were both fucked up in the head.

*the bell rings*

Evan: oh shoot! i missed the bus—

Connor: i’ll give you a ride.

Evan: are you sure i mean i can walk its not far-

Connor: all the more reason, i probably have to pass it on my way home anyway, cmon.

——

they meet Zoe in the parking lot

Zoe: I have Late practice today

Connor: whatever, gotta passenger.

Zoe: who the fuck would be crazy enough to trust your ability to drive?

Evan *being Brave*: Me Apparently?

Zoe: Uh, Evan Right?

Evan: yeah, uh, yeah.

Zoe *holding her hand out to be shaken*: i’m Zoe, we’ve met though right?

Evan wipes his hand on his shirt and shakes it: yeah, uh, nice to formally meet you, Zoe.

Zoe: i’m off, don’t kill him stoner.

Connor: i wont Princess

Evan breathing heavy: that was,, an eventful ten minutes.

Connor: oh fuck— you cool? or—

Evan: Panic Attack.

Connor: Right, uh

Connor: can you get in the car?

Evan: yeah

*car nonsense*

Connor: Can i start driving or do you want me to wait

Evan: Distractions are good,, Can Uh, Can you Talk about Stuff?

Connor: What stuff!??

Evan: any Stuff!

Connor: Is Zoe okay??

Evan: Sure?!

Connor: Uhh we don’t get along as well as we used to?

we were really close as kids, shes a huge asshole now but *fully venting now*

i kind of miss it you know? having someone to talk to and care about— and i still care about her— but its scary and i always fuck it up! not to mention the fact that our parents hate me— make her see me as some alien and not just a fucked up kid who wants to talk and — (more ranting that i dont feel like writing, but its a whole monologue bro)

Evan: Connor

Connor snaps his mouf shut: yeah

Evan: thanks

Connor: oh that, uh actually helped?

Evan: yeah focusing on your voice and whats real and stuff— it makes a difference.

Neither of them noticed that Connor was just sort of Driving. they end up at the park where in canon Connor commits Sewer-slide.

Evan: i didn’t know there was a park here.

Connor: huh, oh, yeah i guess i just sorta auto piloted, i come here to think.

Evan: About stuff?

Connor: Yeah, Stuff.

*the convo lulls*

Connor: do you have a laptop?

Evan: no, i uh, i left it at home? why?

Connor: give me a second

Connor walks to the car and grabs his back pack out of the back seat

Evan watches Quizzically from the swing-set

Connor pulls out a Sketch Pad and Pen, flipping to a clean page.

Connor: So tell me how to write one of those letters of yours.

Evan: uh, well you start like any other letter- just addressing it to yourself

Connor writing: Dear Connor Murphy,

Evan: and uh, my first one was supposed to be about my ideal summer vacation? since i started in middle school- but you don’t have to—

Connor: thats perfect.

Connor starts to sing for forever,

eventually Evan joins in there is a minor gay moment where they’re holding hands face to face.

the song ends with Connor hugging Evan.

Evan: its- its pretty late.

Connor obviously crying: just— just a couple more minutes.

Evan lets go and grabs Connors sketch book of the ground, closing it and handing it off to him: then how about this, labor day weekend- we actually go.

Connor: what are you talking about?

Evan: being spontaneous?

Connor: o-okay.

and it cuts to black.

theres a small montage here, as the set changes to Connor and Evans bedrooms

sincerely, me is a lament in this context, Connor and Evan are duetting from their respective rooms, writing to themselves.

(the lyrics are completely different and i will not be writing them here because thats too much fucking effort.

but they’re duetting from their bedrooms about making a connection to another person, feeling seen, for the first time. what it felt like and how they really want to keep it up but are afraid of making a mistake and ruining it.

its got some themes of waving thru a window, and a little bit of for forever, but its still largely the same notes just in a different key.)

after wards, Zoe knocks on Connors door to tell him dinner is ready to find him peacefully asleep.

requiem is the same, Zoe sees Connor as Dead to Her instead of actually dead, so some of the wording changes, so and so about how a monster doesn’t deserve peaceful rest etcetera.

school day happens, Connor doesn’t die, but the hot goss is that everyone saw Connor and Evan go home together after school, jared makes a shitty homophobic joke to Evan and Evan kind of tells him off about it. they argue and it culminates in Evan saying “well god forbid I’m friends with someone who isn’t YOU!” or smth like tht and it hits jared right the fuck at home man.

Connor says from the side lines: damn that was pretty hard core dude.

Evan: you have, no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that.

Connor honest to god l a u g h s, theres a number of people who hear it and lose their shit, Zoe being one of them: i have a pretty good idea, wanna get some lunch?

Evan: yeah, sure.

this general routine continues until labor day weekend, when they plan to go on their little escape. theres a short scene of Connor leaving the house with his keys and a backpack.

Connors mom confronts Zoe about his oddly upbeat attitude and hows he’s seemed differently lately Zoe Shrugs but decides to investigate his room.

she finds the letters. the first one is for forever, the theme plays as she reads it frantically, and is signed “Sincerely me (connor murphy)” so she knows its him, i f i could tell her begins but its a real duet between Connor and Zoe and at the end she resolves to try harder to connect to him.

Evan sings disappear to Connor after breaking into a formerly public park, in this context its him confessing that he broke his arm attempting su!c!de. Connor records it, for personal reference.

jared hacks Connors phone and steals the video, posting it to yt, in an effort to ruin their friendship.

Evan and Connor get in a little fight about it, and in the meantime Evan is called to the school to give an assembly because hes a phenomenal speaker and Disappear got like 1000000 views over night.

Zoe and Connor bond a little bit in a short scene before the assembly

Zoe: wheres Evan what happened?

Connor: Kleinman Did!

Zoe: what?

Connor: Why Do you care?

Zoe: because! you look happy around him!

Connor: i, i do?

Zoe: yeah? he could tell the worst joke ever written and you’d crack up. i haven’t heard you laugh like that in years Connor, maybe ever.

Connor: oh.

Zoe: Come back inside?

Connor: y, Yeah.

they all perform You Will Be Found together.

end act 1.

(no more dialogue from here i got tired)

to break in a glove is Connor’s dad trying to reconnect with him, it goes mediocrely, but Connor feels like hes being seen by his dad for the first time in years. its said in metaphors, but this is Connors dads way of saying that if Connor is willing to put in the work, so is he. they hug at the end, things are looking up. some talk of therapy is sprinkiled in the dialogue as they walk of stage together.

Only Us is Evan and Connor saying that they saved each other. its loosely romantic, as its a love song, but they don’t out right say that they’re in love or anything, they don’t know if theyre ready for that. its a promise. the song ends with Connor finally apologizing for pushing Evan over at the beginning of the show.

good for you is sung by jared only, as a power ballad, about losing people you didn’t treasure. its his attempt at an apology, but it ultimately fails, since jared is unable to take responsibility for his own actions. this is where jared and Evan go their separate ways.

Evan’s mom comforts him, as he sings words fail, which is about specifically jared, and how their rocky friendship is ruined and Evan pegs himself as the cause, instead of parents or perfect girl he uses metaphors that apply to best friends— maybe more. and talks about how he didn’t try, he was happy so he ignored that jared was hurting, and how that was really shitty of him. but instead of it being a generally somber song the end is lighter, because Connor is there— waving through his front window.

Evans mom sings So Big/So Small as Evan steps out the front door to embrace Connor and they mime talking about jared, hug and take hands. the house moves off stage in preparation for the finale.

Connor and Evan open the finale saying each others names, and sing it together as the test of the cast (minus jared) joins in, Evans mom taking his hand and Zoe Taking Connors, Evans mom the Murphys and Zoe break off to the back where Evan and Connor finish the final “all i see is sky for forever” while looking into each others eyes, and finish the musical by embracing (maybe kissing if thats ur jam).

#dear evan hansen #deh #connor murphy #evan hansen #zoe murphy #musicals #broadway #deh rewrite i guess?#this is more like the outline of a fic i’ll never write #kd.txt #i was posessed to write this #tree bros

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ravenvsfox · 4 years

Text

klance holodeck fic 1/2

Lance is gone. Lost in the plunging gaps between astral bodies, sewn into an invisible seam in spacetime. Missing, for two long years. It’s impossible, to think of the time he's already lost with him. Time passes strangely in a war, and stranger still in space. Stars gasp their dying breaths and ripe dust clouds give birth to whole planetary systems. Some light reaches them with its centuries-old fingers and some can’t weather the journey. So many beings shiver and die. Lance would be twenty now. He tries not to think about it.

Keith can't bring himself to grieve when he knows Lance is still out there. Instead, he follows versions of him down holographic rabbit holes, trying to pry closure out of his memories, and losing himself to an obsession with the simulated landscapes where Lance was never lost.

(Read on AO3)

At first, it’s a french restaurant.

Slate grey and stationery white, sunlight drooping over the tablecloths like curling petals on calla lilies. Keith presses the knot of his tie into the hollow of his throat and swallows against his fingers. The get-up is ridiculous—grey suit, red tie, cufflinks, Italian leather shoes.

He’s never worn anything so expensive or well-tailored in his life, and he can already picture the precise geometry of Lance’s expression when he sees him: badly suppressed smile, like a slipped disc, his cheeks puckered.

Keith seats himself next to the window, fiddling almost immediately with the circlet of his napkin ring. The trees outside rustle and drizzle shade over buskers and vendors across the street. His designer watch has both hands folded over the twelve. A waiter breezes past and lays a rectangle of cardstock in front of him, smiling conspiratorially. As soon as he’s out of view, Keith has forgotten his face.

He looks at the menu, and the transition from the burbling restaurant to the cramped typeface is disorienting, like a cut scene in a video game. When he puts the menu down again, his head is swimming sickly with words like bordelaise and remoulade. And then, like a sweet apparition from a terrible dream, Lance drifts through the doorway.

For a moment, the sight of him is impossibly painful.

Keith’s fingers go again to the knot of his tie, and he makes an involuntary noise, gulping air as if surfacing from extreme physical exertion.

“Lance,” he chokes.

Lance smiles, quicksilver. “Hello.”

“You’re here,” Keith says, staggering to his feet. He crosses the bistro to take Lance bracingly by the wrists. The napkin holder is still in his hand, and the circle of it presses into Lance’s forearm so tightly that his skin bulges through it a little. “Do you—do you know where you’ve been?”

Lance should be defensive, or sly, or angry, or bashful. He should be telling a story that Keith can barely follow at a pitch that he can barely stomach, bragging about all the stupid things and downplaying all the impressive things.

Keith knows that’s not how this works, but still. It’s the Lance he knows.

He focuses on the brittle warmth of his body, the details that are just right. His heart breathes into the paper bag of his chest.

Lance just keeps smiling wanly. His hair is styled wrong—there’s too much volume, and it swoops down too close to one eye. His tie is robin’s egg blue. “No need to get up for little old me.”

Keith shakes his head, off-balance. “What?”

“I’m here to spend time with you! Why don’t we take a seat?”

Keith swallows painfully. It’s like looking at an animatronic figure of his friend—a jolting uncanny robot at an amusement park. “Lance, look at me.”

“How could I not?” he says cheekily, and winks. But his eyes haven’t quite settled into the same groove as Keith’s.

“Tell me—“ Keith starts. “Tell me what you remember. Tell me who you are.”

“Oh, you know me,” he says. “Name’s Lance ‘Loverboy’ McClain, blue paladin, sharpshooter extraordinaire, and defender of the universe.”

“Please.” It’s meant to be derisive, but it ends up falling somewhere closer to desperate. His hands slide up from Lance’s forearms to his shoulders. The napkin ring clatters pointedly to the floor. In a wide, embarrassing moment of weakness, Keith says, “you have to--be him. At least try.”

Lance chuckles.

Keith shakes him, and his shoulders jitter unnaturally.

“Come on. What’s the point if you can’t even act like him? Who would fucking buy this?”

“I don’t—“

“Stop using his voice,” he warns. His hands have crept up to Lance’s neck, and abruptly he lets go, repulsed at the almost-familiar feel of him.

“I would also be pretty overwhelmed to meet an intergalactic celebrity,” Lance assures him.

He’s starting to breathe too fast. He keeps seeing the real Lance—craned into the three-dimensional spread of a star map, brow furrowed, freckled hand curled loosely in the handle of whatever hot drink he found planet-side—superimposed over this stranger’s weird, unblemished face.

“Who am I?” Keith demands.

Lance grins. “My date.”

Keith pushes him hard in the chest. He nearly topples into a neighbouring table, and it’s unlikely, how he keeps his gangly legs underneath his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Lance says. “This isn’t the place for roughhousing.”

It’s the wrong cadence, but it’s so like something Lance would say that it’s debilitating. Keith stumbles through the momentum of another graceless shove.

“I told you to stop using his voice,” Keith snaps. “This is cruel.”

“Didn’t you want to meet me here?” Lance asks innocently.

“Of course I did. But you’re not—not—” Suddenly, he’s so fatigued with disappointment that he can’t speak.

After a long moment, he feels an ephemeral hand on his shoulder. And with the help of the ghostly waitstaff, the false Lance maneuvers him back to his place at the table. “Just tell me where to look and I’ll go there,” Keith begs, half-stumbling, half-dragged into his seat. “I swear. I know I can find you, I’ve faced bad odds before.”

“How about a drink?” Lance is saying, apparently unfazed.

“I thought that if you thought like Lance, maybe I could talk an answer out of you,” Keith says. Lance cocks his head, pleasantly receptive. “But really I thought I would look at you and I would feel better. Or at least I would feel angry. But you’re worse than a punching bag.”

“Red?” Lance says, and Keith’s heart is—airborne.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“Wine,” Lance explains. “Red or white?”

His whole body caves in. Rockslide. Catastrophic. He looks into Lance’s wide, earnest eyes, feeling uncomfortably like he’s levelling a shotgun at a newborn. “Neither. End simulation.”

The bistro melts instantly into the oily blackness of the Paladin Simulator.

His jaw is clamped tightly with shame and grief, and as the dark presses in, he folds his arms self-consciously over his chest. He’s ending his session an hour early, and he’s grateful, now, for the uninterrupted quiet.

He shouldn’t have let himself do this.

It should have been obvious what a bad idea it was when he didn’t tell any of the other paladins what he was planning; he was already falling back into his old, knee-jerk isolation, trusting only himself with his secrets.

He just couldn’t take any more of their pity. It was constant, wide-eyed, confused—why would the person who got along with Lance the least feel his absence the most? Sometimes, Hunk looked at Keith exactly the same way he looked at an old clunker of an engine that was in need of replacing.

Keith had heard tell of the simulators years ago, they all had. Liberated planets with the tech (and the admiration) had started building little cyber shrines to Voltron. Like a hyper-advanced arcade game, you could plug in your specifications, step into the simulator, and play out your wildest fantasies.

He’d gathered that tittering fans, unexceptional nerdy types, and bright-eyed kids were the most common customers; the lettering on the swinging board out front promised all kinds of adventure and celebrity:

Join Voltron! Become one of the gang, fighting Galra scum and saving the galaxy from tyranny!

Enjoy a candlelit dinner with the paladin of your choice, and get up close and personal with your hero!

Pick up your very own bayard, and spar with living combat legends! Who will win?!

Although it’s more advanced than the training room controls on the castle of lions, the programming still has its limits. The likenesses aren’t really supposed to stand up to the scrutiny of someone like, say, a paladin himself, but the experience is still sensory, impossible, the science fiction daydream of someone on Earth.

Lance used to love the idea of it, joking that it was the Star Trek filler episode he always wanted. He said he would win every game, romance himself, and beat up holo-Keith without feeling bad about it. He said he could finally stop pulling punches when Keith was just, like, light particles and shit.

In his grief, Keith convinced himself it was right and just and necessary to believe in a false lead. He told himself that the coat rack in the dark looked enough like a person that maybe he could hang all his hopes on it.

And so he had sought out the small, ever-bright planet of Seachmall, where night lasted for twilit months, and massive outdoor markets boasted every good and service you could possibly think of. Continent to continent there were melting, zipping lights, sky-high neon encircling tall buildings like bangles, and criss-crossing lanterns—buoyant in the low gravity—coasting up towards their celestial cousins.

In the capital, the local population joyfully shared liquor and arm-clasping greetings, speaking in the fast creole dialect of a port city, dancing to reality-bending music that haunts every forking path in a dizzying labyrinth of market stalls. Every single day on Seachmall was a feverish, luminous midnight that raged unceasingly past its breaking point.

And every step in the springy too-dark soil, every halting conversation in common, every sizzling technological spectacle that borders on nightmarish, Keith thought that Lance would have eaten this experience alive.

But Lance is gone.

Lost in the plunging gaps between astral bodies, sewn into an invisible seam in spacetime. Missing, for two long years.

It’s impossible, to think of the time he's already lost with him. Time passes strangely in a war, and stranger still in space. Stars gasp their dying breaths and ripe dust clouds give birth to whole planetary systems. Some light reaches them with its centuries-old fingers and some can’t weather the journey. So many beings shiver and die. Lance would be twenty now. He tries not to think about it.

Often, he resents those years he spent on a space whale, cresting out of his teenage years faster than he could track, trying to staunch the flow of memories with the paladins before he lost them all. He gets double vision looking at his mother, thinking of what he knows about love and struggling to apply it to this stranger.

When Lance disappeared just months after Keith returned to the castle of lions, he understood, finally, that loss is the bitter shrapnel of love.

In an alternate universe, Keith would have threaded Lance’s difficult needle, held his jaw, sharp and slight as a paring knife, and told him every wriggling, guilty, breathless feeling he’s inspired in him since they were sixteen.

In that universe, he stepped out of the time warp and into Lance’s embrace, and they were never parted again.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, Pidge started to refer to Lance in the past tense. Allura took over piloting Blue full-time, and Keith Red. The castle, already barren with the loss of Altea, became even more eerily quiet. Keith’s guilt swelled up and took any of their remaining teamwork hostage.

Space is so massively large and radiantly indifferent, but Lance is out there, surely, or Keith would have felt Voltron’s current being disrupted, as it had been when Shiro blinked out of the Black lion. But time stretched on, and he felt nothing at all.

When Lance disappeared it was from the middle of a battle for a nothing quadrant of space, and he was practically teleported out of the fray. They recovered his lion on a smalltime Galra ship within the hour, no sign of a struggle, no sign of Lance.

It was eery. Impossible. They interrogated sentries and hacked systems, combed entire light years of space using Allura’s wormholes. They waited for a distress signal, an apology, a triumphant return. But he just—vanished.

Keith ripped through the galaxy for any scrap of him, a blue flash, those bright ringlets of laughter, the flush of his skin tone in a kaleidoscope of different species.

Allura and Shiro joined him on the ground at first; Pidge, Coran, and Matt worked tirelessly to devise a tracking system, while Hunk took Red apart, hoping to unlock the moment that she and Lance had detached—but it was like her memory had been wiped clean. All they could feel was the panicked thrum of her loose bond with Lance, Keith more than anyone.

Romelle and Krolia hadn’t known Lance for long, but they always came when called. More bodies in the search party, more hands in the alliance. Once, he caught Romelle’s lip wobbling during a debrief, and he remembered the way that Lance had dragged an extra chair in for her first team meeting, winking, and then laughing himself to stitches when Romelle tried to wink back and couldn’t.

In pieces, Keith understood that he loved Lance, and as always, he was processing an obvious truth too late. His grief was swollen purple, and even as he told himself that no one would ever, ever understand, he knew they did. All around him they did, loudly and at length, hurting at such a frequency that Keith was scared it would drown out Lance’s return.

He left the castle of lions more frequently, turning over whole populations, infiltrating Galra ship after Galra ship, singularly driven—but also callous and unbalanced without his team, participating in more violence in six months than he had in five years of war and survival.

Once, Keith stumbled into Lance’s abandoned room and pulled clothes and trinkets out of his closet, stirring up the smell of him and crying like a child. He picked fights with his mother, because she had been a terrible absence once, too. In the artificial light of castle dawn, he sparred more than his body could sustain, and when he found a planet full of unmarked tombstones in his search, he ripped at the ground with his bare hands until his fingernails tore.

The longer he looked, the more he found that the whole universe was exquisite with death, every piece of it burnt out and drifting into expanding blackness. He was so tired of feeling like space rock himself, fast, deadly, and aimless, waiting to burn up in the atmosphere somewhere. So, heart striving ahead of his body like an eager dog, pockets full of tokens, he wandered Seachmall until he found the flashy booth where he would waste the next eight months of his life.

He leaves the simulated french restaurant that first time fully believing that he’ll never be so weak again, but it’s barely twenty vargas before he’s back, trembling all over.

He finds Lance in a simulation of battle, and in the rush, it’s much easier to forget that he’s a fake.

“Not this time, amigo,” Lance crows, looping around an enemy ship and blasting ice the whole time, showing off. Keith is shocked to find a smile bruising his own face. His hands close over fake-Red’s controls. It’s so strange, not feeling her at all while he’s piloting. It’s as impersonal as a Garrison sim, but eons more advanced, nearly authentic. He can feel the heat of battle through Red’s visor, and as always, his calloused thumbs creak against the wheel when he turns too sharply.

“On your right,” Keith warns.

Lance dodges dutifully. “Thanks!”

I know, Lance groans, in his memory. I’m out here flying too, Keith, this isn’t one of those drills where I’m fucking blindfolded—

“Red Paladin,” Allura’s voice cries, weirdly high and operatic. “The evil lord Zarkon is moving in for the kill. You must help us form Voltron!”

“Yeah, right,” he huffs.

The forming itself is so stupid, obviously programmed by an outside observer who’s never felt the itch of unity, the reverse detonation of an impossible bomb, where every scattered thing fits back together to be whole again.

There’s a silly bit of choreography, and fake-Red goes on rails, like a carnival ride. And then, without feeling anything concrete, Voltron pulls in around him.

“Hooray!” Pidge says, sounding like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.

“Nothing can stop us now!” Shiro says, sounding like Shiro.

“Can we get back to putting Zarkon in a second grave now, please?” Keith says.

“Always the fighter, Red,” Lance says. Keith blinks.

“I love you,” he blurts.

“Aw,” Hunk says. “I love you guys too.”

“Lance—“

“Use your sword? Exactly what I was thinking,” Lance says.

“Let’s do it,” Shiro says. “Use your bayard, Red.”

“I know,” Keith snaps.

It’s obvious that the simulation has programmed Red in as shorthand for whatever player is in his spot. It would be the same no matter what lion was chosen, but hearing Lance’s nickname for him out of Shiro’s mouth is just—stunningly wrong.

The world trembles from the impact of a Galra bogey, uncomfortably real, and his instincts press him into action.

He turns his bayard in its slot, and the sword shimmers into reality. He watches at a remove as Voltron slices at Zarkon’s craft.

It’s actually starting to get to him, the memory of this battle, the reality of which was a lot more challenging, and much, much uglier. He remembers his frenetic pulse in his fingertips, the threat pressing endlessly past their defences, the damage to Green’s hull, and the awful discovery of Black’s empty cockpit afterwards.

He shudders.

“End simulation.”

In the dark, the adrenaline eases its panicked hands from his throat. You’re alive, he reminds himself. You survived. So did Shiro. So will Lance.

______

The next day, he goes back again.

He spars with himself, out of curiosity, and then with Shiro and Lance, but the holo-paladins are uninspired, easily blocked, programmed to strut and preen through choreography more than they are to improvise and adapt. Lance doesn’t play dirty even once, and Keith shuts down the simulation again, gutted. He wishes there were different difficulty levels, like the bots in the castle. You could program almost anything into—

He stops, midway back to his cruiser, the braid of market-goers loosening around him.

He taps twice on his communicator, and hastily opens a channel with Pidge.

After the long, peculiar swish of the line connecting, she answers, “‘sup?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Urgently?” she asks, distracted. He can hear the clatter of keys and the beep and whir of her latest project.

“It’s about Lance.”

The clatter stops. She doesn’t speak for long enough that Keith feels truly bad about himself. And then, “well Jesus, Keith. Isn’t it always?”

He breathes out. “How comfortable are you with the holodeck interface?”

“Very,” she says, no hesitation.

“And do you still have those files from a couple of deca-phoebes ago? That user profile thing you tried to instate, the uh—“ he dodges a Seachmallian waving a kebab in his direction.

“Yes, Keith,” Pidge drawls. “What, do you think I burn data when my projects don’t pan out?”

He shrugs, though she can’t see him. “I would.”

“Forgot who I was talking to,” she says flatly. He’s paused at the ice-cold entrance of a shop selling edible soap bubbles, light and iridescent.

“Do you think you could put together a—a simulation, compatible with a more advanced operating system?”

There’s a throb of silence. “What exactly are you asking me to do, here?”

He closes his eyes, still ducked under the awning of the store, feeling the cold move through him. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You want Lance,” she says. “On a fucking USB.”

“I want to find him,” he growls. “Remember when you wanted that too?”

“That’s low,” she says, deadly. “I’m not the one who’s trying to sleep with a hologram of my dead friend so I don’t have to grieve him.”

He cuts off communication. He feels feverish with embarrassment, and completely sick to his stomach. Candy bubbles breeze past him, over the apron of the booth across the way, which is advertising robot fights—both in Seachmallian and blocky common.

He remembers Lance, a lifetime ago, saying, when I go, I want all the stuff in my brain stored in a giant ship.

His comms ding, and he jabs the accept button on his wrist.

“Fuck you,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Pidge says. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says fiercely.

“I know.”

“I just need to know if it was premeditated, if he ever had a safe house or a code in case we got separated, something we could look for.”

“It’s not the worst idea,” Pidge says thoughtfully.

“I know.”

“But I do think it’s a pretty terrible idea for you to do it.”

He grits his teeth, upset in a directionless kind of way. “I can handle it.”

“I know you’re on Seachmall,” Pidge says, “and I already thought that was going to get pretty gnarly. All they’ve got is, like, the mythology of us. Can you imagine what the information in the Altean databases could do to that kind of tactile VR experience?”

“Sort of,” Keith says.

“It would be like if all the OG broadway actors showed up to participate in a high school production of Cats, comprende?”

“No,” Keith says, waspish. “Less.”

“It’s the next step for Altean hologram technology for sure. It would probably revolutionize AI. It’s also not real, Keith.”

“I don’t need it to be real,” Keith snaps. “I need a lead.”

“Well,” Pidge says slowly. “You know I can do it. Can you wait a few quintants?”

He sets his jaw, and against the deep blue horizon, a billboard gleams so brilliantly yellow that for a moment, he thinks it’s the sun.

“As long as it takes.”

______

Keith meets Pidge when she touches down on Seachmall, windswept and gaunt, and although he doesn’t really understand what she intends to do, he dutifully distracts security as she futzes with the control panel.

It’s barely fifteen minutes before she beckons him into the alley adjacent to the simulator room, a sample platter of bolts and wires spread out around her knees.

“Alright chief, it should be compatible, now.” She pulls a stray length of cable from where she’s been holding it between her teeth and pockets it. The little nib of her ponytail bobs as she stands.

“So it’ll be him this time?”

“I mean, almost exactly. I programmed his profile into the grooves set into the existing simulation, but I softened the edges a little so he’s not too self aware. I don’t want him realizing he’s a projection, I’m not that cruel.”

“Right,” Keith says, uncomfortable.

“If you don’t find what you’re looking for and you have to go back in, all you’ve gotta do is punch in this code.” She jabs him in the chest with a folded piece of card, as close to paper as they’ve been able to find out here, and twice as durable. She could have sent him the info, but they both know this transaction is better left under the table. “The system should wipe itself automatically when you’re done. And Keith—“ Her hand flattens on his dark chestplate, and her eyes are troubled. “Please don’t forget why you’re doing this.”

He nods, and puts a gloved hand over hers. “I won’t. I’ll figure this out, and I’ll find him.”

She nods back, a wobbly smile rolling over on her face.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I gotta go. I can’t—I wish I could see him, but.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees sadly.

She smiles again, fleeting, and gathers her kit. “We can’t spare another paladin,” she says, quickly, like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t get lost in there.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but she’s already putting her visor down, and walking out into the crowd.

______

This time, he finds himself on a boardwalk during a powder pink sunset. The air smells blisteringly of salt and roasting meat, and faceless people mill over the beach: parents holding hands with kids, couples sharing shaved ice, a galloping golden retriever in a red bandana.

The leftover scorch of the day blows in off the coast to meet him, like the wave from an open oven door.

He walks purposefully onto the sandbar, craning in circles, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. He feels—pre-heartbroken, caught in the final moments of a long walk to an open casket.

“Where’ve you been?”

He whips around, and Lance is pulling one earbud out, squinting into the sun at him.

“Lance?” he asks, through what feels like a mouth full of marbles.

“Uh-huh,” he says, eyebrow quirked. “The one and only.” He settles back into the shade of his umbrella.

Keith shakes his head to clear it. There’s a red and white striped towel set out next to Lance’s, and he sinks down onto it, overcome. Is this Earth? Did Pidge program this specifically? Is it one of the date settings on the simulator? He can’t remember. He can’t see past the illusion at all.

Lance offers him an earbud. “Come on, Red, will you relax? Pretend you’re not the kind of person who sleeps with a knife under your pillow.” He accepts the bud, numb, and tucks it in his ear. He’s expecting synth pop, but it’s an old R&B song, smoky and familiar. “No overthinking on the beach.”

He can’t stop looking at him. It’s uncanny—the dusky chapped lips, the mole next to his mouth, the cowlick over his ear. His eyes are intelligent, laser-focused on Keith. “Where are we?”

“Dear sweet Keith. Senile at age twenty. So sad.”

“Shut up.” He has to look away, to mask the full-colour magazine spread of conflicted feelings on his face. It all feels a bit like a lucid dream that he shouldn’t jostle too hard. “I’m not used to this.”

Lance’s expression softens. “Hey man, I get it. Being home is weird. Sometimes it’s like—I can’t even remember how we got here.” He shakes his head. “But also I’m so happy to be back, I’m like—screw PTSD.”

His chest aches, badly. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Rich coming from you, Mr. repression,” Lance says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not doing that any more,” Keith says. “I’m working through my shit.”

“How admirable.” His mouth twitches. He produces a Palm Bay from his slouchy little backpack, tossing it from hand to hand as if testing its heft. “I’m drowning my sorrows in coolers, personally.”

And then he lunges, spritzing the can open in Keith’s face.

“Jesus, Lance,” he sputters, smacking it out of his hand. They scuffle, briefly, and that helpless, ebullient laugh blows past him like candy bubbles.

“Your—face—“

“You’re so immature—“

“Easy, cowboy, don’t you remember what team bonding looks like?” He pinches Keith’s cheek teasingly, and Keith grabs his wrist.

A pulse flutters under his fingertips.

He scrambles backwards, clothes dragging against the sand, a stray sandal popping off. The heat and grit is so real. If he focuses hard enough on the smell of meat coming off the boardwalk, his mouth waters. Lance looks at him incredulously.

“What? That’s too far for you? I barely touched you!”

“You touched me,” Keith repeats. He can still feel that pulse, like a second heart in his own body. He stands up, shedding sand, and Lance looks up at him, mild expression tinted with hurt. Keith sways, sidelined by a wave of vertigo. He can’t be here right now. “End—“

“You’re being so weird. Like Kuron all over again.”

He stops. “You think I’m a clone?”

“Obviously not really,” Lance says, getting up on his knees. “But that is the level of weird we’re dealing with here. You’re looking at me like you’re about to cry.”

“It’s just—home.” He gestures awkwardly. “Tandem bikes. Coconut sunscreen. Seagulls eating fries out of the trash. The ocean. Earth reminds me of you.”

"Birds eating garbage reminds you of me?" Lance quirks a skeptical expression at him. “Maybe you are working through some shit.”

He reaches for his abandoned sandal, dusting sticky sand from the straps. “You can’t even imagine.”

“Try me.”

Keith looks across at Lance’s calm, determined face, and the words rise up in him like a groundswell.

“I know I haven’t earned it, and I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but I miss how things used to be. And the worse everything gets the more I keep wondering what you would say, or do, and I hate that—god,” he breaks off, and presses his palms briefly to his eyes. “I mean, you would’ve had no way of knowing how I felt. I didn’t even know. But I should’ve—I just thought we would have more time after the war, or I would die and it wouldn’t matter. And I guess I assumed you were always going to be there, because you always were, even when I didn’t want you to be, and now—I don’t know, Lance, I don't know how I’m supposed to go to the castle, or pilot Red, or look at the planet I grew up on without remembering how much you loved it, and how much I love you—“

“Keith, what?” Lance says, alarmed. “You’re freaking me out.”

“Where are you?” he frets.

“I’m here.” He crawls closer, but Keith can't look at him. He watches the fussy waves coming in off the shore instead. “I’m right here.” He rests his hands on Keith’s ankles, and he has to steady himself on Lance’s shoulders when his knees go loose. “Man, I shouldn’t have joked about PTSD. I mean, I feel like this sometimes too.”

Keith looks down into his face. “What?”

“You know, like I’m back there. Like—time doesn’t even exist. Being off-planet was such a bitch sometimes. You feel like you can disappear in all that open space. And sometimes you want to.”

“Lance,” Keith whispers. “You wanted to disappear?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Lance says, serene. “Just for a while. Let someone else defend the universe for a bit, preferably an adult. Hey, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t do it!”

“You would have told us,” Keith says, through bloodless lips.

“Sure,” Lance offers.

“No. No. You would’ve said something.”

Lance takes his hands away uncertainly.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” he says flatly. “I’m just telling you that I understand being pissed off, and I understand wanting to—hit pause.”

“What about hitting stop?” Keith asks. “What about disappearing so thoroughly that whole galaxies full of alien technology can’t find you?”

Lance’s face is a spinning wheel; he cycles through all manner of confusion, impatience, and worry before settling on defensiveness. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”

“If I am, it’s your fault,” Keith snaps. “How could you leave us?”

“How could I leave?” There’s no question now, that this is data from his Lance. His tetchy, self-conscious anger is unmistakeable. “You’re the one who ditched us for the Blades right when we were at a tipping point. You’re the one who wadded two years up and threw them in the trash. You didn’t have to care about us but you absolutely should’ve talked to us. We were a team.”

“You think I don’t care about you?” Keith laughs. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

“I’m really laughing,” Lance says sarcastically. “I don’t know what sort of crazy pills you took that made you think that I’m the deserter out of the two of us. I wish I could be that delusional. I may have wanted out once or twice, but I would never, ever leave the people who need me.” He’s fuming, and the wind is blowing through his curls like it’s trying to placate him.

Keith’s anger wobbles. It hurts, to hear Lance talking this way after so long. It’s not the reunion they deserve.

“I know. I know that.”

Lance sits back on Keith’s towel, frowning. He brushes the drained cooler away, and the remnant dribbles out and darkens the sand. “I don’t know why you always have to ruin everything.”

Keith’s throat aches, and he crosses his arms protectively over his chest.

“Me neither.”

Lance glances up, surprised. And then his gaze slides purposefully beyond Keith, considering. After a moment something comes over him, and his whole demeanour changes. “Keith,” he says softly. “Did you say you loved me?”

Keith screws his eyes shut. After a moment he hears Lance moving closer, reaching out, fingertips barely grazing the back of his hand—

“End simulation. Please.”

He crouches in the dark. “Please.”

______

“Oh, fuck you,” Lance crows. He ducks out from under Keith’s staff, and then grabs the end of it, using the momentum to slide through Keith’s wide stance.

He spins around, and Lance is five feet away, holding his own staff up to his eye like a sniper rifle.

“Bang,” he says.

“This is close combat,” Keith reminds him. He throws his weapon like a spear at Lance’s ankle, and he yelps when it makes contact.

“How is that close combat? You javelin wielding motherfucker. You should be disqualified, and jailed for your crimes.”

He watches Lance shake out his foot like it really hurts, testing his weight and pretending to stumble, falling forward—and then whirling around in time to clash staffs with Keith.

“Shit,” Lance laughs, up close, hot with exertion, putting the pressure of his body weight on the cross they’ve made between them. “Thought I had you.”

“Do you want to surrender?”

“Do you want to kiss my ass?” Lance retorts.

Keith steps out of the way, and Lance’s momentum sends him tumbling head-first to the floor.

“Sure,” he says coolly. “Turn over.”

“What the hell,” Lance says, rolling onto his knees, flustered.

“You lost.”

“Yeah, whatever, like six to five.”

“Six to four,” Keith corrects, and offers him his hand. Lance pretends to spit into it, then flops back onto his hands instead.

“If we were duelling with pistols, I would humiliate you. You would have to drop out of Voltron.”

“By that logic, you should be packing your bags right now.”

Lance throws his head back and laughs. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Kogane.”

“Try me.”

Lance shrugs, but just as Keith starts to look away, he throws himself at him. It’s so unexpected that Keith actually goes down, wrists slammed to the mat on either side of his body, wind knocked out of him.

Lance laughs breathlessly, looming messy and sweaty above him. “Wow, that was embarrassing for you. Your arrogance is your downfall.”

“You’re my downfall,” Keith says, a little too flat and sincere across the top, and Lance purses his lips.

“You’re taking this too seriously, dude.” He lets go easily, and rolls out on his back next to him instead. He flexes his wrist in the air above them both, and Keith watches his fingers work. “Why does it feel like it’s been forever since we sparred?”

“It has,” Keith says simply.

“I guess,” Lance yawns. “I can’t even remember the last time.”

His heart is still pounding from the first serious, sustained training he's done in months. When Lance goes to sit up, Keith puts a staying hand on his chest.

“Hey, Lance," he says. Lance hums. "If you got separated from your lion for any reason, would you—what would you do?”

He frowns. “I dunno. Alert you guys. Rescue mish.”

“What if you couldn’t contact us?”

Lance looks sideways at him. “Not loving this thought experiment. Why are you being so weird?”

“Please,” Keith says, taking Lance’s sore wrist, feeling for the artificial thud of his pulse. “Just—answer.”

“Uh. I don’t know, am I captured? Or planet-side?”

Keith swallows. “Planet-side.”

Lance nods, considering. “If the locals are part of the alliance, I would get their intel, and find a way to reach you. If not, I guess I would lie low. Wait for a friendly ship and signal them.”

“That could take years. It might never happen, depending on where you ended up. Like—alien vessels aren’t cruising over Earth very often.”

“Says you,” Lance jokes. “The truth is out there.”

“You could die waiting,” Keith insists, dropping his hand. “What if the atmosphere wasn’t compatible? The flora and fauna? What if your suit was compromised?”

“I would heroically overcome all obstacles, whistle for my trusty lion, and ride off into the cosmos,” he replies sardonically, “what do you want from me?”

“I just think we should have more rescue protocols in place in case something goes south.”

“Right,” Lance says slowly. “Well, I mean—and I’m going to try and get through this without gagging—I have your back, man. And if we get separated, I’m pretty sure you can take care of yourself.” He gestures at their discarded staffs. “Not as well as me, of course,” he sniffs, glancing sidelong at Keith to see if he’s cheered him up.

Keith feels the phantom weight of Lance’s body crushing him to the mat, a window of weakness pried open, broken and entered. He breathes out. “Yeah. You’re too good for that.”

______

He asks Pidge for more scenarios, and more user profiles. For fleshing things out, he tells her. For recreating the circumstances under which Lance was lost, testing his reactions to different situations, and introducing as many variables as possible.

Slowly, inevitably, he starts to lose control of it all.

He’s still a correspondent to the Blade of Marmora, and he’s on call as a paladin, but they haven’t been able to form Voltron in years. He’s perpetually out of sync with the rest of the universe, living more and more like a washed-up casino-goer, existing only for the market stall where he can plug his friends in and relive the past.

He pays off the owner not to ask questions, and gets an apartment on Seachmall, barely the size of a lion cockpit, just a sparse kitchenette and a twin cot. He spends hours in the simulator and crashes on his bare mattress, bathed in the constant, spectacular glow from the street lights.

Every time he staggers away from the market he has to remember that the real Lance is rotting somewhere, and he’s here playing dress up with shadows.

It’s all easier, in the holodeck.

He loads the original paladin line-up into battle, relives their victories and rights their wrongs. He finds himself in the kitchen of the castle of lions, in a ballroom overlooking a fathoms-deep canyon, curled in Lance’s bed so he can finally sleep. He takes his friends to Earth a hundred different ways.

There’s always a fog, a strangeness about them when they think too hard about where they are, but he knows it’s a mercy. He ends each simulation on the verge of spinning out, functionally pulling the trigger on his dearest friends.

Reality sags out of his grip. Pidge and Hunk call sometimes, and often Kolivan or Allura will give him status reports, scattered missions, and lectures that walk the line between morally superior and deeply, uncomfortably worried. When Shiro starts up daily check-ins, he understands that they all know what he’s been doing, lost on Seachmall for so long.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” Shiro asks.

“Yes,” Keith tells him. He’s staring at the empty wall across from his bed, absently sharpening his knife. “I’m just killing time.”

“We really miss you around here. It’s too quiet.”

He tests his blade, rolling his shoulder. “I’m not exactly bringing the party when I’m out there.”

Shiro hums. “I don’t know, you certainly keep things interesting.”

Keith snorts.

“I’m serious!” He can hear the smile in his voice. “There’s only so much quantum mechanics and ancient magic I can take before I want to hit something. I want my sparring partner back.”

They lapse into silence, and Keith traces patterns in the air, enjoying the fine metallic sound of a weapon without a target.

“You know we’re still looking, right?” Shiro asks. Keith stops cutting the air, and puts his knife down on the bed beside him.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Of course we are. Allura and I are visiting every contact she has, and Hunk and Pidge are working—overtime. We’re picking up a lot of slack here.”

The back of his neck prickles with guilt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shiro sighs. “I’m telling you this because you’re my brother.” But he has his diplomat voice on, which Keith has always hated. “And I don’t know if you’re thinking about what it’s going to do to the rest of us if you don’t come back from this.”

“From a simulator?” he asks, incredulous.

“From grieving,” Shiro corrects. “I would never tell you to stop looking, but I think you know you’re not going to find him in those projections.”

“I could,” he says stiffly. “He tells me things—every day he gives me clues and he doesn’t even know it.”

“He doesn’t tell you anything,” Shiro says gently. “Because it’s not him. Do you remember when Allura had to let go of her father? It was so easy for her precious memories to be corrupted, and even easier to get swept away in the illusion. Everything in a simulator is finite, Keith, but you can’t be. You have to grow, and change, and move on.”

He thinks of every different shade of Lance he’s seen, every secret door that gives and leads to another wing. “You don’t get it.”

“Of course I get it. If Adam—“ he cuts himself off, and his breath shudders over the line. “You’re not the only one to be feeling this loss, or to be struggling.”

“But I never even got to love him," Keith argues. “I never got close enough to put any of these feelings anywhere, and now they’re everywhere. No one ever gives me the chance to love them before they—“ he swallows, and when he goes to speak again he finds there’s nothing else to say.

“I know how hard it’s been for you,” Shiro says sadly. “But Keith, understand—we all love you. No matter where we are or what we’re doing. We don’t have to verbalize it to feel it.”

“Okay,” he says, numb.

“We love you,” he reiterates. “Lance did too.”

“Thanks for checking on me Shiro,” he says, and hangs up.

______

“No way, no way, no way,” Lance crows. “This is slander.”

“It can’t be slander if all of us were there to see it,” Hunk says, but he can’t look at Lance without cracking up.

“You’re remembering wrong,” he says. “She asked me to give a speech.”

“She asked you not to,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes. “Begged you, even.”

“Boo,” Lance laughs. “I was just trying to have a good time at alliance banquet number five zillion.”

They’re clustered on blankets between the yellow lion’s hulking paws, in the soft local vegetation of one of the last planets they liberated as a team. They were buzzed, when this conversation actually happened, but Keith hasn’t been able to replicate that particular feeling through the simulator.

“I don’t know why you always have to lie to these people,” Keith says, just as he did on the actual occasion.

“Embellish,” Lance protests. “I live by the principle that everyone wants to hear the best possible version of the story, and you owe it to them to tell it.”

“But the best version is almost never the real version,” Hunk says, exasperated.

“I dunno man, what’s real anyway?” Pidge says, easing back into the blankets. “Our lives are such a clusterfuck as it is. The line of what’s actually impossible gets farther away every day.”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “What squidge said. Lying is cool.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that,” Pidge complains.

“What, I’m agreeing with you,” Lance says, grinning. He leans over to give her a big-brotherly hair-pull that she intercepts with a karate chop.

“People deserve to know the truth,” Keith says mechanically, following the script, but then feeling flushed and hypocritical all at once.

“Okay, here’s a truth, universally acknowledged: Keith sucks,” Lance says.

“Hm. Sounds like another lie to me,” Hunk says, and Lance reaches up to steal his headband in retaliation. Hunk rolls his eyes and lets him have it, like he’s appeasing an overactive puppy.

Something skitters in the dark, beyond the dunes of Yellow’s paws.

“Don’t you have a rebuttal, Keith?” Pidge asks, sitting up on her hands.

“Why are you encouraging them?” Hunk groans.

Keith shrugs and stays silent; Lance’s gaze narrows shrewdly.

“You aren’t one of those weepy drunks, are you?”

Keith picks at a loose thread in their shared blanket. “No, I just changed my mind,” he says, veering off-book. “I don’t know why I was acting like it was ridiculous that you like telling stories, when it obviously makes people feel better to believe them.”

“Oh. Well. Glad you came to your senses,” Lance interrupts, overly loud. He always seems to hate it when Keith gets sincere like this. He begs for attention but recoils when he gets too much.

“Most of these alliance parties happen after a long period of unrest. So… what, you helped grieving people by acting like a superhero? To them, you are a superhero. God, I couldn’t stand that you took so much credit for our victories, but I should’ve given you more.”

Lance blinks at him.

He remembers with fire-bright clarity how this scene actually played out, the way Keith kept needling at Lance’s hero complex, accusing him of making things up so he could pretend he’d been helpful. Lance had dialled his bravado to a screaming pitch so he could hide the soft, spoiled look in his eyes where Keith had lodged a cruel sword that he couldn’t pull out.

Now, Lance purses his lips so he doesn’t have to figure out what to do with his expression.

“Huh,” Pidge says, chewing on a pseudo-protein bar from their rations. “That’s some unexpected character growth.”

“Are you… feeling okay?” Hunk asks.

Keith looks miserably down at his own crossed legs until Lance says, “not that I don’t appreciate it, but you did just do kind of an impressive one-eighty.”

He looks up. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

Lance smiles a little, relieved. He waggles the flask they’ve been sharing in his direction. “You just need to drink more.”

“No,” Keith disagrees, shaking his head. “I want to remember this.”

______

He opens his eyes to the world on its side, gritty endless flatlands sprayed out against a hazy auburn sky.

He rolls, putting his arm over his face, a visor against radiant twin suns.

He doesn’t have to look to remember the architecture at his back, a cubist explosion of edges and colours, each shape squared off and set into the hills. When the paladins liberated Imedemaa, they were offered accommodation in homes that corresponded to their lions: terracotta red, cobalt blue, mustard yellow, foliage green, and a brown so dark it could pass as black.

It’s his favourite place to visit: brilliant views, kind people, warm bed, privacy and proximity bumping shoulders comfortably.

Keith rolls again, sitting up. He feels heat-sick, and if it were real, he knows he would be bruised tan in the coast-to-coast sunshine. He’s spread out on the same outdoor palette where he fell asleep nearly three years ago. His apartment is warm, dull red, nearly orange. The shimmering public baths sparkle with activity just below his balcony.

“Yoo-hoo, neighbour.”

Keith squints over the waist-high wall and finds Lance clambering from his own balcony onto Keith’s.

“You’re going to fall to your death.”

“Nah,” Lance says, swinging a leg down over the railing and sitting contemplatively with one foot dangling over empty space and the other brushing the floor. “There’s a pool down there. Worst case scenario I perform an exceptional and history-making canon-ball.”

Keith watches him climb the rest of the way over, staggering and sitting heavily on Keith’s palette next to him.

“Oof,” he says. Lance's skin is dazzling in this climate, dark and freckled like granite. The simulation reminds him that he smelled like lotus, this day, fresh from the baths, warm shoulder and drizzling wet hair. “Are you ready to absolutely blow this popsicle stand?”

“And do what?” Keith asks, a little breathless from proximity.

“Did you seriously forget? It’s racing day!”

“Oh,” Keith says faintly. “Right.” They used to rent speeders for fun sometimes; the whole team participating at first, and then Keith and Lance alone when they surpassed friendly competition into bet-making and sabotage.

They would sneak back whenever they could swing the time off, careening around dusty corners and ramming one another’s speeders into hysterical tailspins. They would sob with laughter and then spritz their canteens all over each other, tussling in the dirt, so coordinated that it was almost an embrace.

The thought of it had driven him out of bed this morning, but he felt sick and shaky as he typed Pidge’s code into the simulator, setting the modified location of Imedemaa and rolling into a memory so fine and warm that it reminded him of death itself.

“Woah. easy, Red,” Lance says, his voice sharp with concern. Keith comes back to himself to realize that he’s angling into a panic attack, holding his own head in his hands. He can’t spoil this memory. Not this one.

“I—I—“ He can’t speak. Lance makes a dismayed noise, his entire demeanour turning inside out.

“Can I hug you, man?”

Keith jerks his head ‘no’. “I—can’t—you—“

Lance gets to his feet, and Keith grabs at him, hooking fingers in a belt loop, a fistful of shirt, whatever his hands find first.

“Hey, shh, it’s cool, I’m just getting you some water.”

Keith shakes his head again. “Don’t leave me.”

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Lance asks softly, sitting back down. “We don’t have to go racing today.”

Keith huffs this weird cartwheel of a laugh, and scrubs a hand over his eyes and nose.

“I think I dreamed you were dead,” he tells him. He doesn’t look up into his face, but Lance’s chest is steady in front of him, rising and falling evenly with each breath.

“Who, me? I’m fine, Keith, look at me.”

“It felt real.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Lance says, laughter tucked into his worry like a concealed weapon. Keith looks up at him, and Lance beams under his full attention. He wipes the tears from Keith’s cheeks with his thumbs.

Abruptly, he can’t stand it.

“You’re a hologram,” Keith whispers. Lance’s smile falters.

“What?”

“Do you remember how Pidge took our mental blueprints?”

Lance nods quickly. He’s not brushing Keith off, he’s not slow with disbelief. He’s clear and sharp and his face is increasingly overcast with fear.

“I’m using your data in a simulation. This holiday on Imedemaa, it was years ago. You’re not the real Lance.” It hurts, to admit it, but it’s clear that it hurts Lance much, much more.

“No,” he chokes. “No, I feel real.”

“I know you do,” Keith says, reaching for his hand.

But Lance jerks away, standing and reeling backwards, hands splayed out on red paint, which could be gore, really, bleeding out from Lance’s palms like that. “I was so fucking scared of this.“

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, watching this shade of Lance shaking through self-awareness, and feeling the weight of the words that could end it in his mouth.

“Why—where—“

“He’s gone,” Keith whispers.

“Gone as in gone?”

“Gone as in I can’t find him.”

“So why the fuck are you wasting time on this Black Mirror shit, and not out there looking for me?” he demands.

“I’ve looked everywhere.” The agony of his failure slides home all over again. “The search party is a million strong by now. I’ve talked to a hundred versions of you looking for an answer.”

“A hundred,” Lance says. “So what, when I tell you what you want to hear, you delete me?”

“I’m not wiping the data or anything, I—I don’t know how it works,” he admits.

“Jesus. Jesus Keith, this is fucked up.”

Tears start to well up, and he wipes them away furiously. He never used to cry like this. He never used to feel so constantly ravaged by guilt and fear. It used to live in his gut and press at his throat, but he could keep it wrapped and sealed inside his body.

“I miss you,” Keith tries, and Lance’s face twists with despair.

“I really wish it didn’t take this horror show to make you say that.”

Somewhere, something splashes and someone shrieks with laughter. Lance looks at him miserably, hunched in the shade from the terrace, brow damp with terrified perspiration. He absolutely shouldn’t have told him. He remembers Pidge laughing darkly, I’m not that cruel.

“What do you want me to do,” Keith asks quietly.

“What choice do I have?” Lance asks. “I’m a fucking video game character. I’m a dead man walking.”

“Do you want to do anything? Before I end this session.”

Lance swallows, considering. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

______

They race.

What feels like all day, ripping in circles under arching rocks and through clinging, dragging sand, until the suns are setting, twin flames set into the desert like jewels.

Lance is extra reckless, gorgeous, perched high on his speeder and arched forward to reach the controls. His face, below the goggles, is streaked with mud, and he keeps crying out when he tips over too far or pulls triumphantly ahead of Keith, cathartic, unfiltered.

“One more lap,” he shouts, over the thrum of noise from the speeder.

“I’ll beat your ass,” Keith calls, trying for normalcy, but they’ve both kind of been crying on and off all day, and this is the last thing this Lance will ever do, and really, he’s not that cruel.

“Fucking try,” Lance says, pulling his bandana up over his mouth and taking off.

“Hey!” Keith laughs. “No countdown?”

“I think I deserve a head start,” he calls over his shoulder, but most of his voice is whipped away by the wind.

The speeder rips sideways, sliding over a natural boulder ridge that drops off into nothingness. Strange gravity keeps him on the right side of the cliff, and he hoots with joy, galloping metres and metres ahead as Keith eases through the same turn.

“You’re gonna—“ get yourself killed. He bites his tongue. Lance can’t hear him anyway. He zigzags through natural obstacles, glancing back in disbelief when Keith pulls up behind him. His face is red with the effort of staying upright.

“Can’t you let me win for once,” Lance cries, slamming on the thrusters and stirring up a fog of dust behind him. Keith coughs and dodges, feeling on the very edge of an awareness too big to name, like being able to feel one stage of grief ending and another beginning.

Sometime during Lance’s luxurious lead he’s taken off his helmet, and now the desert wind is whipping his hair straight.

He takes the next corner much too fast, and Keith’s heart is in his throat as he inevitably spins out, in smooth little frictionless circles at first, weightless as a bumper car—and then the rear of the speeder catches on a jutting rock and he’s ejected altogether. He topples out into the sifting dunes, rolling half a dozen times and stopping himself so abruptly that Keith can hear something snap.

He pulls up hard, tumbling off the speeder and throwing his helmet out into the sand, running as best he can to where Lance landed.

When he reaches him he’s cradling a severely broken arm to his chest, and the bone is piercing through the skin. There’s blood everywhere, weeping through his fingers, streaked high on his hairline, staining his shirt and the tawny sand beneath him.

“Would’ve been great if you could have programmed me not to hurt,” Lance wobbles. Stiff upper lip, terribly pale.

“Didn’t know you were going to throw yourself off a speeder.”

“Yeah, well. Me neither.” He hisses as Keith takes his wrist in his hand, unfathomably gentle, turning it this way and that.

“This looks terrible.”

Lance snorts. “Thank you doctor Keith.”

“I don’t think we brought any first aid,” he mutters, frowning, digging through the pack at his hip.

“I don’t need it.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re—“

“Keith.” He looks up at him, smudgy and sweaty and splashed with five kinds of red in the fading light. “I don’t need it.”

Keith trembles, still searching for a bandage or a stopper or an answer of any kind. “No. I hate this.”

Lance smiles grimly. “I don’t love it that much either. But hey, maybe there’s a way to bring me back. This exact version of me. From the ether somewhere. Doesn’t feel quite as permanent as capital D Death.” His eyes narrow. “As long as you don’t lose me, Red.”

“I won’t,” he whispers, parched and grief-torn. “Never again.”

“Okay. Okay.” He makes himself comfortable, stretched out on the sand, arm folded over his chest. “Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you not—raise me from the dead again? I don’t think—I mean. A hundred versions of me and you haven’t found what you’re looking for.”

“But I have,” Keith says fiercely. “I always find what I’m looking for, because I’m looking for you.”

Lance laughs, coughs, squeezes his eyes shut. “That’s real romantic.”

Keith’s mouth twitches. “I’m glad you think so.”

Lance cracks an eye open. “Just find me the old fashioned way, will you? No more beautiful Lance casualties.”

“I—don’t know if I can promise that,” he says. “I miss you,” he reiterates.

“Yeah. More, I bet, when you’re looking right at me. Ever wonder why that is?”

Keith shakes his head fast.

“Dumbass,” Lance says fondly. “It’s literally always gonna hurt, trying to live in the past. Makes you feel like you don’t have a future.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“That’s a pretty insensitive thing to say to a dying guy.”

Keith laughs wetly. “You’re being melodramatic.”

“When can you be melodramatic if not on your deathbed?”

Keith brushes the sticky hair from Lance’s forehead. He turns his face and Keith’s hand softens and cups his cheek comfortably.

“Pidge can do anything,” Keith tells him. “All your ones and zeroes will be safe somewhere until she can figure out somewhere for you to go.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says, like he barely heard him. He’s determined, heroic. Fucking heartbreaking. “I hope the real me gives you hell.”

Keith nods jerkily. “He always does.”

“I hope he—I hope he’s good to you, too.”

Keith’s face crumples, and he puts his forehead to Lance’s, feeling him wince when his chest grazes his broken arm.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sniffs, holding his face, wiping the blood and muck and tears back.

“It’s okay,” Lance says, starting to slur. “It’s okay, Red, just end it, quick.”

“You’re the last one,” Keith promises.

“Good,” Lance says, “because you’re not gonna do better than me.”

Keith laughs, putting their foreheads together again, and then kissing the place where a tear has rolled down into his hairline.

“See you soon,” he whispers. Lance leans up, golden, bloody.

Keith shudders, and says “end simulation” into his mouth.

Imedemaa winks out, and his whole world narrows instantly to a pinhead. He’s huddled on the floor over nothing at all, caught in the throws of fantasy, like a sleepwalker. When he licks his lips though, he swears he can still taste salt.

______

He leaves the simulator into the whiz and pop of another Seachmall night. The owner nods at him, looking vaguely troubled, possibly by the amount of time that Keith has been locked in his simulator today, and by the look on his face now, which he can only imagine is ripped in half by loss.

The market is busier than usual, stranger, overfull with alien tourists, so much so that the paladin simulator has accumulated a long line-up.

He sidesteps their stares, slipping soundlessly into the alley, already dialling Pidge on his communicator. She said the system would automatically wipe after each use, but he’s certain she can retrieve whatever information would be inaccessible to the public. She said herself that she doesn’t burn data.

He waits through the suck of the empty line, feeling antsy and keyed up, aching from a day of racing but incongruously clean and dry.

“Come on, Pidge,” he mutters.

Somewhere in the market, there’s a great clamour of voices. Something clatters to the ground, and someone apologizes profusely in common. Keith chews his lip distractedly, waiting for a thief to run by, a sheepish tourist, or scuffling rival business owners.

The line connects and disconnects in quick succession, and Keith kicks a trash disposal chute so hard that it dents.

He frets, thinking of Lance’s final moments, the wilting fear on his face, his mouth split open like fruit.

A hoverbike rounds the corner, and Keith only steps barely out of the way, nearly clipped by a wide fender. It crashes to a stop, making a thin, rumbling sound, and then its rider has whipped all the way around to stare at Keith. Achingly humanoid. Cobalt blue Motorcycle helmet. Rippling with motion even while sitting still.

They swing a leg over the seat of the bike, staggering closer, and Keith knows. He knows when a slender, gloved hand reaches for the visor, and when twin pistols clink and gleam from their holsters. The helmet falls, rolling into the dirt.

“Keith,” Lance breathes.

#vld #klance #voltron #klance fanfic #mine #alcohol mention #injury tw #I promise I'm working on my tfc wips but I took a hiatus to write a 20k voltron fic bc..... i felt... like it #long post #I know this might flop due to it being voltron lmao but hit me up if you want chapter 2!!

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lorilane33 · 5 years

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He’s Your Dancing Queen

Summary: Bucky is a man-child about indulging your want to watch Mamma Mia for the hundredth time, and when you come early a few days later you are met with something unexpected.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,589

Warnings: Bucky being a cheeky little shit. Mamma Mia obsession, fluff out the wazoo because that’s my jam. Hilarity.

A/N: This is my first every Bucky fic, and I’m super excited about it. Mamma Mia has recently become one of my favorite musical movies and ABBA has no shortage of amazing and inspirational songs :) This is the result of that. Please like and reblog, I live for that shit :)

Saturday evening arrives in the house you share with your boyfriend Bucky and he lets out a groan while his eyes roll to the back of his head; you’ve made your choice for what movie you want for movie night.

“Y/n, doll. I get that it’s your turn to pick the movie we watch, but Mamma Mia? AGAIN?” Bucky settles into the couch and his arm goes around you, his mind flashes back to the last time you watched Mamma Mia. “Didn’t we just watch it on Wednesday?”

“So?? Bucky, come on.” You stick your bottom lip out in a pout, knowing he can’t handle it when you ask so sweetly. “Pleeeease? I promise I won’t sing along too loudly this time.”

Bucky knows you are taking advantage of him but he can’t bring himself to tell you no, especially when it’s something that continually brings you this much joy. Letting out a defeated sigh he responds, “Fiiiine, we can watch it again.” When he hears you squeal in response he smiles and adds on, “It’s so not fair that you use that pout against me, Y/n. You know that look coming from you breaks my heart.”

You reach up and kiss Bucky’s cheek, the scratch of his beard against your lips a nice feeling. “You know you love me, no matter what. Now, stop being a punk if you want to keep cuddling with me.” A smirk gracing your features.

A few songs into the movie, you’ve completely forgotten the promise you made Bucky and are currently singing along (loudly) to Dancing Queen with Donna, Tonya, and Rosie, wishing you could run away to Greece with Bucky.

Suddenly you feel a heavy weight against you as Bucky sags into you and sighs with boredom. Trying to get him on board with the fun, you shove the air mic into Bucky’s face, and all you get is a grumble about how he’s heard this song a million times and he’s tired of it. Laughing, your whole body moves to the beat of the song and you serenade him through to the end of it.

“Finally, that stupid song is over. Can we watch something else now?” you hear Bucky mumble, adding on another dramatic sigh for effect.

Your eyebrows shoot up in response and you momentarily frown, the movie momentarily forgotten. “Excuse you, Bucky? It was my turn to pick!”

“I feel like I’m going to be singing these songs in my sleep because of how often we’ve watched this movie,” Bucky replies. He rolls his eyes. “And the last thing I want is to be singing ABBA songs when I’m trying to rest, doll.”

Rolling your eyes you turn your attention to the TV and realize you’ve almost missed the beginning of your favorite scene. “That’s great, hon. We can talk about it later, I promise. Now, please… shush.”

An overly dramatic and indignant look crosses Bucky’s face as he realizes you’re blowing him off and he tightens his arm around you, “Now who needs to be excused, little missy? You think you can just -”

Suddenly a pillow collides with his face and he is momentarily stunned. “I said SHUSH!” You yell all while your attention remains on the screen, where Sky and Sophie are singing their duet, Lay All Your Love On Me.

“Y/n, are you ignoring me for Sky??” Bucky whines, glancing back and forth between you and the movie. “Oh my god, you totally are!!” He exclaims as he shoves your shoulder.

Smiling you laugh at his need for attention. “And what if I am, Buck? He’s so beautiful! Just look at him!” you cry. “His voice isn’t bad either... So there’s that,” nonchalantly you shrug in amusement.

“How could you ignore me for him?” He reaches up and pokes you in the nose, and then he points to Sky onscreen as you turn to face him. “HE LOOKS LIKE HOWARD STARK, Y/N, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T NOTICE AND THAT’S WEIRD.”

At this, you burst out laughing. “Howard Stark?? Really, hon? He does NOT look like Howard! Now you’re just grasping at straws. NOW SHHHHHH!!” You add on as you turn your attention back to the TV, the chemistry between Sophie and Sky crackling on-screen.

Bucky keeps up his petulant attitude. “You’re right, he can’t be Howard because he’s half-naked and the ugly sod is bloody British,” he mockingly responds.

You pat Bucky’s knee in response to his obvious jealousy. “Awww, Sweetie. It’s okay to be jealous every once in a while,” you coo gently.

“Jealous?! Me?! JEALOUS OF THE HOWARD STARK WANNABE??? Please.” Bucky huffs as his eyes roll again. “How much of this movie do we have left anyway?”

Your grin grows wider as you break the news to him. “Bucky. Sweetheart. Babe. My love. We’re not even halfway through yet. You’ve seen this movie before, you should know!”

Bucky dramatically groans, adding another eye-roll in for effect, as he flops down to lay his head in your lap. His metal arm wraps around your waist as he mumbles into your leg, “Just wake me up when it’s over.”

You roll your eyes fondly at his antics knowing he wasn’t actually upset about any of it. “Fine, Buck. Go to sleep, you brat.” Your hand finds its way into his soft, short locks, and gives it a firm tug. He lets out a small squawk of surprise and glares at you before he closes with a victorious smile on his face.

Once the movie ends you shake Bucky to wake him up. “Hey. Wake up, it’s over.”

“Oh my god, finally!” Bucky mumbles through a yawn. “I was beginning to think it would never end. Did you finally get enough of your boy Sky and his stupid British nonsense??”

Giggling, you respond as you pinch him. “Maybe I haven’t, we should watch it again to make sure. You’re such a brat, you know that?”

He gasps. “NOOO!” batting your hand away, he continues. “Excuse you? Who are you calling a brat, punk?”

“Hey! I could have left you to sleep out here on the couch, ya know. But I didn’t, because I’m a loving girlfriend.”

“A loving girlfriend, huh? I wouldn’t have to sleep through half the movie if you didn’t make me watch Mamma Mia all the time, Y/n. So technically this is your fault.” He begrudgingly sits up, glaring at you for waking him up.

You smile and boop his nose. “How on Earth is this my fault, Buck?”

A look of mild annoyance lands on his face when he pulls away from your finger. “How is this your fault? Gee, I wonder how this could, in any way, be your fault?”

Pushing him off the couch, you smile and kiss his head as you walk past him, letting your fingers graze his bearded jaw. “Awww, Buck. You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

Eyes widening as he realizes what you said, he calls out to your form retreating into the bedroom. “I am NOT jealous of not Howard, Y/n! We’ve discussed this!!”

____________________________________________________________

“Exactly, Stef! I don’t understand how she thinks she has the right to do that.” You continue your phone conversation while digging in your purse for your keys as you walk up to the porch.

Listening to your friend’s reply, you walk up the front steps and successfully pull your keys from your purse. Suddenly you hear muffled voices, and it sounds like it’s coming from inside.

“Hey, Stef, I’m gonna have to call you back. Yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” You end the call and dump the phone into your purse as you go to unlock the door. “Buck?”

Once you open the door the mystery of the blaring noise is solved as you hear the opening chords of Sky and Sophie’s duet coming from the living room, then Sky’s voice is heard too. But this time there’s another voice. “Um, Bucky?” You call out, hoping to figure out where he’d disappeared to.

You place your keys in the dish by the front door, confusion settling in. However, the mystery of the missing boyfriend, too, is solved momentarily as seconds later you turn the corner into the living room only to see Bucky, who apparently has no idea you’re home.

The man who complained about watching Mamma Mia only days previously is now singing along with the movie, giving it all he’s got, clad in nothing but his boxer briefs. Your mouth drops open at the sight before you as he whips his shorter locks to the song. Bucky’s hand that isn’t using the remote as an air mic glides down his body as he does a few body rolls, then his hips start swinging in time to the beat as he runs his free hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than it already was.

You continue to stare, absolutely gobsmacked, as your boyfriend starts moving along with the words even more as the second verse builds to the chorus:

“It was like shooting a sitting duck,

A little small talk, a smile and baby I was stuck.

I still don't know what you've done with me,

A grown-up woman should never fall so easily.

I feel a kind of fear

When I don't have you near,

Unsatisfied, I skip my pride

I beg you, dear,”

Bucky finishes an attempt at an elaborate spin move as he sings the last line, and you finally snap out of your trance and begin laughing.

His eyes fly open as he hears you, not expecting you to be home so soon. “Y/N?!? OH MY GOD, I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HOME UNTIL SEVEN!?!” Bucky frantically tries to find the remote on the coffee table for a few seconds, only to make you slouch against the wall in laughter as he realizes he’s been using it as a mic.

Suddenly your laughter is the only sound now as the TV goes silent when Bucky pauses it. He crosses his arms, drawing your attention to his chest, which is heaving with his heavy breathing and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Pulling yourself back up to a standing position, you wipe the tears that have been streaming down your face as you try to compose yourself. Giggling, you reply, “Yeah, Buck, I wasn’t. But if you had looked at your phone at all over the last hour you’d have seen my text that said I was coming home early. And lemme tell you, I’ve never been so glad to have you not read my text in our entire relationship.”

You let your eyes now wander appreciatively over your mostly naked boyfriend, taking in the Greek god that is James Barnes, and when your eyes get back up to his face you see him scoff at you. “Hey! Quit ogling the merchandise. Geez, doll, I feel so objectified right now.”

Smirking at him, you roll your eyes at his antics. “But what if your merchandise is really, really nice to look at?” You pause. “Speaking of merchandise, Buck. Umm. I’m assuming you know you’re running around in your underwear? Where are your clothes?”

Without missing a beat Bucky says, “Pfft. Duh, Y/n! Of course, I know I’m in my underwear. It’s the best state to be in. And for my clothes, they’re In the dresser, where they’re supposed to be? Well. My sweats are probably on the floor, but whatever.” He shrugs like that’s the most logical place for his pants to be.

Unable to keep a straight face, you break down into giggles. “So you’ve just been wandering around in your briefs since I left this morning?”

Dropping the remote onto the couch cushion, Bucky walks over to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Yeah, pretty much. Got a problem with that?”

With Bucky suddenly in front of you, blue eyes staring at you so intensely, your response is much breathier than you anticipated. “Nope. Not a single problem, Buck. But, baby.” Breathing deeply and arching your eyebrow at him you continue. “Last time I checked, you thought Sky was a Howard Stark wannabe and made fun of the fact that he’s British. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugs in defeat, chuckling as he responds. “What can I say? It’s really not my fault ABBA has killer songs. And it’s also not my fault that the story they’ve used the songs to tell is a damn good one.” His hands come to rest on your hips, lightly rubbing his thumbs over your hipbones, his eyes bright. “And it’s still not my fault that my irresistible girlfriend makes me watch the movie all the damn time. I’ve had it memorized for three months, doll.”

Almost subconsciously your arms reach up to rest on his shoulders in response to his ministrations as he gently brushes his nose against yours. “But Y/n here’s the real question. It’s really important, so I need you to answer honestly. My performance. It blew a half-naked Sky out of the water, right? No contest?”

“Oh my god, Bucky!” You slap his chest, laughing. “We were having a moment and you were such a brat and ruined it!”

You lean your forehead against his shoulder in an attempt to gain some composure, but it fails because your head is bobbing along to Bucky’s laughter emanating from his chest. “Doll, it was an honest question. I just need your honest opinion, that I’m better than Sky.”

Pulling away from Bucky, you walk back toward the doorway where the two bags you brought home were strewn, forgotten, along with your purse. With an affectionate laugh, you look back at him. “Bucky Barnes, some days I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with you. You are such a man-child.”

Smiling, he rolls his eyes at your retort. You walk up to him, resting your free hand on his bicep as you go up on tiptoe to press a sweet kiss to his lips. His hands reach for your ass, but you swat his hand away and smirk. “Nope. Hands off, mister. I’ll never make it to the shower if I let you get your hands on me.” He chuckles.

You brush past him, pausing for a second. “And to answer your super important question? Hands down better than Sky, doll. You’re definitely my dancing queen.” Suddenly Bucky yelps in surprise as the crack of your hand firmly slapping his ass echoes in the room as you run to the bedroom.

“HEY! Get back here, you brat!” Bucky yells as he takes off after you, rubbing his ass the whole way.

A couple of hours later, after Bucky finishes showing you just how much he loves you, and after finally, finally finishing in the shower, music can once again be heard blaring from the TV. If anyone were to walk up to the door at this point in time they would hear voices muffled through the door just as you had earlier that day, not quite sure what it was they were hearing.

In the living room, though, unaware of anyone or anything outside yourselves, you find yourself in your underwear right beside Bucky in his, loudly singing and dancing along to Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again like there’s no tomorrow. Bucky may be a man child, but he’s your dancing queen, and you wouldn’t trade him for anybody else.

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