#fluff ish

[st-kitten]

brat party pt.2

pt.3

synopsis: if sasuke thought that was the last he'd see of you, he was dead wrong. he couldn't figure you out. nor could he stay away from you.

warnings: weed, and my voice tbh ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )

the college library had become your sanctuary. for the immaculate collection of reference books, for the ample desk space you used to scatter your laptop, ipad, books, water bottle, and more papers. you frequented the library.

sasuke, to his own surprise, had to borrow a few books on game theory, given his background in finance. he moved with a silent intensity, his very presence commanding respect from the other library-goers. people just knew not to get in his way.

you spotted him from a distance and you swore you'd seen him somewhere. there's no way you'd forget a face as charismatic as his. all you remembered was that you were in the bathroom with someone's dick in your mouth.

sasuke closed the book, tucking it beneath his arm as he was about to head to the librarian's desk.

taking a deep breath, you approached him and asked him, "forgive me if i'm wrong, and shoot me in the head if i definitely am but... did i... by chance..." you squinted your eyes and sighed "suck you off in the bathroom at the frat party?"

sasuke's eyebrows shot up in surprise at your blunt question, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. for a moment, he simply stared at your, his silence speaking volumes about his thoughts. then, without warning, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. it was a dark, wicked laugh, full of unspoken implications.

"oh, you definitely sucked me off," he confirmed, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

you slumped against the book shelf. you hoped to god you hadn't embarrassed yourself. "was it... at least... satisfactory?"

he took a step closer, invading your personal space until you were nearly touching. "satisfactory?" he repeated, his tone low and husky. he smirked, and leaned forward a little "let's say... i wouldn't be forgetting it so easily."

he reached out, tracing a finger along your jawline, his touch electrifying despite its gentleness. "but don't think this means anything beyond that, understand?"

you nodded. "yeah... i know..."

sasuke's finger slid down your neck, coming to rest on your collarbone. he applied gentle pressure, guiding you to lean into his touch, his thumb brushing against your pulse point.

"good," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. 

"because i don't do attachments, y/n. i don't get involved. and i certainly don't fall for anyone." his words were a stark reminder of the cold, hard truth of his existence. but even as he spoke them, sasuke couldn't help but notice the way your skin tingled under his touch, the subtle flush that spread across your cheeks.

"it was just a hookup, nothing more," he continued, his voice firm. "don't read too much into it."

"that was it though right? i just gave you a blowjob? no sex right?" i asked for confirmation.

a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or a hint of dark satisfaction—crossed sasuke's features at your inquiry. he leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing your ear as he replied in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"no sex, but not for lack of trying on my part," he whispered, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "you were too drunk and stoned to consent properly. wouldn't have wanted to take advantage of you in that state."

"fair enough. cool... see you around, sasuke," your offered him a small smile, thankfully remembering his name from that hard-to-hear-over-the-music round of introductions at the party.

sasuke nodded curtly in response, his gaze lingering on you for a brief moment before he turned to leave.

as the days passed, sasuke couldn't help but notice you around campus. you didn't actively seek him out, nor did you avoid him—just a steady, neutral presence that he couldn't quite place. it was the perfect purgatory for what had happened, neither resolved nor completely dismissed.

he saw you with sakura, ino, tenten, temari, and hinata from time to time, but always observed from a distance how you seemed to prefer solitude, especially during lunch. while others gathered in groups, you were often tucked away under a tree or sitting alone in the cafeteria, lost in a book or deep in thought.

one night, sasuke and you walked into each other at the local convenience store outside campus. both of you had missed the canteen dinner; you because you'd been studying all night at the library and lost track of time, and him because he'd just returned from a late night workout at the gym he went to.

he grabbed a pack of onigiri and some instant miso soup, while you opted for steamed and grilled chicken with rice and a side of kimchi. the convenience store’s window-facing table had stools lined up neatly on one side, offering a view of the dimly lit street outside.

you both sat there, side by side, the quiet sound of chewing and the occasional clink of chopsticks against plastic containers filling the space between you.

sasuke stole a few glances your way, his eyes catching on the loose curls framing your face and the smudge of red pepper on your lower lip. he resisted the urge to comment, instead focusing back on his onigiri, though his thoughts lingered on the fleeting details he couldn’t seem to ignore; how your lips had swollen due to the spice, turning hot pink.

on the way back to campus, just before you both parted ways, him heading back to his house outside campus, you to your dorm, sasuke abruptly pulled you under an archway. in the quiet dark, with no one around, the risk felt minimal. pressing you against the cold brick wall, his hands settled firmly on your waist. he didn’t even bother justifying it to himself—he didn’t need to. a fleeting, meaningless makeout, he reasoned, was harmless.

his lips crashed against yours, hard and demanding, seeking to claim every inch of your mouth. fuck, he could taste the hot, spicy pepper on your lips. sasuke's tongue delved deep, exploring the warmth of your mouth with a hunger that bordered on desperation. he swallowed your gasps, drinking in the sound of your breath mingling with his own. his hands roamed her body, tracing the curves of your hips, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts.

he'd done this so many times, used so many girls on campus. this was just like that. right?

just physical. nothing else. he told himself as he made out with you ferociously, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to caress the warm skin of your abdomen.

the sound of the patrol guards snapped you out of your trance. sasuke pulled away slightly, licking at the strands of saliva that stretched as your mouths parted. he didn't say anything and turned around to exit the campus, leaving you heaving against the brick wall.

just like that, sasuke walked around campus like he hadn't shoved his tongue in your throat last night. he was a lone wolf, but occasionally hung out with naruto and shikamaru.

during the annual model un debate marathon, all the academically gifted students prepared rigorously under the guidance of their mentors and a few seniors. you got roped into it thanks to temari's insistence. as the first lady of the event, she claimed to have a 'gut feeling' about your knack for diplomacy. to prepare you, she assigned a task: interview the 'leaders' of various clubs and gather insights, for god knows what. probably just practice interviews to see if you could ask the right questions.

ipad in hand, you set off to complete the task. first on your list was sakura, who answered every question with the precision and authority of a seasoned leader. after her, you visited a few other club heads, jotting down their insights and anecdotes.

then, as you wandered further, you spotted naruto lounging about with sasuke and shikamaru. steeling yourself, you approached the blond man, ready for whatever unpredictable energy he would bring to the conversation.

sasuke listened intently as you interviewed naruto, his expression impassive. he noted the ease with which the blond spoke, the genuine enthusiasm that radiated from him—a stark contrast to his own reserved nature.

as the interview wrapped up, his gaze shifted toward you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he observed you. composed and confident. absolutely unbothered.

when you glanced in his direction, your eyes met briefly, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. then, without a word, sasuke turned away, resuming his study of the surrounding area, his thoughts still wandering back to your furtive encounter under the archway.

naruto leaned in, his grin as wide as ever. "you preparing for the mock un thing?" he asked casually.

"yeah," you replied, keeping it short.

"hmm," naruto mused, inching closer, his face way too close for comfort. "you know... i've always wanted to see you in a heated argument," he added with a playful smirk.

sasuke, standing nearby, didn’t react outwardly, but the way his jaw tightened betrayed a flicker of irritation at naruto’s proximity to you.

you gave naruto a sly smile. "good to know i have fans," you quipped, leaning back slightly to regain your space.

shikamaru, who had been half-listening, snorted at your response, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

on the day of the debate, the hall buzzed with energy—spectators filled the seats, camera crews adjusted their angles, spokespeople hovered with clipboards, and faculty members mingled near the stage. naruto, as the principal’s son, occupied a seat in the exclusive VIP booth. alongside him sat sasuke, there by virtue of his position as the son of the guest of honour...the revered royal: uchiha fugaku, who exuded an air of stern authority, while itachi, sasuke’s older brother, carried his usual composed demeanour. sasuke, however, felt the familiar weight of his father’s gaze, a subtle pressure that always tightened his chest. he hated whenever fugaku was around, the man’s very presence a reminder of expectations sasuke wasn’t sure he wanted to fulfil.

you stood with temari and her brother gaara, the primary leaders of konoha's debate team. temari, always poised and confident, held the title of first lady, and you were second chair. your presence was calm, but commanding, as you stood tall in your outfit. you wore a gorgeous white satin shirt, the fabric hanging loosely over your frame, the black lacy camisole underneath peeking out just enough to catch sasuke's black hawk-eye vision. the subtle detail didn’t escape his attention. you paired it with black flared trousers, adding an air of elegance, and finished the look with classic black louboutins, the heels clicking softly with every movement. the combination of elegance and understated power gave you an aura of tranquility, making you seem unbothered by the chaos around you.

as the debate progressed, sasuke found himself increasingly engaged, his strategic mind whirring as he considered various scenarios and counterarguments. he watched the speakers carefully, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he analyzed each point, mentally calculating how he would dismantle their arguments if he were in their position. despite the outward calm, there was a fire inside him, a desire to outmaneuver and outthink everyone around him.

"and what about the two other countries claiming ownership over that island? you do realize that removing the political warfare won’t just make them agree it should be its own state, right?" the opposing member made his point.

temari wrote it down, and you took over, stepping up to speak. in the entire hall, when everyone was rushing to make their points harshly, to intimidate, you were the only one who spoke calmly, almost gently.

"indeed, it’s like the olympics of territorial disputes, isn’t it?"

you continued, voice steady, with just the right amount of lightness.

"we’ll set up diplomatic obstacle courses – navigating through bureaucratic red tape, hurdling over historical grievances, and of course, the ultimate challenge: finding common ground in international law. and to keep things interesting, we’ll have a diplomatic decathlon with events like synchronized treaty drafting and synchronized eye-rolling at stalemate situations."

you paused, letting the laughter ripple through the room.

"maybe, in the end, amidst the friendly competition, they’ll realize that cooperation isn’t just a buzzword – it’s the ultimate medal-worthy move in the game of global politics. and, hey... think of the tourism revenue."

the room filled with laughter. the opposing team was slowly losing their patience.

the debate raged on, tempers flaring, but you tried to stay calm. in the end, the debate tipped in konoha's favour. the opposing university lost face entirely when their speaker, assuming the mics were turned off, got impatient and insulted you, whispering to his teammate:

"please, big tits and a pretty face don't make a good diplomat"

people gasped, his team tried to get him to shut up. you shrugged. "maybe the d in diplomat stands for D cups," you murmured.

sasuke held back a choking cough.

at the end, your team took pictures with the principal and the guest of honour.

as fugaku shook hands with you, patting your shoulder and offering his congratulations, sasuke stood off to the side, his eyes narrowing slightly.

seeing his father interact with you, so effortlessly cordial, did something to sasuke. a mix of frustration, irritation, and... something else. he couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but the sight of his father, the legendary uchiha royalty, showing such warmth to you, when he rarely offered it to sasuke, was enough to gnaw at him.

sasuke didn’t like feeling this way. but he couldn’t tear his gaze away as fugaku moved on to the next person, still smiling, still the perfect picture of political diplomacy. meanwhile, sasuke just stood there, feeling... something he wasn’t ready to admit.

naruto and his dad, minato, the principal, also congratulated you. naruto casually slung his arm around your shoulder, talking to his dad about you with that easy smile of his. sasuke watched from the corner of his eye, his jaw tightening slightly as he tried to maintain his composure.

sasuke stood there, forcing his focus elsewhere, but the sight of you and naruto laughing, of minato joining in, lingered in his mind, eating away at him more than he wanted to admit.

afterwards, as people started to disperse, naruto invited you to have lunch with his dad, minato, and sasuke’s dad and brother. by extension, that meant you’d be having lunch with sasuke as well.

the idea didn’t sit well with sasuke. he wasn’t keen on having lunch with his father in public.

minato and fugaku treated everyone to a nice restaurant, and you found yourselves in a private booth. you sat by the window, enjoying the view. naruto, ever the energetic one, leapt into the seat beside you, practically throwing himself onto the cushions. sasuke, however, was stuck sitting across from you, next to his brother itachi. the whole arrangement made him uneasy, his discomfort only growing as he sat beside his family, with you just across the table.

sasuke's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as naruto continued to rest a casual hand on your thigh beneath the table. the sensation of his fingers creeping ever closer to your inner thigh didn't go unnoticed.

naruto, unaware of the storm he was causing, casually commented, "i think you might have a candidate for your diplomat panel, mr fugaku," glancing over at the elder uchiha, who hummed in approval.

"an internship is always a possibility," fugaku responded, his voice smooth and detached as if everything were completely normal.

you, on the other hand, seemed lost in your own world, barely touching your food, the silence around you broken only by the quiet hum of polite conversation. sasuke's eyes flickered to your face, to your lack of appetite.

"i tried to get my youngest in, but seems that he has no knack for subtlety. itachi is the current leader on my panel. perhaps she can learn a thing or two," fugaku said, the slight jab at sasuke going unnoticed by most at the table but not by him. fugaku's words lingered in the air, his casual dismissal of sasuke barely scraping the surface of what seemed like an ongoing, deeper rift between father and son.

sasuke was used to his father's indifference, the weight of expectation always heavier than his ability to meet it. but there was a flicker—just the briefest flash—of sadness that passed over his face.

noticing the change in his demeanour, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of concern. beneath the table, your heel lightly tapped his leg, the small touch a quiet question in a sea of unspoken tension.

'you okay?' your eyes asked.

sasuke’s eyes briefly met yours, the usual guarded look softening just enough for you to catch the underlying frustration, but his expression remained unreadable as ever. he didn’t speak, but the small, almost imperceptible nod he gave you was enough to tell you that the question, for now, had been answered.

sasuke noticed the way you had barely touched your food, your discomfort apparent as the conversation danced around you. naruto’s flirtatious gestures and the discussion about your potential role with fugaku’s panel seemed to be weighing on you, and he could see it in the way your fork hovered over your plate, your mind far away from the meal before you.

without making a scene, sasuke quietly leaned in, his movements subtle and deliberate. he began taking small pieces of food from your plate, slipping them onto his own as though it was part of the natural rhythm of the meal. each bite he took, he made sure it looked like you were eating, his actions measured so as not to draw attention.

sasuke’s phone buzzed softly, and he glanced down. your message was simple, but it carried the weight of a memory only the two of you shared. he smirked ever so slightly, the corners of his lips twitching as he read your text.

unknown: you still got that suspicious weed from the party?

he knew exactly what that meant — that one joint, the one you had shared when everything felt different, when he had indulged, and especially after you'd sucked him off in the bathroom at the frat house. how could he forget that.

sasuke typed a deliberate response, just to be sure, and your phone buzzed.

sasuke: who dis

cocky bastard. you smiled to yourself before typing.

unknown: testicle left

sasuke snorted an unexpected laugh and actually saved your number as such. so did you.

testicle right: anyway, yes, i still got it

testicle left: annnnnd, do i still have the privileges?

testicle right: maybe

[sorry, this is just too funny for me ༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽]

————————

at 10 pm, you arrived at sasuke's house, and it immediately struck you how grand it was— a literal mansion. the kind of place you only saw in movies, with a towering façade and expansive grounds. you couldn't help but assume he lived with his family, servants, and all the other luxuries that came with this kind of wealth. still, you hadn't expected just how lavish it would feel up close.

as sasuke had instructed, you entered through the back door, which was conveniently left open for you. the moment you stepped inside, a black doberman pounced at you. you yelped softly, instinctively taking a step back as the dog barked aggressively, its dark eyes gleaming with energy.

just as the dog lunged, sasuke appeared from the darkness, moving with inhuman speed. in one fluid motion, he grabbed the dog's collar, halting its attack with a firm, commanding grip.

"spike, relax," he said calmly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the quiet of the mansion.

the doberman whimpered, its earlier aggression fading into submission. its tail wagged slightly, and it looked up at sasuke with adoring eyes, as if it had been momentarily caught up in the excitement.

you looked at the dog, then at sasuke. "lovely bodyguard you have there."

"he's loyal, which is more than i can say for most people," sasuke remarked dryly, his eyes never leaving your face. there was a subtle bitterness in his tone, like a quiet echo of the isolation he'd built around himself.

without waiting for a response, he turned and led the way deeper into the mansion. the sound of his footsteps echoed off the marble floors, creating an almost eerie silence in the vastness of the house. you wondered how many rooms there'd be.

"do you have a dungeon?"

sasuke threw a glance at you from the corner of his eye, the tiniest of smirks etched on his face.

he quietly led you up to his bedroom. the space mirrored his personality—dark and minimalistic. grey walls, a few electric guitars hanging on one side, their sleek bodies almost blending into the shadows. a bookshelf lined one wall, filled with editions you could only assume ran through his family, the kind of books that carried a weight of legacy.

his bed was a king-sized affair, draped with oxford blue silk sheets that caught the dim light, a soft and thick comforter neatly folded at the foot, and black pillows arranged with meticulous care. everything about the room exuded a sense of controlled luxury, but there was also a coldness, a detachment that seemed to seep into every corner.

the room had a balcony that overlooked the night sky, the stars barely visible through the slight haze of city lights, casting a dim glow over everything. it was the kind of space where everything felt distant—like it was meant to keep people at arm's length.

without a word, he strode over to the liquor cabinet, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. his movements were measured, effortless—like a ritual. he poured a generous amount into each glass, the amber liquid catching the low light in a way that felt almost intentional.

you took the glass gently, the weight of it grounding you. you both stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against your skin, contrasting with the warmth of the whiskey in your hand. clinking your glasses together in a silent toast, you took a sip, immediately feeling the burn of the alcohol hit your throat.

"jesus..." you coughed softly, surprised by its potency.

"it's strong, isn't it?" he observed, taking a sip himself.

leaning against the railing, sasuke’s gaze turned to the star-filled sky, his mind adrift in a sea of thoughts. he couldn’t help but wonder about the complexity of his attraction with you. you were a temptation—one that both unsettled and intrigued him.

"does... your dad always do that?"

for a moment, sasuke was silent, his gaze distant as if lost in the shadows of memories long past.

"my father's opinions don't matter," he finally muttered, his voice coated with disdain. he took another swig of whiskey, the sharp burn cutting through him in a way that felt almost cathartic.

you studied his face intently, watching the way his features tightened, the subtle signs of the pain he still carried.

"sorry he does that to you..." you said quietly, your voice soft, genuine.

"it's not your concern," sasuke muttered, his voice rough, like it was struggling to break free from the weight of everything he kept buried inside. the words were cold, but there was a slight crack in them.

your gaze fell to the guitars in the background. you recognised one of the guitars. holding back a gasp, you looked at sasuke and asked as humanly calmly as you could, "why do you have the akatsuki bassist's guitar on your wall?"

sasuke visibly tensed, his body stiffening as though you’d struck a nerve. for a split second, the room seemed to hold its breath. he hadn’t told anyone about it, not a single soul. not even the people closest to him knew. only his family did. akatsuki was a disbanded band from five years ago, a group of masked teenage musicians whose music had been too controversial, too ahead of its time. the band had collapsed under the weight of public backlash. sasuke had been their bassist.

he hadn’t expected you to recognise it.

sasuke's thumb absently traced the edge of his glass, his gaze drifting away from yours as he muttered, "it's either obsession or severe autism for you to recognise that shit." he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.

your jaw fell, morphing into a wide knowing grin. "oh... my god. are—were you... the bassist?"

sasuke almost groaned at your question, the embarrassment creeping up on him. he shifted uncomfortably before finally nodding.

you clamped your mouth shut, hiding the huge smile spreading across your face.

sasuke shot you a glare, leaning forward slightly, whiskey on his breath as he threatened you to keep it to yourself. "don't fucking say a word." he muttered, his voice low and intense.

you nodded, and shook your head at the same time.

"you still good?"

a wry smile tugged at the corners of sasuke's mouth at your question.

"good enough," sasuke replied, his tone nonchalant, but a hint of pride crept into his voice. he could see your doe eyes looking up at him expectantly.

sighing, he sauntered towards the guitars, plucking out a sleek black bass guitar with four thick strings, a small red cloud etched on the curve of the front. plugging it into the amplifier, he tuned it to perfection, strumming a few notes with a casual ease.

he sank onto the carpeted floor, resting against the bed that was bolted to the floor, the sound of the guitar filling the space between you two. you sat next to him, whiskey glasses by your feet, the tension from earlier fading into the background.

sasuke plucked a few bass notes, the sound of his old songs drifting into the air. each note was sharp, clean, and deliberate, as though the music had never really left him.

you could hear history in the strings, the quiet intensity of the sound filling the air, as sasuke's fingers moved fluidly over the bass, a ghost of the band that had once existed.

[im using . by girl in red for reasons that shall hopefully make sense (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) and idk if u can hear my voice over my guitar and the instrumental - bear in mind i don't have studio equipment nor a bass guitar, so it's just an electric]

halfway, you recognised the song. without thinking, you reclined back against his bed, your voice rising in accompaniment, a feminine contrast to the grating bass that sasuke had mastered.

sasuke's fingers faltered for a moment, the unexpected blend of your voice catching him off guard. his gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t say anything.

but he could hear the rest of the band echo through his memories, itachi's keyboard, obito's drums. he had been used to the raw, almost abrasive sound of hidan’s vocals, the chaos they brought to every performance. but with you, it felt… different. the rough edge had softened, replaced by a smoothness that made the song feel more personal, more intimate. a slight unease stirred within him. he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this kind of harmony until now.

he hadn’t expected this—hadn’t even known you could sing, let alone with such haunting beauty. as the final notes faded away, a heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the steady hum of the amp. sasuke's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

"you've got... a voice," he muttered, the words rough, as if admitting it was a struggle. he took a sip of his neglected whiskey.

"sounds exactly as it was... man... that was a phase," you said, looking up at the ceiling.

sasuke smiled unbeknownst to him, "yeah? you a fan?"

you nodded. "i know all 36 songs by heart."

sasuke snorted a laugh. it felt so silly now, but back then, when he was a teenager, had he heard that somebody memorised the songs he wrote and performed with his brother, he'd have been on cloud nine.

"may i?" you asked, looking at his acoustic guitar, your voice soft but laced with a hint of curiosity, as if expecting to be refused.

for a moment, sasuke simply stared at you, his expression unreadable. then, to his own surprise, he nodded once, curtly.

"fine," he said, his voice a little gruff. he stood up, retrieving a slender acoustic guitar from its stand. with a swift motion, he handed it to you, your fingers touching briefly.

you hesitated for a second, the weight of the guitar settling in your hands.

"heh. i have the same one," you said, holding his black granada six-string guitar, your fingers tracing its familiar curves.

"you do?" he asked, his tone tinged with curiosity as he sat back down, sipping his whiskey, his dark eyes fixed on you.

you strummed gently, pausing to tune the guitar by ear, the way he had earlier. the chords you played were unfamiliar to him.

then, softly, you sang as you strummed—a short verse, simple yet poignant, a melody that seemed to resonate with the quiet ache of sasuke's life, a toast to his inner turmoil.

the gentle, soothing quality of your falsetto in the chorus washed over sasuke like a calming wave. his gaze softened, his sharp features losing their edge.

perhaps you were a little like him. broken, hurt, but trying.

"you write those yourself?" there was a note of awe in his question, a hint of reverence for the artistic talent he'd just witnessed.

you chuckled. "oh, no, that's taylor swift."

a small, surprised laugh escaped sasuke's lips at your casual admission. taylor swift? he wouldn't have pegged you as a fan of the pop star, especially given the solemn, introspective nature of the song you'd just sung.

"not my usual cup of tea, but..." sasuke trailed off, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar, as if reassessing something he thought he already knew about you.

you placed his guitar gently beside you, its neck resting against sasuke's bed. taking a sip of the whiskey, its warmth spread through your chest, grounding you.

as promised, sasuke lit the joint—the same unique blend you'd shared in the bathroom during your first day at the frat house party. after taking a slow drag, he handed it to you.

leaning back against the bed, arms crossed, sasuke's dark eyes followed your every movement as you took a hit.

you exhaled slowly, turning to him. "are you okay?" you asked, your voice calm but probing.

"i'm fine," he replied curtly, his tone brushing the question aside like an unwanted fly.

you scoffed lightly, taking another short drag before passing the joint back to him. "you're a bad liar," you said, your voice holding a faint challenge.

sasuke's eyes narrowed at your words, annoyance flashing briefly across his face. he accepted the joint, taking a long, deliberate pull before responding.

"you don't know anything about me," he muttered, his voice low and guarded, a clear warning not to press further.

you looked away, your gaze falling on the balcony and the glowing moon hanging in the distance. "right..." you murmured softly, a faint edge of resignation in your tone. it was a quiet reminder to yourself that no matter how much you pried, he was always going to keep you at arm’s length.

his dog, spike, entered through the dog door into the room, his paws padding softly on the carpet. without hesitation, the doberman approached sasuke, licking at his arm and neck, before turning his sharp gaze toward you. a low growl rumbled from his throat.

"easy, boy," sasuke murmured, placing a calming hand on spike's broad head. his voice was firm yet soothing, instantly easing the dog's tension.

you smiled at the intimidating dog, holding out your hand with quiet confidence. spike sniffed cautiously, his ears twitching as he seemed to assess you. sensing the calm energy you radiated, he let out a soft huff before pressing his snout into your palm.

settling near you, the dog stretched out, his eyes growing heavy as you continued to pet his head gently, your touch light and rhythmic.

sasuke's gaze drifted from your hand resting on spike's head to your face. the serene expression you wore, paired with the calming energy you seemed to exude, caught him off guard.

he watched, almost envious, as spike—a creature so fiercely loyal and protective—melted under your touch. a part of him wished he could possess that kind of purity, that unspoken ability to soothe and calm just by being present. perhaps that was why his turbulent personality gravitated so strongly toward your softer, steadier one.

the heady mix of the weed and whiskey coursing through his system dulled his inhibitions. before he could think twice, sasuke leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder in a fleeting, absent-minded kiss. the tip of his cold nose nuzzled against your skin as he kept pressing soft kisses.

as sasuke pulled back, a faint flush of embarrassment crept up his cheeks, stark against his pale complexion. his mind raced, trying to process the impulsive gesture. his dark eyes met yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—shame, confusion.

"forgive yourself, sasuke," you whispered, your voice tender yet firm.

sasuke's initial reaction was a suspecting frown, a glare he was used to deploying

"i... can't", he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

you turned to sasuke, your movements deliberate and tender. your hands reached for his face, your fingers brushing against the sharp edges of his jawline, before sliding into the soft strands of his black hair. his breath hitched at the unexpected intimacy, his body tensing as though preparing to push you away.

without hesitation, you gently pulled him toward you, wrapping your arms around his rigid frame. his head rested against your shoulder. you held your breath, aware that there was a 50% chance he’d shove you away. but as seconds passed, his resistance faltered, and his body sagged slightly against yours.

he didn’t reciprocate the hug—his arms stayed limp at his sides—but he didn’t pull away either. his breathing grew uneven, and you felt the faint tremor in his shoulders.

you never pulled away from hugs first; god knows how much people might have needed one. so you stayed, as long as he let you.

minutes later, he pulled away, avoiding your gaze, downing his whiskey with one gulp.

"i'll lock the back door on my way out..." you whispered, getting ready to leave his house.

he just nodded.

he listened to the sound of her footsteps fading into the night. he didn't know what the fuck the night had turned out to be. but one thing was certain, this wouldn't be the last time he'd be seeing you.

[seumyo]

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

-

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

-

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

-

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

-

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

-

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

-

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x Slytherin!fem!reader

Summary: Being friends with benefits with James Potter isn't all you want, it just takes you a while to come to terms with that reality.

Genre: a mix of everything

Warnings: reader and James are 18, suggestive, sex, friends with benefits, misunderstanding trope, reader and James are both delusional lol, reader is stubborn and headstrong, James x Lily, hint of enemies to lovers

ask: [...] like give me the angst of wanting to be detached but feeling insecure when you see him with someone else (or vice versa) or the hurt comfort where you both start to fall for each other but don’t know how to deal with it!

~ thank you for requesting my dear 🫀anon. Sorry this took forever ~

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

When the four infamous Gryffindors saunter into the Common Room to attend one of the Slytherin parties, no one is surprised, at least not since Sirius and Regulus Black reconciled their differences.

Tonight is Regulus's 17th birthday, which meant Sirius had made James promise he would be on his best behavior. 

However, the latter doesn't seem to be doing a good job as his eyes are trained on Severus Snape and Lily Evans, who are standing much too close for his liking. James downs his fourth fire-whiskey and turns to Remus, shaking his head drunkenly.

"What a pompous prick," he slurs, his cheeks turning pinker. The collar of his chemise is overturned and Remus sighs, fixes it for his best friend.

"He isn't hurting anyone," Remus mutters.

James rolls his sharp hazel eyes, glaring at the couple in the corner. He hates how Lily laughs at whatever stupid joke he's telling her. He hates how happy she looks with someone who isn't him. Ever since their break up a few months ago, James's patience with Severus has been almost non-existent.

He walks forward, his shoulders squared, and walks right into you. 

His drink spills all over your blouse, causing you to gasp. 

"Sorry," James grumbles but he doesn't even glance your way as his gaze remains fixated on Lily.

You snap your head up, glaring at him. You feel embarrassed as James's drink is sticky. He doesn't seem to care as struts over, successfully breaking up Lily and Severus' conversation, and leaving you alone. Your gaze narrows.

"You good?" Daniel, the guy you've liked for a while, asks, coming up behind you as he returns from the loo. You don't answer him, simply watching as James embarrasses himself and shoves Severus away. "He's a twat, even outside the pitch," Daniel grunts, crossing his arms and sending James a dark look.

You knew of his rivalry with James Potter but honestly, you couldn't care less at that moment. All that matters is that Daniel's attention is on you as he inspects your blouse. You shrug. "He's a dick. C'mon,"

You lead Daniel up the stairs, to a secluded corner near the dormitories. Daniel leans against the wall, frowning a little as he senses your hand slide up his chest and your lips hover close to his neck. He catches your wrist and laughs, his gaze sharp on yours. 

"You're joking, right? 'M not gonna sleep with you, Y/l/n. You're not that kind of girl." 

You snatch your hand away from him, an expression of hurt spreading across your features. "I'm not what kind of girl?" you ask, narrowing your gaze at him. Daniel's eyes watery from his laughter and you feel even more stupid. 

"The kind you sleep with," Daniel shrugs, "It's not a bad thing, let's go back to the party,"

"Do you not think I'm pretty?" you interrupt, the drinks you'd had rushing to your head as your eyes narrow. When David looks like he could burst into laughter again, you don't give him much time to explain himself as you run up the stairs to your dorm.

You've never felt as stupid as you do now. You slam your door shut, collapsing onto your bed as you hug your pillow. Tears threaten to spill but you don't let them. Daniel McLaggen can fuck himself.

You're the kind of girl someone fucks.

You are. 

Wiping your tears, you stand and rush down to the Common Room again. This time, you simply walk by Daniel and you don't even bother turning to see his expression when you brush him off as you make a beeline towards someone who you wouldn't have even considered otherwise.

You only think of him because of Daniel's previous words.

James Potter stands to the side now, having been pulled away by Remus, still fuming. Without thinking you walk up to him. He turns his gaze, his eyebrows creasing. 

"Can I help–"

"Can I kiss you?" you blurt out, cheeks burning. You needed to ask. You couldn't just ambush him without consent. Still, James looks just as shocked as he would have if you'd simply kissed him. His jaw falls open and he clears his throat. 

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asks, uncharacteristically nervous. 

You shake your head, resisting the urge to make sure Daniel is watching. You keep your eyes on James. "It might make Lily Evans jealous," you try and convince him, although you aren't even sure if she'd care. 

James thinks abut it for a moment.

"Oh, well, okay, sure," James says with a small nod and you move closer, wrapping your hand around his tie. Without wasting time, you pull him into you and crash your lips onto his. He tastes like fire-whiskey and raspberry pastries but you don't care. You move your hand to his hair, tighten your fingers in his curls, lips moving in sync with his. Once James kisses you back, his hands find your hips and he holds you steady. 

He's a pretty damn good kisser. 

Soon, one thing leads to another and you wake up in his dorm room. Your clothes are scattered around the floor. Thank Merlin he's Head Boy or you'd have his roommates to worry about. James is still sleeping, his arm tucked under his pillow as he snores lightly.

Sitting up, you hold the sheets over your naked body as the events of last night play in your mind. You look at James, biting the inside of your cheek. You shouldn't have taken things this far. All to prove yourself to some arsehole? No, this shouldn't have happened. 

Your gaze softens. James looks so peaceful in his lip. You resist the urge to touch his hair.

Cursing, you promise yourself it will never happen again as you sneak out of his room.

And still, week after week you find yourself twisted in his sheets again and again. 

Turns out, fucking around with James Potter is addictive.

* * * Four Months Later * * *

"Hiya, love," James announces happily, plopping himself onto the chair in front of yours in the library. He's loud so you shush him, your finger pressed to his lips as he leans forward over the small desk. You don't look up from your book. You need to pass Potions and you don't have time for distractions. 

James smirks against your finger. "Whatcha workin' on?"

"An essay, now be quiet, you're annoying me."

James laughs and lays his head on his arm, his dark curls falling over his features as he draws small little hearts near your hand as you write. He's teasing you on purpose. Looking up, you narrow your gaze. "What's your problem, James?"

"Are you coming over tonight?"

The question causes you to flush and you look away, focusing on your essay again. You think for a moment, letting his words wash over you. It is Thursday, meaning you usually meet him in his dorm. Your cheeks burn. 

"Hmm," you nod and then push his hand away, "now bugger off, you're being such a knob." You keep your voice calm and steady, knowing James has too much power over you.

In all honesty, you're still not used to this; being friends with benefits with James Fucking Potter. You're barely friends, it's mostly all benefits, or at least that is what you like to think. It makes the situation so much easier when you're riding him in his room and he's muttering praises in your ear.

It helps keep the lines clear. 

Lines that James loves to blur.

That evening as he snaps your bra open and presses kisses on your chest and stomach, he makes conversation; "Will you come to my game tomorrow?" he asks hopefully, still kissing you. 

You gasp, arching and running your hand in his hair as you lean into his mouth. "U-um, yeah–sure."

He pulls away and sends you an adorably stern look. "I'm being serious. Please come. I want you there."

Your chest rises and falls as you gently rock your hips against him. "I said I would," you whisper, annoyance lacing your tone. James senses your frustration and smirks. He leans forward and wraps his strong arms around your back, attaching his lips to your nipples. 

"Good," he says with a devilish smirk. 

You moan in response.

You didn't think you would actually go. Going to support James, the Captain of the Gryffindor team as a Slytherin, was too close to girlfriend activities for your liking. Plus, you'd stopped trying to make Daniel jealous months ago so there was no reason to be there.

Only, James asked you and in the moment, that seems reason enough. 

The game is loud and you feel a little awkward sitting in the Gryffindor section instead of the Slytherin one. James's friends are rambunctious and one practically bumps into you as he cheers loudly. You move closer to the balcony edge, leaning against it as you focus on the game.

Your eyes drift to a familiar figure in the distance. He's holding the quaffle under his arm, his dark hair is even messier than it usually is and he's clearly an experienced flyer. He throws the quaffle into the hoop and scores. Cheers erupt around you and you straighten up, a small smile forming on your lip. James does some, obnoxious, victory flips and your smile can't help but grow. 

Instantly, you feel embarrassed and you control your smile. You shouldn't be smiling so hard at James Potter. Your heart is pounding and unwanted thoughts swirl into your mind. You spend the rest of the game pretending you're not looking at James. 

Once the game ends, you wander around the Gryffindor Common Room at the after party. You'd promised yourself you would congratulate James and then leave immediately. Only you've been in aimlessly wandering around for thirty minutes and you still haven't found him. You're beginning to become annoyed.

Where the fuck is he? 

Finally, you turn a corner and see him. Well, you see his back, but that's unmistakably his jersey. You open your mouth to call his name as you walk forward but your voice dies in your throat. Someone's hands are in his hair. Your heart sinks and you suddenly feel like throwing up. 

James twists his body as the girl comes into view. Your nose scrunches in disgust. Lily Evans? Why is Lily Evans kissing your James? Just as the thought pops into your mind, another wave of nausea washes over you. James isn't yours. If anything, he'd only been passing time with you when he wanted Lily back all along. 

Your breathing is labored as you watch Lily kiss him.

No. This is so wrong. You shouldn't be crying over him.

You back up, turn around and rush out the door before James or Lily could see you. You wipe at your tears, focusing on anger instead of sadness. 

Fuck this. 

* * *

James hasn't seen you in three days and he's becoming worried. You haven't answered any of his Owls, you crumple up any note he writes to you in class, and you avoid him outside of classes.

He doesn't understand what he did wrong. 

He'd waited up for you after his game. He'd had this entire speech planned, some stupid, love-sick confession of his feelings, and yet, you never even showed up. He wants to be angry with you but he can't bring himself to be. He can never stay angry with you even when he tries. 

However, it seems like you're angry with him because when he coincidentally sees you on your way to Honeydukes and he calls your name, you spin around and glare at him. "Leave me alone, Potter," you spit and that wild look he usually loves so much, now scares him a little. Still, he runs up and his hand brushes your arm. 

You turn around again and shove him. With a thud, James falls to the ground. He hadn't expected you to push him and he lost his balance on the mud from the morning rain. "Oi, bloody hell, woman! What is your problem?" 

You're standing over him now and you look furious. 

"You're my problem!"

"Me?" James scrambles up, dusting the dirt from his jeans. He looks at his Converse and they're covered in mud. Great. He looks back up, an expression of hurt obvious on his face. He doesn't have time to worry about his shoes when you're this upset. "I don't understand! What did I do?"

You're breathing heavily, your gaze locked onto his. The truth is too hard to admit. 

"Just, leave me alone," you snarl again, turning back around. James catches your wrist and turns you towards him once more. You're a little surprised but you don't push him or pull away. Instead, the air around you both feels thicker.

"I like you," James blurts out.

Your chest tightens so much it hurts.

"Don't lie to me," you say, your voice hoarse. 

James looks flabbergasted and he moves forward, taking your other hand in his. "What? I'm not lying. I wanted to tell you after my game but you never came—"

"I did come, you tosser!" you snap and James's brown eyes widen. You've never looked more beautiful, even if you do look like you want to kill him. You push your index into his chest. "I came to the game and I saw you play and I even stayed afterward like an idiot because I wanted to see you. And you know what I saw?"

James shakes his head. He's a little petrified.   

"I saw you kissing Lily Evans. Lily Evans of all people! And what's worse is that I shouldn't have been surprised because it was always her. I should have known—"

James blinks and out of all the things he could have said, the only thing that slips from his mouth is, "Y/n. Did you listen to anything I just said?"

That only angers you more because you look like a vein on your forehead could pop at any moment. "What?! James, did you just listen to what I just said?!"

"I never kissed Lily. She kissed me," James says matter-of-factly and then leans in so his face is close to yours. "Now what did I say?"

"That isn't how that works! You both kissed!"

"Nope. I did not. Now, what did I say?!"

"Don't patronize me," you hiss.

"Y/n."

"You said you like me but—"

James places his index on your lips, cracking a small smile. "Exactly. I like you, not Lily. I told her as much after she kissed me. She means nothing to me anymore. My heart belongs to you and only you."

Your lips part under James's finger, your eyes still wide and a little glossy. His words swirl in your chest, warm and so so dangerous. "You're such an idiot," you whisper against him, his confession finally sinking in. You push him away. "I don't believe you. Why should I believe you!?"

"Because it's the truth. You drive me crazy." James moves his hand and cups your cheek. He's staring at you now like you're the only person in the world who matters. You feel like he's stared at you like this before, you just never knew what it meant.  

James moves a little closer, his large hands framing your face. "I have felt like this for months. Months. And I've been meaning to tell you. I like you. I want you. Not just in my bed as a passing fancy, not to make anyone jealous, but just because I want you."

Your heart catches in your throat, and you know you should say something—anything—but instead, all your defenses come crumbling down as you crash your lips into his and kiss him. 

James responds instantly, hands curling around your waist as he lifts you slightly off the ground and hugs you, his lips still on yours.

Once you finally break apart, his forehead finds yours, and he mutters, "So, does this mean we can finally be done pretending we're just casual now?"

You scoff. "Is that what we were doing?"

James smiles, his dimples appearing as he nuzzles his nose into yours. "Mm, it was," he whispers.

You smile gently. "It suppose was, wasn't it?"

He leans in and kisses you again, smiling against your mouth. "I'm yours. If you'll have me. I am completely and wholeheartedly yours."

"Does that mean you promise to stop being such a knob sometimes," you say and shoot him a pretend annoyed look, keeping him close.

James grins. He raises an eyebrow and wiggles it playfully. "No promises," he teases but he leans in and kisses you again, a silent promise. A promise that he loves you, he loves you more than anything.

[stevebabey]

you're the only one for me, baby

1.7k, steddie, one of them getting so drunk that they don't recognise the other and telling them back off i've already got a boyfriend, it's all sweetness <3 likely a modern!au and actually just goobers in love

Eddie doesn't really drink. He's not against partying but he's much more attuned to smoking a little weed to take the edge off, sometimes a spliff if he wants to mix a little business and pleasure.

Eddie doesn't really drink—so when he does, it goes about as well as expected.

From zero to a hundred.

Steve had lost track of him after directing his stumbling feet towards the bathroom to take a leak. But apparently, as he's now found out, this bathroom has two doors.

What the fuck kind of bathroom has two doors, like some weird thoroughfare?

Regardless, it took all of five minutes with no noises coming from the inside before Steve had loudly announced he was coming in, no matter what, getting quite worried for his boyfriend.

He trusted Eddie to not be too sloshed to handle a piss, even if he was on the wilder side tonight, but still leaned up against the door to chase off anyone else looking to knock—because Eddie hilariously gets pee-shy.

The door had opened easily, apparently unlocked, and Steve had stepped into the empty bathroom. The other door across the room, the one he hadn't noticed until now, was wide open to the party.

So, now he's on the hunt for Eddie.

Which is a task that feels a little bit like herding cats because drunk Eddie isn't something Steve has a lot of experience with. But what he does know, is this: it's the opposite of high Eddie.

Stoned, Eddie likes to find the comfiest place he can (usually Steve's lap, or so he proclaims) and sink into it, like melting wax. Then, given he has access to adequate snacks, he doesn't move for quite some time.

Drunken Eddie cannot even fathom the concept of sitting still.

Either way, looking where there's food is a good as a place to start as any.

Steve ambles out the strange two-doored bathroom and flips his head back and forth, trying to remember the direction of the kitchen. He hasn't been here before—one of Eddie's band connections—and Steve's still had a couple beers himself.

He shakes his head and takes a left, relieved when it leads to the stairs. Okay, he sort of knows where he's going now. They had only come upstairs to find the quieter bathroom for Eddie.

As Steve reaches the bottom of the stairs, a faint stir of irritation flashes through him. Eddie just left him behind? That wasn't that nice, even if he was incredibly drunk.

He can hear the din of people chattering just above the music and he follows it, leading him into the half-full kitchen, people dotted around. There's a few pizza boxes scattered around and Steve eyes each of them specifically, looking for the tell-tale wipe of Eddie's greasy fingers. No dice.

Steve wrinkles his nose, spinning around and double checking before he moves on.

If not by the food, then... where?

Steve takes a few steps forward into the living room, his heart beginning to sink and shrivel all at once. There was a miserable feeling attached to looking for his partners at a party, a wallowing and awful memory tied to the feeling.

Steve pushes a hand across his chest roughly, as if trying to shove the feeling away.

Eddie wasn't... her. Eddie wouldn't do that.

But the moment he's thought it, it's stuck in his head. Steve's feet begin to speed up, checking a little more carelessly as he starts to stick his head in different rooms, his hazel eyes jumping around. Not Eddie, not Eddie, not Eddie—so many people and none of them are Eddie.

Until—there. Steve spots a very familiar looking behind as it leans over the back of the couch, the owner of said-behind talking to someone sitting on the couch.

He blinks, just to be sure, but the details come into better focus. There's chains on his belt loops and when he shakes his head, Steve can see the curls he loves to bury his hands into.

Eddie.

Steve's relief pulls him forward, his feet almost stumbling, his mouth pulling into a relieved smile. He puts a hand out, fingers spread, across the leather-clad back.

"Eds," Steve says, relief colouring his voice.

Eddie swings up abruptly, pushing himself off the couch. When he turns, a bit of liquid sloshes out of the beer bottle he's holding.

"Heyyy," The words come out a bit slurred and when he finally stands straight, he doesn't look right at Steve. "Handsssss off the merchandise, buddy."

Steve chuckles, reaching out and plucking the bottle from his boyfriend's grasp. Eddie gawps, an adorable little hiccup interrupting his shocked expression.

"Hey," He says loudly, reaching forward for it fruitlessly as Steve pulls it out reach. "That's mine." Eddie whines.

"You've had more than enough, I think." Steve says. He steals just one gulp of it before he turns at puts it on a nearby table. When he turns back, Eddie is frowning at him, brows pulled together tightly and bottom lip jutting out.

"Listen—" Eddie leans forward, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest. "I dunnowhoyouthinkyouare," The words come out in a one big jumble and Steve frowns.

What? Something sour claws into Steve's chest at the frosty greeting.

"Eddie," Steve says, his hazel eyes wide and worried as his gaze darts between Eddie's squinted face and swaying form.

Steve reaches out to put a hand on his waist, aiming to steady him, but Eddie sees it coming and widens his eyes comically. He swerves back to avoid it, his boots tilting dangerously on the wooden floors. If he was still holding his beer, Steve bets half of it would be on the floor by now.

"Wo-oah," Eddie exaggerates, waving a hand out and batting Steve's outstretched arm away. The rottenness in Steve's chest blooms, rancid and freezing. He sucks in a sharp breath.

"Ed—"

"I—" Eddie says, holding up his hand and waggling one finger at Steve, like he's a naughty schoolboy. His words still have that drunken slur to them.

"—already have a boyfriend, thank you very much. He's much too pretty to be throwing it away for the likes of you, you weasel of a man..." His ludicrous and nonsensical insult trails off under his breath as Eddie's attention is drawn away by a shout across the room.

As he watches Eddie drape himself back over the couch, the sourness between Steve's ribs shifts, transforming into something infinitely sweeter. He lets out a dazed laugh, a wild smile spreading on his face before he can smother it beneath his hand.

I'm dating a lunatic, Steve thinks happily.

He reaches out and steals Eddie's beer once more, taking another large swig before giving it another go.

This time, he sidles up beside Eddie who's engaged back in conversation with one of the guys on the couch, and just waits. It only takes a minute before the dude on the couch seems to realise who Steve's waiting for and he nudges Eddie, gesturing behind him.

Eddie, still bent over the back of the couch, twists only his head to look. This time, the recognition is immediate.

He springs up, pushing the couch forward an inch in his excitement and leaps forward, his hands clawing into Steve's shoulder with a fierce delight.

"Steeeeve," Eddie croons, crowding in close. His hands start moving, fingers searching like curious spiders, fingertips dancing along the sensitive skin of Steve's neck til he's squirming back, laughter betraying him.

"Stop it." He laughs. Steve arrests Eddie's wrists in his hand and Eddie cackles, using the pause to surge forward, kissing him square on the mouth.

Eddie tastes like the beer he's been drinking and Steve barely gets a moment to enjoy it before Eddie's pulling back, leaning forward so they're forehead to forehead.

"I was looking for you." Eddie says, his doe eyes wide. His pupils grow larger the longer he stares at Steve.

Steve grins. "Uh huh. Looking for me between the couch cushions, were you?"

Eddie rears back, his head flipping as he stares back at the couch and then back at Steve. "Nuh uh. I came out the bathroom and you were goooone."

That explains it. Eddie must have left out the other door — and then thought Steve had left him behind and gone hunting for him. Something else settles in Steve's chest, relieved.

"And—" Eddie hiccups. "—and some guy tried to- to freakin' flirt with me. Can you believeee?"

Steve's grin widens by a mile. "Is that so? What you'd tell him?"

"No, of course!" Eddie says, head pulled back as if he's appalled Steve would think otherwise. He shakes his hands out of Steve's grip and drops them, fumbling for a moment to get his fingers into Steve's belt loops.

When he does, he yanks Steve forward a tad too forcefully, their bodies colliding in a way that's more sore than sexy. Eddie continues on as if he doesn't notice. "Even if he was particularly tasty," He murmurs, his lips tracing the column of Steve's throat.

"I let him know, baby." Eddie all but purrs.

And perhaps if the competition Eddie was beating off was literally anyone other than himself, Steve would be right there with him.

Instead, he can't contain his snort of laughter. Eddie was perfect; he was a possessive and drunken dog, barking up the wrong damn tree. Steve loves him.

"You're laughing," Eddie states plainly, even as his doe eyes manage to grow even more round. Steve can't help it, it just makes him laugh more.

"Treason." Eddie declares. Then using the belt loops to keep Steve captive, he leans in and blows a raspberry on his neck.

Steve lets out an unattractive squawk, his laughter melting into Eddie's as he pushes his boyfriend's face away — to which Eddie simply lets himself go limp, his face cradled and held up solely by Steve's hands.

"Christ," Steve says between his laughs, shifting his hand to hold him more tenderly. Eddie smiles dopely, then puckers his lips and closes his eyes.

Steve rolls his eyes, entirely too endeared. "Alright, c'mere," He gives in, leaning and kissing Eddie, short and sweet. When he pulls back, Eddie's eyes are open, starry and gazing up at him. He gives a dreamy sounding sigh. Steve's heart fizzles, like it's full of pop-rocks.

"Ready to go?"

"As long as it's with you, baby." Eddie says, sounding every bit like he means it.

[sshiostwordblog]

Posting this silly little drawing I did for @lizard-needs-friends out of boredom, THE SILLYYYY (listen, it deserved lots of tickles)

[gothamite-rambler]

Damian: Here you go grandfather. Happy birthday.

Damian handed Ra's Al Ghul a snow globe that had a small forest design in it with glitter that sunk and floated when shaken. Ra's looked at the snow globe with no reaction at first then turned to his grandson.

Damian smiled sweetly.

Damian: It's a goofy gift, but sometimes simple gifts are nice to have. I... Hope you're not going to be mad or yell at me. If you hate it, that's fine, but I have a headache already.

Ra's (deadpan at first then a kind tone): This... This is the dumbest, cheapest looking, chachki crap I've seen sold in gift shops. And I love it! I'm not the easiest man to give gifts too, but you actually accomplished this... Thank you, grandson. I will cherish this dearly.

Ra's patted his grandson on the head then walked off to put the snow globe in his office.

Bruce: Did that... Did he actually like the snow globe?!

Dick: Did he say he'll cherish it dearly?!

Damian: I... Made grandfather happy? Father, my wish has been granted! Drake, give me my fifty dollars.

Tim (groaning): Dang it, Ra's had to be a decent person with a snowglobe gift?

[rinnstars]

(cherish) my love!

treasuring how youre always there for him

itoshi rin x reader: sugary-sweet fluff, slight insecurity on his part, rins pov, not proofread + likes n reblogs r appreciated! <3

maybe, he’s getting to used to this - your hands brushing through his hair as he lies on your chest humming to the rhythm of your heartbeat that syncs with him, his bed that no longer fits just him with a dent reminding him of your constant presence in his life as you constantly orbit around his world, his bag that changed from a plain black bag to one that featured silly keychains that hung your favourite character’s plushie and whatnot that matched perfectly with yours.

sure, he can barely remember the days you weren’t here, having being friends with him since you two were kids with you having been assigned as the so-called “good kid” to deal with him who was deemed the “troublemaker”. sitting with you during playtime felt natural, chatting about strange topics as you smile and laughed at his weird phrasings that soon transitioned to sitting right beside him again for years straight in school, and now right beside him on his bed - it must be fate he thinks. the world has dictated you to be with him for the rest of yours and his life, he thinks, the one good thing that has came out of this life. you were here when those kids at the playground shunned him and outcasted him for being a little (very) destructive to their toys choosing to sit down and chat with him at the swings, you were there in his room during that winter where he could barely look at you through his swollen and red eyes as you visit him everyday without fail despite the heavy snow that flooded his windows, you were there when he lost to isagi in that match as tears streamed down that shined underneath the moonlight into the milk tea you bought him as you two walked back home slowly with yours and his playlist in the background that strangely calmed him. youre the only constant in his life, even more than his brother that he swore would be a permanent in his life with a naive pinkie promise, even more than his parents that seem to come home less and less as each competition passes by, even more than his teammates that whispers about him behind his back that he pretends to ignore as he leaves to meet you at the bus stop.

he doesn’t know what he would do if you one day leave - whether that is leaving japan to go overseas to study that he knows logically would be beneficial to you, whether that is by time and distance that people say is inevitable and unpreventable, or worst simply because you fell out of love with him. hes selfish, but not stupid - he knows hes not exactly the best boyfriend, sometimes he gets too engrossed in his passion and loses touch with reality and neglect you even with your head on his shoulder, he knows hes not exactly the best at expressing himself even despite you being here since the very beginning, and he knows you can do better than him.

but for now, he thinks he’ll treasure every sign of presence of you. he’ll keep those silly trinkets you pass to him, each a sign of love that he cherishes no matter how small - paper hearts and rings you fold right next to him during class whenever you get bored of listening as he sits beside you playing another game underneath his desk, keychains you and him get from claw machines or as rewards from the arcade that he puts in a special little box placed right on his table that is his real treasure, sweets that you introduced to him that got him addicted to the flavourful and sugary-sweet burst as he can’t help but bite into it every time that resemble the burst of butterflies in his stomach and burst in his heart whenever he sees you at the bus stop every morning. he’ll treasure every single non-physical sign of love too - playlist on spotify that he downloaded and play every day in his ear piece that he is practically addicted to, kisses that he can still feel the touch of your lips on his every morning that leaves a invisible mark on his lips and his heart, time you take out of your life to be with him, lunch with him in class rather than with your other friends, waiting for him to finish football practice that could have been used to sleep soundly in your room rather than the old seats in the school that leaves your back sore. he’ll memorise every single moment with you - your first kiss right at the bus stop you still meet at every morning at the place he religiously stands at as he waits for you to reach running as you “woke up late again”, every lunch break with you right beside him eating food you and him respectively brought from home from biscuits to packed bento boxes or just a sweet treat of sugary buttery bread respectively talking about everything and anything that he feels like his true self, every date no matter where: arcade as you two play game whilst he tries his best to impress, in his or your room just basking in your presence, at the playground with convenience store food, cafes that you somehow know, library as he stare at your focused face whilst studying as he resist the urge to kiss you again. and he’ll keep you in his heart for the rest of eternity - each bite and kiss on his neck and lips transfer right onto his secretly glass-like heart that yearns for a little more, each merging of hands that gets his heart pumping at how your hands fit perfectly with his like two puzzle piece matching, and each time your heart syncs with him as he listens to your heart whether in class or right in his room where no one else is here but you and him.

the future is uncertain - glancing at the suitcase that is still messy and open from his recent visit back home from blue lock with his pxg jersey right on you that fits you strangely well he thinks with bright red ears and cheeks, glancing at your changing self with different hair and glasses than the last time he saw you that he wished to experience with you, but he hopes no matter what, that necklace you share with him with a heart, no, his very own heart hanging right onto your neck will stay there forever.

and now, all he can do is to show you back the same dedication, to stay right beside you, to be yours until the end of time as you had always been. he’ll be your supporting figure in your life - staying right beside you until late in the library and walk you right back home, helping you carry groceries and your school bag as you go wherever, walk with you until the end of the earth if you simply asked him to without asking why. he’ll show it to the best he can - wearing and hanging every single gift you give him: keychains, silly bracelets, and every kiss that litters on him that leaves a purple blue mark. and he’ll tell it to you - through love letters in sticky notes or right on the school foolscap paper that reads the words hes too shy and afraid to say that translates his deep unspoken devotion and love to you, through compliments and i love yous that he promises doesn’t reveal the true extent of his feelings for you either seeming too shallow and superficial to underscore the grip you have on his heart and lungs, with his actions: dropping to his knees to tie your shoe lace, letting you do whatever to him from hair clips in his hair to painting his nails to piggy back rides he doesn’t want to admit sends him practically into cardiac arrest. he might not be perfect, far from it in his insecurity mind that creeps and bites away at every sweet moment, criticising his every move - but for you, he’ll keep trying as much as he does for football to be the only one for you. he’ll memorise every bit of you - your favourite food and orders at shops you frequent with him kept in the notes app in his phone that is underneath a layer of password, the exact shape and mould of your body that he melts his hand right into on afternoons like this where you’re within arms range as he embraces you, each and every of your small quirk - from the way your voice leaves your mouth so sweetly and perfectly as though youre carved and made y god himself, from the way you move that has him hypnotised, from the way you look at him that dries his mouth and practically sends him right into heaven. he’ll serve you as a knight would - carry all your things without hesitation as you two walk out of class on top of the strangely heavy school bag on his shoulder, shield you with an umbrella from the cold and harsh rain that leaves the other him completely drenched as you reach completely dry, hell, he’ll ride his bicycle. with you right beside him hugging him that practically could leave his nose bleeding.

he may not be the best boyfriend, but he’ll do whatever it takes to be the only one you’ll ever have - your name practically tattooed right inside his heart and brain with not a single spot for anyone else in his life that he built a wall sky high to protect his heart, the key to his world given right to you and several others just in case you lose it, and your face in his mind every single second on the field with only a wish to do it for you with every step and every kick that lands right into the goalpost. now that he knows what loneliness is like, the days in blue lock where he can only see you through photos you so kindly send him, he doesn’t ever want this to change no matter how selfish it is - he thinks he might simply die from heartbreak alone with you being his real heart compared to his biological one, he thinks he’ll practically be left a shell of his previous ambitious self practically wasting his life away in his room listening to that playlist as he lies right with his own blood pooling around him with his guts and organs strewn a haphazardly around him as though hes back on that field that winter, he’ll no longer be itoshi rin, anyone but his true self that he can be only with you.

but for now, he’ll bury his head right into your chest, your hands still ruffling with his hair, ignoring the thoughts in his mind in favour of your heartbeat that still syncs up with his, melting right into this moment.

[mediumgayitalian]

It was a bad idea from the start, really.

Will is very smug about it.

"I'm not," he insists, lying. He adjusts Nico's arm over his shoulder, breathing heavier with every step up the rocky hillside. "I'm just pointing out that it's very lucky you love someone who is right so often. Else you'd be dead."

His barely hidden smirk makes it a whole lot easier for Nico to be guilt-free about his current incapacitation. In fact, he cuts any effort at all, going completely limp. Will stumbles, damn near dropping him and sending them both tumbling back down into the sea, but manages, at the last second, to find his balance.

He's smug about that, too.

"You have the kind of arrogance they talk about in the Bible," Nico points out, as Will slides his arm under his legs and lifts. "Just saying."

"Do I."

"Mhm. Unchecked. Your father's son, truly."

"Oh, get fucked."

He's laughing as he says it, and Nico smiles, victorious. He swings his legs idly as Will labors, enjoying the sweat beading on his top lip and the shift of his muscles under his wandering hands.

"You know, I landed us pretty good for being near-death."

"You landed us in an underwater cave eight feet from the surface," Will says drily. He pauses, flash of warmth blooming under his palms, then shakes his head in exasperation and keeps hiking. "And you're nowhere near death, you man-baby."

"I'm dying."

"You have a couple scrapes and hay fever."

"I can see the light!"

"Bold of you to assume you're making it to the pearly gates."

Nico pauses. "Okay, point to Will." Will grins. Nico pinches him to teach him humility. "Onwards, servant. And in silence as your panting and human distress bothers me."

Will rolls his eyes again, but he suffers from Finding Nico Funny Disorder and also kind of Enjoying Being Ordered Around Not That He'll Admit It Syndrome, so Nico suffers no consequences. Instead, he inspects the countryside, humming along to the beat of Will's elevated heart.

In terms of places Nico has been stranded, this place is pretty good.

It's warm, for starters. A balmy seventy-seven to eighty, if he had to hazard a guess. The sun is out but it's a little cloudy, so it's not too awful, and if Nico had to haul both another person and two backpacks worth of overpacking he's sure he would be much less pleased about the light humidity, but as it is he is not, and he doesn't mind. The wind from the ocean -- channel, rather -- undercuts it nicely, anyway, and it smells like saltwater and pine needles.

"Are we out west?" Will asks, puffing a little. Nico refrains from making a comment about keeping in shape but it is a close thing. "Don't see pines like these back home much."

Nico hums, looking up at the forest. It's true -- among the many indistinguishable conifers peppering the wet soil are strange, sparse pine trees with trunks that seem almost cartoonish, geometrical. Like an exaggerated idea of a pine tree rather than a real one.

"Hold on. Lemme down, I can check."

"Nah. Let's get somewhere level first, okay?" He squeezes, gently, pressing a kiss to Nico's temple. "You're still a little wheezy," he murmurs, which is rich coming from someone who has not caught his breath for the last twenty minutes at minimum. "You can frolic about like the little GPS you are when you've had a minute to get your bearings."

Nico scowls and refuses to acknowledge the care in the action. He is not a GPS and it is disrespectful to refer to him as such. It would be akin to him calling Will a glowstick.

"Which you do," drawls Will. "On the daily."

"Yeah, but you're cute when you're mad," Nico argues. The comment, predictably, has Will's freckles flashing, and Nico grins. "See?"

"You're intolerable."

"Hm. Four years and counting, though."

"Yeah, yeah."

The incline steepens and Will's breathing steepens with it. Nico can hear the extra effort in his chest, in his pounding heart, and squeezes his shoulders. He teases, but Will has hiked them both a mile at least -- on a steep incline, too, trying to navigate the shifting rock and soil. And he's tired, and he dragged them both up from the water, and there -- there's another couple hundred feet until the hill slopes off, at least. Will takes a moment to catch his breath and Nico brushes the hair off his sweaty forehead.

"Almost there," he says quietly. "Almost there, and we can rest for a bit."

Will nods, and pushes forward. There is that look in his eye, familiar; eyes clouded and distance and face wiped totally smooth. The same face he gets when the infirmary gets a touch too crowded and he reaches, on long-dead instinct, for the helping hand of a sibling that isn't there, and shuts down. The same face he gets when someone peels a boiled egg and the smell of sulfur drags him down, the same face he gets when he wakes himself up half past three in the morning and grits his teeth through the screaming so he doesn't wake anybody up. The same face he gets when he is hurting, when he is tired, but there are others hurting worse, and he forgets. And he forces it away.

Nico hates it. He always has.

But Will is his own person, and he is strong. And there are hardly fifty feet left until they can rest.

They crest the top of the hill -- cliffside, really -- and Will makes no grand heaving, does not drop him. He sets him, gently, on the yellowed grass, and sets his bags down next, arranging them carefully so they hold their own weight. He straightens slowly and holds himself stiffly.

"Will," Nico says softly. "Come sit."

Will works his jaw. "Gimme a minute."

Nico nods, and watches him. He can almost picture the chanting he is doing in his head, trying to release the tension manually, trying to coach himself through the haziness. Trying to bring himself back, like Mr. D. taught him. There is nothing Nico can do, to fish him out of his own head, to drag him out of the place he goes and sits when things are too hard. The place where he used to live, unbidden to everyone. Where he would lose time by the months and resurface with a plastic smile and a practiced laugh and hands clenched so tightly the tendons are worn like old guitar strings.

He sighs, and slumps forward. Nico watches him sway, carefully, hands poised to dart out. But he gathers himself, eyes gently shut, and makes his careful way to the ground next to Nico. Nico places a hand between his shoulder blades.

"You with me?"

He nods. "Yeah." He leans back into the cool relief of Nico's hand, knocking their knees together. "Yeah, I'm with you."

"Good."

It's beautiful, from this height.

However high up they are -- Nico doesn't bother estimating -- they can see out for miles, nothing but ocean and forest as far as the eye can glean. The water is peppered with dozens of other islands, some bigger than others, and the yellowed sun shines in gentle brushstrokes through the woolen clouds, tiny beams of light piercing their way through and onto spotted cliffsides. Chittering coastal birds chase crabs along the rocky beach, and farther in the waves, Nico can see the coasting fins of a group of orcas. He tilts his head, curious, and when he feels his lungs are full enough, and his eyesight is clear and steady, he exhales, long and slow, and rests his hands spread and flat on the soil, searching. He extends his feeling as far as it will go down and outward, feeling Will's life forcing flickering -- tired but strong -- to his right, and millions of other creatures in the ground beneath them. He lets their noise fade and swell and wash over him, like the blending conversations of a large crowd, and tries to follow the waves of seismic energy as they shift and ebb beneath him, rumbling a conversation with connected plates all throughout the Earth.

"BC," he murmurs, blinking his eyes open. Will watches him, head propped on his bent knee. "Canada. Uh, Haida Gwaii, I think."

Will blinks. "Really?"

Nico nods. "Pretty sure." He is not expecting the slow, teasing smile that spreads over Will's face, and he is suspicious of it. He narrows his eyes. "What."

"Oh, nothing."

"Do not lie to me, William Andrew."

"Nothing! I mean it." He pauses. "I was just wondering --"

"Oh, here we go."

"-- it must be the dyslexia, I guess --"

"-- do you ever stop talking --"

"I mean, BC, NY, practically the same thing --"

"I hope you get eaten by a bear. Genuinely."

"-- easy mistake." Will grins. Nico scowls. "Anyone would make it, I'm sure."

"I was drained, you irritating jackass."

"Of course, of course. That totally explains why you shadow travelled us four thousand miles in the wrong direction."

"It's not -- four thousand miles, you dickhead." Nico pauses. "Fuck, is it?"

Will shrugs. "More or less. We're on the literal opposite point of the continent."

"Well." Nico blinks, staring back out the coast. "Shit."

"S'okay." Will stands, brushing off his shorts. "Let's keep moving."

Nico bites his tongue-- Will knows himself. He pushes himself, too, but he's smarter than to leave them both incapacitated. He holds out a hand, and Nico takes it, pulling himself to his shaky feet. He holds up a hand when Will tries to lift him again, and Will sighs, but falls into step beside him, hovering.

The hike is a helluva lot easier when they are not travelling eighty degrees upright. Will leads them into the dense forest and Nico lets him, making a face at the mugginess and the mosquitoes he can already feel but trusting Will's judgement regardless. If he gets malaria, it will be Will's problem, anyway.

"You are such a goddamn drama queen."

"Your fault. I used to be cool and traumatized."

"It's really cute that you genuinely believe that."

"Shut the fuck up."

Will snickers, but does. Probably less because Nico told him to and more because his dumb ass was not looking where he was going and almost walked into a tree, but that's none of Nico's business. He'll just remember the moment for eternity and bring it up next time Will tells him he should spend more time calibrating himself with nature.

They walk for a long time. A couple hours, at least, but Will packed six different water bottles, something Nico did indeed mock him for when they left ("It's a two-day quest, Will, I promise there will be a fucking water bottle available for purchase in Delaware." "Sure, go ahead, trust Delaware and see where that gets you.") but now tastefully pretends is not the case. The granola bars he stuffed in there are the nutritionally bereft but delicious ones from Costco, and they are melted to shit and waterlogged, but they're good anyway. Will tries and fails to ration them. Nico is faster. Plus, they'll…hunt, or something. Probably.

"I have never hunted a single thing in my life and you haven't either, nature boy, but sure, whatever. Let's Bear Grylls this thing."

Nico primly ignores his gripes. Will gets grouchy when he gets anxious, it's fine. He also happens to be very attractive when he is grouchy and Nico happens to be very attracted to him, so these things have a way of working themselves out. Especially because Will has a very sensitive spot on the side of his neck that he isn't quite aware that he has, so as soon as Nico gets close enough to lovingly and perhaps a touch hungrily also bite him he will be fine. Well, he will be goo, but that works. Nico can handle him when he is goo.

"Stop looking at me like you're going to eat me. You know it freaks me out."

It doesn't freak him out. It makes his whole face very hot and his brain kind of non-functional. But Nico is loving and benevolent and refrains from pointing this out.

"We should stop and eat, then."

"You just had fourteen granola bars!"

"Yeah, like an hour ago."

Will reaches out and pretends to strangle him. Nico darts out and grabs one of his hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Will melts at the speed of sound.

"What -- okay, whatever. What Ever, okay. Fine."

He tosses his backpacks -- actually tosses, Christ, someone get this boy a BFA -- and sits heavily on the forest floor, ears burning. Nico looks at the mud and pine needles, wrinkles his nose, and sits delicately on Will's lap. This does nothing for him in the embarrassment slash flusteredness slash superhots he has for Nico, but it does have the added benefit of immediate physical affection and a solid weight in his lap, so his breathing calms. He tilts his face forward until his head is tucked between the space of Nico's neck and his shoulder. Nico reaches up, sliding a hand through his damp curls.

"Check-in," he says quietly.

"Buzzy," Will admits. "Tired. But -- fine."

Nico nods. He cards his hand more regularly through his boyfriend's hair, shifting so Will is slumped against him, and both elbows rest on his broad shoulders; he spends extra time on all the knots, untangling them gently and flicking the shedding strands to the side. He pushes his fringe off his forehead and, when Will doesn't stop him, starts to weave the sections into braids, splitting his hair down the middle of his scalp. He ties both ends off with one of the several elastics on his wrist and grins at the dandelion-pouf of the short strands. He kisses the crown of his head.

"You're cute as hell, you know that?"

"Bleh."

"Don't bleh me. I am the Prince of Hell. I would know." "Whatever, nerd." Will straightens slightly, leaning back against a tree trunk and adjusting Nico's weight. "Your turn. You good?"

"A little wheezy," Nico tells him. "Not that you were right or anything but the quest could maybe have waited until I was not contagious."

"Yeah. Damn, I wish someone would have told you that."

"Oh, can it, Mr. I Can Still Run My Infirmary With A Broken Spine."

"I mean. I could. I did, actually, and it went pretty well."

"You literally almost permanently paralyzed yourself."

"But I didn't! So there." Nico kisses him quiet, because sometimes he actually wants to shake the hypocrisy out of him. The way Will grins, cheeky, into the kiss tells him that he is aware and this was the goal. Fucker.

"I think this is a good spot," Will murmurs, sighing into Nico's mouth. Nico occupies his lips for a little bit longer, kissing every time he opens them to speak -- there are many benefits to dating a virus-immune doctor -- but moves, eventually and mournfully, onto the corner of his mouth, his jaw. His neck. It is a little bit unfair in terms of letting him focus but Will smells like salt and lavender still, somehow, and he looks good surrounded in browns and greens. "For the night, I mean."

"It's maybe two in the afternoon, Solace."

"Well, you need a nap. And I don't want to set up camp twice."

Nico pulls off, shrugging. He has a feeling you need a nap is code for if I don't sleep in the next ten minutes I am going out pass out on the floor. It has been before.

"Works for me."

Together they unpack the entirety of Will's bags. There's a lot of shit in there -- more than Nico assumed could actually fit in any kind of logical space -- and chief among it two bedrolls, a couple blankets, a tarp, some rations (that are not candy-stick granola bars that Nico shoved in there last minute) and, even, some fishing hooks and line. And, of course, more medical supplies than what probably exists on the entire island.

"You can never be too prepared," Will says primly, when Nico bites the corner of his mouth.

"You have leukemia medication," Nico points out.

"Well. Who knows."

"…Right."

Patting his neurotic boyfriend lovingly yet condescendingly on the forehead, which is somewhat of a challenge since he is distantly related to the Yeti or perhaps Godzilla, Nico grabs the tarp and some paracord string and leaves in search of some good branches. Will sings, high and clear, and Nico uses it as his version of Ariadne's string -- he never goes far enough that he can't hear the words, or the pout in his voice when he misses a note. He sings something ridiculous about a small-town judge and a murder plot, twangy and over-the-top and old, no doubt, and Nico smiles, piling the branches in his hands.

Will is convinced he can't sing -- and maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't see the world in quarter notes like his mother, or hear a jazz solo in a creaky door jamb like his prodigy brother. Maybe the birds don't stop when he hums and maybe his guitar is always a little flat. But his voice is rumbly, and curls in the air like camp smoke. And he knows more songs than any other soul living or dead, and when he hums something he made up about the sound of the wind against bending flower petals it warms you, from deep in your stomach. When he makes up a tune to put behind the most famous Italian sonnets or forgets the real tune of a rock song he heard in the back of a tour van ten years ago, Nico's breaths all taste a little sweeter. When his voice gets reedy and pleading and he pants next to Nico's ear, in warm, early mornings, he feels like he's drunk off sound alone.

He likes Will's voice.

He comes back with enough sturdy branches for a lean-to the Hunters would be jealous of, and Will smiles when he sees him. He doesn't stop singing, maybe because he's trying to keep himself awake, maybe because he knows Nico likes it, even though it turns up his vowels in a shy kind of way. Maybe both, or neither. Either way Nico joins him, humming a halfway decent harmony, and hands him the branches one by one, lingering whenever he can at the brush of their equally roughened fingers.

"'Kay," Will says, or sighs. "'S good as it's gonna get, I think."

It's a cute little tent, honestly. There's not a lot of space and once upon a time Nico would have chafed at the thought of it, whether he liked Will or not. A person needs their distance.

But he doesn't, really. Need distance from Will. Maybe he did, before they learned each other. Before they fell into depths unseen and struggled their way back up, before Will helped him angry and hurting, before Nico helped him quiet and blank. Before they learned each other's silences and sacrifices, before Nico knew what it meant to sit next to someone and exist on the same wavelength, in different spaces. Before he knew what it meant to share the same air.

They're codependant, a little.

Nico likes depending on him.

Will squeezes his hand. Nico squeezes back, and together they spread out their bedrolls, pushing them next to each other, and configure themselves around the balance of sticks and corded twine, of tired knees and aching backs. Nico fits his arms around Will's waist and his leg between his thighs, his forehead to the dip in his back and his breathing matching every inhale, every exhale. Will rests a too-warm palm on his wrist and sags into him, exhausted, and together they lay, still and sticky and warm, and it's a little uncomfortable. But it's good, too.

"It'll take you a couple days to get your strength back," Will says softly. "There are a lot of bears in BC."

"I have a sword," Nico points out.

"They're endangered."

"Hm."

"We have one drachma."

"Just the one?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

Nico curls tighter into him. He can tell, without looking, that he has his eyes squeezed shut -- guilty. As if Nico remembered to pack any emergency drachmas or medical supplies or anything outside of granola bars that are 92% chocolate.

"You're not worried about bears."

"No."

"I don't think the eidola followed us from Delaware, sweetheart."

"…Me either." He swallows. "Lotta weird shit in a lotta weird places, though."

Nico hums. He's right. Of all their quests and visits to Will's mother and errands and dates, they've been left unbothered maybe seven total times. Nico doesn't have great luck, and Will is some kind of homing beacon. They never go long without some motherfucker ruining things.

…Nico has a feeling, though.

A good one. For the first time in a while.

"I think we'll be okay," he says, carefully. "I can't promise and I don't know for sure. But I'm not -- I'm a little weak, Will, but I'm not that sick. And you're tired, but you're capable." He punctuates the statement with a firm kiss on the back of Will's neck, anticipating his shaking head. "I think you're right to save it. But you can sleep, and we'll be fine."

There is a lot of shit coiled up in Will's head. Years worth of baggage Nico will never untangle in a day, in a month, in four years. It will take him a lifetime.

But he's gotten pretty good at helping Will wade through it, he thinks.

"Yeah," Will sighs, loosening. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He brings Nico's hand up to his mouth, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his wrist. "We'll stay here for a bit. Three days, at least, it'll take you that long to come back to normal strength."

Protest stirs its way up Nico's chest, but he swallows it back. It won't kill him to wait it out. They have supplies. It will be nice, not to get back to camp exhausted.

Plus, he and Will…

Well, they could maybe use a break, in the wilderness, where no one can bother them.

"We'll IM if we get desperate. We're not too far from New Rome, anyway." Will yawns. Nico squeezes around his waist, and he leans back fondly. "Don't let me sleep longer than an hour, okay? I wanna scope out the place a little more before sundown."

Nico nods, and Will exhales, and in minutes he's out. Nico has always been jealous of his ability to just drop anywhere, in minutes; he could sleep standing up on one foot on the peak of Mount Everest. But now it only makes him smile, and he presses the curl of his lips to Will's warm skin, breathing in the smell of him. It's indistinguishable, almost, from the general outdoorsyness around them, and Nico takes the careful time to memorize it. To memorize it, and them, and the shape of Will in his arms.

He looks out over Will's shoulder and carefully counts the minutes.

-- -- --

next

[juniper-clan]

Moon 14: Birth of Venus

(AKA the twins!)

PREVIOUS l NEXT

[hanafubukki]

Summary: You never expected your cute bunny costume to elicit this type of reaction from Lilia Vanrouge.

After returning from Deuce’s hometown, you and Silver decided to show off your costumes to Lilia and the others.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the time. Lilia commented how cute the outfits were while taking a bunch of pictures.

But you knew something was off as you spoke to Malleus, seeing those magenta eyes watching your every move.

A shiver went up your spine.

You swore you saw a fanged smirk from the corner of your eye.

Breath in.

Breathe out.

Melodic laughter fill the air as you ran.

You remember how Lilia cornered you right before this game of his.

Hand cupping your face as he leaned into you, “Run, my cute rabbit, run as fast as you can.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You knew he was playing with you.

Could catch you any minute.

The light touch at your back or your ears teased how close he is to you this whole time.

How it was his choice to allow you to run.

But if you turned this corner…

A stream of water came to view.

“Oh?”

You flung yourself into the water as quick as you could.

The air stilled.

Before laughter broke out.

“Clever little prey. I went too easy on you.”

“I caught you~”

Fuck.

You were so close.

Gasps filled the air.

Clawed fingers wipes the tears clinging to your lashes.

Your outfit in tatters around you.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle escape him.

You were such a cunning prey.

And now? Such a delicious one.

He wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

You had his blood pumping during the hunt and he planned on using this extra energy on you.

“Lilia…”

“Hm?”

“Plea- Ah!”

“Not yet Beloved, I’m far from done.”

His hunger was far from satisfied.

Oh Bunny event, how you entice me so with bunnies💞💞💚💚

[m4iya]

⋆⭒˚.⋆𝜗𝜚 Order up! Brown sugar milk tea, 100% sugar, 100% ice with black pearls for @moochiwoochi!

Morning Coffee Sakusa Kiyoomi (fluff, crack, mutual pining, post high school)

Every morning for the past few weeks, at nearly the exact same time, the entry bell to the cafe you worked at would ding. In would walk a tall curly headed man, ordering the same thing each time. Once in a while, you'd offer him a baked treat, and he'd accept. Not many words would be exchanged between the two of you, but as time went on, you couldn't shake the curiosity that began to bubble up inside you.

As time passed, you'd begin to anticipate his arrival as one of the first people entering the store at the beginning of your shift. You'd began to apply just a little more lipgloss before leaving the house, touching up your makeup here and there even though you'd never paid it much mind before.

You'd never seen his entire face due to the covering he seemed to always be wearing. Though, as he left the store, drink in hand, you sometimes saw him pull it down a little to take a sip as he pushed the door open with his foot.

Tying your apron in the backroom of the kitchen, you decided that today would be the day that you finally speak to him. But how? And what would you say to someone you'd never had a conversation with before? A couple thoughts rushed through your head as you took one last glance in the mirror, the sound of the entry bell ringing in the background. You hurriedly rushed back to the front of the cafe, standing at the register where you saw him glancing over at the pastries in the display case.

You decided to start with a simple greeting - maybe something funny too?

"Going for something else today?" You smiled.

Surprise momentarily engulfed you as he shot you an unamused side-eye before turning his attention back to the case of sweets.

'So this is how it's going to be.' You thought to yourself before revising your expression, plastering another smile onto your face.

After he was done with his intense inspection of the pastries, he placed his order which was unusually large this time, consisting of a few drinks and sweets. Who on earth would be drinking 3 coffees and an iced chocolate this early? You didn't think he would eat 2 chocolate croissants and 3 strawberry danishes on his own either. As he swiped his card across the machine to pay, you took this as another opportunity to at least try to strike up a conversation.

"Meeting up with someone?" You asked, bagging his items.

"Kind of." He replied, slotting his card into his wallet and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

Holding the bag out to him, he grabbed it from the bottom, holding the handles once you let go. The bell rang once more as he left, and you resumed your work. You shifted around the store, cleaning up coffee cups and wiping down tables when you noticed something laying atop the counter in front of the register. Someone had left their phone there - though it didn't look like it belonged to any of the older ladies who were enjoying a breakfast at the front of the cafe. You still asked just in case, and they confirmed your thoughts.

Setting the phone aside, you wondered if it might be for the man who was at the counter not too long ago. Either way, you'll probably see him again tomorrow if he forgets to retrieve it today - there was plenty of time.

During your break, you took the phone to the 'lost items' box in the back room, sliding onto one of the chairs and enjoying your lunch. After only a few bites into your sandwich, a faint vibrating sound could be heard from the direction of the box you had placed the phone in. Following the noise, you discovered the screen of the phone was lit up; somebody was ringing.

Deciding to click the answer button, you placed the phone on speaker. Maybe you could tell whoever was it was that the owner had lost his phone.

"Didn't I tell you to change my contact name?"

"How come? Whats wrong with Oomi? See, I even put a mask emoji as well..”

You heard bursts of laughter in the background as whoever was on the other side sounded like they were fighting - albeit pretty calmly. Though it didn't seem to be a very long lasting squabble, as it was soon noticed that you’d answered.

"Hello?" You spoke up first. The line fell silent, save for a few subtle voices.

"Giving girls your phone, omi-omi?" Someone sneered in the background.

"Give me that."

"Hey!"

It seemed that he took the phone from the callers hand, opting to speak directly into it instead.

"You have my phone." He bluntly spoke.

"Yeah, you left it at the cafe earlier today."

A pang of silence ran through the speaker as he seemed to have realised who you were.

"Right.." His voice trailed off, softening ever so slightly. “What time does your shift end?"

"5’ o clock." You replied.

"I'll be there before then. Just keep it on the side if you can." His voice was somewhat hushed - maybe he didn’t want the others to hear? Even though he'd only said a few words to you, he seemed somewhat easier to talk to than he had this morning.

Throughout the rest of the day, you wondered if the boys in the background of the call were the ones he had bought the sweets and drinks for. A study session? Maybe they were hanging out together. You began to realise how little you knew about him considering you'd never shared a full conversation before. Thoughts swept your mind as you began to wonder how old he was, if he was in college and what he’d be studying - heck, you didn’t even know his name. And calling him what those guys had said on the other side of the phone didn’t exactly sound like something he’d be too happy about.

You found yourself glancing at the clock every few minutes, wondering how long until another 10 minutes would pass. You’ve never worked so fast before - nor had you been so eager to clock off. You had so many questions to ask him, wondering if he’d even answer any; you let them accumulate inside your already crowded headspace.

At exactly 5:00, you rushed into the employee room to freshen up a little, washing your face and applying some perfume. You made sure not to forget the reason why he was meeting you in the first place, sliding his phone into your pocket. Taking one last glance in the mirror before hoisting your handbag over your shoulder, you left the store, standing at the front where he mentioned he’d be waiting.

Stepping outside the store, you noticed a car stopped on the side of the road, its headlights still gleaming. The drivers seat window began to lower, a familiar pair of eyes meeting yours.

“Hey!” You waved walking towards the car. He stepped out, closing the door behind him.

“Here’s your phone.” He slipped it back into his pocket, thanking you.

This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined it playing out. The plethora of questions you’d accumulated over time suddenly disappeared with him standing right in front of you.

Without a counter separating the two of you, things felt different. For one, you didn’t realise how tall he was, nor did you notice the slight frizz in his curls that seemed somewhat styled earlier in the day. The way the light of the afternoon sun lightly glossed over his skin - you simply couldn’t look away.

He cleared his throat. “Are you heading home now?”

“Yeah,” You replied, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “I just need to wait for the bus.”

He turned towards the door of his car, opening it. “Won’t it be late by the time you get home?”

“Kind of, but I’m used to it by now.” You shrugged.

“That doesn’t sound very safe if you ask me,” He said, slipping into the drivers seat and closing the door. “I’ll take you home.”

“No, don’t worry, I’ll be safe!” Embarrassed, you waved your hands in front of you in an attempt to clear the air.

Though he didn’t exactly look like the negotiable type, as he simply stared back at you with an expression that read ‘Just get in.’

Hesitantly, you walked to the other side of the car and stepped inside, placing your handbag on your lap and pulling the seatbelt over yourself. His car seemed like it had just been driven out of a dealership - it looked completely brand new. There was also a faint smell of sandalwood and vanilla - a very pleasant smell, and it was well ventiated. Below your feet was a duffel bag which was pushed as far into the leg space as it could go - as if he was expecting someone to sit in the passenger seat.

“Well? Are you going to tell me where to drop you off?”

“Oh, right! Let me just pull it up on the maps..” Embarrassed, you dipped your head to search on your phone, almost sure you heard a small laugh from the drivers seat.

As you directed him through the streets, you shared a simple conversation, finding out that he wasn’t currently a college student, but instead a professional volleyball player; and the people on the phone from earlier? Those happened to be some of his team-mates.

“I had no idea,” You chuckled. “I don’t really watch any sports. But I’d watch you play!”

“That’d be nice.” He replied, turning the wheel into the street before yours. “Oh, i’m just down there to the right,” You pointed out. “You can just drop me off here if you like.” He turned on the indicator to take the next street. “I’m already here, might as well get you home.”

Pulling into the street, he stopped in front of the apartment complex you signalled was yours.

"You really didn't have to do all this.." One hand held a grip on your bag, the other on the passenger door. You wondered if you'd ever get the opportunity to speak to him other than just a greeting in the mornings - more than the conversation the two of you shared on this short trip to your home.

"Didn’t you find my phone?" He replied, shifting the car into 'park' and turning to face you. "Someone could've stolen it."

"You'd be able to easily afford another one though."

"Yeah - well, thats," He sighed, a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "Thats not the point,"

"Does your shift end at the same time everyday?"

You nodded. "Yeah, why?"

He held his phone, tapping a few things before handing it to you. "I can take you home in that case. But I'd need to let you know when I'd be waiting outside, no?"

You paused, looking at the empty contact screen he handed you; was he expecting you to fill it in?

Taking the phone from his hand, you saved your name and typed in your number, handing it back to him.

"You've never called me by my name, you know?"

"I don't usually need to call a cafe worker by their name."

"Is that an excuse?" You teased. "Because from when I stepped foot into your car, you've never called my name - not even once."

"Um, not necessarily..?" His voice trailed off.

"It's on my name-tag. You know, the one thing hanging off my apron at work."

"I didn't see it, alright?" He sighed, exasperated. "But you don't seem to know mine either." He shot back.

"Come to think of it, I may have already known it from before." Your thoughts trailed back to the phone call from earlier.

"Really? What is it then?"

You had to control yourself from bursting out into laughter as a chuckle escaped you alongisde your words. "Is it.. Omi? Omi-omi?"

"He’s so going to regret that."

from my 100 followers event ✩ other works

[wikiangela]

I'll be spending all Christmases with you

written for @bucktommywinterfest

prompt: first [insert winter holiday/tradition] together

rated: G

word count: 3.1k

[also on Ao3]

Buck shows up at Tommy’s house right after his shift ends, comes in without knocking – Tommy doesn’t seem to mind, always just smiling fondly in response – kicks off his shoes and drops his duffel bag next to them, and goes straight to the kitchen, two full grocery bags in hands. “You’re off on Christmas, right?” Buck asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks into the kitchen, where he knows Tommy is, based on the amazing smells and the sounds of cooking and music playing quietly.  “Hey, honey, how was your day?” Tommy answers, amused, from where he’s stirring in a pot on the stove. He eyes the bags Buck brought and put on the counter, but doesn’t say anything yet. “Mine was fine, a little boring, I missed you.”  “Yeah, yeah, okay, hi, I missed you, too.” Buck rolls his eyes as he walks over to Tommy to kiss him sweetly. “So, you’re not working on Christmas?” “No, for once I’m not.” Tommy turns towards Buck, holding up a spoon with sauce on it to his lips. “Try it?” “Mmmm.” Buck exclaims when he takes the spoon into his lips. “So good.” Tommy smiles in response, turns to put the spoon away and lower the heat. “I was thinking of taking overtime, though.” “What? When?” “On Christmas.” Tommy shrugs, but he’s not looking at Buck, apparently deciding it’s time to start cleaning the mess he made while cooking. “Why?” Buck frowns. “Well, I don’t have plans. When I’m off on Christmas, I usually take overtime so someone who actually has a family can take a day off.” His tone is carefully neutral, and if Buck didn’t know him any better, he might've missed the note of sadness. He tries to turn away to the sink, which is full of dishes he’s used. But before he can fully turn, Buck grabs his waist and brings him closer to himself, Tommy’s back against Buck’s chest. “Baby, you do have plans.” Buck whispers in his ear, pressing a kiss to his jaw. It breaks his heart to think that this amazing man has been spending all his holidays working, because he didn’t have someone to spend it with. That’s about to change. If Buck has it his way, Tommy will always have a family to celebrate any and all holidays with. Buck is his family now, and he needs Tommy to finally believe that. “We’re spending our first Christmas together, I thought that was obvious.” “Oh. I thought- I know I got an invite for Christmas Eve dinner at your firehouse, but I thought the actual holiday-” “You thought wrong.” Buck interrupts, easily turning Tommy to face him. “Maddie invited us for dinner at their place on Christmas.”

“As in, us both?” Tommy asks, skeptical. Whoever hurt him in his life to make him think he’s so undeserving of love and affection and people actually wanting him around and to spend time with him – Buck wants to kick their asses.

“Yes, us both,” he rolls his eyes. “What, you think I’m gonna drag you along uninvited?”

“And you- you want me to go?” Tommy asks, frowning, as if confused. Buck really is about to ask for a list of everyone who ever wronged him. He’s never seen his boyfriend this doubtful and insecure, not this outwardly before. 

“Tommy. Why on earth wouldn’t I want you to go?” He asks incredulously.

“I don’t know. It’s a family thing, right?” Tommy looks down, cheeks pink. 

“Yeah. And you’re a part of this family now. You know that, right?” Buck asks, reaches out to grab Tommy’s chin and make him look him in the eyes. There’s a panicked look in his eyes when he does. “It’s important to me that you know that. The 118, Maddie and Chim and Jee, me. I’m your family, if you let me. And you’re gonna let me, too late to back out now,” he adds teasingly, mostly a joke, and it does get Tommy to chuckle. But he’s more serious than he’s letting on. Tommy has his whole heart by now. Buck wants him forever, wants everything with him, wants to move in together, wants to get married, have kids, get a dog – just everything. He wants to grow old together, wants to- he wants to share Christmas traditions and start new ones, just theirs, and continue them for years and years and years. He thinks it’s too much to say just yet, too scary even for him sometimes, the intensity and enormousness of those feelings almost overwhelming at times. 

“Oh.” Tommy blinks. “I- Okay. I mean, if they won’t mind me joining-”

“Again,” Buck interrupts, “we all want you there. So, are you coming with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He breathes out, as if he still has trouble believing he’s being included. “God, sorry.” Tommy groans, buries his face in Buck’s neck. “I just- I’ve never spent Christmas with a partner before. It feels- big. And I guess I’m panicking a little bit.” His voice is muffled by Buck’s skin, his arms clinging to Buck’s back. 

“That’s okay. I get it, it does feel big. We can panic together,” he runs a soothing hand down Tommy’s back, and feels him chuckle, and then press a soft kiss to the side of Buck’s neck. He’s just glad Tommy’s not running away, that Buck didn’t scare him off with all the family talk. He tends to go all in too soon, and sometimes, usually, it doesn’t work out well. But Tommy’s still here, telling him he’s panicking, communicating, so they can get through any freak outs together. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Tommy pulls away, shaking his head. “I’m fine. Just took me off guard. I’d love to spend Christmas with you and the Hans.”

“Great.” Buck grins.

“So, what’s that?” Tommy nods his head in the direction of the grocery bags.

“Oh!” Buck lets Tommy go and goes to start unpacking the bags, pulling out all the ingredients he bought. There are too many kinds of flour, a lot of chocolate chips, sprinkles, sugar – to name a few. “We’re gonna make Christmas cookies.”

“It’s a month until Christmas, sweetheart.” Tommy chuckles.

“I know that. We need to try out different recipes, though. I found a few and I’m not sure which one we’ll like best.” He says, feeling Tommy’s gaze on him as he pulls out everything out of the bag. “I used to always bake cookies with Maddie on Christmas Eve. My parents weren’t really in the holiday spirit, like, ever, and it makes sense now, but, you know.” He shrugs. He told Tommy his family history, his family secret, they shared bits and pieces about their lives by now. Tommy gets it. “Anyway, I figured, since it’s our first Christmas, of many,” he adds, looking back at Tommy expecting panic in his face, and there are traces of it still, but mostly he looks fond, hopeful, “we could share some traditions, and maybe do something new. I wanted a new recipe, though, something that we choose together.”

“Really? We’re gonna bake a crazy amount of cookies just so we can decide on a recipe together?” Tommy asks, and when Buck turns towards him, he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“I know it’s silly, okay?” Buck rolls his eyes. “But I want it to be perfect, and I want it to be our thing.”

“Okay.” Tommy smiles, that fond smile of his on his face. “You’re adorable.” He adds, and Buck grins, feeling heat in his cheeks. He’ll never get used to compliments from Tommy, they always make him feel so giddy inside. Tommy makes him feel that way. Like he’s floating in the clouds. And at the same time, like he’s the most grounded he’s ever been, like he can finally put down his roots somewhere. He can really finally see himself doing that. He sees forever in Tommy’s eyes, in his crinkling smile. “When do you wanna start?”

“We can make the first batch after dinner.” Buck shrugs. “If you’re not tired."

“I’m not the one who just finished a shift an hour ago.” Tommy chuckles. “If you’re not tired, sure, let’s do it.” Tommy says, then turns to check on dinner, while Buck starts putting all the groceries away exactly in places they should be – well, he’s rearranged some things since they started dating, but Tommy says he got used to it and likes it better this way. One time he said he likes his space being so full of Buck. It was so sweet Buck kissed him about it, and then had to suck him off about it right there in the kitchen. 

“So,” Buck starts after a moment of silence, only quiet music playing, “you got any traditions you wanna do?” He asks, not wanting to do just his own traditions. It’s supposed to be their first holiday together, he wants to incorporate both of their traditions, and merge them, and maybe one day they’ll transform into something else or get replaced by things they come up with together. But that’s years down the line, and they gotta start somewhere.

“Uh, we didn’t actually do much for Christmas.” Tommy says, and when Buck looks at him, he sees a sad smile on his face, as he starts to plate their food. “When I was little, maybe. I remember having a tree, but not much more.” He pauses, thinking. “I mean, one thing I do remember, pretty vividly, is this thing I used to do with my mom, before she died,” he sighs, turns to Buck, but doesn’t look him in the eye, gaze somewhere on the floor. “We used to take those walks around the neighborhood and watch how people decorated their houses. We used to compare and judge them like it’s some kind of competition.” He laughs, a faraway look on his face, like he’s back in time, with his mom, in those happy memories. “It was so much fun, those are some of my favorite Christmas memories,” he admits.

“That sounds nice.” Buck says quietly, abandoning the groceries to walk closer to Tommy, leans against the counter next to him.

“It really was. But then after she died-” his face drops, he swallows hard and audibly, “we stopped doing Christmas at all. My dad- he was never the same without her. He was never particularly great, but after she was gone, it all became worse.” He shakes his head. Buck’s heard some stories already, he has a pretty good idea of what Tommy means. “One year I got some old Christmas lights from the attic and put them in my room. I just wanted some Christmas spirit, you know? Feel closer to my mom again, in a way, she loved Christmas. But I got chewed out for that. So I just- I stopped celebrating as well.” He shrugs, looks up at Buck. “Anyway, sorry, my point is, watching people’s decorations was one of my favorite things to do during the holidays,” he cracks a smile, trying to shrug off all the sadness in his face, not show how it’s still affecting him. Buck can’t help himself, he wraps his arms around Tommy and just holds him. Tommy sighs, slumps against him.

“Okay,” Buck whispers, “so we’ll do that this year, if you want to. We’ll go for a walk and judge people’s houses after dinner,” he says and hears Tommy laugh. 

“Sounds good,” Tommy pulls away, a grateful smile on his face.

“And we need to decorate the house, too. And we need a tree!” Buck exclaims, already doing mental inventory of every piece of decorations he has, and everything they need to buy. “We can put it in the corner next to the TV. Or move the armchair and-” He tries to move away to walk to the living room and start planning, but Tommy grabs his hand and stops him. He vaguely registers that he’s talking about Tommy’s house like it’s theirs, but when he looks at Tommy, he doesn’t see the panic anymore. There’s a fond smile on his face. 

“Let’s eat dinner first, okay? And then we can start planning.”

“Okay.” Buck smiles sheepishly. They each grab a plate and go to sit down at the small table by the wall.

They get to eating, talking about their days, their ankles intertwined under the table. It’s always so easy with Tommy, getting lost in conversation, topics never ending. Tommy always gives him his undivided attention, listening intently with the fondest smile, even when Buck goes on a tangent about something totally silly and unrelated. Also, Buck just loves this part of the day, he doesn’t think he’s had that in a while. This – coming home to a person he loves, talking about their day, having them genuinely interested and truly get it – and hear about their day, their job, everything they’ve done on their day off. Just having someone to come home to. He loves this part.

“So, here’s the plan,” Buck starts about halfway through dinner, getting back on topic, “we’re gonna make cookies a few days before, and then on Christmas we’re gonna have dinner at Maddie’s, watch Jee open presents. We’re gonna be the coolest uncles and spoil her by getting her every single thing she asked for, by the way.” He adds casually, noting Tommy’s eyes widen at the mention of ‘uncles’ plural. One day Buck will make him believe he’s a part of this family now. He’s an uncle now, whether he likes it or not. It’s not even because of Buck – last time he was at Maddie’s, Jee asked him, verbatim, where uncle Tommy is. “I have a list, and I’m gonna need your help.”

“Okay.” Tommy whispers, an awed expression on his face. Like he still can’t quite believe Buck means it. 

“We’re also gonna kiss under every mistletoe branch in Maddie and Chim’s house,” Buck continues, “and trust me, there’s gonna be a lot.” He grins. He always finds it ridiculous and kind of sweet how Chim goes overboard on mistletoe just to have a cute excuse to kiss his wife at any opportunity, as if he couldn’t do that anyway. “And then we’ll go for a walk together and judge people’s houses. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect.” Tommy says, that fond smile back on his face. “I can’t wait.”

“And-” Buck hesitates, but then decides to just go for it, hoping he won’t scare Tommy away. “Maybe next year, or whenever we move in together, we can host.” 

“Next year?” Tommy raises his eyebrows, his voice shaking slightly. God, maybe that was too much, Buck just freaked him out. “Move in?”

“Sorry.” Buck shakes his head. “I know this is a lot and too fast, but- but I’m sure of this, of us, of my feelings for you. And I know I want us to spend the next Christmas together. And the next, and the next, and all the holidays after that.” He says, confident and sure, watching Tommy’s face shift between panic and affection. “But we can talk about it when time comes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“No, no, I’m not- okay, maybe I am a little bit.” Tommy chuckles, raises his arm to scratch at the nape of his neck, like he does when he’s nervous. “I’m just surprised. And I- I want that so bad, Evan, I’ve never wanted anything more. It’s just- let’s take it one day at a time for now, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buck smiles. “Whatever you want.” He swallows the three little words that have been threatening to spill for weeks now. He’ll say it soon. It’s not time yet, he’s already scaring Tommy enough with his plans for the future. They have time. Buck’s not going anywhere, he’ll be here and he’ll make it work. Maybe he needs to slow down a little, match Tommy’s pace better, he can do that. But there’s no doubt in his mind that Tommy is his forever. 

It’s a few days before Christmas that they make cookies in Tommy’s kitchen, having settled on a recipe after a few tries. Tommy puts on some Christmas music and sings off-key and sways a little as he kneads the dough. Buck stands beside him, watches him with a soft smile, as he’s cutting out cookies from the first portion of dough. Tommy has flour on his nose and cheek, a happy smile on his face, and that sparkle in his eye that Buck’s not sure he’s seen before. He thinks Tommy’s getting his love for Christmas back. There’s a huge tree in the living room, dressed up in so many decorations and lights, a mountain of presents already under it, most for his niece. The entire front yard is brightly lit by lights around the trees, along the fence, a big, lit up Santa, and some other knicknacks they accumulated in the past few weeks. There’s hot cocoa in mugs on the counter, a Christmas movie waiting for them to finish the cookies, and cosy blankets spread out on the couch. It feels festive and warm, and like home and family. Buck’s never been happier, and he’s never seen Tommy happier, either. 

In a few days they’ll go spend Christmas with Buck’s sister and brother-in-law and niece, and a few days after that he’ll welcome the new year by kissing Tommy, ensuring that he’ll spend the next year kissing him, too – if someone believes in superstitions and sometimes Buck really does. He thinks the holidays this year are the best in his life. And he can’t wait to see how much better it’s gonna get each year he gets to do this with Tommy. 

But for now, they bake cookies, and once they’re in the oven, Buck grabs Tommy's hand and turns up the music, and they dance in the kitchen, among the mess, covered in flour and dough, badly singing along to Christmas music and stepping on each other’s toes, and laughing, and it’s absolutely perfect.

They dance to Christmas songs and make a mess while baking cookies, followed by a Christmas movie marathon with hot cocoa for years to come – when they move in together, when two matching rings show up on their fingers, when a set of tiny footsteps and helper hands joins them a few years later, and then another one. It becomes Buck’s favorite thing about the holidays – his family, warmth, laughter, love. His heart is so full. It can’t get better than this.

[also on Ao3]

[pipwritesoccasionally]

midnight emotions (two little lines pt. 2)

in which your stepson has a bad dream and you feel guilty.

this one has less to do with your pregnancy but it is still relevant!

toji x reader (same stuff from last time applies, technically AFAB because of pregnancy but it's also a world with sorcery so I am not here to stop AMAB people. kept it pretty gender neutral, but let me know if it doesn't seem like it.)

wc: 850

parts: 1 3 4 5

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

the darkness floods your eyes as you blink awake for the second time that night. body aching, you roll over, feet fluffing the carpet of you and toji’s bedroom. your arms reach up, exposing your growing stomach to the cold air. 

as you stand, the bed creaks, and you hear your husband groan. 

“doll?” his voice is low from sleep, and you place your hand on his arm. 

“i’m good. i just have to pee.” 

“again? you went two hours ago,” you’d never think that toji could be so whiny, but it sure was a very cute surprise. 

“babe, a whole human is growing next to my bladder. i’m going to be peeing all the time for the next few months,” you chuckle, and you hear him roll over on the bed. 

“fine. see you soon.” 

with that, you begin your walk to the bathroom, able to navigate the dark hallways perfectly after following this routine for weeks. after doing your business, you walk back down the hall, but this time you find that it’s much easier. 

in fact, there’s a light on in one of the bedrooms, which you quickly discern to be megumi’s. you knock, hearing a little “come in” on the other side. 

“megumi? what are you doing up?” you whisper, seeing him sitting up in bed. he furiously rubs his hands with his face, and the sight brings tears to your eyes. 

“i…had a bad dream.” he says, his little voice full of sadness. you move to kneel next to his bed, hoping to reassure him. 

“what happened? you can talk to me about it, if you want. or i can get your dad if you’d prefer.” he shakes his head, but still seems to hesitate. 

“dad’s not going to…leave us, will he?” worry strikes through you. 

“never. what would make you think that?”

“i don’t know, i guess i just wish we could see him more. he’s always pretty busy and only comes home for dinner.” another tear falls down his little face, and you can feel one mirror on your own. curse your hormones. 

“he’s busy, yes, but it’s because he’s trying to provide for you as best as he can. he just wants you to be happy,” megumi nods, but you can see that there’s still something on his mind. 

“it’s just that…when the baby comes, will he still have time for us?” your heart brakes at his statement, guilt shattering you. 

“of course he will. i promise you that he will always have time for you. he can be gruff, but he loves you.” 

“pinky promise?” he holds his little pinky out, and you immediately hook your much larger one around it. 

“pinky promise. now go back to bed. if you’re tired in the morning, let me know and i’ll call you out of school.” he nods, and you walk to the door, turning his light off. 

“sleep tight kiddo.” the door closes with a soft click!, and you immediately head back to your shared bedroom. your face feels wet, and you realize belatedly that you’d been crying. 

the bed is comforting, but you feel your breaths come out shakily. 

“doll? what’s wrong?” you jump, not realizing your husband’s still awake, and scoot in closer. 

“megumi’s worried that you won’t have time for him once the baby comes, and i feel so guilty. i didn’t even think about how this would affect them.” you’re hiccuping now, and his large hand comes to rest on your back. 

“you didn’t do anything wrong, i should be here more for them.” he whispers, and you shake your head. 

“no, you’re just doing what you can to help us.” he sighs, and you place your head on his chest. 

“yeah, but maybe it’s not enough. i’ll try to cut back on how many jobs i take weekly so i can be here more. we make more than enough money between the two of us anyways.” 

you hum, remembering exactly why you fell in love with him all those years ago. he isn’t exactly the most open person, but he does love his kids in his own way. 

“you need to stop being so cute. this isn’t good for my blood pressure,” he snorts, squeezing you lightly. 

“cute, huh? never thought someone would call me cute,” you laugh at him, wrapping your arms around his body. 

“why wouldn’t they? you just ooze cuteness, from your thick biceps and rippling abs-” 

“i’m starting to think you might be in love with me.” you can just hear the grin in his voice, and you move to roll away before one of his strong arms stops you. 

“ah-ah,” he tuts, “need my doll next to me so i can protect her.” 

“you sure you’re not the one in love with me?” his chest is firm as you run your fingers across it. 

“you wish,” he presses a kiss against your temple, and your body heats up. you huff, feigning annoyance, and his hand comes to cup your face. 

“fine. i might be in love with you. just a little bit."

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Genshin Guys as Boyfriends: Part 2 (Tartaglia, Kinich, Neuvillette)

It's been so long since I did ones for Kaeya, Xiao, and Thoma. Even though they were only reposted at the beginning of November, it's been ages since I wrote them

CW: None (seriously just fluff)

Tartaglia x gn!reader; Kinich x gn!reader; Neuvillette x gn!reader;

REQUESTS and ASKS are OPEN

Tartaglia

Same thing I said for Kaeya goes for Tartaglia in this one. He definitely has a teasing streak, but he'd be a really, really solid boyfriend

I mean, look how he treats his family. Dating him puts you pretty far up the list of people he values most

Nah, Tartaglia spoils the shit out of you. Fancy dates, gifts (he doesn't hesitate to use fatui funds to get you souvenirs during his missions), the works. He's away so much that he doesn't want you to forget that he really does love you

And when he's around you, expect him to be pretty clingy. He's always holding your hands or wrapping his arm around your waist, or just laying in bed spooning.

He won't say as much, but your presence is grounds him. After spending all his time fighting and threatening people, your company reminds him of what it's like to be a normal human

Kinich

Honestly, I think Kinich has a really hard time dating you at first

this kind of close relationship isn't something he's ever known, especially when you start telling him that shit you do doesn't have a price tag

it's a point of conflict, but he does start to get used to it, start to trust that his company is enough for you

That being said he's always trying to do stuff for you. Definitely an acts of service kinda guy. To the point you start to wonder if you owe him. it's at that point he realizes what you've been trying to tell him, that a relationship, by nature is one of give and take and shit like "prices" don't really factor in

after that things are much smoother

I think his favorite activities with you are stuff that doesn't involve a lot of other people. Cuddling a bit maybe, wandering around in the wilderness, I think he loves showing you all the little stuff he's learned over the years. Rather than going to fancy dinners he'd rather stay at home and cook with you

He's never very verbal about his affection, but one day he just comes up behind you and wraps you in a hug and you just feel really, really lucky because that kind of affection isn't natural to him

Also, Ajaw learns really quickly that being mean to you is a one way trip to time out

Neuvillette

Calm, stable, loving Neuvie. I love him so much

I think of the three, Neuvie is the most stable. Tartaglia is a battle-hungry maniac (and I love him for it) and Kinich is traumatized to no end. Neuvillette is just a workaholic

But even if he's a workaholic, I don't see him saying no if you want to sit and read on a couch while he does paperwork

He'd be so affectionate. Kisses to the backs of your knuckles, soft touches to your hair

In public he's not a fan of excessive PDA, though he will hold your hand, but in private he's really, really touchy. Loves to lay his head on your lap (of have you lay your head in his, he doesn't really care). Tons of cuddling and just sweet little touches

Also, hair brushing. I think in his case that's a whole ass love language. You could spend hours brushing his hair, gently combing out every tangle. And then he does the same for you, or if you don't have much hair, he still spends a lot of time with his fingers in it.

I guess, a good way to put it is Neuvie is all about that quiet, soft intimacy

He's not possessive at all and always encouraging (of everything except crime, he'd rather not see you in the defendant's box) and just ooooooo. He's just the perfect boyfriend

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[samazing0831]

The Smell of Trouble (and Love) - Fred Weasley x Reader

Fred Weasley x Reader // Hogwarts // Amortentia Confessions

During a sixth-year Potions lesson, Amortentia reveals more than just favorite scents - it exposes feelings Fred didn't even realize he had. When his potion smells unmistakably like you, he finds himself caught between panic and a long-overdue confession. But you're not exactly innocent in this either... because your potion? Smells like trouble - and him.

What starts as a simple classroom assignment spirals into something far sweeter, far messier, and far more magical. Because when it comes to Fred Weasley, love was never going to be anything less than explosive.

926 words

The dungeon was thick with steam and the scent of magic - both sweet and sharp - as bubbling cauldrons filled the air with shimmering plumes of pearlescent vapor. Students hunched over their desks, trying to perfect their Amortentia - the most powerful love potion in the wizarding world, and easily the most dangerous in Snape's arsenal of sixth-year torment.

You stirred your potion slowly, counting the swirls clockwise as instructed, your wrist moving with practiced ease. The scent wafting up was heady and warm, curling around your sense like silk. You hadn't dared breathe too deeply yet - curious as you were, you weren't ready to learn what made your heart beat faster. Not yet.

Beside you, for once surprisingly focused, Fred Weasley was hunched over his own cauldron, brows furrowed in what you assumed was concentration.

Until he froze.

He sniffed the air once, then again - slower, more deliberate. His eyes flicked toward you.

"That's... odd," he muttered, his voice unusually subdued.

You glanced over. "What is?"

Fred hesitated. For a moment, it looked like he might brush it off with a joke, or flash that roguish grin and give you one of his classic non-answers. But then his expression shifted - just slightly - and his voice dropped a note.

"I can smell... the Burrow after a summer storm, fresh parchment, and -" He swallowed, his voice catching. "And you."

You laughed. Nervous. Guarded. "It's probably just Ginny's shampoo. We share a dorm, remember?"

But Fred shook his head. "Nope. Definitely not Ginny."

Your heart gave an uncomfortable thud in your chest. You turned back to your potion, willing your voice to stay even. "Knock if off, Weasley. What do you really smell? Gunpowder? Firewhiskey?"

He didn't answer immediately. When you finally looked up again, Fred was watching you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. His fingers tapped the edge of the desk absently, the corner of his mouth twitching, but not into his usual grin.

"Merlin, you really don't believe me, do you?"

You blinked. "Should I?"

"I'm not pulling your chain, love." HIs voice had softened to something unfamiliar; something that made your stomach do a slow, swooping flip.

You said nothing.

So he stepped closer, the space between you charged like a live wire.

"You want specifics?" he said, his voice low and teasing now. "Fine. I smell that ridiculous quill you chew on when you're overthinking. The ink stains on your fingers when you've been writing for too long. That vanilla perfume you swear you don't wear, but it's always there after you've gone."

His eyes searched yours, just a breath between your bodies now. "And something else I can't even name. Just... you."

The silence between you was deafening.

You didn't respond right away. Instead, you turned back to your cauldron, heart hammering as you bent low and inhaled deeply.

And there it was.

Your mother's coffee cake. A dusty library. And -

Gunpowder. Smoke. Clean shampoo. That stupid, maddening mint Fred always chewed after lunch, claiming it "kept him charming."

You stood up slowly, chest tightening with the weight of what you'd just confirmed.

"I smell my mum's cake," you said carefully. "Books. And... and you." You swallowed hard. "Your shampoo. And that mint that's supposed to be refreshing but mostly just drives me insane."

Fred didn't move for a moment, his jaw slack, his freckles blooming redder than ever. Then - like someone had flipped a switch - his grin broke through.

"Me?" he repeated breathlessly. "You smell me?"

Before you could nod, before you could even breathe, Fred reached for you.

His kiss was fierce, messy, completely unpracticed - and perfect. It was all parchment and heat and too many things left unsaid. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer, like he'd been waiting for this forever and couldn't quite believe it was real.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Guess that means we're both goners then, yeah?" he said, eyes wide, voice thick with emotion.

You laughed softly, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his robes. "Merlin save us, then. I'd rather be mad and with you than sane without you."

Fred chuckled, utterly delighted. "That's good, 'cause I've been barking mad for you for ages."

His grin widened, that mischievous spark reappearing in his eye. "You do realize this means you're stuck with me now. No take-backs, no regrets, and absolutely no backing out when I drag you into a prank.

You arched a brow. "Fred Weasley, that's all I've ever wanted."

He spun you once - just to be dramatic - before catching you again, arms looping around your waist. "Bloody hell," he murmured, smiling like an idiot. "You're perfect."

"Obviously," you teased, grinning back.

Fred hummed thoughtfully, eyes glinting. "Now... about that potion." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What do you say we accidentally switch Snape's vial with something a little more... dramatic?"

"Or," you offered sweetly, "we slip Amortentia into his tea and make him fall in love with - oh, I don't know - Filch?"

Fred gasped like you'd just proposed marriage on the spot. "Filch?! You wicked, wicked creature. You've officially out-pranked me."

He kissed you again, quick and gleeful, then leaned back with a dangerous smile.

"Well the, partner-in-crime," he said, lacing his fingers through yours, "let's go make Hogwarts history."

And with your heart still racing, your fingers tangled together, and your potions forgotten entirely - you knew this was only the beginning of a much bigger kind of magic.

@xrubi-hillx