#how the shit do these old telephones look like again??

[thriftedtchotchkes]

old dogs don't change

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: weeks after sleeping together, your no-strings-attached agreement goes up in flames when joel goes on a date with another woman. you make sure that never happens again. (sequel to keep it on the low)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, ex-boyfriend!joel, jackson era, tlou 2 jesse appearance, age gap, hurt, angst, smut, unprotected piv, post-breakup sex, rough sex, public sex, rough oral (m!receiving), exhibitionism, possessive behavior, jealousy, alcohol use, briefly dating other people

word count: 10.6k

You have no idea who she is, but you bet she’s a total bitch. Is that mean? Maybe. Do you give a shit? Nope.

To be fair, you’d probably say that about anyone Joel started dating after you, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be true. Sure, you've never actually talked to her…or seen her before in your entire life, but that’s beside the point. She’s cute and bubbly, and everything you’re not, and that’s the point. 

It’s honestly a little comical how different the two of you are, and you can’t help but wonder if Tommy did that on purpose. You know he was the one who set them up. Everyone in the dining hall was talking about it this morning. The latest, hottest piece of gossip, bouncing from table to table like a cruel game of telephone. 

He probably thinks he’s protecting his big brother, but you think he needs to mind his own fucking business. It’s not like he knows anything about your relationship, not really. Well. It’s not your relationship anymore, is it? And Tommy, along with everyone else in this town, blames you for that.

Poor Joel, dumped by the biggest bitch in Jackson, who took advantage of his kindness and patience for years, and broke his heart when all he did was love her. Selfish, cold, and uncaring. Nothing like the pretty, perky girl sitting next to him in the booth they’re sharing at Seth’s. 

If only they knew what really happened.

The bar is especially busy, even for a Saturday night, so you figure no one’ll notice you blatantly glaring at them. It’s not like you care, anyway. You’re feeling warm and loose, and maybe a little too tipsy for your own good, but tonight, you get to do whatever the fuck you want. 

Because Joel’s sitting ten feet away with his arm slung around another woman, and it hurts. 

It sucks way worse than him avoiding you since the last time you slept together, after all of the things you did and said on that couch. The things he said. You shoo away the thought with another swig of beer, wishing you were drinking something stronger. It's for the best. 

If you get any drunker, you’ll probably end up doing something stupid, and the last thing you need is to prove everyone right that he’s better off without you. But you can’t seem to shake the anger that’s starting to simmer below the surface. 

With the emotional toll this night has already taken, you kind of don’t want to. So, you surrender to it. Fuck him. He’s a piece of shit for parading his new girl around right in front of you, and for breaking off your agreement without so much as a word. 

If he wanted to see other people, he should’ve opened his mouth and used his big boy words. Then again, he’s always been terrible at that, so why are you surprised? 

Maybe he’ll fuck her tonight. Touch her all of the ways you like because that’s all he knows anymore. She’ll moan for him, soft and sweet, gentle in her affection, just like she’s touching him right now. But it won’t satisfy him, and when he’s panting on top of her, chasing that all-consuming release only you can give him, you know he’ll be pretending she's you. 

Asshole.

You’re still watching them, shooting daggers from your spot at the bar, when your wish from earlier is granted. Two overflowing shot glasses topped with lime are placed in front of you, and you look up to see a very attractive dark-haired, brown-eyed man smirking down at you.

"Looked a little lonely over here," he says in a raspy baritone even lower than Joel's. He clinks the top of your beer bottle with the bottom of his own. "Thought you could use some company, maybe another drink."

Well, he’s right. You could use some company, and you’d love another drink. There’s no harm in having a little fun, right? If Joel’s doing it, then there’s nothing stopping you.

"So, both of these are for me, then?" you smile coyly, reaching for one. He nods, his own smile widening.

"Could be. Can I join ya?" he gestures to the empty stool next to you. 

He has this cocky look on his face like he already knows you'll say yes, and in your inebriated state, you think it's kind of hot. It reminds you of Joel when you first met. How he knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn't give up until it was his. Until you were his.

You consider him for a moment. He’s young, maybe even younger than you, and obviously confident enough to make a move on you. Fleetingly, you think he might end up being that stupid thing you do tonight, but then you down one of the shots and decide you don't actually care. 

What turns out to be tequila burns the entire way down, and you immediately pick up a slice of lime. You’re hyperaware of the way his eyes lock onto your mouth as you suck on the sour fruit, lingering when a droplet of juice dribbles down your chin. 

It’s not a total surprise when he reaches up to thumb it away, but you are taken off guard by how strange it makes you feel. The pad of his finger is disappointingly smooth, no weathering or even a hint of a callus. You're not sure why that matters to you, but you can take a decent guess.

You chance a glance over at Joel's table and, of course, you have his full attention now. His entire body looks tense, from his hand clenched on the table to the prominent vein bulging angrily in his neck. 

Good. Now he knows how it feels.

Looking back up at your mystery guy, you run your tongue along your bottom lip, catching any remaining lime before you finally give him an answer. 

"Sure. Pop a squat, cowboy," you giggle. It doesn't even sound like you and feels wrong the second it passes your lips, but as long as Joel heard it, that's all that matters. "You got a name?"

He replies, but you're too busy keeping an eye on Joel in your peripheral to catch what he says. In the back of your mind, you think that’s probably a good thing. You'd rather not know, especially if you do end up taking him home. 

Mystery guy laughs at your noncommittal hum and you realize you’ve been caught. But he doesn’t seem upset. It’s clear he’s amused by your obvious interest elsewhere and that piques your curiosity. 

Any other guy here would’ve been pissed by your apathy, especially if they’d bothered to buy you a drink that you accepted, but apparently not this one.

He sits down on the stool next to you, pulling it close enough that his knee presses against yours. You unconsciously lean into him, your skin erupting in goosebumps despite your growing unease.

He's...baffling. A total enigma. You can’t figure out what his deal is or why he’s choosing to keep pursuing you when your eyes have been glued to another man all night. 

The thought of letting this continue long enough to find out is a little thrilling. Might as well see where this goes. If it escalates, you’re more than confident in your ability to care of yourself.

But it happens sooner than you expect. His hand finds the back of your stool and, then, his lips are suddenly right next to your cheek. You can feel the warmth of them as he tilts his head to whisper in your ear.

“Look, not try'na to overstep, but…,” his eyes dart to where Joel’s sitting, unreservedly ignoring his date. The poor thing barely notices, chattering away about something not nearly as important to him as watching you. His gaze returns to you, and you can feel him smirking. “You wanna make that guy you've been staring at all night jealous?"

That’s—wow. You didn’t see that one coming. He’s got a lot of audacity to assume that’s something you’d want, let alone offer…what? His services? 

But, then again, he isn’t wrong. Joel’s been the only thing on your mind since you walked into Seth’s tonight and saw him with her. He’s always on your mind if you’re being totally honest with yourself. It’s plain to see, obvious to every single person in this bar including the man himself.

You eye your mystery guy curiously for a second before nodding, your lips quirking into a small smirk. Maybe it’s time to prove to Joel and everyone else in this judgmental town that you’ve moved on, too. That you’re not the sad, bitter shrew that deserves to be alone.

"Yeah, actually, I do," you reply cautiously. But there's still one lingering question that has yet to be answered. "I just…why? I don’t get why you’re helping me. What are you getting out of this?”

He shrugs, and somehow you can just tell by the look in his eyes that there’s no hidden agenda. You’re not sure how you’re just noticing, but he has kind eyes. This whole time, he’s been nothing but patient and attentive, like Joel always was—...is? 

Was.

You almost wish you could fall for someone like this man instead of pathetically clinging to your past. Maybe you’ll at least get a friend out of this crazy night, if nothing else. But then you remember one, tiny problem with that idea.

“Can you tell me your name again? I promise you have my full attention this time,” you smile sheepishly. He chuckles good-naturedly and, again, doesn’t seem to hold it against you.

“It’s Jesse,” he says with a deep, southern drawl you should probably be more attracted to. “And let’s just say I know how it feels to want someone ya can’t have.”

You nod slowly, understanding perfectly. Except—you didn't realize up until this moment that that's exactly what you want. Someone you can't ever have. 

And it took seeing Joel with someone else, his body pressed up against a woman that isn't you, to realize it. Well, that fucking sucks.

You decide not to ask about Jesse's situation. It's not your business and, anyway, you're both trying to feel better about your circumstances, not worse. 

There’s a silent sense of camaraderie between you that tells you to throw caution to the wind. Tossing back the second shot, you turn your stool to face his, literally and figuratively turning your back on Joel. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Jesse,” you murmur, and you genuinely mean it. He grins, leaning in slowly, still giving you time to back out if you want to, but you don't. 

Eat your heart out, Joel Miller. This one's for you.

"S'nice to meet you, too," he replies softly. 

Then, his lips are on yours. The kiss is wet and open-mouthed, and yet he handles you so delicately. He cradles your face in his hands as his tongue brushes against yours, and you moan softly into his mouth, letting your body get lost in the way he feels. And he feels so—

Much different than Joel. 

All you can think about is how much you miss Joel's rough touch, the way he'd thread his fingers through your hair and tug you into his mouth, nearly devouring you whole. Joel kissed you like every time might be the last, right up until it actually was. 

Fucking hell, why can't you just enjoy this without him ruining it for you?

You try to forget about it, about him, licking into Jesse's mouth a little more aggressively, and he groans, his body eager and responsive. It's probably more than you should be doing in public, sitting at a bar surrounded by people but, hell, you want them to see. 

They can say whatever they want about you. You're done giving a shit.

And, boy, will they have a lot to talk about after tonight. Joel makes sure of that. It happens so fast, you barely register that Jesse’s lips aren’t on yours anymore like they should be.

One moment, Jesse's hands are trailing down your sides to your waist, and the next, he's being forcibly dragged off you. Between you stands a broad, imposing figure ensuring you stay separated.

Your mind goes blank, and all you can do is watch in shock and disbelief as Joel lets loose on him, his words possessive and almost nonsensical. 

"The fuck you think you're doin' touchin' her like that? Y'need to learn how to keep your hands to yourself, kid, before ya get yourself in trouble," he grits out angrily. 

To his credit, Jesse stays cool and collected, but it’s not enough. There’s already a few pairs of eyes on you, drawn by the physical altercation, and it won’t be long before the rest of the bar notices the impending fight.

"Respectfully, sir, s'long as the lady consents, I'll put my hands wherever she wants," Jesse replies, standing his ground. He tries to move around him to return to your side, but Joel fixes him with a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"S'that really a good idea?" Joel sounds menacing and looks even more so the longer the conversation continues. 

You’re still numb to everything unfolding in front of you and it’s not until Jesse’s next to you again, snaking an arm around your waist, that you finally come to. The reality of your situation hits you like a ton of bricks and now you’re mad. You open your mouth to retaliate, but Jesse cuts you off before you can get a word in.

“There a reason it wouldn’t be?” he turns the question back on Joel and you tense, anticipating a less-than-friendly answer. Jesse squeezes your hip in reassurance, but it does nothing to soothe your unease. He doesn’t know Joel like you do.

“Kid, do I look like I’m fuckin’ around? Take your hands off her and walk away. M'not gonna tell you again,” he all but growls, taking a threatening step forward. 

Neither of you back down. Jesse’s arm stays firm around you as your nails bite into your palm. It's taking everything you've got not to make a bigger scene than you already have.

You knew it. Since the breakup, you’ve been trying to reconcile this increasingly unfamiliar man with the Joel you gave your entire heart to all those years ago. With each passing month, the differences between the two become more and more obvious.

He's angrier now and has so much less patience. It's not that he's unkind. You know that no matter what his circumstances are, Joel will continue to be a good man. But he has a hair trigger, especially when it comes to you. 

And he wants. God, he always wants you. It’s not that you didn’t have an active sex life before everything fell apart. He just...fucks you differently now. Possessively and without restraint, like he needs to be sure you're satisfied enough to never need anyone else. The agreement to keep sleeping together was actually his idea. And it worked for a while—until it suddenly didn't. 

Now, you're forced to come face-to-face with that reality. Sitting at this bar, you spent the entirety of the night believing he'd decided he didn't want you anymore, that he was ready to find happiness in something simpler than sneaking around with his ex.

Except, it's starting to feel like maybe that's not as true as he made it seem. Like he never should've gone on this date in the first place.

"What the fuck, Joel?" you hiss, fighting to keep your volume under control. Not that it matters. The entire bar is staring at you, their eyes ping-ponging back and forth like they're watching a tennis match. "Back the fuck off. Now. This is none of your business."

"The hell it ain't my business. Some kid's runnin' his hands all over another man's girl and y'think that ain't my business?" 

His trembling hands clench into fists at his sides and, while you’re betting the rest of the bar thinks he’s preparing for a fight, that isn’t Joel. It might be you, though, if he keeps this up.

"Excuse me? And whose girl am I—yours? Because I'm pretty sure your girl is sitting over there in that booth. Or did you forget about your date?"

For a moment, he actually has the nerve to look ashamed, like he feels bad about leaving her all alone at their table and for humiliating her in front of all these people. He avoids her crestfallen gaze, likely not ready to face the hurt he’s caused. 

But it only lasts for a second before his eyes darken again, focused solely on you. As if Jesse, his pretty date, and everyone else in this bar disappeared, and it's just you and him. This conversation doesn't include them anymore. It's a private matter now.

"We're leavin'," he says with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

He should know better. That's not how things work with you. You’re a fighter, a trait he’s always loved about you, even if your ire was directed at him. Back then, it rarely was.

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm leaving with you," you scoff bitterly. "Go back to your date, I'll go back to mine, and we can forget about this. All of it. We're done, Joel."

He shakes his head, mouth tipping down into a frown like he's thinking something over. Then, he huffs out a laugh. Like, an actual laugh, and you start to think maybe he really has lost his mind.

"Y'know, I really don't think we are, darlin'," he drawls dangerously. 

He's on you in an instant, his hand wrapped tightly around your arm as he drags you out of the bar. You briefly consider resisting, but he's moving too quickly. All of those shots you downed combined with the beer you drank earlier go straight to your head, and you're suddenly overwhelmingly distracted by the feeling of his skin on yours.

Fuck, it feels like it's been so long. In reality, you know it's only been a few weeks but, god, you missed it. His hands on your body, anywhere at all on your body. You'd hate how quickly you forget about Jesse if you could think about anything else but those familiar, rough fingertips.

The way they dig into you, reminiscent of how he'd squeeze your thighs or clutch your waist when he was making love to you.

...Wait, what? No...no, fuck. Why is he making this so difficult? Why—Christ...why can't you just leave each other alone? If he never planned on letting you go, he shouldn't have broken up with you. And if he still wanted you this badly...all he had to do was ask. You would've said yes in a heartbeat.

So, you let him steal you away, out into the brisk, wintry air that does little to cool your fury or the heat beginning to coil in your belly. The door shuts noisily behind you, and you immediately wrench your arm out of his grasp before he can say a word. It's your turn to talk now.

"What is wrong with you? You can't just...fuck, you can't do shit like this!" You're seething, practically shaking in your rage, and his expression doesn't look much different. 

"And you can? I dunno what the hell you were thinkin' gettin’ cozy with some goddamn kid, lettin’ him touch ya like that in front of the whole town," he reiterates harshly. He's starting to sound like a broken record. It's the only leverage he's got, and you both know it's flimsy at best.

"Some kid? Jesse's a fucking adult, clearly more mature than you," you bite back. "And it’s a bar, Joel. That's what people do at bars."

Joel scoffs, and you can tell he hates the way Jesse's name falls from your lips. Especially when those lips were on yours not even ten minutes ago. 

"And who are you to decide who can and can't touch me? You broke up with me," you continue resentfully. "You don't get a say anymore."

At that, his face becomes unreadable. He didn't need the reminder, and you know that, but it needed to be said for both of your sakes. Sometimes you think maybe he actually forgets it was his choice to give you up. That he didn't realize his decision would hurt you as much as it hurt him.

"So, what? You gonna take him home then, let him fuck ya?" He leans in close, so close you can feel his soft, graying curls against your temple and the coarse drag of his beard across your cheek. 

"Kiss ya here—," a finger trails delicately down the side of your neck to his spot above your collarbone, then continues down to where you've been aching for him for weeks, "—taste ya here." 

You slap his hand away before he can get any further, but your reaction only spurs him on. How could you forget? He likes that.

"Y'know he can't make ya feel as good as I do. Fuck you just how y'like it, make ya cum as hard as I do," he drawls confidently, almost smugly, in your ear. "Don't ya?"

It's less a question than a statement, because you both know he's right. Joel knows your body better than anyone ever has, maybe even better than you know it yourself. Just as much as you know his. And it's sort of funny. You were thinking the exact same thing about him with his date earlier.

"Sure, Joel. Just like you were gonna take that girl home, right?" You raise an eyebrow, turning your head so your lips graze his skin. "Pretty little thing like her, I bet she likes it slow and romantic. She’ll probably even stick around for a snuggle and some pillow talk. You'd love that.”

Even as you mock him, the sneer marring your face doesn’t quite meet your eyes, and the spiteful nature of your words tastes acrid as they pass your lips. He’s so good at that. Always able to bring out the worst in you to prove his point—that he’s no good for you.

But you stand firm, your chest pressed flush against his in a show of determination. You're still in control here, unlike Joel, whose fingers are twitching noticeably at his sides like he's just itching to get his hands on you again. 

"Maybe I would. Liked it with you, didn't I?" he murmurs wistfully, and that catches you completely off guard.

His words are almost too gentle to belong in this argument, and it doesn’t feel fair. What's worse, he looks like he means them. You’d prefer the fight, the aggression of the man who dragged you out of the bar. Not this. Not these traces of your Joel. 

You can already feel your resolve slipping, and the rapid thrum of your heartbeat tells you to let it. When his hands finally take their rightful place on your waist, he’s in control again.

The cool evening air is suddenly stifling, and you’re starting to feel like you’re suffocating, your thoughts a jumbled, heated haze of anger and fear and want. He squeezes hard enough to pull your hips into his and you unintentionally buck, allowing his hands to travel up your shirt. 

There's an intensity to his gaze, tinged with an unexpected tenderness. He almost looks...sated. Fulfilled, now that you're back in his arms. But not completely, not yet.

"You still haven't answered my question," he mutters. His hands splay across your ribcage, high enough for his thumbs to tease the undersides of your breasts.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his chest to push him away so you can catch your breath, but your body won't cooperate. It's been well-trained to crave his touch. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you fist his shirt and instead pull him impossibly closer.

"You asked a lot of questions tonight. You're gonna have to be a little more specific,” you pant heavily.

It's getting more difficult to think, now, with the warmth of his body against you, his thumbs shifting higher to stroke your stiffening nipples. He urges your hips forward again to meet his, and you can already feel him straining in his jeans.

You whimper helplessly, unable to curb the way your body's reacting to him, and the soft sound causes something in him to snap. He suddenly backs you up against the hard brick of the bar's exterior and begins to grind languidly into your stomach. 

"Y'really believe that boy can take care of a woman like you? Hm?" He interrogates you, his voice gravelly and uneven in your ear. "Tell me I'm the only one who can give you what ya need. Wanna hear ya say it."

Fuck, you can't lie to him. As much as you want to, it's just one more thing your body won't allow you to do. Not when he's working you up like this. 

"You're the only one," you moan around your admission. He's still crowding you into the wall, his hands greedily roaming your soft curves.

His eyes meet yours, darting quickly to your mouth before he leans in to kiss you passionately like he’s rewarding you. It only lasts for a second, one deliciously fleeting second, before he pulls away. You’re not sure why you let him. Or why you kissed back.

"Who's the only man who can make ya scream?" he demands a little more urgently.

"You, Joel,” you murmur obediently, your lips already parted and ready for your prize.

And he acquiesces—another insistent kiss that doesn’t last nearly long enough. This time, you chase him, but he jerks his head back. He still has one last question for you. Except, this time, he looks afraid of the answer. 

"Whose girl are ya?"

He whispers it so softly, you barely catch it over the whistling, nighttime breeze. As he brushes a few ruffled strands of hair behind your ear, you answer without hesitation. 

"Yours, Joel."

His entire body relaxes. Now, he's complete.

"Damn right, you are—"

Then, the front door bursts open next to you, and he's abruptly cut off. Joel is quick to tug you around the corner into the alleyway before anyone can spot you, but he's not fast enough to keep you from seeing who just left the bar.

Jesse.

And there it is. A shock to the system, enough to clear some of that smoky, nostalgic haze and bring you back to the present. But as everything hurtles back for the second time tonight, this time around, you can’t be mad because he’s right.

Of course, you're not Jesse's girl. As pathetic as it sounds, you'll always be Joel's because he’s the only one who can take care of you and give you what need. The only man who can make you scream. But that goes both ways.

Even though he’s been picking fights all night, he hasn’t raised his voice once. It's not the way he wins his battles. So, maybe it's time to remind Joel Miller that there is someone who can make him scream. But he isn't allowed to unless you say so.

It all feels eerily familiar—his fingers digging into your waist and your lips crashing into his hard enough to bruise. You lead him deeper into the alley, back to where the glow of the string lights above the bar can't reach you, before you separate from him. 

Neither of you wants to be the one to say it, but it needs to be heard. Here, in the dark, you can be his completely, but once you part ways and return to your empty beds, that's it. Just like last time. The reasons for your breakup are still very real, and that means your relationship can't be.

"Only here. Right, Joel?"   

He stays silent for a moment, his gaze filled with deep longing and sadness. It almost makes you want to take it back. Take him back. So, when he shakes his head and cups your cheeks, kissing you like this might be his last chance, you're not surprised in the slightest.

And after this whole night—this whole confusing, fucked-up night—you let him. Right now, he needs this. Maybe you do, too.

His lips taste like whiskey and relief, and you return his kiss with all of the passion and fervor he’s pouring into you. You’re both a little frantic in the way you touch each other, but as much as you don’t want it to, it makes perfect sense. 

Those few weeks without each other felt like years, and now that his hands are back on your body and his voice, deep and dulcet, is in your ear telling you how badly he wants you, you don’t want to let him go again.

You grind the heel of your hand into the front of his jeans and his responding groan pleases you more than it probably should. This. This is yours—his pleasure, his attention, him. They belong to you and you alone. Not his pretty, perky fucking date. 

The sudden possessiveness stuns you for a moment, but it's not enough to stop the feeling from consuming you. This must be how it feels for Joel. It's potent and feels so, so…right. You're starting to think you've felt this way for a while.

"I needed you, and you made me wait so fucking long," you gasp against his lips, and the fingers cradling your face tense. You’re still fisting his shirt, nearly hard enough to tear, and you wrench it up from where it’s tucked into his pants. 

"M'sorry, darlin', I know. I know I did,” he rasps back, following your lead and dropping his hands from your cheeks so he can unbuckle his jeans. “M'gonna make it up to ya. Tell me what you want, I’ll give it to ya.”

You want everything. Everything he has to give, you want it all. After everything you've been through, the hurt he caused you, you deserve it. And right now, what you want is for him to feel so good, he'll never go on a date with someone who isn't you ever again.

Sharp gravel bites into your bare skin as you drop to your knees in front of him. He's already so hard under all that heavy fabric and looks desperate above you. Just as desperate as you are for him to replace the flavor of Jesse's tequila and lime on your tongue with something saltier and headier, and undeniably Joel.

You hastily unbutton and unzip his jeans, not wasting any more of the precious time you have left together, before tugging them down just enough to free his cock and balls. He looks...fucking mouth-watering—flushed and red and leaking, and so goddamn thick. You wrap your hand around him and he sighs gratefully, dribbling precum onto your fingers.

"This is what I want," you finally reply, keeping your eyes locked on his as you lean forward to lick a broad line up his cock. He hisses in a breath through his teeth, his thighs already beginning to tremble, and you brace your hand on one. "But you're gonna be quiet, okay? I'm gonna suck your cock and you're not gonna make a single sound."

His expression darkens, but he agrees to your terms, nonetheless.

"Sure, darlin'. Whatever you say," he nods, gazing down at you with furrowed brows. He cradles your face in his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheekbone.

The affectionate gesture isn't lost on you, but this time you accept it. Instinctively leaning into his touch, you revel in it for a brief moment before his cock pulsing a frantic rhythm against your palm becomes an unignorable distraction. But a welcome one.

"That's my boy," you mumble against the tip. Just as a pained noise escapes his parted lips, you swallow him down as far as you can take him, purposely gagging yourself on him before you can dwell on the words that accidentally just tumbled out.

Your boy. Your boy. It echoes in your mind, ricocheting wildly and painfully like a bullet. Before you can take it back, maybe even to keep you from taking it back, he buries his fingers in your hair and holds you in place. You choke around him, trying your best to breathe through your nose, but in doing so, you take in a lungful of the heady musk at his base.

The familiarity of it all sends you reeling. He only gives you a second to adjust before he's fucking into your mouth and biting back a litany of needy sounds that rival your own wet, audible gagging. Your grip on his thigh tightens as your throat relaxes, allowing you to take him deeper, and you can feel yourself clenching around nothing every time he grazes the back of your throat. 

Tears stream down your cheeks and he wipes them away with a much too tender swipe of his thumb, even as he continues to force you up and down his cock. But you're too lost in your pleasure to notice anymore. So fucking good, you feel so, so good. But you need more, and you're not willing to pull off of him just yet.

Tugging down the front of your shirt, you roll a sensitive nipple between your fingers, and, god, that helps. You imagine they're Joel's and it amplifies the sensation, though your fingertips are still too smooth and delicate. Then, they're replaced by exactly what you've been yearning for all night. 

“You don’t even know how beautiful y'look like this,” he grits out, his fingers running through your hair with one hand and roughly cupping your breast with the other. His hips stutter, and you moan around him. “Fuckin’ perfect. How are ya so fuckin’ perfect?”

Beautiful. More beautiful than her? Well, you must be, because you’re the one here on your knees, choking on his cock, and she’s still sitting in the bar wondering if her date will ever come back. 

He won’t.

You preen without meaning to, your eyes blearily finding his while you drool around him, dripping saliva down his balls and onto your bare breasts. It's as if the visual alone has him thrusting into your mouth faster, pushing your limits only as much as he knows you can take. You must look like a wet dream right now, his wet dream, with your watery eyes and swollen, split-slick lips wrapped tightly around him.

Yet, he's remained so, so quiet this entire time, just like you told him to. Joel likes his sex loud, regardless of where you are and who might hear, so if he’s following your rules, that means something. 

It means he'll do whatever it takes to have you. The realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice water, and then you're pulling off of him. 

“You’ll give me anything, right? Anything I want?” your voice cracks around the question, wrecked from the effort of taking him. His hips chase your hand as you continue to pump him, matching his previous, unforgiving pace. 

“That ain’t a question, y’know I will,” he replies breathily and without hesitation. 

You gaze up at him, praying your eyes convey all of the need and anguish and hope you've felt since the last time you slept together. Since the last time you were his.

“Fuck me," and you won't accept anything less than his all. Not that half-assed shit he would've given her. "Fuck me."

He understands. His heart rate kicks up, thrumming wildly against the palm of your hand, and you know he does.

The growl that rumbles through his chest is nearly soundless but powerful. An entire night's worth of tension culminating in a single exhaled breath, just before he drags you up and spins you around, bending you over against the wall. 

Bracing yourself on the harsh brick, you rush to give him better access, arching your back as he tugs your pants and underwear down to your knees. A callused hand runs upward, following the notches of your spine, while his other spreads across your waist, pulling your hips back onto his so you can feel him, heavy and leaking against your bare ass.

God, he’s so close to where you need him now. His knuckles graze your skin as he grips the base, pumping himself before the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance.

But then, for some godforsaken reason, you feel a wave of panic. Time suddenly feels like it's running out, worsening with every subtle movement he makes. The ticking clock of your and Joel's relationship, perpetually stuck at two minutes to midnight, has sprung to life and that terrifies you.

You don't want him to stop—fuck, you don't want him to stop, but you know neither of you will last long once he's inside you. The build-up was too intense and this entire night has you both wound up so tight, you could snap at any moment. 

You need to savor this. The way you failed to on your couch all those weeks ago, and might not get to ever again.

“Slow,” you tell him over your shoulder, and it's equal parts a command and a plea. If this is the last time, then you want to feel it. Every thick inch of him, while he still belongs to you. “Just…go slow.”

He nods, shifting forward almost imperceptibly so he can watch your lashes flutter as you brace for the stretch.

"Don't need’ta tell me. I know how ya like it," he replies gruffly.

He does. For now, you won’t overthink it or let yourself get lost in the nostalgia of his cock nestled inside you. You’ll just enjoy it. Sex with Joel has always been mind-blowing, and here, in a dirty alleyway, pressed up against the exterior of a bar, you bet it’ll be life-changing.

It stings like it always does when he breaches your entrance, no matter how wet you are for him. Together, you hiss in a sharp breath, mutually adjusting to the overwhelming stretch that quickly ebbs into something addictive.

"Tight as all goddamn hell," he mutters to himself, rocking into you languidly. He takes his time, relishing your walls enveloping him, mesmerized by the way you suck him in until he's buried to the hilt. 

"Would'ja look at that," he continues in awe, tracing where his cock is forcing you to yield to him. "Greedy fuckin' pussy, ain't she? M'not goin' anywhere, don't'chu worry. Gonna take care of ya...make ya feel so fuckin' good..."

He's starting to babble. Not good. Not good at all. 

Broad hands grip your ass, pulling your cheeks apart so he can see how tightly you’re gripping him, and it's too much. His hips buck, startling a pained whine out of you as he rams into that spot. The one deep inside you he can only reach when he’s fucking you from behind. Your cunt clenches, fighting to keep him there, and he growls low in his throat, hungry and territorial like a wild animal.

"There it is," he nudges it again, purposefully this time. You barely manage to bite back a sob as you gush messily around him. "Christ, honey, y'sure ya still want it slow? 'Cus it sure don't sound like it."

He's patronizing you. He knows exactly what he's doing—that's his spot. He also knows it makes you loud as fuck. But he wouldn’t. There’s no way he’d go back on his word, not after he promised he’d be discreet.

"Joel. Don't," you warn him shakily, but you're already too far gone to be intimidating. 

He pulls out until just the tip is still inside you, huffing out a distinctly calculated breath.

"Don't what? Don't make ya cum nice and loud on my cock? 'Fraid I can't do that, darlin'."

That's all the warning you get before he slams in hard. Your jaw drops, and you're positive you couldn't have stopped the wail punched out of your chest even if you'd tried.

Wrong. You’re wrong again, and you should’ve known better. It’s not the first time he’s gone back on his word, remember? Joel’s shitty lack of communication is why you’re here in the first place. Sure, he agreed to be quiet, but he never said anything about you.

He establishes a brutal pace that has you scrabbling against the wall for purchase and slapping a hand over your mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the desperate cries being forced from your body.

Please, don’t be outside. Please, please, Jesse. Don’t still be outside. 

But your luck's officially run out. 

Heavy mahogany crashes into solid brick, echoing down the alleyway, and a raucous group of people spills out onto the street, barely 30 feet from where your ass and tits are out for anyone to see. Then, the deep baritone of Jesse's voice cuts through the rest, and your blood immediately turns to ice. 

You're fucked. You're about to get caught and expose your secret to the entire town, except...Joel isn't stopping. Fuck, he's—

Yanking your entire body up and ripping your hand away from your mouth, rutting into you like he was just waiting for an audience. He snakes a hand up your stomach to palm at your chest, squeezing firmly to anchor himself as he fucks up into you with all the force he can muster.

And it turns you on so much, you finally stop caring. Fuck it. Fuck this town. Fuck everyone in that bar who made you feel like a goddamn pariah for months, crucifying you for the unforgivable sin of getting your heart broken. 

You hope his date's standing out there, too, so she can hear everything she'll never get to have. So they can all see that Joel Miller isn't the crushed, cruelly dumped old man they all thought he was.

Your moans ring out, loud and high-pitched, all but drowning out the messy slap of his hips into the drenched curve of your ass.

"That's it, darlin', let it all out," he chuckles darkly against the shell of your ear. Your next moan tapers into a drawn-out keen that he mimics, his thrusts getting shallow and sloppy. "S'for me, right? Let 'em know you're makin' all those pretty noises just for me."

Christ, you're close. And he's as close as you are, you can feel it. You turn your head, nodding jerkily into his shoulder.

"S'for you, Joel—mmph, just for you. Only for you," your words slur as he continues to bounce you on his cock. 

"Tell 'em you're mine, darlin’. Not just here," he pants raggedly, desperation coating his words. "Everywhere. You're mine everywhere."

The voices are getting closer, about to pass the mouth of the alley, and the ice in your veins quickly thaws, turning to molten lava. They'll definitely be able to able to hear you, but can they see you? For the umpteenth time tonight, you decide you really don't give a shit. You've got none left. You and Joel, that's all that matters now. 

His hand drops between your legs, thick fingers swirling tight, slick circles into your clit while he waits for you to confirm what he already knows. You've said it again and again—weeks ago, wrapped up in his arms, and earlier tonight, after the worst argument you've had since the breakup. 

And you’ll tell him again in this alley as you cum blindingly hard around his cock. Third time's the charm.

"Y-yours, Joel. I'm always yours."

His hips completely lose their rhythm, and he barely has time to breathe out his contentment before the violent convulsing of your cunt and contrasting serenity of your words send him hurtling over the edge.

"That's my girl."

He crashes his lips into yours, swallowing every noise you make as the group finally comes into view. Their drunken chattering and roughhousing aren't enough to draw your attention away from each other, but the depraved sounds of Joel continuing to fuck you through your release captures theirs almost immediately.

A few of them stop to squint into the darkness, trying their best to pinpoint what everyone already knows is happening further down the alley. As they inch closer, they can just barely make out two connected figures, and the wind carrying muffled gasps and labored breathing with it into the street all but confirms it.

"Y'all seein' this?" they whisper amongst themselves, but in the inebriated state they're in, they might as well be yelling.

And that's what pulls you and Joel back to reality. Shit. Shit. So, this is it, then. You tense in Joel's arms, waiting to get called out as the slutty girl who seduced her ex away from his date. Hell, they're not even wrong. You can feel his cum dribbling out of you, and can't help but think maybe you'd deserve it.

From where you're standing, you recognize each and every one of their faces under the string lights, and you know damn well that none of them can keep their mouths shut. Except...wait a second. They're still glancing back and forth between you and Joel in the shadows and each other. 

Oh. The fucking shadows. None of them can see shit. They have no clue who the hell they're looking at. Joel must've caught on around the same time you did, because now he's backing up, putting more distance between you and the looming crowd. Before they can get any closer, one of the younger guys cuts in front to block their path.

“C’mon, it's probably a couple’a teenagers. Just let ‘em be," he drawls, glancing back at you. Your eyes lock, and you're suddenly so grateful, you could cry. It's Jesse. He shoots you a wink before turning back to the group, shaking his head in mock admonishment. "Don't act like y'all weren't doin' the same damn thing at their age."

By some miracle, it fucking works. They all laugh in agreement, appeased by Jesse's quick thinking. One by one, they follow each other out of the alley and back onto the road to continue their original path home. Jesse lingers. 

"Glad y'all figured things out," he calls out over his shoulder, giving you privacy to tug your shirt back up. He clears his throat awkwardly before continuing, "Look, I, uh...distracted as many people as I could from comin' over here, but if y'all were gonna be that loud, maybe you should'a figured things out at home."

Jesse shakes his head again, chuckling to himself as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Anyway, y'all have a good night, now. Get home safe."

As he jogs away to catch up with the rest of the group, you start to laugh, too. You can’t help it. It feels cathartic, relieving some of the tension of this overly eventful night.

Joel’s body begins to shake behind you, his chest rumbling with what you realize is deep-bellied laughter. It gradually increases in volume as it melds seamlessly with yours; transitory, white clouds of condensation that intertwine, then dissipate.

You feel him slip out as he starts to soften, and then he turns you to face him, carefully crowding you into the wall. He kisses you again, this time slow and deliberate like you asked him to earlier. His tongue meets yours, gasps exchanged and treasured like you have all the time in the world. 

When he parts from you, it feels reluctant, but he stays close, whispering his next words against your lips.

“M’gonna get ya cleaned up, alright?” he mumbles, dropping his arm from around your waist to run his fingers up the cum leaking down your thighs. You shiver as they continue up, slipping his release back inside you. “Don’t…,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut as his forehead drops to yours, “…just—don’t go anywhere. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Maybe he’s trying to protect himself from the response he anticipates you’ll give him, but that seems silly after everything you’ve been through tonight. You cup his cheek and thumb the coarse, trimmed hairs of his beard, willing him to open his eyes. He does, hesitantly, one then the other, and you offer him a soft smile.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”

An intoxicating breath fans across your face, and the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen. His lips match the soft quirk of your own and, then, brush fleetingly against your cheekbone as he backs away and disappears through a metal side door you didn't notice before. The moment it clicks shut, you slump against the wall. 

Christ. Your mind is simultaneously blank and racing a mile a minute. Taking a deep breath, you let your head thunk into solid, grounding brick while you wait for even a single coherent thought to take root. What now? What happens next? 

There's no coming back from tonight. You both made choices you'll have to answer for, but, for some reason, that doesn't seem so scary anymore. The clock is ticking, but there's time. Plenty of it.

You're still lost in your reverie when Joel gets back with a thick wad of damp paper towels. You snort at the idea of him suddenly appearing in Seth's kitchen and having to explain himself, but maybe the racket you kicked up right outside his door was explanation enough.

"Seth didn't give you any shit for stealing his stuff?" you ask as Joel drops to his knees and coaxes one of your legs over his shoulder.

The cold air has already started to leach the warmth from the paper towels, and they feel cool as he slides them along your soiled skin. He huffs out a laugh.

"Nah, the kitchen was empty. Think they're startin' to close up for the night." 

When he finishes your first thigh, he surprises you by leaning in to press a soft kiss against your freshly cleaned skin. He nips at you teasingly before starting on the next one.

You hum in response, threading your fingers through his hair and watching fondly as he pays careful attention to his task. He continues to wipe away his drying release, trailing his lips down your thigh as he goes, until he finishes at your knee.

He gazes up at you with a charmingly crooked grin, and that’s when it finally slips out. The single coherent thought you’ve been waiting for.

“I love you, Joel,” you murmur, brushing your fingertips across his cheek. 

His smile falters. Then, it drops completely and your heart shatters. You don’t understand. But that—no. No, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. After everything that’s happened, how could you have been wrong again?

Joel sighs, grimacing as he slowly gets back up. He braces himself on one knee, clearly aching more than he's letting on, but when you reach down to offer him a hand, he refuses your help.

“S’fine, I got it. Just…,” he gestures to your jeans, still hanging loosely around your knees. You pull them up, fighting not to feel humiliated as he rises to his full height. 

You search his eyes for…something. Anything. Any indication of what he’s feeling right now, but they’re blank. Cold and distant, just like they were the night he left you. 

No. He doesn’t get to do this to you again. Not after everything you’ve been through. Not without an explanation. Not if he doesn’t want to lose you forever.

“Tell me why you broke up with me."

For a long time, you genuinely believed you could live without knowing the truth, but somewhere along the line, it began to eat away at you. Now, you want the real reason. He owes you that, at the very least.

You wait while he either works himself up to it or tries to figure out what bullshit to tell you this time. Once his hands settle on his hips, you know with absolute certainty it's the latter.

“Darlin’…,” he starts wearily, but you shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks. He doesn't get to call you that right now, and he knows it. Pausing, he nods grimly before beginning again. "We already talked about this. I’m no good for ya. It was only a matter of time before ya woke up one day and realized it for yourself.”

There it is. That same bullshit reason. You scoff bitterly, not surprised in the slightest.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Joel? We were together for years. If that was gonna happen, don’t you think it would’ve already?" you counter angrily. 

You're trying not to get emotional. This can't be a repeat of what happened last time, but it's dragging up too many painful memories. It's always the same fight. You can't do this anymore.

"You know what? Fuck you," you seethe as your self-control slips completely. "Fuck you for making that decision for me. You had no right."

At your words, his face crumples and he has the nerve to look ashamed. Maybe even a little hurt. His pained expression makes your heart ache, yet a nastier part of you believes it's only fair that he feels this way, too. He sighs, his eyes dropping wistfully to his feet.

“I did what I thought was best," he mumbles quietly as if he doesn't want to be heard. It's hard for him to say this out loud, and you realize it's because he's finally telling you the truth. "I just…I thought you’d be happier with someone else, someone who could give ya a family. Kids. I gave you up so you could have the life ya always wanted."

You eye him incredulously. The life you always wanted? Sure, you and Joel had toyed with the idea of having a family once upon a time, but that was never a dealbreaker. He should've known that. He should've brought it up before deciding to destroy your life together over an idealized fantasy.

“Oh, here we go. Joel, the fucking savior. Mr. Fix-It, swooping in to save everyone and solve every problem," you hurl back venomously. But it was a cruel thing to say, and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Rationally, you know his intentions were kind. He probably even thought he was being selfless. But he hurt you, and, through your tunnel vision, that's all you can see. You push yourself off the wall, stalking closer to where he stands, still refusing to look at you.

"So what, you thought you’d dump me and I’d immediately shack up with some other asshole? Is that really what you think of me?”

His eyes shoot up to yours and his fingers begin to tap restlessly at his sides. Now, you've pissed him off. 

“Don't go puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t true and you fuckin’ know it," he all but growls, his body shaking with a turbulent combination of frustration and adrenaline.

You're starting to feel it, too. This conversation is overwhelming both of you, but he still hasn't told you everything. There's a piece missing, keeping all of his disjointed reasonings from adding up. He's holding back and it's time for him to stop.

“Then what is, Joel?" you plead with him to give you a definitive answer. One that finally explains why you had to lose everything. Ellie, your home. The love of your life. "What’s the truth?"

Then, everything he's kept bottled up inside and allowed to poison his happiness claws its way out as a single, unwavering statement. 

“I’m too fuckin’ old for you!”

The silence that follows his admission is deafening. You watch in shock as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He's never yelled like that before or looked so defeated. By something as innocuous as his age. 

It isn't something you'd ever considered, not before your relationship and never once during. But he did. His bottom lip starts to tremble as he turns and takes a few steps away from you.

“Every day, I’d watch ya…offerin’ to take more shifts, spendin’ time at the school with Ellie and the kids," he says softly, shaking his head as he works through his next words. "And every day, I’d feel it. My body givin’ out on me, more and more. My blood pressure’s up, my goddamn knees are creakin’. Couldn’t even fuckin’ stand up on my own just now." 

When he turns back to you, his eyes are wet with unshed tears. He feels too far, but you know you can't go to him, yet. He's not finished.

"You can do better than that. You deserve better than that," his voice cracks and your whole world blurs into a wash of colors. “You’re gonna outlive me by a mile. I’m an old man, darlin’. It wasn’t fair for me to keep ya.”

For a while, you just watch each other. Tears overflow and continuously spill down his cheeks and yours, but neither of you moves to wipe them away. 

None of this is fair. You're both miserable and heartbroken, perpetually yearning for a love you've told yourselves you can't have. Months ago, Joel made a choice for both of you. You won't make the same mistake he did.

"I didn't want fair, Joel. I wanted you. A life with you...," your face screws up as you fight back a sob, "...the rest of my life with you, however long that is."

Joel takes a tentative step forward, carefully reaching out to touch you, but stops himself before he can get too close. He looks afraid...of you. Scared of the consequences of allowing you back into his heart. 

A sob escapes your chest, then, and you wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly bitterly cold and wanting nothing more than for Joel to hold you. To tell you for the first time since the breakup that he loves you and, regardless of time, won't ever stop.

So, you cross the alleyway and cup his wet cheeks in your hands, wiping away his sadness and, hopefully, his fears. He melts into the poignant familiarity of your touch and it makes you brave. This time, you'll be brave enough for both of you.

"Don't I deserve that?" you whisper, close enough to share his next breath. He watches your lips, hanging onto your every word. "Don't you?" 

His eyes meet yours, and it finally happens. The moment Joel gives in and decides to let himself be happy. He nods slowly in your grasp, reaching up to cradle your hand on his cheek. 

"Dunno what I deserve, darlin'. Not after the things I've done and the hurt I put ya through. But if I'm...if this is really what ya want...," he hesitates, his voice thick with tears and, yet, still that full-bodied, twang that sounds like home. "I'm yours. 'Til my last breath, I'm yours."

He kisses you before either of you can start crying again, and it's all there. The love he kept under lock and key to protect you, released from the prison of his own making.

His kiss feels different again. There's no hunger or rush, and the possessiveness—the need to devour everything you have to give so there's nothing left for anyone else—is gone. He's sure, now, that there's no one else you'd rather give yourself to.

His arms circle your waist and he pulls you closer, crushing you into time-worn chambray and sullied denim as you continue to explore each other like a pair of horny teenagers. Two lovers learning to give and take for the first time. Time passes slowly in this space you've carved out for yourselves, even as the moon continues to rise in the night sky and floods the corridor with light. 

Then, noisily and as if right on cue, the last-call crowd stumbles from the bar and immediately catches what the previous group missed. You and Joel separate, dazed but unhurried, to find that it's them. 

It has to be fucking kismet that, of everyone in Jackson, the first to witness your reconciliation would be the biggest blabbermouths in the entire town. The same women who talked shit about you every day for months and constantly vied for Joel's attention, standing there with wide eyes and slack jaws.

Their varied expressions almost make you want to laugh, and you can't help but snort unattractively into Joel's shoulder. Half of them are glaring at you, and the rest look either devastated or genuinely surprised. Guess you were better at hiding your arrangement than you thought, not that it matters anymore. It's a relationship again, and everyone's about to know all about it. Joel clears his throat, drawing their attention back to him.

"Evenin', ladies. S'there somethin' we can help ya with?" he drawls, breaking out the Southern charm that endeared every single one of them to him in the first place.

They all shake their heads, looking a little too pleased with themselves once the initial shock wears off and they realize you've just given them the gossip of the century. After a few fake, high-pitched pleasantries, they slink away as quickly as they came, already chatting to themselves about some shit you'll definitely hear tomorrow at breakfast. You watch them go, feeling oddly liberated.

"Guess the cat's outta the bag, huh?" You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, still chuckling softly to yourself. Joel huffs out a laugh, too, bending down to kiss the crown of your head before nodding in agreement.

"'Fraid so," he muses, amusement and a hint of something lighter glinting in his eyes. 

You haven't seen him this relaxed in a long time. As he holds you in his arms, he leans a fraction of his weight on you to ease the night's strain on his back and knees, and it makes you feel needed. Relied on. That's new, Joel depending on you like this. Things are going to be different this time around, you can tell. They already are. 

You hum, ruminating on what awaits you after your first night back in your own bed, in your own home. What everyone will think and say—to your face and behind your back—when they find out you're back together. Though, the only opinions you give a shit about are Ellie, Tommy, and Maria's, anyway.

So, yeah, you're a lot of things right now: exhausted, yet relieved and so full of hope. But you're not afraid, the cat and the bag be damned.

"I'm not," you tell him honestly as you pull away. You let your hands trail from his shoulders, down his arms, until his hands are in yours. 

Tugging gently, you walk him backward out of the alley, away from the bar and plummeting winter chill, and any lingering, prying eyes. Even the moon and stars have no stake in what comes next. This moment, right here and now, belongs to you and Joel, alone.

"Take me home, Joel."

The light in his eyes burns brighter, amusement giving way to adoration and contentment. He's been waiting for this, to be given the privilege of keeping you safe and taking care of you the way he needs to—it's how he shows love. 

He slots his fingers between yours and leads you down the empty streets of Jackson. 

"Darlin', nothin' would make me happier."

thanks for reading!

[the-ace-with-spades]

I'm serious about that 5+1 fic, people, I need the five times Bob gets stuck in an awkward situation between Bradley and Jake and the one time where Bob can't put up with it anymore and tells them to get their shit together

1 is obviously the Hard Deck scene

2 is some kind of locker room banter (just to give a tribute to the og top gun) where Bob, Jake, and Bradley are the only ones left and Jake and Bradley are talking half-naked and way too close for Bob's liking and they keep looking at each other's lips

3 is a training sequence where it's Bob and Phoenix in the air with Bradley and Jake as their training partners and getting stuck as Jake and Bradley start arguing - first, about flying and Bradley being slow, but quickly they start sounding like an old married couple rebuking their own bad habits (it detours so badly at some point Bob is sitting there listening to Jake complaining that Bradley doesn't put the toilet seat down, which he realizes tells him way more about their past relationship than it should)

4 is right after the mission, on the mandatory health check-up, Bob gets put in a bed right between Jake and Bradley and they keep smiling and making heart (and sex) eyes at each other

5 is a complete turnover of the last situation, they're at the team barbecue at Mav's house and Jake and Bradley return outside after Bradley shows Jake his bedroom in the house and they're pissed off. There are only two empty seats and Bob tries to move but they get on each of his sides and do the very mature Chinese telephone edition of Bob, tell Bradley that... and Bob, tell Jake that if he...

+1 they're at the Hard Deck again and Jake is being salty because Bradley was seen talking to some girl (not flirting, which is what Jake thinks, Bob was there, she was just someone Bradley knew from college) and when Bradley comes up to their table and Jake says something about how maybe Bradley should spend the evening with her if she's so much more interesting than their squad. And Bob, who's been having the biggest headache of his life (not metaphorical) gets a secondary headache (metaphorical) and blows up at them, ranting about how they need to fuck and forget about it or they need to get their shit together and clear the air about their relationship or he's going to strangle them

[judasgot-it]

Friends to Lovers

"I've been in love with you for years now, thanks for noticing dumbass."

Scenario: You literally do not get the hint. Jouno nearly wants to beat you to death because of this, but unfortunately for him, he likes you.

2.5 K words

For the last few years, your life had been relatively simple. Despite having an 'exciting' job, you were stuck doing the same shit basically every day until you died.

Work out, have monthly surgeries, question criminals in completely legal ways with government oversight, and investigate and capture terrorists. Maybe kill them, since you were a completely legal government entity and were allowed to do that.

Same shit as always. It was a rinse and repeat, the only difference was how and where you did it. But it was going to stay the same - something you were going to do until you died.

Just like how your love life had stayed the same - hopeless and stale.

No one could really blame you, now could they? You had a crush on the same coworker for years, and it seemed like you'd get over it when you died.

So basically never.

It sucked.

You wanted to cry sometimes, thinking about how much you liked your coworker's stupid face.

Everyone said he was an asshole, and yes - he was. But not to you.

Saigiku let you call him by his first name, and was nice enough to give you the homemade lunch he couldn't eat. No one was convinced on how good of a cook he was, but that was fine - you were ok with not sharing what Saigiku gave you.

If he was here, you would be able to compliment him and see how red his face gets. It hurt how much of you smiled at the thought, how embarrassed he is that someone liked his cooking.

"Thinking about Jouno again?"

Tachihara looked bored, watching you as if he was observing a bird on a telephone wire.

You swallowed, tasting the onigiri in your mouth. God, Saigiku was a really good cook.

"How'd you know?"

"You're always thinking about him. It's embarrassing." Teruko glared two holes through you; as if you had tried to touch Fukuchi in some way.

"What? No I don't." Maybe just a little bit.

"Right. And who gave you that?"

Tachihara walked closer and inspected the bento box you'd been consuming for the last ten minutes. You tried to shield it from his gaze, feeling as if his eyes were going to melt it.

"Why does it matter?"

"Jouno doesn't give me homemade lunch."

"He almost let me starve once. I'm the vice-captain, and he let me starve! So why is he giving you his lunch?"

Teruko reached her fingers around your body and snatched some rice, not caring if she made a mess as she shoved it in her mouth. Like a sticky, copper-smelling child, she chewed out loud, making sure you heard her crime.

You cringed a little, while Tachihara tried not to gag as he watched her lick her fingers loudly. She really was twelve years old.

"Well it's just because he didn't want it to go bad, that's it. Doesn't mean anything."

It was something you kept telling yourself everytime he did something sweet to you - that it could mean anything, and most likely it meant nothing. Saigiku was a strange man, and he wasn't likely the type to go around and show his feelings so blatantly.

Right?

"He once threw his drink at me."

Tecchou finally spoke up. He looked like he was bored, despite recounting one of the many common war stories that was interacting with Saigiku when he was upset - which was always, when it came to Tecchou.

"I don't think he would have offered it to you anyway, Tecchou. No offense, but that's just yours and Saigiku's relationship..."

"That's another thing! You call him by his first name! It's like you're his girlfriend or something."

Teruko was laying on the punches, nearly spitting in your face as she throughout her accusations. It made you want to hide - he would never like the idea, and you would rather die than lose what you two currently had. It was the closest you could get to being anything like that anyway, so you wouldn't want to ruin it by overstepping a boundary like that.

"We're just close!"

"So close that you have sex together."

That made you nearly choke. Tecchou didn't even bat an eye, instead staring at the floor as he continued his pushups on the meeting room floor.

"We do not have sex together. What made you think that?"

This was it. You were going to die, and it was from choking caused by sheer embarrassment. Where was Saigiku when you needed him?

"Then why were you moaning in his office yesterday?"

"I was showing him how women fake orgasms. Like a good friend does."

The conversation was fresh in your mind - he was saying that he had never had a woman fake an orgasm, of course, you had to prove how easy it was to fake it. It had you both on the floor in laughter, because it was a little ridiculous; even if a part of you wished that it was real.

Hiding those thoughts from him was a little difficult, but it was easy when you hid it under the gauze of laughter.

"That's not a normal friend conversation..."

"We're just that close."

That might have been your favorite part of being with Saigiku. Even if you would never be with him, you could always have him in that close bond.

You were close. That was it. Close, like friends.

-

"Y/n."

Saigiku's voice was deeper than it usually was - either because he was tired, or because the phone distorted his voice to a deeper pitch. Maybe a mix of both.

"Saigiku. How are you?"

"Dying. That mission was awful, I don't know why Fukuchi would make me do it alone."

"I wish I could have gone with you-"

"You would have died. Literally. I would rather it be me than you." His voice was so serious, you wish you could slap it out of him. Or kiss.

"Shut up! You don't know that."

"I do. You need a big strong man to protect you, considering how you can't even walk with your own two feet."

"I only tripped one time, dickhead. Also, sexism isn't a cute look on you."

You could hear how he huffed with laughter. He must have been dead on his feet - he could last so much longer when he bantered with you. The man had petty insults on you for days, saved up for the most random conversations between the two of you. This call could have lasted hours.

"Y/n. I'm coming over to yours. It's closer to the train station."

"This is the warning you're giving me? I'm in my pajamas, you know?"

"I'd rather have you in nothing at all."

And what the hell do you say to that? A noise came out of your throat, but there weren't words to accompany it. You were left there standing by your kitchen table, where you'd left your phone to charge, when Saigiku had waved his temporary goodbyes.

He said those kinds of things, and it was impossible to know if it was a joke or genuine.

It left you a little nervous, cleaning up your apartment for his arrival. You weren't messy, per say - but compared to him, you were a disaster.

Saigiku was a man who kept his apartment organized with mathematical precision. Even with the job he had, the dishes were clean and the laundry was always folded. He owned exactly fourteen pairs of everything, so he could keep his clothes in a perfect dry clean laundry rotation.

He was a bit of a psychopath, in that aspect.

You, on the other hand, looked like a mess. God forbid you had clean laundry that wasn't ironed to perfection. Maybe you were a little messy - eating off of paper plates once and a while, and leaving soap residue around your bathroom.

The man never failed to notice, and he would gladly make it a spat between the two of you. Sometimes you left it messy on purpose, just to see him fold your laundry and do your dishes - domesticating Saigiku was a funny sight, especially when he was still arguing with you.

But tonight he was tired. Maybe in the morning, you could force him to make you breakfast.

Right now? You'd give him the peace of mind of having clean dishes to eat off of.

Because you were a good friend, you had to remind yourself.

There was nothing to the feeling of seeing him behind your front door. His warm smile meant nothing, and neither did the hug he gave only to you in moments like these.

The extra long second between the two of you, where he swayed his feet and put his nose against your hair - it was nothing special, because you were just two close friends greeting each other after a bad day of work.

If Saigiku had looked at you with his eyes, he probably wouldn't have shown you anything special in there either. Ignoring the feeling in your body at every touch had become second nature, because you knew that he felt nothing for you.

He only lingered because he cared about you. Nothing more.

-

"Did you have sex with Jouno finally?"

"Why would you think that?"

Tachihara merely stared at you - he looked exhausted, as if you had told him the same unfunny joke for three years straight.

To be fair, even you were sick of your pining. It was stale and old, to be after the same man with no results.

"You walked in with him today?"

"That's because he slept over at my place. He's done that a lot - nothing special."

The ginger looked at you as if you had grown two heads, but really, it was nothing new, and he knew that. Letting a man like Saigiku spend a night at your place?

There was always something to it. You were lying to yourself, but you didn't want to break the charade and hurt yourself.

"Is it?"

"He doesn't like me."

"Don't say that-"

"He doesn't. Trust me, if he did, I would have noticed already."

Last night you had fallen asleep on top of him, and neither of you had said anything. You had stayed like that for maybe a minute, or possibly ten - nothing was said about heartbeat, and nothing was said about how your hands were in places they didn't belong.

He had gotten up, and woken you up with breakfast; like a disgruntled housewife. No other man in your life had ever done that for you, but you weren't going to let yourself think it meant anything special.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." The doubt that sat in your stomach was dutifully ignored as you went back to your work, trying to focus on it.

The feeling went to the back of your mind once again. It didn't even exist, really; as long as Saigiku wasn't there or in the conversation, you could ignore those pesky little feelings practically forever.

"Are you thinking about me?"

The blood in your body practically burst as you felt two hands wrap themselves around your shoulders. It was a gentle hold, firm as they squeezed through your uniform.

They were familiar and warm, reminding you of the feeling from last night. It was relieving to feel it there again, even if it was embarrassing to know how much you truly missed it.

"Always am, Saigiku. Always am."

There was hacking from across the room, but you ignored it as you leaned against the man behind you, hitting his chest with the back of your head gently.

"You should be. I've never stopped thinking about you."

"Really?"

"Always on my mind. You're like a disease."

Despite his words, his voice sounded gentle, as if he were speaking through cotton and silk.

"What kind of disease?" Once again, you were trying to swallow the disappointment that built up inside of your chest - you loved him, but you were delusional to think that he would love you back. He was just teasing.

"The stupid kind that I love."

"I'm not stupid! Asshole!" You reached up to slap him, stopping just short of his face. He grabbed your wrists, entangling your arms with yours and swaying your body together as he shook his head.

"Yeah, you are."

"Am not."

"Y/n. I love you."

Saigiku's face was close to yours, and you could feel how he smelled your hair like the freak he was.

I love you?

"Fucking hell don't make me repeat it. Isn't it obvious?"

"Oh...I love you too?" You almost wanted to cry, because what the fuck was going on. It was hard to even let yourself think in the moment, because the man was taking up your space and was saying words you wanted to hear-

This couldn't be real. Maybe you were under attack, because this felt too good to be true.

"Not as a friend. I mean in the 'I want to go back home with you' kind of way."

"We already do that." You didn't know why you said that - you were waiting for his face to twist into a grimace, or for an annoyed groan to sound. But instead, he kept a smile on there, waiting patiently.

"Get the point. I want to kiss you. And do the other things boring couples do."

"...Oh."

You spun your chair around to face him properly. There was the chance to breathe again, without smelling his fancy cologne and the smell of fireworks on his uniform.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

The man before you sighed. It was a low whine, a sound you never expected to hear from him.

"I did tell you. I've been telling you every day. You just don't notice anything. Seriously, do you think I would wake up and make breakfast for just anyone?"

Saigiku leaned in close as he said this, his lips close enough to yours that you could see how smooth they were.

Reaching your hand up, you brought it to his face, carefully tracing lines across his smooth skin.

"Sorry."

Pulling him in closer felt embarassing - it was something you had imagined, but having him in your hands right there had your limbs nearly falling apart.

You expected a kiss, like your fantasies; but instead, his arms wrapped around you in a tight hug, dragging you up from your chair like a cat and up into his arms, standing with him. Your legs felt weak, and there was an embarrassed feeling creeping up as you pressed your body weight against his.

"You should be sorry. I thought you were doing it on purpose."

"And if I was?"

"Then maybe I'll let you go. Seriously, why can't you stand?"

He was swaying the both of you gently, his arms locked firmly against your waist and holding you gently. His body was warm and smelled like him, protecting you from the AC and the overwhelming smell of the building.

"Because I fell for you, Saigiku."

"Yeah, I'm dropping you."

Despite this, he held you for longer than was socially acceptable.

This was for my valentine's event, remember that? remember how i have an event? that im supposed to be writing for? haha me neither.....yeaaaa me neither.

sorry to the people who requested. im slow as helllllllll. also you can still request by the way haha

[morningberriesao3]

Dirty Words

Steve Harrington X Eddie Munson

Summary: Steve gives Eddie a lesson on dirty talk, but things start to get carried away.

Word Count: 10.2K

Chapters: 1 of 1

Content Warning: Explicit m/m sexual content including dirty talk, masturbation, hand jobs, spit and cum as lube, allusions to anal sex, scent kink, spit kink, multiple orgasms, and oral sex. Excessive swearing. Recreational drug use and drinking. This post includes explicit sexual content, foul language, and sensitive themes. It is intended for those 18 and older ONLY. I am not responsible for the media you consume.

Disclaimer: All characters in my fics engaging in sexual acts are—and always will be—18 or older, even if not explicitly stated.

DIRTY WORDS

Eddie is feeling all floaty and shit. The weed Argyle gave him really is better than the skunkweed he’s been peddling in alleyways since he was sixteen years old. Not that he’ll ever admit to it. Definitely a fact he’ll take to his grave.

But for now, Eddie has the weekend off from his new, lousy day job that Steve and (mostly) Robin managed to bag him at Family Video. To be honest, it had been a last resort. But turns out, business is shit after he fucking finally graduated high school. And now—cherry on top!—he’ll have to figure out how to file taxes and shit. Welcome to the corporate world.

With a sigh, Eddie takes another drag from the perfectly rolled joint that he made himself. Argyle can’t top him on that, at least.

Eddie giggles to himself. Top him. Shit, Argyle could top him if he really wanted to, considering how fucking pent up—

The phone rings, making Eddie jump a good six inches from the sunken couch cushion he’s lounging on. He scrambles to a sitting position, and then lifts himself onto his legs that only slightly wobble like a newborn giraffe underneath him. He runs to the yellowing, plastic phone that’s hung up on his uncle’s trailer’s wall, hoping that maybe it’s the guy Eddie’s been fooling around with on the other end of the line. Maybe he could try the whole phone sex thing. Again. And not fuck it up this time.

“Hello?”

“Eddie?” Steve asks, voice all staticky through the speakers. “Why does it sound like you just ran a marathon, dude?”

Eddie realises he’s panting. He’s not sure if it’s from the short dash to the telephone, or if it’s because his blood was rushing to his cock for a minute there instead of his lungs.

Either way, he should probably consider going for a jog once in a while or something. It’s kind of sad that he’s winded.

“Shut up, man,” he says. “Maybe I was running a marathon. You’d never know.”

“I do know. It’ll be a cold day in Hell when you decide to exercise willingly. The sun will be rising in the West. The sky will be green and the grass will be blue when Eddie Munson runs a marathon.”

“You forgot when pigs fly.” Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He nearly drops the phone that’s wedged between his ear and his shoulder. “Did you call to talk about my general lack of fitness, or is there another reason you called, Harrington?”

“I’m bored,” Steve whines. The phone line crackles. Eddie can only assume Steve is, like, laying in bed or something.

Laying in bed, in those navy blue sheets. Shirtless. Maybe fresh out of the shower. A little wet still, his hair sticking up around his head—

No. Nope.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will away the next image (a towel slipping away from Steve’s hips), because three months ago he made a rule for himself. No more fantasising about Steve goddamn Harrington.

It had been becoming nearly impossible to look the other man in the eye after some of the things Eddie imagined doing with him.

Steve continues on, completely unaware of Eddie’s wandering mind. “Robin is working tonight and tomorrow so she can’t hang.”

“Glad to know I’m your second choice,” Eddie teases.

“No! No, I would have called you either way.”

“Sure you would have.”

Eddie smiles to himself. He’s not actually miffed. He and Steve have become way closer than he would have ever imagined possible. It started when Robin would ask him to hang out, and then she’d invite him along with her and Steve, and then somehow he and Steve just started hanging out alone. And it wasn’t even all that awkward.

Turns out Eddie is cooler than Steve thought, and Steve is more of a loser than Eddie thought.

“Eddie,” Steve groans. And Eddie tries not to be perverted about how good it sounds. “Come on, dude. Let’s hang out.”

“Can’t, man,” Eddie says. “I’m busy.”

“What? No you’re not. It’s nine at night and you’re at home. I also know Wayne works a double, so he won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“It’s weird that you know my uncle’s schedule.”

“No it’s not; he works the same shifts every week. Point is, I know you’re alone. Unless you have other friends that I don’t know about?”

“I do have other friends!” (Not really. Just a guy Eddie’s made out with a couple times in the city, and the members of Corroded Coffin who’re away for the summer.)

“Oh.” Steve goes quiet for a moment, and Eddie feels like he won. But then, “Well, are they over right now?”

“No, but—”

“Then you’re not busy! I can bring movies. I have Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and Wildcats—”

“What makes you think I want to watch a sports movie?”

“And Labyrinth.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. Shit, he loves David Bowie, and he hasn’t been able to get his hands on a copy yet. But he also knows Steve won’t just return the movie before Eddie has the chance to see it, because Steve isn’t mean like that. Not like Eddie is.

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting high and being alone!” And jerking off for the next hour and a half to see how many times he can make himself come before it becomes unbearable.

Eddie doesn’t add that last point, for obvious reasons.

“I like getting high. Please, Eddie? I’m so bored. And my house is empty and quiet, and you know how I get nightmares when—”

“Okay! Okay, oh my god, fine. You’re so whiny.” Eddie had no idea Steve was such a beggar. He kind of likes it. “But you have to bring beer as payment. Afterhours fee.”

“Yes,” Steve says, sounding like he’s doing something dorky like punching the air. “Beer it is. See you soon.”

“Hey, Harrington, can you give me, like—” half an hour, Eddie wants to say. But the line goes dead.

He wonders if he can manage to pump one out before Steve gets to the trailer. And the thing is, his dick is harder than he’d like to admit after hearing Steve’s voice. So he’s going to try.

Eddie runs to his room, pulls down his flannel pants so the elastic sits taut under his balls. He doesn’t bother laying in his bed; he just sits on the edge of it, facing his mirror, watching as he fists his own cock and gives it a few tugs. It’s not a narcissism thing, Eddie just likes the visual. Likes to imagine it’s someone else’s hand, or someone else’s cock. Likes to see the tip of it, shiny and red, as his foreskin pulls down his shaft to expose it.

He wonders if Steve is cut or not.

Fuck—no. No, no, no.

Eddie shouldn’t be thinking about Steve, he should be thinking about the guy from the bar. About how hard his dick had been, pressing into Eddie’s hip as they made out against the wall in the alleyway.

Yeah. Yeah, okay, that’s doing something…

Eddie watches as his hand pumps over his cock, watches as it starts to strain, the veins popping from the skin as he builds himself up. He squeezes hard around the crown. It only gives a little under the pressure, considering how hard he is, but it makes his dick offer up a pearl of precum that he gathers and spreads around the slit. When he lifts his thumb away, a sticky string connects his hand between his legs.

He likes the way that looks. He likes when things start to get messy. He wonders if he’ll ever get to see the guy from the bar’s cock like this, if he also likes to play with cum and spit.

If Steve ever plays with cum and spit when he’s on his own, like Eddie does. He wonders how Steve touches himself, what he likes, what he doesn’t like, what sounds he makes, what face he makes…

Oh fuck, oh fuck. Yeah, that’s fucking good.

Okay. Okay it’s fine, Eddie will just think about Steve one more time, and then he’ll for sure stop doing it. Just this one more time…

A jolt travels from Eddie’s cock into the tight muscles of his stomach as he imagines Steve’s face all twisted up in pleasure. Those strong thighs bracketing Eddie’s head as he sucks back little dribbles of salty white that leak out of Steve. His nose brushing against a mound of dark hair that Eddie just knows would grow thick around the base of Steve’s cock; little curls that smell like honey and almond soap, because Steve uses the expensive shit.

Jesus Christ. What he wouldn’t give to go down on Steve, just once. Just one time.

Eddie’s mouth waters as his hand flies harder, faster. He’s so fucking close. Just a quick, dirty orgasm before Steve comes over. Steve. Fuck, yes, Steve—

There’s a loud knock on Eddie’s front door.

No! Shitshitshit. He just needs two more minutes. Maybe not even that, just one—

“Eddie?” Steve’s voice is muffled beyond the walls of the trailer. Eddie almost considers letting him wait outside while he finishes up, but he can hear Steve’s footsteps getting closer to his bedroom window.

A rock hits the glass and shocks Eddie enough that it sets him back. Now it would definitely take the full two minutes.

“Shit! Goddamn fucking Harrington—” Eddie stands from the mattress and releases his cock from the death grip he had on it. It bobs between his legs, so fucking stiff that there’s no way it’s going away on its own anytime soon. “One sec!”

Eddie has no choice but to tuck his cock into the waistband of his pants. The tip pokes up under his navel, like it’s staring angrily at him for not finishing the job he started. It’s throbbing, and leaking, and getting the fabric it’s tucked into all damp.

“Same,” he mumbles to his dick as he grabs a longer t-shirt and pulls it over his head.

Another rock smacks against his window.

“Coming!” Well, he was about to anyway.

He doesn’t jog to greet Steve, because he doesn’t want to risk his dick slipping from its hiding spot. That is a conversation Eddie wants to avoid.

When he opens the front door, Steve has another rock in his hand, aimed towards Eddie’s window.

“You better not throw that, Harrington.”

Steve’s head whips around. His eyes are full of mischief, a small smile on his lips. His hair is freshly washed and styled, just like Eddie suspected. And his outfit is positively sinful (if you’re horny like Eddie is). Grey sweatpants and a plain white tee, which Eddie thinks is the guy version of lingerie.

Totally unfair, especially when Eddie would just like if his dick would go soft again.

“Why did you take so long, dude? Your trailer park is scary in the dark.”

Eddie gawks at Steve. “You’ve literally fought monsters and a dark wizard in an alternate dimension, and you think my trailer park is scary?”

“Yeah.” Steve points over his shoulder to a mobile home down the lane. “There was an old dude watching me from his window.”

“Mr. Jackson?” Eddie tilts his head, sees the curtains ruffling as his neighbour draws them back. “He’s… mostly harmless. I think.”

“You think?” Steve flings up Eddie’s steps and quickly locks the door behind him.

“Totally. I mean, besides the shotgun he keeps next to his couch. But that’s reserved exclusively for handsome young men that come around the trailer park after nine PM.” Eddie checks his watch, gasps in mock fear, widens his eyes, and peers out of the window behind Steve’s head.  “That means you’re not safe! I think—I think I hear him loading the gun!”

Steve grabs Eddie’s arm, just for a second, as he cranes his head to look out the window. When Eddie’s sarcasm finally sinks in, he lets go and punches him (a little too hard) where his hand had been. “You’re such a dick.”

“I think that was kind of a compliment,” Eddie says, rubbing at the place where he would surely bruise. “I did say you were handsome.”

Steve flops down on Eddie’s couch and tosses a bag full of VHS tapes and a six pack onto the ground by his feet. He leans back, like he’s making a point, flourishing his hand over the length of his body with the most disgustingly sexy lazy smile on his face. “Yeah, well, that’s common knowledge.”

Jesus.

Eddie looks down to make sure his cock is still out of sight. He can feel it pulse between his legs as he hears Steve’s voice, sees how he stretches on the sofa. But thank God, he’s still tucked away and Steve should be none the wiser.

He takes his place next to Steve—makes sure his shirt drapes loose enough around him that it hides how hard he is.

He wonders if blue balls are a real thing. Will Eddie have severe health defects if he doesn’t come? Will his boner go away on its own?

Questions that he’ll find out sooner or later, he supposes.

“Little full of yourself, are you, Harrington?”

Steve sighs. “Not at all. It’s actually hard work being this gorgeous. You would know.”

Eddie feels his cocky expression fall from his face.

Did Steve just call him gorgeous? Or did Eddie totally misinterpret his words? He blushes and figures it’s better to be safe than be sorry. “Sure,” is all he replies with.

“So,” Steve says casually, “where’s this weed I’ve been hearing so much about?”

Eddie smiles, big and sweet, and points towards his bedroom where he left the joint to fizzle out in an ashtray before he molested himself. “Be a dear and go grab it from my nightstand?”

The truth is, Eddie’s pretty sure the tip of his dick slipped from under the elastic of his pants when he sat down. Miraculously, he thinks it’s starting to deflate by the teensiest fraction, but it would still basically slap Harrington in the face if he tried to stand.

Which—good thing or bad thing? Eddie isn’t sure. That would all have to do with Steve’s reaction. But he’s not willing to find out.

Steve rolls his eyes but gets up like a good little boy to fetch the ashtray. He brings it and the lighter to the coffee table where Eddie had been smoking before.

Fifteen minutes later, Eddie is back in his floaty state with a beer between his legs instead of a hard on. Turns out, stiffies don’t actually last forever if you don’t let yourself come. It’s just very, very frustrating.

“You up for another beer?” Steve asks slowly, reaching into the bag to grab two bottles. His eyes are glazed and blown, and Eddie thinks he looks totally fucked up already. It’s hilarious.

“Yeah, I’m down.”

Steve hands Eddie a new PBR, and his eyes do this little flare thing that makes him look adorable. “Woah.”

“Woah what?” Eddie asks, popping the cap and replacing his empty bottle with the new one.

“Being up for something and being down for something mean the same thing, even though they’re the opposites. I just realised that.”

Eddie smiles against the lip of the bottle, feeling the glass clink against his teeth. “Shit, man, you’re so high.”

“Am not.” Steve honest to God giggles as he makes eye contact with Eddie. “Okay. Maybe a little.”              

“I’m glad you came over, Harrington,” says Eddie after a beat. “Better than another night alone.”

Steve opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, but he’s cut off by the sound of the telephone ringing.

Both men turn their heads to stare at the wall phone, but Eddie doesn’t make a move to stand up to actually answer.

Because, for some reason, his mind is suddenly going a million miles a minute.

He knows it’s not his uncle calling in the middle of work, and he knows it’s obviously not Steve. The chances that it’s Robin are slim to none because her shift doesn’t end for another half hour. Gareth and Jeff are away with their respective families.

So the most logical answer to who’s calling after dark, would be the guy from the bar.

And the thing is, Eddie doesn’t want to raise questions. Isn’t sure if he’s capable of thinking of a good enough excuse as to who it was or why he’s calling. Yeah, he could probably have at least answered and told Bar-Guy to call back tomorrow, that he has company, but his brain isn’t thinking fast enough. So he just kind of… stares at the phone as it rings.

“I’ll get it,” Steve says after a few seconds, and suddenly he’s standing from the couch and reaching for the telephone—

“No!” Eddie pounces, because that’s even worse than if Eddie just answers the damn phone himself. He flounders towards Steve, grabbing the outstretched hand, stopping it from curling around the phone. “Stop! Stop—just let it ring!”

Steve gawks at him, but holds his hands in surrender in front of his chest.

The phone rings one more time, and then the kitchenette goes quiet.

Eddie heaves a sigh of relief, even though he probably just made more questions arise than he avoided by not picking up.

“What—what was that about?”

“Nothing,” Eddie huffs, dragging his feet back to the couch.

Steve follows closely behind. Just as Eddie flops onto the cushions, Steve is on top of him, tickling the shit out of Eddie’s arms, his sides, his stomach.

Eddie was not expecting anything like this—Steve’s hands all over him, his leg slung over Eddie’s to hold him down, the smell of Steve’s breath hitting his face. It’s not a bad smell, like freshly brushed teeth and beer and weed, and it’s warm, because their faces are so close together.

All Eddie can to is half-shriek-half-laugh, even as his mind muddles with confusion (and lust. Obviously).

“Tell me!” Steve commands, digging his fingers into Eddie’s neck, down his back, dangerously close to his thighs…

The boner that he just got rid of starts to fill out once more.

“Stop, dude!” Any sense of authority is lost under Eddie’s laughter that he can’t control. “No! Stop!”

“Come on, Munson. Spill the beans.”

Eddie tries flipping onto his stomach, but Steve follows him, blanketing over his back. The panes of his chest press behind Eddie, hard and warm, crowding him against the pillows. And there’s also friction.

Friction that could easily become a problem if Steve keeps goddamn moving against Eddie, making his hips rub against the couch—

“Okay! Uncle. Uncle!”

Eddie keeps panting face-down as Steve lifts himself away from his back.

“So?” Steve asks with a smile in his voice, triumphant from his win. An unhonourable win, as far as Eddie is concerned. Tickle torture is a serious offense. “What’s up your ass?”

Eddie snorts as he sits up, casually grabbing one of the throw cushions to hold against his lap.

Nothing, he wants to say. That’s the problem.

Instead, he just kind of adverts his gaze and goes for the truth.

“I’ve—kind of—been talking to…” this guy.

It’s not like Eddie has been hiding his sexuality from Steve, per se, but other dudes are way less accepting than girls about it. His first official ‘coming out’ had been to Robin (an obvious choice after she told him she’s a lesbian), and then to Nancy.

Apparently, Steve had been really cool when Robin told him she likes girls. But this is a different situation. Steve might be afraid that Eddie will, like, come on to him or something. Which… fair enough. Eddie probably would.

So, instead of finishing with the whole truth, he dampens it down a bit, and says, “Someone.”

“Oh. Shit.” Steve’s eyes do this thing where they drop to the floor, and then shoot sideways to Eddie, his eyebrows crumpled like a cartoon above his nose. He grabs the blunt, takes a deep drag. “That’s good though, right?”

Eddie shrugs. “Sure.”

“Sweet. So what’s the issue?”

All of it. Everything.

Because said guy lives all the way in Indianapolis—two hours away—and the only chance they have to communicate is through phone. Which, by proxy, means that the only times they can actually meet up is after a phone conversation.

Not to mention the fact that they aren’t, like, official—that they just made out a few times. Once outside of the bar, and a couple times in the back of Eddie’s van, which left him achingly hard when they parted ways.

This circles back to point number one about the phone conversations. They’re awkward. They don’t know each other well, don’t know what to talk about. Things don’t just flow naturally. Not like they do with—oh, say—Steve.

Maybe the worst part is that Eddie is a twenty-one-year-old man with raging hormones that—as much as he wishes otherwise—he cannot control. His self-discipline is basically nil. Nada. Zero. He’s fucking horny all the time.

So how is he supposed to deal with long-distance plus rare phone calls?!

Bingo. Yep. Phone sex. It’s the obvious answer, is it not?

So Eddie, like, tried.

And he thought it started well!

What are you wearing? Is that not fucking obvious where Eddie was headed? Is that not the exact line that they use in movies and shit? That’s what he said—What are you wearing?—and then he shoved his hand down his pants and waited for Bar-Guy to get into it, start saying something filthy into the speaker that would get Eddie going.

Maybe like… ‘Nothing at all,’ or, ‘tight boxers that show off my cock,’ or—fuck—'a towel slung low on my hips’. Something like that!

But all Eddie got was, “Uh—sweatshirt. Jeans. Why are you breathing hard?”

And then Eddie had said, “Just thinking about you,” with his low and gravelly voice, to help keep the conversation moving (again, he thinks this is pretty obvious and, like, at least a bit sexy).

Here’s the real kicker. The dude then said, “Are you… touching yourself?”

And it was not a sexy question. He sounded completely weirded out! Horrified! Disgusted!

So Eddie pulled his hand out of his pants and basically yelled, “No!”

Deny deny deny. Eddie is good at that shit.

The conversation had gone on to other things. Dinner plans, or something. Eddie didn’t really care. All he could think about was that this guy probably didn’t want to fuck him. They’d had the opportunity before, and it never progressed. And the thought of Eddie even fisting his own cock all but repulsed him.

Such a damn shame. Because Eddie is so desperate, so pent up, so sick of fucking his own hand, that he’s literally about to drill a hole in one of Uncle Wayne’s oranges and go to town until there’s nothing left but pulp.

Eddie doesn’t tell Steve any of this. He just groans really loud and buries his face in his hands, and says, “I don’t know!”

“C’mon, man. Something’s up. Out with it.” Steve waves his hand in encouragement, vaguely gesturing to the empty trailer and himself. “Safe space.”

Eddie peeks through his fingers at Steve, and he just looks so… genuinely curious. Like he actually wants to help, or at least hear, Eddie’s problems.

“Okay, fine.” Eddie snatches the joint from between Steve’s fingers and sucks it back like it’s water, keeping his gaze from Steve’s (beautiful) hazel eyes. “It’s just that I… I kind of made it awkward. Last time we talked on the phone. I tried to initiate… uh”—he clears his throat—“phone sex.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, his forehead crinkling with surprise. His lips are shiny and pink. But that second part doesn’t have anything to do with Steve’s expression—Eddie just happened to notice them.

“Fuck,” Steve says, leaning forward to set his bottle on the table in front of them. “Yeah. I’ve been there before, man. What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“I don’t know. What did you say? I assume it didn’t go well considering how you’re all… tense and shit.”

“Tense and shit.” Eddie laughs once, then mumbles, “You have no idea.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Steve encourages.

“It’s not! I started with the classic, what are you wearing?” Eddie drops an octave, making fun of his attempt to sound hot. “And then I got an actual play by play of what they were wearing.”

Steve sits back and thinks about it for a minute—his legs splayed, and his arms crossed over his chest. “I think the issue with that is… it’s obvious, but it’s not sexy.”

“How is it not sexy, dude?” Eddie asks, exasperated. “It’s literally a steppingstone into, like, a form of sex!”

“Yeah, sure, but it doesn’t get you hot. You know?”

“No, Steve, I don’t know. Because I’m always hot. Someone could bend to tie their shoes and I’d fucking cream my pants.”

Steve hiccups a startled laugh. “Fuck. Me too. It’s been forever.”

“I don’t think it’s natural for a guy to go this long, man.” Eddie swigs back the rest of his beer and cracks a third. Lights up a new joint, too. And honestly, regardless of his tolerance, he’s pretty fucked up.

“Do you know how many chicks I’ve gone out with? None of my dates have even led to hands stuff. It at least sounds like you’re close to sealing he deal.” Steve lolls his head towards Eddie with a cheeky little smile on his lips. “I mean, if you didn’t suck at talking dirty.”

“I do not suck!” Eddie cries, grabbing the throw cushion from his lap to smack it against Steve’s smug face.

Steve catches the pillow and rips it playfully away from Eddie’s grip. “Then show me.”

Eddie stares at Steve for way too long. He narrows his eyes after a few seconds. “You’re kidding me.”

“Not kidding. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re doing wrong.” Steve leans forward, plucks the joint right out of Eddie’s slack lips. “Just pretend I’m on the other end of the line.”

“No way, dude.”

Steve curls his hand up to look like a telephone, pretends to dial in a number. Brings it up to his ear. “Riiiinngg. Riiiinngg. C’mon, Eds, you’re getting a sexy phone call. Pick up. Riiinngg.”

Eddie feels his face flush red. He’s not sure if it’s from where this conversation is headed, or out of sheer embarrassment for Steve’s sake. “Holy fuck. You’re such a loser, Harrington.”

“I’ll just pretend you already answered and said hello. Hey, Eds. It’s… wait, what’s this guy’s name?”

Eddie opens his mouth. Then closes it again, because Steve just said guy. Not girl. Guy. Is this a slip of the tongue? Or did Buckley out Eddie to Steve? Or Nancy?

No, neither of them would do that. Maybe Steve just figured it out from context clues.

But still, to be sure, Eddie just says, “What?”

“What’s his name?” Steve askes again.

So—shit—it definitely wasn’t a slip of the tongue. But Steve isn’t freaking out. Hasn’t freaked out in the past. And he’s looking at Eddie expectantly, but not judgy or anything.

Eddie clears his throat. “Nick.”

“Nick! Strong name. Not as strong as Steve, but not everyone can be a Steve—”

“Come on, man!” Eddie groans. Again. Hides his face. Again.

“Okay, Okay!” Steve clears his throat. “Hey, Eds, it’s Nick. What’re you up to?”

Eddie sucks in a breath and lets it forcefully out of pursed lips. “Uhh—hey, Nick… I’m…”—his eyes flick sideways to catch Steve staring at him with a half-smile on his face—“no. Nope! I can’t do this.”

Eddie goes to stand from his perch on the couch, but Steve’s arm shoots out to grab him. “Alright. Let’s just do it, you and me. No phone roleplaying required. Just start with saying a compliment you’d tell Nick or something.”

“Alright… Okay… Uh, you’re—I mean Nick—is really funny?” Eddie says. Nick isn’t all that funny but, fuck, it’s all Eddie can think of. Steve is funny, though, so it’s easy enough to say.

“Yeah, good. That’s good. What else?”

“And you’re really hot. Really fucking hot.”

“Good.” Steve shifts around on the couch, maybe trying to get more comfortable. “And then Nick would say something like, You’re really hot, too.”

Eddie stifles a giggle. “I really don’t think he would.”

“Well, just pretend he does. And then it’s your turn to keep the conversation heading in the direction you want it to.”

“By saying what, Harrington?”

“Try saying how I—Nick—makes you feel.”

“Okay. You make me feel… like I’m vibrating. Like I’m pressurized, or something.”

“Yeah?” Steve breathes, his voice dropping an octave. Probably just getting more into character. “What does that make you do, when you feel like that?”

“It makes me… makes me hard.” Eddie feels his hips pitching forward. His cock twitches under his flannel pants.

A dangerous game they’re playing. Maybe Steve doesn’t know just how serious Eddie was when he said he’s pent up.

“Fuck,” Steve says lowly.

“Too much?”

“No! Nah, it’s good. It’s hot. I mean, sometimes it’ll take longer to build into that kind of stuff, but keep going.”

Eddie nods nervously. “Okay. Uh, what do I say now?”

Steve sits up a bit to adjust the band of his sweats. “Sorry. So, you said it makes you hard. And then I’d say… me too. That it makes me hard just talking about it. Just thinking about it.”

Eddie’s dick is starting to properly fill out again. It makes sense since he never got to come after taking himself right to the edge before Steve came over.

He takes a steadying breath to try to will it away. “Shit. Okay.”

“Do you like that?” Steve asks. “Do you like thinking about how hard my cock gets when I think about you?”

“Fuck, Steve.” Eddie pulls at the hem of his shirt, desperately trying to stretch it beyond his crotch where he is most definitely about to tent his pants. Maybe if he wore boxers it would have been easier to conceal. “I don’t think we should do this.”

“It’s okay. It just means we’re doing good, right?” Steve slides his hips forward, making his sweats tighten against the bulge between his own legs.

Eddie lets his eyes linger there for longer than he should. There’s no way that Steve is getting turned on by all of this, but shit, he is. The proof is in the pudding—if the pudding is his dick that is suspiciously growing under the heather grey fabric.

He can’t help but blurt out, “I want to suck your cock.”

Because it’s true. Eddie’s mouth is watering just from the thought of it. But as soon as the words push past his lips, he realises that it’s not exactly fitting in the theme of phone sex. So he quickly adds, “If we were together right now. Instead of—uh—just on the phone.”

“Fuck, yeah. You’d suck my cock so good.” Steve licks his lips, and Eddie swears his eyes trail over his body, landing between his legs and then back up to his mouth. “I’d fuck your throat so deeply you’d gag and drool all over yourself.”

Eddie can’t help himself from groaning at that image. And as if his body is proving to Steve just how right he is, a trickle of saliva escapes the corner of his lips before he’s able to swallow it back.

He lifts his hand to wipe the back of it against his mouth. “Jesus, Steve.”

Steve shifts closer to Eddie. His voice is low and soft and seductive, and Eddie is having a very hard time remembering that this is a game as he says, “And then I’d ask if you’re touching yourself.”

The words echo those of Nick’s. But when Steve says them, he doesn’t sound horrified at the thought. He sounds like he wants Eddie to be fucking his hand while they talk. Like the thought turns him on almost as much as it does Eddie.

“I would be, by now,” Eddie confesses, wiping his sweaty palms against his knees. He desperately wants to trail them higher, wants to rub between his legs where he’s throbbing and hot. His pants feel like a sauna. They’re humid and sticky, and he knows it’s partly because he’s radiating heat, but also because his cock is already starting to dribble.

“I would be, too,” Steve says. “I mean, Nick would be, too. If I was Nick. And I’d—I’d ask how you were touching yourself. What it felt like.”

Eddie glances between Steve’s legs again. And—holy shit—Steve is hard. As hard as Eddie.

His cock is fucking massive, as far as Eddie can tell. Thick, and long, sitting sideways inside his pants against his hip. Eddie knows it would stand proud by Steve’s belly button if it wasn’t trapped.

And he’s also pretty sure Steve is circumcised by the obvious ridge he can see under the fabric.

Maybe it’s dumb, or false hope, or just how ridiculously horny he is (again), but Eddie is feeling encouraged. Because he’s not the only one who’s getting hot. He’s not the only one who’s participating, or the only one who’s bricked up.

So… why not get into it a bit more?

“I’d say that I have my hand wrapped around my cock. That it feels heavy in my hand. And wet. That I’m leaking all over myself.” Eddie’s hips pitch forward on their own accord, the sensitive tip of his dick deliciously grazing against the flannel of his pants. “And I’d tell you that it feels good. Really fucking good. But it would feel better if it was your hand instead.”

Steve is the first one to break.

Eddie can tell it’s an automatic reaction when he reaches for his cock and squeezes where it’s straining under his sweats. Awareness shimmers in Steve’s eyes, and he quickly pulls his hand away again. “Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s all good,” Eddie says fast as a whip, repeating Steve’s words from earlier. “Just means we’re doing good, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s laugh is small and breathy. “Really good.”

Eddie swallows his nerves, decides to see if he can keep whatever this is going. “What would you say after that?”

It seems it’s Steve’s turn to be flustered. Eddie can see red creeping up his neck, like his chest is flushed. It reaches his cheeks and makes him look all bright and pink. “I’d tell you what I’d be doing.”

“Which would be?”

“I’d be reaching under my pants, and I’d circle my fingers around my dick. Gently at first, because—because I’m sensitive down there. And I want to make it last.” Eddie watches as Steve’s hands lift back to his lap. And then pinch the hem of his shirt. A strip of his sun-kissed stomach flashes as his fingers tease against the drawstring of his pants. “Like this.”

Steve’s hand disappears as it pushes down into his sweats. It moves along the length of his cock. He adjusts so it’s no longer sitting sideways; it’s now straight up, as big as Eddie assumed, dangerously close from peeking past the waistband.

Eddie would not be upset if it did.

The best part is when Steve’s hand starts moving under the fabric. Long, soft strokes that Eddie can tell are featherlight, mostly just fingertips teasing against his skin. Just enough to make Steve bite down on his lip and his breath hitch in his throat.

“Steve—fuck.” Eddie’s mouth goes dry as he watches Steve touch himself. And he has a few fleeting thoughts.

First is the classic, Am I dreaming? Because surely Steve Harrington is not jerking himself off in Eddie’s living room on a Friday night while they say filthy things to each other under the guise of another dude.

Impossible.

The second comes after Eddie subtly pinches himself and doesn’t wake up. Which is, Is this a joke? Because now that he knows he’s (probably) not asleep, there must be some other horrible explanation for what’s happening. He racks his brain, plays back the events that led him here.

Eddie doesn’t think he could misinterpret everything. But he’s probably done dumber things in his life.

Plausible.

And the third—which is the thought that’s taking up the majority of his consciousness—is, Am I allowed to touch myself, too?

He doesn’t let himself consider this one too long. Because there’s no way in Hell that Eddie would be able to stop himself. Not if a gun was pointed to his head.

So he shoves his hand down the front of his pants and squeezes his cock way more aggressively than Steve.

It’s both not enough and instant satisfaction. Like when you start scratching an itch and it seems to get itchier as your nails dig into your skin, but at the same time it’s doing exactly what you need to soothe the discomfort.

Eddie’s lips part as he grabs his balls and gives them a taut squeeze. His dick basically weeps against his skin. So much precum is pushing from his slit that it’ll be a miracle if there’s any left when he actually comes. Fuck, he hopes this time he can actually come.

His heart is beating so goddamn fast in his chest that there’s a good chance if he stops for a second time this evening, it will give out. He really, really will die.

“Does it feel good?” Steve practically purrs the question.

Eddie nods fervently, but he’s not able to form words. He doesn’t know where to look; Steve’s blown eyes that seem more black than hazel, his hand that’s speeding up under his sweats, the damp patch that’s forming where his cock must be leaking nearly as much as Eddie’s if it has already soaked through the fabric, or the growing expanse of abs on show—flexing in tandem with Steve’s strokes—as his free hand continues to lift the hem of his shirt.

Fuck, Eddie wants to come. Right now. He wants to come right fucking now.

He squeezes the base of his cock, bordering on the verge of pain, to stop his orgasm in its tracks. “So good, Stevie.”

Steve’s head falls back against the couch cushion, his eyes flicking between Eddie’s legs, his mouth, back down again… back up. He’s pumping himself with more intent now, his wrist twisting with each upwards stroke. “I wish it was your lips on me. I just know how good they’d feel. You have perfect dick-sucking lips.”

Eddie attempts stroking his cock again. It zaps into the coil in the pit of his stomach, but if he goes slow he’s sure he can go at least thirty second before he’s on the edge again.

“You have no idea, Steve,” he says, his tongue wetting his lips like he just might fall to his knees and start sucking Steve off for real. “I’d keep them nice and soft like you said you like. The inside of my mouth would be so wet—fuck, I’m salivating just thinking about it. And then I’d seal them around your big cock and hallow my cheeks when you least expect it, and you’d fucking thrust into my throat in surprise—”

Eddie moans, dropping his grip on himself yet again. That time it was really close; he can feel his dick pulsing under his pants. If he were alone, he’d push them down and watch as his cock twitched against his abdomen, angry at the loss of his fingers at the last possible moment.

Across from him, Steve speeds up; his hand moving in quick, short bursts against his tip. He makes his own noise, his eyes rolling back into his skull and then closing altogether.

It takes everything inside Eddie not to grab himself and come inside his pants right then and there. Shit, Steve looks so fucking good. Eddie desperately wants to see more. The colour of Steve’s dick, the way it strains, if it’s curved or straight, if it’s shiny. He wants to see it leak, wants to see Steve’s fingers catch the pearls of precum that are soaking through his pants and rub them into his skin. Wants to see it web between his fingertips—sticky and white. Wants to suck it off of them.

Shit. Fuck. It’s a miracle Eddie isn’t coming untouched. He’s still right there, on the verge of his orgasm. One single, insignificant, breath of a touch would one hundred percent set him off.

Steve’s eyes open. He drops his own dick, wipes his palm against his t-shirt. And he scootches closer to Eddie.

Just the brush of Steve’s thigh against Eddie’s makes him tremble, makes Eddie feel like he’s going to lose any semblance of control that remains.

They’re pressed right against each other. The length of Steve’s leg is warm and strong against Eddie’s, bigger than his. Thicker. Just like the rest of him.

Steve spits in his hand. Eddie watches as it pools in his cupped palm, watches as Steve brings that hand back down to the front of his pants. He stretches the waistband away from his body, and for a split second, Eddie catches a glimpse of his cock. Just the crown, broad and pink like Steve’s lips, right before the elastic snaps back and covers him again.

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t you dare fucking come, Eddie Munson.

“And then,” Steve says, adding fuel to the fire, “I’m gonna bend you over the arm of this couch. You’ll look so hot, with your back arched and your ass on full display.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Fuck it. Eddie sticks his hand back down his pants, but barely touches himself. Just draws a line up the fat vein on the underside of his cock. He can feel his heartbeat under the pad of his finger.

“I’ll push into you so slowly. You’ll feel so full with my dick in your tight little asshole. And you’ll make those sexy little noises the whole time.”

Eddie makes one of them right as Steve says that—a low, quiet rumble from the back of his throat.

“Yeah, just like that. And then… then I’ll start fucking you. It’ll feel so good, Eddie.” Steve fucks his fist harder, his hips lifting from the couch like he’s chasing his own touch. His hand sounds wet on his cock, slapping and squelching each time it smacks against the base. “I’m gonna fuck you so good that you start crying. That you start screaming. Your scary neighbours will know how good I’m fucking you from the noises they hear coming out of your trailer.”

Eddie wonders if he lets himself come if it’ll be the end of whatever is happening. He knows for a stone-cold fact that he’ll be able to stay hard after the first time. But Steve doesn’t know that. Not yet. Maybe he should tell him.

But for now, Eddie tries to regain some control, some semblance of his quippy, cocky personality, just so he doesn’t come off entirely as a whimpering fool (if it’s not already too late). He tries to smirk. “Bold of you to assume I’m a bottom, Harrington.”

“A bottom?” Steve asks, and Eddie realises that maybe it’s a term that he’s never heard before. Because he’s straight… (question mark?). Again, Steve uses context clues. Smart guy. He presses impossibly closer into Eddie’s side, and asks, “Are you telling me you don’t want to feel my cock inside of you? Don’t want my cum dripping from your asshole for hours after we fuck?”

Eddie’s whole body vibrates. That’s it. The end. He fists his cock and pumps it hard, pulling his foreskin forward enough to cover the head, back to expose it, all underneath the checkered fabric of his pants. “I’m gonna come, Steve. I’m coming.”

His teeth bite painfully into his lower lip as he lets himself tumble from the ledge. Cum surges from his cock hard enough that he knows it would have painted his entire chest if it wasn’t contained inside of his pants. Each wave of his climax makes him whine aloud. It sounds crude, mixed with the slick slap of his hand against his skin.

“Shit,” Steve mumbles, staring as Eddie’s working fist, eyes blown wide like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

And maybe it shouldn’t, but Eddie’s left hand reaches out with a mind of its own, gripping high on Steve’s thigh. Squeezing it hard enough to leave a bruise, while his right is covered with hot, slick cum.

“Don’t stop,” Eddie babbles, riding out his orgasm for everything it’s worth. “Keep going. Keep talking. Don’t stop. I’m not finished yet, I wanna come again. Please. Please.”

“Oh, fuck, Eddie.” Steve brings his own hand down atop where Eddie’s is still sunk into the flesh of his upper leg. For a moment, he thinks Steve is going to pry his fingers away, but instead he laces them with his own.

It’s such a simple thing, holding hands, but it feels intimate. Intentional. Like this isn’t just some game.

Eddie shouldn’t be thinking that. But he is. He is. And it’s the moment he consciously knows he’ll be ruined for anyone else. End game for Eddie Munson. Steve held his hand while they jerked off. He’s in love.

Steve yanks him from his internal monologue. “You can come twice in a row?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, his hand still squeezing between his legs. Each stroke sends a bolt of lightening through his entire body, but his dick barely softens in his hand before it stiffens back up to steel once more. “Usually more than that. Four times if I want, but—but not as much cum comes out as the first.”

“Oh my God,” Steve breathes. “Fuck, that’s so hot. Can I… Can I see?”

His eyes flicker down to Eddie’s crotch.

“Sure.” Eddie pretends he’s confident as he tugs down his pants, lifting his hips enough to push the fabric under them.

His cock springs free from where it was trapped.

He doesn’t want to be self-conscious of his body, but he can’t help but wonder what Steve sees. If he’s at all disappointed that Eddie’s dick isn’t as big as his. It he thinks it’s weird that he’s uncut or that his dick curves upwards. If he let his pubes grow too long.

But Steve’s eyes go heavy with desire, taking in every inch of Eddie. The way his entire dick is shiny and sticky with his own cum, how it gets stuck in the hair that grows below it. His fingers squeeze around Eddie’s, involuntarily or in encouragement, he doesn’t know. But it makes him feel better.

Eddie is about to ask if Steve would show him more, too.

Steve beats him to it. “Do you want me to—?”

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.”

Steve brings the hem of his shirt to his chin, catching it between his teeth. His whole chest is on display, his olive abs flexing as he pulls down the front of his sweats, tucking the elastic waist under his balls. His hand circles his cock, so thick his fingers barely meet.

And now they’re both just… bare. Basically naked as they jerk off next to each other, hands still intertwined like they’re some sort of couple. Things go quiet for a few moments as they just watch each other. How their hands work against themselves, speeding up, slowing, twitching.

Eddie’s cum gets sticky on his hand, against his cock. When he pulls his fingers away from his body it feels a bit like glue, tacking his hand up so much that it’s hard to slide it over his length.

“Spit on it,” Steve whispers, like he knows exactly what Eddie is thinking.

Eddie nods, bringing his hand up to his mouth—

“Wait.” Steve unlaces his fingers from Eddie’s, grabs his wrist. “Can I?”

“Shit.” Eddie huffs a breath through his nose. “Sure, Harrington.”

Steve lets a long string of saliva fall from his pretty, pink lips. It wets Eddie’s palm, mixing with the cum that covers it, making it slippery instead of sticky. Instead of letting go, though, Steve brings Eddie’s hand down to his own lap.

“Wanna switch?”

And—holy fucking fuck. Eddie trembles with ill-contained delight. He doesn’t even reply, just wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock before he can even think about what’s happening. What it means. That it’s changing the dynamic—they’re getting involved with each other instead of just themselves.

It doesn’t even matter. Not right now.

Steve’s head falls back against the cushions. “Oh God, that’s amazing.”

Eddie slides his fingers up Steve’s shaft—so heavy and hot in his hand—just as Steve described he liked. Soft and gentle. He twists his wrist in the same way Steve touched himself, watches as his lips part and his brows crinkle together, marvels at the vision of Steve’s cockhead surging from his grip, so flushed against the paleness of his hand and the silver of his rings.

He squeezes a bit harder and watches Steve’s hips rut towards him.

“You look so good,” he tells Steve, voice getting lost behind the moans that Steve keeps loosing from his lungs.

“Eddie?” Steve pants, thighs twitching as Eddie dares to circle his thumb around Steve’s slit, gathering more wetness to join the rest.

“Hmm?”

“Were you serious earlier?” Steve asks, barely a whisper. “About wanting to suck me off?”

Eddie’s hand stills on Steve, his eyes shining wide with shock and want. “Yeah? I mean—yeah. Very serious.”

“…Would you?”

Steve doesn’t have to say anything else. Eddie is already sliding onto the floor, already grabbing Steve’s knees and spreading them apart so he can slot himself between them. As soon as he’s bracketed by those strong thighs, they clamp down against his waist. A powerhouse of muscle, locking him to where he kneels.

Eddie is slightly intimidated by Steve’s cock. Will he have to unhinge his jaw like some sort of python to fit it in his mouth?

He leans down and kitten licks the tip, testing how it might feel on his tongue. Steve’s body jolts from that alone, makes a little whimpering noise that makes Eddie’s dick dribble onto the carpet.

“That’s it,” Steve encourages as Eddie’s lips close around the crown of his cock. “That’s perfect. Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all I think about.”

Eddie moans, opens his jaw wider, and then sinks forward. Steve’s cock glides against Eddie’s tongue. It tastes like hot, sweaty skin. And cum—whether it’s Eddie’s from his hand, or Steve’s pre, it’s salty and heady and makes Eddie’s mouth even more wet as he salivates.

“Fuuuuck.” Steve’s fingers bury themselves in Eddie’s curls, tugging him closer.

It’s different than his fantasies. Steve doesn’t smell like honey and almond soap, and Eddie’s nose most definitely cannot reach Steve’s pubes, even as the tip of his dick brushes against the back of his throat. But the dark curls at the base are exactly as Eddie pictured. Perfectly trimmed and up-kept, as nicely as the hair on Steve’s head.

Eddie can’t help but pull off Steve to trail his tongue all the way down his shaft. He noses along Steve’s inner thigh, shamelessly burying his face in that thick thatch of chestnut hair. And then he deeply inhales the musky scent of Steve.

Steve groans, shallowly thrusting against Eddie’s cheek, the tip of his cock grazing Eddie’s ear, getting lost in his mane of hair.

A rope of drool connects Steve to Eddie, his tongue lolling from his mouth to rub against the side of Steve’s balls as he drinks in his smell. He dips his chin lower, until Steve’s dick is standing straight up, resting against his forehead.

The noise Steve makes is fucking sinful—completely wanton—as Eddie shoves his nose into Steve’s balls and breathes him in, committing everything to memory. His scent, his taste, his sounds, his face—everything.

Eddie isn’t sure if this will happen ever again. Isn’t sure if it’ll even be acknowledged. So he’s going to enjoy every goddamn minute while he’s so up close and personal with Steve’s cock.

“Ah—Jesus Christ. You are a freak, Munson.” Normally, those words might hurt. But Steve says them with such lust that it can’t possible be construed as anything but a compliment. Eddie wraps his hand back around Steve’s cock and starts pumping him with purpose, sucking his balls into his mouth and rolling them around his tongue. The wet, slurping sounds are totally lewd in the quiet air of the trailer. “Shit. Ohhh—shit. I’m close. I’m about to come.”

Eddie hums in encouragement, keeps his lips sealed around Steve’s balls. His hand flies above his face until he can feel how tight Steve’s balls get, can feel his cock pulsing in his hand.

He pops off, rests Steve’s cockhead onto his tongue, and jerks him off fast and dirty.

“Eddie—Eddie!” Steve’s thighs tense around Eddie’s middle. Cum surges from his slit into the back of Eddie’s throat in thick rivers, coating his tongue and teeth in sticky white release that he happily swallows down.

Fuck, Steve tastes good. Feels good. Sounds even better as he comes with Eddie’s name falling from his lips. Eddie closes his eyes and revels in the moment, lets himself savour the twitch of Steve’s dick as it empties into his mouth, the intrusion as he thrusts into Eddie’s throat, and the threat of himself gagging against it. He keeps swirling his tongue, even as Steve’s cum stops spurting. Even as his noises become high, and his body starts seizing with each flick against his sensitive tip.

Eddie desperately wants to make the moment last forever, doesn’t want to acknowledge that Steve is basically crying from overstimulation above him.

Finally, the fingers in Eddie’s hair tug him away. He whines at the sudden emptiness, wants to lean back in and feel Steve’s cock soften completely inside of his mouth.

Steve’s eyes are still blown and lustful, and strangely soft, as he says, “That was so fucking good.”

He smiles and gives Steve’s knees a squeeze as he leans back, his own shaking under his weight as he hauls himself back up onto the couch. He feels a little weird now that Steve came, because Eddie is still hard. Still wanting. But he also came once himself. Not from Steve’s hands but from his words, and it was enough. Maybe he should just tuck himself away and let this thing end naturally—

Before he can make a decision, Steve is reaching towards Eddie’s lap. “Is this okay?” he asks as he wraps his fingers around Eddie’s cock.

Eddie lets his gaze fall between his legs. His dick gets swallowed up by Steve’s big hands. He likes the way it looks so red as it peeks out from his fist.

“Is that a real question?” Eddie’s hands flounder in the air before they land on the couch cushions and bury themselves there, his nails digging into the upholstery as Steve starts fucking him with his hand.

“I knew you’d be good,” Steve says lowly. “Knew your hands and your lips would feel incredible. I can’t believe how hard you made me come. I wanna make you come like that.”

Eddie’s jaw swings open and his eyebrows knit together, and he thinks to himself that it’s not going to take long at all for Steve to get what he wants.

Steve leans forward, and for a second Eddie thinks he’s going to put his mouth on him, but he just lets a string of spit fall onto the tip of Eddie’s cock and gathers it with his hand, spreading it along his skin that moves in tandem with his strokes. It’s almost as good.

“Oh, Jesus—Steve.” Eddie sucks in a breath as Steve’s fingers tighten, forcing a bead of precum from his slit. “I’m gonna come again. Keep doing that. Keep—keep doing that!”

Steve nods, watching as he works Eddie back to the edge. Watching as he expertly rubs his thumb against the spot that makes Eddie see stars.

His second orgasm is stronger than his first. Eddie’s vision blurs out of focus—probably because his eyes are crossing—and the noise he makes sounds like an animal getting fucking murdered. The muscles in his torso tighten and tense and shudder as Steve enthusiastically jerks his dick, cum gathering in his fist, eyes watching with rapt attention.

Eddie’s body goes limp as Steve slowly lets go of him. When he’s able to focus his eyes, he notices that Steve is looking at his hand in fascination, watching Eddie’s cum stretch between his fingers as he scissors them.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever done that,” he says, bringing his wet hand up to his face. Steve smells his fingers, and then decides to bring them to his spit-slicked lips. One of his fingers pop into his mouth, and he hums around it, as if he’s actually enjoying the taste of Eddie’s release.

Yep. Eddie could definitely, without a doubt, go a third round.

But before his dick does something stupid like get stiff again, he tucks himself away. “And? What did you think?”

Steve pulls his finger from his mouth, grabbing an old napkin from the coffee table to wipe the rest of Eddie’s spend from them. “I think I was wrong.”

Eddie’s heart hammers in his chest, waiting for Steve to start berating him or something for making him do something gay. Even though he’s pretty sure he wasn’t the one who initiated it.

But Steve just smiles and cocks his head to one side. “You definitely aren’t bad at dirty talk.”

A sigh of relief heaves from Eddie’s chest. He smacks Steve’s shoulder, but he smiles right along. “You’re a prick.”

As he stands to grab a towel from the bathroom, Steve calls behind him, “You seemed to like my prick.”

Eddie blushes ferociously. He catches his expression in the mirror and tries to wipe it away, but it’s impossible. He’s just bound to look like a totally fucked-out dipshit for the rest of his life, he guesses. As soon as the water runs warm, Eddie washes his hands and wets two towels. He cleans off his dick and his sticky thighs, and brings the second one to the gorgeous man who’s back to lounging on his living room couch.

“Did you?” Steve asks, taking the towel to better clean his fingers. When he shoves it down the front of his pants, Eddie adverts his eyes.

“Did I what?”

“Enjoy it?”

“Jesus,” Eddie laughs. “Yes, Steve, I enjoyed it. Fuck.”

“Good.”

Eddie sits next to Steve and tries not to let himself feel awkward. “Yeah. Good.”

“Want to watch Labyrinth now?” Steve casually digs into the bag he brought, grabs the VHS and wiggles it in front of Eddie’s face.

“Absolutely,” says Eddie.

They pop in the tape, and the TV screen glows blue before it starts playing through the ads. Steve sits next to Eddie, their thighs pressed up against each other, just like they had been before.

Steve reaches over and laces his fingers with Eddie’s. They stay like that for the whole movie.

_____

It’s been three days since Steve left. Since Eddie has even heard from him. Keith makes sure they don’t have many shifts together at Family Video (because they never got any work done), so it’s not uncommon that they go this long. But Eddie’s anxiety makes it feel like it’s the end of the fucking world.

God forbid he reach out to Steve himself.

But by the end of the third night, he gets a phone call.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Hey, man.” Steve is on the other line, sounding chipper and unphased.

Maybe Eddie was overthinking it.

“Oh, hey!” he says, a little bit too enthusiastically. He dials it back a bit, clears his throat. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got off work. I have the afternoon off.”

“Sweet.” Eddie nervously twirls the chords between his fingers. Time to be brave. “Do you—maybe—want to hang out then?”

“Yeah. That’s why I called, actually. I stole Psycho III from Family Video. Want me to bring it over?”

Eddie’s shoulders sag in relief. Things aren’t changing. Steve won’t estrange himself after what happened, because he’s a good person. Eddie doesn’t even know why he was worried in the first place.

“Sounds perfect.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool.”

A few ticks go by, and then Steve quietly asks, “Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just wondering…”

Eddie waits, the suspense nearly killing him. “Wondering what, Steve?”

“…What are you wearing?”

MASTERLIST

SOCIALS

[feybeasts]

I gotta be real, after seeing what the hell kinda mutation the perception of a RTVS stream of all things has undergone over the last few years, I think I can’t take Capital F Fandoms seriously anymore.

Like- I don’t mean “people who are fans of a thing and form a community based on that,” I mean the sorta wild tumblr shit that gives us people so detached from what these real-ass-people are that they have no concept of RTVS outside of HLVRAI, who get despondent because last night’s stream, perhaps The Most Radio TV Solutions Thing, “wasn’t the thing they wanted”

I will fully admit to never having understood how these sorts of things mutate like they do- the sort of insular game of telephone that must happen over three or so years to bring people to the point where their interpretations of characters and events is so wildly off from the real thing that they might as well be entirely new characters- but what I saw goes beyond that. The sheer hostility that seems to arise from these spaces over getting what they want, when things aren’t as they’ve deluded themselves into thinking they should be- towards the creators OF these things! Like-

Look. I was there for the peak of “The Bronies” back when MLP Gen 4 came about. I didn’t just watch the fandom from afar, I took part in it, I saw how toxic these spaces can become- I imagine that particular space will go down in infamy as one of the worst- so I shouldn’t be surprised by any of this, but I dunno. Maybe it’s looking at this through the lens of age and some small degree of experience has softened me enough that I’m able to be shocked again.

And it isn’t just this one, is it? I’ve seen people talk about South Park- SOUTH PARK OF ALL THINGS having a fandom that treats these characters as a version of themselves that is almost a polar opposite of the crude, reactionary garbage they are, it almost feels like fandoms have these templates that always spring up, “token ships” and “token OCs” that they MUST HAVE, and characters are warped and twisted and squeezed into these templates regardless of what they are or were. Maybe that it happened with RTVS is only shocking to me because I just see these as real-ass people, not characters. I don’t know.

Look, I’m not out to yuck yums, I would be the mother of all hypocrites if I did, as a Weird Niche Furry Subculture Member, but I had to put these thoughts to words, express my bafflement. Maybe I’m too old for this shit…

[ceilingfan5]

taz musical theater au, please :O??? -ise (currently listening to broadway Anastasia and going buckwild again /lh)

"So," Kravitz says, the door closing behind him dramatically. He doesn't put his bag down like he usually does. Instead he looks stiff and frustrated and confused. And cute. Still painfully fucking cute, as always. "I was surprised to see you at the casting call today."

"Why? You've been talking about it since I moved in last month." Taako kicks his feet off the edge of the couch and keeps pretending to read the magazine he stole from the dentist yesterday, as revenge for having to be there. It's months old, but some of the recipes are still interesting.

Kravitz makes a face like he is trying, with all his might, not to telegraph how confused and frustrated he is. Too bad. Consider that code morsed, buckaroo. Tappity tap tap, you've betrayed how you feel. Better luck when the telephone gets invented. 

"It's just," he says. "I did not think you were interested in musicals. Or this musical, specifically. Or being in the musical that I am running, and taking very seriously, by the way."

"Did I do a bad job in my audition?" Taako audibly turns a sleek page, and pretends to be interested in Cheez-it encrusted lamb nuggets. "You don't have to give me a call back if I'm not right for the part."

"No," Kravitz sighs, shaking his head. He clutches his bag close, like it will be a weapon against the great unknown of Taako's mysterious motives. "You were–amazing. I was afraid we weren't going to have a villain this round. You- Taako- " Kravitz walks over and grips the back of the couch. Taako looks So Very Incredibly Casually up at him, smirking. "You absolutely bodied your audition." 

"Cool," Taako says, like it doesn't matter at all. Like, oh, chips were on sale? That's nice, maybe we'll make some dip. Maybe not. "I thought there was uh, a process for letting people know they're in." 

"There is!" Kravitz stresses. "But we live together. Taako, we live together, I've known you for almost two months now, I've been talking about this musical all summer, and I've never heard you sing! What- I didn't know you even knew where the playhouse was!" 

"Google maps," Taako provides helpfully. He closes his magazine thoughtfully. Maybe tomorrow he will get some Cheez-its. Lamb nuggets can't be that bad, can they? 

"That's not my question!" Kravitz looks, get this, confused and frustrated. It's hard not to laugh right at him.

"What is your question?" Picture of innocence. Stock photo of a sky-blue day. Motives? What motives? 

"Why did you try out for my musical??" 

"Bored. Sounded fun," Taako says with a shrug. 

"Are you interested in musicals??" Kravitz looks like the unhingedness of this line of interrogation is dawning on him a little late. 

"Who isn't?" 

"Taako!" That grip on the couch is so tight. Fuck, he's gorgeous. Maybe a little dim, though. 

"Kravitz!" Taako grins. "Did you not want me there? Is there a problem? I thought this roommate thing was going okay." 

"It-" Kravitz throws his hands in the air and huffs. "You're allowed to be there!" 

"Oh good," Taako says, playing as stupid as he can manage with a straight face. "Not gonna get arrested today. Probably." 

"Taako-" 

"I mean you never know," Taako adds conversationally. "Always good to be prepared." 

"Are you going to take this seriously??" 

"Course," Taako says, and shrugs. 

"You're not just doing it to fuck with me??" Kravitz. Darling. Really? Your first guess is that he's being mean, and not trying to follow you to a second location because he doesn't want to miss out on his Kravitz time? Sabotage, and not ooey-gooey crush the likes of which an adult ought not have to suffer?? Has Taako been Too Subtle? 

"Why would I do that?" Taako tosses the magazine onto the side table. The two of them watch the whole pile of shit slide slowly onto the floor. Sheet music and snacks and playbooks and photos and maybe the lost remote go all over in slow motion. Taako looks back at Kravitz. Kravitz looks pinched. Calzone of a dude here. Dumpling, even. What's in your pocket, guy? What savory morsels are you withholding? 

"I don't know," he says, after a long, painful moment. "But I'm going to find out." And he turns and marches toward his room. 

Wuh oh. Maybe they got two very different messages on what this story is about. Should he say something? 

Then again…Taako doesn't mind an enemies to lovers plot. Not one bit. 

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 ; 𝐧𝐢𝐤𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐱 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏. 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐.

word count: 2.962k trigger warning: lots of cursing, drugs, smoking, one word of fat-shaming (it's that hippie on the movie so don't work up on it), bad flirting, nikki calls y/n 'princess'

waking up somewhere strange wasn't unusual for y/n. only triggering. it seems like the substance won again.

where the fuck i am? remembering some rockers and that she quit her job, she sat up in the bed... the bed?! what the fuck happened last night? lifting the blanket, her clothes were on her, including her jacket. only her shoes were missing. looking around, it wasn't her place, but she didn't put shame on herself as she lit a cigarette from the box that was on the floor. her shoes were also there, so nobody stole them. great. it wasn't hangover, rather weariness. walking out from the bedroom, she found nikki laying on the couch. the sunbeams painted his skin gold. at least he wasn't dead.

turning away from him, she looked into the mirror in front of her. her hair was messy, and she really looked like a homeless people. a stylish homeless people, the blood from her nose dried on her lips and her chin, dark circles under her eyes, probably the makeup.

"jesus fuck..." she whispered. anyway, she gotta call jessica, hopefully she's worried about her runaway friend. opening the front door, y/n saw a telephone on the street, right in front of the house. walking down on the steel stairs, she found some coins in her pocket. dialing their landline, she waited until jessica picked it up. brushing her hair, she leaned on the phone station.

"y/n, is that you?"

"how did you know it's me?" not the usual conversation to start, but at least she knew y/n got away.

"you weren't here and you didn't say a word. where are you? and what was that yesterday?"

the sun was too bright, it tried to carve out her eyes.

"i'm... i'm at a guy, i don't exactly know where, but i think it's still in los angeles. and... i quit yesterday."

"you got away with those guys?" y/n grimaced at the question.

"with those fuckface-brads? hell no!"

jessica laughed at the end of the line.

"no, silly. those rockers guys."

"oh... yeah, them! nikki and... tommy i think? i'm at nikki's. listen, i don't have any coins, so i'm going home some day and picking up my stuff."

"how so?"

"i'm moving out. see you at home, jess." with that, she put the phone down, exhaling, she found sunglasses in her other pocket, and her cigarettes. in the other, she found a... wallet? oh yeah, she pocketed it from last night in the big chaos. tucking the bills into her bra, lightning one cigarette, she didn't know what to do. how to get a new job, how to get more money... what if this shit with nikki and those others gonna work out? it's such a stupid idea to hold into dreams and fictions, and the chance is 1 to 99, but what if that one is the winner? and what's gonna come after that?

an old man walk by her, staring at her like she was homeless. well, she was, but at least she was a hot homeless.

"what the fuck are you staring at?"

as she stood there, she knew she gotta go back to tell nikki that she's gonna be there. or, maybe after picking up her clothes, she's moving to him. she was ready to sleep with a knife either, if he wanted to have sex, but at this point, maybe getting aids from a third, from the plaid they slept in was a bigger danger.

"you still here?" she heard nikki from behind. turning around, she sat down to his legs.

"i just called my roommates. and i really hope that band-shit comes together because i don't know what to do."

nikki rubbed his eyes, nodding.

"we're gonna meet at noon, i called two guys, and tommy. you're gonna be here too, to test your voice at the songs."

"that's fine. listen, nikki, i..." y/n started, but then she shook her head.

"what is it, y/n?" he turned to her.

"nah, forget it." can i live at your place because i become a homeless chick and my only chance is your fucking visionary band?

"you can tell me everything, princess." he winked at her, making her rolling her eyes while smiling. "are you hungry? we can eat somewhere if you want... or steal something because i don't have any bucks, sorry."

y/n reached into her bra cup, picking out the stack of money she just put there. nikki's face lighted up.

"do you want traditional or some exotic?"

♡

"where did you get that money?" nikki asked while picking up his bottle.

"i stole it from those assholes yesterday."

"really? you do it on regular basis or was this a special occasion?" y/n smirked, shaking her head while munching on her pancakes.

"i lost my job, they lost their money. i think we're equal."

"you just amaze me more and more."

y/n looked away. she didn't like when other people saw her blushing.

"you can't like someone like me. i'm way too troubleful, you'd throw out my stuff after two days. i'm a shitty person with shitty problems."

"i'm a shitty person with shitty problems too. the question is, can you sing good enough this noon." nikki brushed her hand. she didn't know if it was accidental or on purpose.

"how good should i be? i sang in the chore of my schools and the orphanage, but i don't know if smoking and drinking soiled it."

they looked at each other.

"well", nikki started, "we'll see. but we need a makeup artist also, so if that doesn't work... we still have a job for you."

y/n smiled at that. why did he want to keep her?

at noon, they walked back to his apartment, y/n decided to pick up her stuff after the 'rehearsal'. sitting on the couch, she waited for tommy to stomp in with a beer in her head, sunglasses on her eyes, her coat still on. instead of him, a fat guy with blonde hair stepped in, making her lift her eyebrows.

"sorry dude, i think you're at the wrong rent. we didn't organize any hippie parties, so-"

"y/n, you already met o'dean?" nikki came after the guy. pulling up her eyebrows again, y/n nodded.

"yeah." standing up and going after nikki, y/n took off her sunglasses. "sorry, but are you fucking kidding? this guy is lamest ass i've ever seen. ain't no way we're gonna work out well." she tried to be as quiet as possible, but she tried to talk some sense into her new friend's head.

"do you really think?" nikki said, searching for his guitar and the cords.

"anybody who's coming right after him is gonna be the perfect with an electronic guitar, but not him."

"just try out! at least someone's coming. but i called someone else too, mick... mars? i think that's his name."

"i bet in one pound of cocaine that he's gonna be better than this guy." she ended the conversation, coughing some to regain her voice. come on, it's like riding a bike, isn't it? once you learn it, you can never forget.

"what song would you like to sing to test your song?" nikki asked her as she walked back. y/n shrugged her shoulder.

"whatever you want."

in that moment, tommy came in too, bringing up his drummer kit too.

"hey guys! is this the new dude?" he asked, placing down the stuff, giving a high five to y/n.

"i think so." tommy saw on her face the slight grimace, but chose to ignore it.

"sorry, but what is she doing here?" y/n laughed at the guy's question. what was his name? she didn't even care.

"i'm the pre-singer, dude. that my rehearsal, just as yours." how can she hate someone just by his presence and his question?

after nikki came back, he chose her 'paint it black' by rolling stones. "really?" y/n asked, looking at him.

"we're gonna try it with more rocks then the original." it meant that she had to have a stronger voice and wide scale of notes.

she pulled a wicked grin on her lips.

"don't even believe for a second."

the first strings of the guitar resonated through her lungs and throat, and she knew that this is gonna be her entrance into nikki's band.

♡ 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐊𝐈 ♡

i see a red door and i want it painted black no colors anymore i want them to turn black

i see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes i have to turn my head until my darkness goes

y/n's voice was better than he expected. keeping out strong high notes and variating without any bigger problems, she aced the verses as they kept playing, filling the whole room with her voice, maybe people heard it on the streets, too. turning around at the second half of the song, she looked into his eyes, coming up to him like a diva.

no more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue i could not foresee this thing happening to you

then, as they picked up the drums and the strings again, she began to shake her head and her hips, turning back like there was a real audience. how did this girl not settle into a band faster? she was nearly better than any 'singer' he worked with in his previous bands, but she never heard a girl sing like this, like joan jett, but in the near, no girl wanted to be joan jett. but y/n... she's something else. something new. something bitter and fiery, sparkling and bombing.

if i look hard enough into the setting sun my love will laugh with me before the morning comes

maybe he was falling into love with her.

the song ended, the girl turned and bended before them, just like she was a real singer in a real band. clapping to her, she smiled and ran her fingers through her hair.

"fuck, it was almost better than sex."

nodding, nikki went to get himself a beer, tommy right after him.

"did you like it?" nikki asked him, picking out two beers.

"dude, it was fucking awesome! are we gonna really have a girl as a frontman? well, frontwoman, but anyway!"

"i still want a dude, you know. but... if they sing, maybe we can change vocalists from song to song, because i need y/n, and i need somebody else." he lamented, making tommy nod.

"okay, but please, keep her. i've never heard someone sing like that."

"me neither, dude. me neither."

did he really said 'i need her'?

♡ 𝐘/𝐍 ♡

"bang bang, bitch!" she said after a couple of hours when the hippie was kicked out, closing the door with a bang! after him. mick mars was in, and she was snickering when she heard her solo while sitting on the couch a couple minutes ago.

"what was so funny, little girl? you probably never heard any pro instruments."

y/n shook her head, smirking.

"it was fucking awesome, man. i just said to nikki, that anybody who steps in this room after that guy can be better than him." mick nodded at her words, placing down the guitar.

"nice to know that our singer is also a witch. mick mars." he reached his for her to shake. y/n accepted it, standing up.

"two in one, y/n y/l/n."

now, it was the time to search for a singer. like, a man. she at first found it interesting that just her wasn't enough for the band, but she was lucky that nikki even considered to take her in, and she didn't want a useless conflict in the beginning, so she just kept quiet.

"so... someone mind telling me who's gonna be the other singer in this band?" mick asked. y/n was curious too, leaning her head on her palm.

"well, we already have a crazy, joan jett and aretha franklin-mixed rock chick, so we need is a dude that looks like david lee roth with a vibe like david bowie, and i'm not about to settle for some regular looking, normal sounding asshole."

"so... we're looking for a skinny, blond fucker with moves."

y/n didn't know guys like the one nikki and mick visioned. or, she knew but she ended up in a big fight with him. so... nope, she didn't know anyone.

"wait, guys. i think i know our guy, dudes."

riding in mick's car, y/n sat in the back with tommy. looking at him, she lit a cigarette.

"do you want some?"

"yeah, thanks." he responded, y/n lit it for him. "you were fucking cool, y/n. with you on our side, we can't lose!"

"thanks, toms." she smiled, blowing out the smoke. "and who is your friend? you know, the david lee roth and david bowie-mixed one."

"oh, we were friends in high school. his name is vince, he was the coolest dude i've ever known, so i hope that he's gonna join us."

"yeah", y/n nodded at that, throwing out the butt of the cigarette. "i hope so, too."

arriving to the place tommy told to mick, it was a pool party. this is not what i signed up for, she thought, and as she stepped out from the car, she and mick looked at each other. she was sure that they thought the same thing: are you fucking serious? and the song that was playing...

"fucking my kind of lover? you serious, tommy?" she asked, looking at him through her sunglasses.

"don't you like the song, princess?" nikki asked, stepping beside her. y/n rolled her eyes, then sneaked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

"my trash ex listened to it too. not a wonder he ended up beaten up after a night." nikki snickered at that, and then they smoothed into the partying crowd while mick said that the band of vince's name was shitty. shitty name, shitty band. trying to look at the guy, it was hard for her since she was smaller.

"should i lift you up, y/n?" tommy asked from her, making her look up to him.

"yes, if you want me to choke you with my legs."

"you can think that it's a fret from you y/n, but... it is not." nikki whispered to him. being this close to his face made her blush again, placing her hand on his chest. it was warm and hard from the leather jacket he had.

"stop it, sixx. you and i both know how i meant."

"and do you know what i mean by saying that you're the prettiest girl in the area?" fuck you, sixx. y/n lifted her sunglasses.

"probably that you've not tried enough girls in this area."

"stop it, y/n. we both know what i meant." nikki grabbed the whiskey, drinking from it.

"day-drinker much", y/n said, pocketing away unnoticed the little plastic bags that contained some drugs. well, almost unnoticed as nikki watched the whole procedure as she tucked into her bra, beside the money.

"you keep your id there too?" he asked, making her turn to him.

"wanna find out?" she snickered, lighting a cigarette. "i'm selling these at night, i gotta pay the rent."

"don't you wanna move in with me? well, i mean, you know, it's just-"

y/n nodded, trying to keep it casual, but inside, she was happier than ever in the month.

"don't brag, sixx, i'm in. i sleep on the left side that's closer to the door. and i also keep a knife under my pillow in case you don't keep those hands to yourself."

"so you like bdsm. cool." nikki smiled, making her laugh. the song ended, mick and tommy came back.

"his voice ain't bad." mick said, taking a swig.

"i don't care if he can sing or not, look what he's doing to those chicks." at nikki's words, y/n coughed loudly, getting their attention. "don't worry y/n, we need someone who can actually sing."

"guys will like you, too. at least they gonna come for anything, if that's not your music." the girl looked at mick, shrugging her shoulder.

"i would hit your arm, but i'm a little bit afraid of you."

tommy went to talk with vince while mick, nikki and y/n stood together. y/n looked around, at the girls. bright colors, bikinis... somehow she didn't have the vibe to strip to her underwear and swim in the water. a group of girl stared at her, whispering something and she stared back. in the end, they looked away, but they surely talked about her.

"i really hope it goes well. i don't fucking have time for that blonde bitch." mick said, making y/n nod. as vince began to shake his head, y/n didn't let to slip the chance. he's not gonna fuck up their plan, not on her watch. ignoring nikki's question, she pushed tommy aside, turning vince to herself.

"you only have one chance, tomorrow. be there or fuck yourself, but don't wase our time."

"wow, tommy, is this chick the part of the deal too?" y/n pulled up her eyebrows.

"no, i'm the chick who'll cut off your dick in your sleep if you don't take this seriously." she replied, looking at the girl on vince's side, then looked back. "so? you coming tomorrow?"

vince looked at tommy, and it was like tommy convinced him. "yeah, sure..."

y/n nodded, letting the trio talk as she stepped back to mick and nikki. lighting a third cigarette, she adjusted her bra full of drugs.

"what did you do? vince seems a little bit surprised." nikki asked her.

y/n pushed the sunglasses up on her nosebridge, blowing out the smoke.

"i just made sure he'll come tomorrow."

𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓.

a/n: i really enjoyed to write this part gurls, i hope you like it too

[vyloy]

Obession in Love

People kidnap others for ransom, for money, for blackmail, but what if you get kidnapped for love and pleasure?

Tws: kidnapping, non-con, slight bondage, dacryphilia.

Johan Liebert

︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

You have had your suspicions on a certain individual for a while now,Johan Liebert , a German man, early twenties, seemingly perfect in everyway, you obviously don't buy his act but whenever and whoever you asked, they all had good views of him, "He's such a nice young man", said an old man as you questioned him about the individual, this answer pissed you off as you always get that same reply one way or another. Getting up from the man's chair , you were about to say your goodbye's to the kind old man but, as you walked towards the door, it opened. Speak of the devil, "good after noon ,mr-", his eyes widened at the sight of you before his lips curled into d smile "Good afternoon ,sir y/n", he extended a hand to you, expecting a handshake, you only turned away ,again, heading towards the exit, fortunately, the man lets you through.

"How unlucky!", you screamed in frustation, slamming your fists on the desk, papers sprawled everywhere, pictures of Johan that were all him looking Straight into the camera despite the pictures being taken in secret, it was all oddly creepy. Ring-ring the old telephone rang, yougot up to answer it, an odd feeling accompanying you, "hello?" , "Is this Sir y/n L/n?" you recognized the voice , "Johan?" "I'm flattered you can recall me,sir", you swore if you were infront of him right now, he would be smiling, "how did you get my number "Sir Moriku gave it to me",

shit,an officer you've worked with in the past had given your personal number to the person you've been investigating, Just your luck, "Oh, what do you want?", "please don't get the wrong idea,Sir, I simply want to invile you to dinner as we got off the wrong foot, do you mind?", as you were about to decline ,your stomach rumbled you rationalized that this could be a chance for you to learn more about him "I don't see why not".

You're in the restaurant Johan had invited you to, you tried to look clean as you didn't want to embarrass yourself in such fancy place. "Sir Y/n i hope i didn't make you wait too long Johan finally reached the restaurant, he took a seat infront of you with a smile of a child, "have you been here before?", he sparked up a conversation with you "I've been here once with someone, it you was a long with time ago though...", you reminisced the good memories you had, "with whom?", " a lover, let's move on" ,you tried the good changing the subject as it was getting personal for your comfort, "What would you two gentlemen like for this evening?" , the waiter asked while a notepad sat on his hand as well as a pen.

"What did you invite me here for?", you asked ,still wary of him and to his know intentions you, he only chuckled before answering, "to get to know you, you're very interesting", "interesting?", you'd have never thought he would say that about you but here you are, puzzled by what he had just said , "Pardon?", " You heard me, you're very interesting you're... different", just as you were about to question him again, the waiter braught in the meals,

lucky bastard.

"Now tell me what you meant, how am i 'different'? I'm just a normal and average individual like you'', you pointed out , "we all know that's a lie", you couldn't tell if he was talking about you or him, was he aware of what he says could reveal some sensitive details at this moment without you knowing. You both sat uncomfortable silence him wearing that grin, a creepygrin At the end of the night, you both go your seperate ways.

In the morning, you woke up thinking everything that happened the night before was merely figment of your imagination though, when you got to work, a certain someone awaited your presence, Johan "it's nice to see you again so soon", you tried to keep up a facade but slurred your words a bit as you were still groggy from waking up so early, "You don't look that good ,sir, i'll get you a cup of water, please wait here", he walked away, to the kitchen you presumed to get a cup of water, you wonder who let him walk in so freely.

Not long after, he comes back with a cup of warm water, he hands it to you "thanks" , you mumbled but loud enough for him to hear.

It was a cycle of hate and tolerance throughout the months that followed, at times, you would warm up to him, only to put your guards on a minute later. These couple of days you've had a feeling, a negative one, as if something would jump at you, you were a bit worried at first but after the feeling didn't go away for weeks, you brushed it off, bad mistake.

"what should i cook for dinner...", you wondered to yourself, it had been long time since you ate home cooked meals "chicken soup should be good", you say to yourself as you drive on the road with a hungry and rumbling stomach. As soon as you stepped out of your car, your legs almost gave out, you didn't know what it was but everything just seemed off, that was when you heard it a chuckle behind you, was he always there? you immediatly turned around, clutching your gun, a person, no, monster emerged from the shadows of your car "Johan", your voice trembled, fuck, you knew it, he's the cause of all of this, you wanted to shoot but every muscle in your body froze out of fear , "I'm sorry for this~" he said in more of a teasing tone rather than an apologetic one, then you passed out.

You woke up in a clean room, it was a bedroom, "Ah, you're awake", a pleased Johan turned to look at your half awake face, you immediatly woke up upon seeing him, realizing you were tied up, "ever since i first saw you, sir, knew you would be the one to help me,to be by my side", he announced to you, face full of genuine feelings, you sat there, dumbfounded, not knowing what or how to answer him "You're all mine now", he approached you with the intention holding you, feeling you.

"Ah, don't!", you tried yelling at the much stronger man, you had trained in the force for years yet, young man is able to hold you off, "You got too involved in my business, a shame, i would have loved toying with you some more", he then pushed a finger you, "Ah~" you moaned out, the pleasure getting to you, erasing any bad thoughts from your mind, not only was he perfect on the outside, he could also fuck you with just one finger, "you like that~?", he smirked a bit, you didn't want to give in, so you still tried to get him off of you, "Seems like you need to be more honest", he then inserts another finger, making you moan loudly, "fuck~!", you moaned out of frustration, he was way too good at this, all you can feel is pleasure, he added 2 more fingers, making you scream, oh god he was amazing at this, you were almost at your climax before he released his fingers, making you whine unconsciously, "Aw, aren't you an impatient one".

As your clothes and his clothes were in the floor, scattered, he pinned you to the bed, both your hands held by his as he relentlessly pounded your hole, it was noticeably very tight, "Is my cock too big for you?~", he teased, full knowing that he was enormous, tears started to drop from your eyes, this turned him on even more "cry more for me, darling, you look ravishing like that", your groans and pleads being ignored by him completely as all he focused on was how you were taking him in so well despite how big he was, almost as if you and him were destined from the very beginning, "ah~ this is like heaven", "what kind of monster, would be allowed in heaven-", you were cut of by him roughly thrusting into you, you shouldn't have said that, he was now visibly pissed, "Darling, keep your mouth, shut.", his smile full of sadistic intentions, it was clear he wasn't going to slow down anytime soon.

"P-please...ah", you weakly pleaded, he had been pounding your hole for more than a few rounds now, your hole ached, your stomach looked a bit bloated from Johan's cum, your eyes filled with tears, both your bodies sweating, you wondered how he could still go on after so many rounds, "It's such a surprise you haven't passed out yet", you close your eyes as he says this before you feel a hand grabbing your cheek, when you open your eyes, Johan was looking into your eyes, his hand on your cheek as he goes in for a kiss, the kiss was long and filled with passion before he lets go of your lips, looked into your eyes once again, and says, "I've always wanted you, Y/N".

︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

Taglist: @ohdearalatus @secretivemessenger

[versegm]

The first skill you need to learn if you want to get into Fate is knowing to shut up about works/characters whose primary source you haven't checked out yourself. Basing your entire perception of a work or a character based on the game of telephone that is discourse, memes, and out of context posts will often lead you to make erroneous assumptions, and saying stuff based on these assumptions might make you look like a clown. Mind you this goes for every fandom and most things in life but this goes double for Fate because this serie is literally twenty years old and you might end up posting a "hot take" that has already been debated fifty times which will get you incensed by people who are tired of seeing the same arguments over and over again.

The second skill you need to learn is to not bother people who are not familiar with your blorbos or favorite works. If someone tells you "I didn't read Fate/Stay Night" don't ask them about Fate/Stay Night. If someone tells you they don't know much about Mordred, don't send them shit about Mordred. That is for two reasons:

People who aren't familiar with these things are probably going to give responses based on what they know from osmosis, and as you can see above, you probably shouldn't speak of characters or show you haven't experienced yourself. Don't trick someone into making a fool of themself.

Nothing turns someone off something like being constantly asked about it. If you keep telling someone "LOOK AT HOW COOL MY BLORBO IS" and that's someone they know nothing about, they might end up developing a dislike for this character out of spite.

Also inb4 someone misreads this post, I am very obviously talking about public behavior. If in private DMs with a friend you want to talk about Saber despite never reading the Fate route, go the fuck for it, I'm not a cop. If your friend explicitly tells you they want to hear you talk about the entire plot of Fate/Strange Fake & would love to help you come up with headcanons for these characters, that's more than fine. What I'm saying is that you probably shouldn't do that on tumblr or on public discord servers, and refrain from spamming someone's notes & inbox if they say they're not familiar with a given work.

[blueshistorysims]

November 17, 1922, London England

Giselle set the newspaper down and turned to her lover, who was still reading it. “Why the fuck do I find out everything about my brother’s love life from the London Daily Times?! I can’t believe it.”

“The divorce or that he didn’t tell you?”

“Oh, anyone with common sense could see the divorce coming from a mile away the moment Byron became Duke of Feldsbury. I feel for Stella, but my lord, this is not something you keep secret from your own goddamn sister!”

Without a second word, she stood and marched over to the telephone, telling the operator to connect the line to her brother’s phone and waited for someone to pick it up. After several rings, the phone finally answered, and she heard a heavy sigh.

“Yes?” Her brother’s voice asked tiredly.

“Am I going to have to find out about all of your romantic excursions through the fucking newspaper, Byron?”

He sighed again. “I’m sorry. It completely blanked my mind.”

Giselle paused, her annoyance melting away from how sad he sounded. “You sound awful.”

“I feel awful too.”

“...Look, I was going to yell at you about you being a right idiot… come to London. Stay with me and Francesca for Christmas. Mama will be here, and most of the house is finished with renovations. Being alone in a big house won’t do you any good. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Henford-on-Bagley, England

Giselle was kinder to him than he deserved. In his wallowing self-pity, he’d ignored everyone that he didn’t have to legally speak to. He moved into Walshstone Park quickly, leaving the remains of Stella’s things in trunks in the empty ballroom, gathering dust as he had yet to hire permanent servants. Someone other than his soon-to-be ex-wife would come to pick them up so they wouldn’t have to see each other. As far as he knew, she was already back in America living in her old apartment with Toussant. He missed the cat. 

The doorbell rang loudly, shaking Byron from his thoughts. He sighed and set the bottle of wine he’d been holding on one of the trunks before walking to the foyer and opening the door. He’d expected it to be a moving company or at least an acquittance of Stella’s, but to his surprise, he saw Samson Gardenhouse standing in front of him. 

“Samson?”

“Hello, Byron.” He stepped inside. “Nice house. Heard you used to be in a castle.”

He swallowed. “It was too expensive. Stella sent you to get her shit?”

He nodded. “She thought it’d be better if Thaddeus or me did it since we’re friends. …She doesn’t want to hurt you any more than she has to.”

“She should’ve thought of that when she fucked Campbell and left me,” he answer bitterly.

Samson frowned. “I’m sorry, Byron. I really am.”

“Will there be people coming tomorrow then?”

“Yeah.”

He huffed. “...Well, want anything to drink? Lord knows I have plenty of that.”

Samson shook his head, eyeing the stairs behind the Brit. “Would you rather have sex?”

Byron was quiet for a brief moment. “Yes.”

“You’re depressed,” Samson said as they basked in post-sex haze. It wasn’t an accusation or question. It was a statement.

“Who wouldn’t be in my situation?”

“Fair enough. …How does it feel to become a duke and get divorced in the same year?”

“Feels like bloody shit. I’ve been Duke of Feldsbury for about seven months, and I’ve already been in more scandals than most peers in their whole lifetime.”

He laughed. “It’s only been seven?”

“Imagine how I feel.”

“I can guess.”

Byron sighed. “I’m 27, I’m a fucking duke, I’m divorced, and I’m known to say republican sentiments in the House of Lords. No one in the hoity-toity British aristocracy likes me.”

“You’re also a decorated army captain, you hold two master's degrees, and a doctorate, and you speak almost twenty languages.  I can barely speak English.”

He leaned on Samson’s shoulder and smiled. “God, don’t with the flattery.”

“I think the problem is, Byron, is that you don’t have friends here in Britain. You’re lonely, and instead of doing the things you enjoy, you’re sulking and shut in your house.”

“I have friends.”

“Who?”

He was quiet for a minute. “...One of my neighbors’ daughter. …But I haven’t spoken to her in a few months.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

“I’m walking scandal, Samson. It’s different here in England.”

“Then associate yourself with people who don’t care that kind of stuff.”

“...You’re much smarter than me, Samson. I may have all the degrees, but my social smarts could be greatly improved upon.”

He smirked. “And what happened to the guy who went to jazz parties, screwed a new person every week while still writing their dissertation?”

“I got married,” He answered truthfully.

Byron closed his eyes as Samson looked away. 

“Byron?”

“Hmm?”

“I think this will be the last time we will have sex.”

“Unfortunately, I’m inclined to agree. It doesn't feel right.”

[ficmachine]

No glasses? No problem! (You can't see shit)

Pairings: Moon (FNAF) x Reader

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, panic attacks, vague descriptions of a PTSD episode.

Summary: You took a nap during your break and now you can't find your glasses. Panicked, you turn your office upside down to find them.

Reader is gender neutral.

He/They pronouns for Moon.

-

"Where in the fuck-?" You curse, squinting your eyes as much as you can in an attempt to see better. The blobs of blur and vague shapes illuminated by the many security screens don't help your predicament when you take another look around the room. Your hands sweep over the desk, gently patting around to double check and--

Nothing.

Not there.

Not on the desk, not under it, not in your bag-- not even behind the damned bin or the stupid wobbly cubby; not in--

"Ugh!"

Frustration bubbles in your throat; a vague pang of panic forming into uneven breaths and shaking hands but you try again.

Once more you sweep your hands over the desk, patting around, under, in and behind anything and everything your glasses could've ended up. Did you drop them? Knock them off during your break nap? You've checked everywhere they could possibly be, discovered hiding spots in this forsaken office you didn't know existed to no avail.

The longer you search, the more ridiculous this situation becomes.

Sitting back on the uncomfortable swivel chair you groan, taking another look around as if somehow your eyes will spot them in the most obvious, dumbest places. And when you don't see any changes (which, admittedly, see is a strong word here) you deflate.

The chair creaks under your weight, shifting with you as you rest your forehead against the cold surface of the table.

Now, with the realisation settling in the panic from before drops into the pit of your stomach. A bitter taste forms in the back of your throat and you do your best to keep yourself from falling into a panic attack. Subconsciously your hands reach out for your phone, fumbling to dig your nails into the thin silicone around it and scratch at the cover - it's definitely not enough to stop a panic attack but it's a start.

Prying one of your eyes open you lift the phone up close to your face, chewing at the inside of your lips and ignore the glaring numbers on the clock to the best of your ability. Left to right, you look for something to keep yourself occupied with - to focus on - and momentarily regret not getting the app that supposedly helps at a time like this. Its not like you thought you'd actually use it though, and you're not about to use your mobile data to download something and send your phone bill through the roof.

No, it's not worth it.

You got this.

(Let's see what there is...)

You got yourself through worse situations, what makes this one any worse than any other times you've had a panic attack? Absolutely nothing. You've been on this rodeo so many times you're practically a pro.

(Gallery, Mail, Maps, Messages--)

A professional panicker AND a professional panic-stopper.

(Music? No headphones)

An absolute fucking champ, you are!

( Do you really not have any games on your phone? Fuck.)

Fuck panicking. Who does that? Not you. Not today.

( Notes. Settings. Telephone. Torch. Ugh)

Today was probably one of the easiest shifts since you started working so of course something went wrong with your luck. Still though, this? This is nothing.

Not to someone like you who knows exactly how to handle shit like-- Torch?

You backtrack to the torch app as soon as you process it and press it.

Nothing.

Glancing up to your battery life you frown, whopping 70% and still going strong so what's the issue?

You try again, pulling your legs up to your chest and spam the hell out of the app with your trembling fingers. When nothing happens you let out a short breath, open up settings and try to fire it up from the shortcuts and--!

Two red eyes peer up at you from under the desk.

With a shriek and a loud snap you fall, the old backrest giving up and breaking under the sudden movement. Your head hits the floor so hard that for a moment you see white.

Blinking away the spots dancing in your vision you sit up, clutching your head as soon as your body complies. A splitting headache quickly spreads from the back of your head towards your eyes and forehead - a very unwelcome sensation on top of everything but on the bright side? At least your panic is now redirected towards the injury instead.

"...Fuck." You hiss.

Long fingers momentarily stop inspecting your injury to flick you in the ear before promptly returning to their previous position on top of your head. Moon's grip on your head is firm, not enough to add onto the pain, and surprisingly gentle.

Then again, this is probably the first time he's willingly initiating any sorts of physical contact with you. Huh..

You didn't expect him to be a gentle, careful type with things like--

You hiss when their thumb runs over the quickly forming lump, swatting the hands away as quickly as you can. "Ow!" You call out, ready to throw fists with the blurry moon man only to be rendered useless in a second.

"... You're like a child." Moon scoffs, one hand holding your wrists and pinning them in your lap. Their red, glaring eyes narrow when they catch you staring. "Stay. Still."

It's not a threat, but it's definitely not a plea.

Nodding your head slightly you freeze when he scoffs at you again, and quickly avert your eyes to look anywhere but him. Blurry or not, it's better than looking up at him.

You know how irritable he gets when physical contact is in question, even for medical reasons. And you can't blame him - you'd also be upset and snappy if you had to endure more than the stimuli you could handle. It must be sensory hell for him, even right now.

The slender hand on your wrists leaves only to take a hold of your face - fingers digging into your cheek bones enough to prevent you from moving your head. Their eyes narrow once more, frown ever so present when your head is jerked up.

Your eyes meet; your heart hammers.

If not the events leading to this you'd barely be able to keep yourself calm. Moon's face is close enough for you to feel the warmth of your own breath against it. Their eyes hold your gaze, and from this up close they don't seem so intimidating - not with the way they squeeze your face to bring your attention back to them. So close, yet--

He snickers.

"Pining weirdo."

You gasp, offended, loud enough that it makes your head ache more.

"I am not." You bite back, ready to absolutely throw hands with the object of your... Clear favouritism.

"... Mm-hm." Moon rolls their eyes at you before tilting your head down to take a look at you properly. "Maybe you did hit your head too hard after all." They jest, voice ringing around a playful tone. Once they're sure you're fine they let go of you, moving to sit back on the floor next to you.

You follow suit; shifting to get into a more comfortable position yourself. With your worries mostly gone you point your phone torch up to illuminate the small security room and try ignore the awkward air around you.

He won't realise you can't see if you pretend you can, right? Maybe if you don't squint too hard he won't suspect anything? Sure, you're never seen without your glasses but it's not like he knows you're as blind as a bat without them.

Yeah, you can play it off. You got this.

... Hopefully the chair won't come out of your paycheck. Shit.

A moment of silence passes between the two of you before you speak up again, looking at the animatronic in front of you in... All their blurry glory.

"And?"

"And?" Moon mimics near instantly, watching as you subconsciously shift your sitting position. A few seconds pass and he moves to copy you exactly - legs crossed, hands resting on his knee--

WHAM!

You jump at the loud horrid noise of his knee hitting the metal leg of the desk; the sound carries, echoing in the enclosed space for a moment before fading out. Moon, however, doesn't react at all. Instead, he lifts his hand up to his chest and lowers it when you lower yours.

Bastard.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" You put your weight on one of your arms leaning back to try to ease some weight off your aching tailbone.

"Doc? I didn't know you get a say in my life career, little guard." They taunt, leaning back the same way you just did.

You're not sure what this game is but you don't like it.

"Well, I'm not the one with a first aid certificate."

You must've said something right because for a few long seconds the jester seems to ponder over your words. A few, long seconds that seemed much longer than they should've. A smile finally reaches the edges of their lips, and be it for the horrible lighting, or their glowing red eyes, you force yourself to suppress a shudder. For a moment they stare, unmoving. Still to the point where you're worried their systems glitched. The smile is there, but all the movement came to an abrupt stop.

You don't notice yourself shifting in discomfort, and although it lasts only a split second it's enough to make you uneasy.

"Death." Moon responds suddenly, nonchalantly. Resting his head in the palm of his hand he stares at you, snickering at your confusion. "Death on impact." He adds.

You blink.

He blinks.

Your brows furrow.

His brows furrow.

You squint at him the best you can-

This bitch is wearing your glasses.

"YOU!"

Before you can snatch them off their face they reel back in a fit of giggles, laughing louder than you've ever heard them laugh. Their taunting comes to an abrupt stop accompanied by a loud bang and followed by a whine. Moon quickly clutches the back of their head, moving away from the offending table.

His whole frame is trembling.

"Shit, Moony??" Quickly scrambling to get the lights on you hesitate, remembering not to, and instead place your phone so the dull flashlight points down towards him. You take the glasses off him after also briefly forgetting you can't see; you drop to your knees by him and pry his fingers away from his head.

It's a whole battle to have him let go, even more so when he starts to cling to your hands instead, but you manage. He keeps going back and forth between clenching his head to grabbing your arms and pushing them away until you slowly redirect him to cling to the front of your uniform instead. Soon enough he's clinging to the front of your shirt, twisting the cloth in his fingers to the point where its almost painful.

He moves closer to you.

Clinging.

Shaking.

When you finally do get a look at them nothing seems off - at least from what you can tell. Maybe one of the back cables got squished? Would that hurt? Or did they hit something else? Is it internal? You don't know anything about how robots work, but asides from a slight dent in the back panel they seem fine.

They're clearly not, though.

... You're not sure how to help.

Letting out a shaky sigh, worrying your lip at how limp his head hangs. You move to sit back next to him - still in reach; still close by.

"Moony?" The grip on your clothes tightens at your hushed words. Good. He's listening. "Can you hear me okay?" You ask, "Tug at me for no, grip tighter for yes. Can you do that for me?"

One of the hands momentarily eases up only to tighten its grip. Alright. This is good, you can communicate like this.

"Okay, good... Are you in pain?"

He grips you tighter once more.

"Is there anything I can do to help it?"

A weak tug.

"Alright..." Shit. "Uh... Is physical contact okay right now?"

There's a pause.

A pause you know they need.

Their eyes flicker off momentarily and that alone sets your worry into overdrive all over again. Enough for you hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

"...Moon?"

He tugs.

As you move away both hands loosen, fingers untangling from your clothes only to move forward and around you. Cold, trembling hands press, grab and pull you forward. Push? Pause? There's clear hesitation. He stops for a second, as if weighing his options. Whatever is going through their head, it's as if they just fought a battle with themself.

Maybe with Sun? Maybe he needed the encouragement from his sunny part?

Whatever it was, his decision is quickly made.

He tugs and pulls you towards him almost desperately.

Before you know it you're seated on Moon's lap, clung to like a plush animal of a crying child who just got scolded. Their head lolls to the side slightly, bouncing off your shoulder. With a frown you reach for his head to make sure he doesn't hurt himself more. The moment you cup their face in your hands, however, they freeze again.

Another pause.

Hesitation crosses his features again when his eyes lock with yours - and they flicker off, then on again, with every twitch of his hands.

As you're about to speak, he burries his faceplate into the crook of your neck.

The sob that wrecks his body is not a silent one. It's raspy, it's glitchy; it's both full of anguish and yet right out of a horror movie. Like something you'd only hear at a junkyard where cars and other metal bits are crushed together; like a large, rusty gate was forced open for the first time in decades, and then promptly crushed by a bulldozer.

It's by no means a pretty sound. It's a horrid noise that causes a splitting headache to erupt behind your left eye all over again.

But god is it heartbreaking to hear.

Biting back a wince you wrap your arms around Moon as soon as the sound is over, holding him back as gently as you possibly can. As you squeeze him, he squeezes back.

Tight.

Tighter.

Tight enough to pop your back. Their joints dig into your ribs, holding.

Clinging.

He lets out a breath... Then goes almost completely limp.

"...Moon?" You croak, worried, only heaving a sigh when the gentle buzzing in his chest starts up again a few seconds after. Another few heartbeats pass before he moves and returns to holding you. This time, however, he doesn't cling or hold you. Just... Holds you like if you were to disappear if he let you go.

" We... Will not talk about this." Is the first thing they say when their voicebox finally crackles back on. Leaning back, they pull you closer. "Or about this," They continue, pressing their lips to your forehead, then rest their chin on top of your head. "Ever."

You're as lost as you can possibly be. You have no clue what just happened. If they were having a breakdown or physically breaking down-- When was the last time they visited Parts & Services? If its not that, then just how much internal turmoil do they have to deal with? Is it past stuff catching up? Something recent? Its... Beyond worrying. You'll respect their wishes.

Slowly, you give him a nod. "We won't talk about this until you're ready." You rasp out, gently rubbing circles into his back.

"...Thank you, little guard." Moon murmurs, tired grin stretched across their lips as they press another kiss to your forehead.

The speed at which you bury your face into his shoulder is laughable. "Yeah, of course... You're comfy though, so we're staying like this." You squeeze him lightly, giving him an excuse he might need. He squeezes you back.

"Oh? Is that so?" He chuckles, running his hands up and down your sides, fingers twitching, and your breath hitches - if he tickles you you're going to throw hands.

"Moon-"

Another laugh leaves their throat, and they wrap their arms around you instead. "Fine. I suppose you can.. Hold me if you need to..." They sigh, their ever so present sly grin returning. "So needy."

Gasping you lean back to look at them. "I am not." You lie through your teeth.

"Are tooo~" They quip, leaning closer to you.

"Am not!"

"Mm-hm~"

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh."

Letting out a dramatic sigh you slump over him, laughing when he scrambles to steady you before you fall off his lap. Smiling, you bury into his shoulder and get yourself comfortable for what you know will be a long nap. "... Maybe a little."

...A lottle, actually.

If Moon ever wants to talk to you about what happened earlier or explain it, they can approach you. For now, though, some rest will do you both good.

[hopelesslyromanticgay]

Stars Around My Scars

Tara Carpenter x Gn!Swiftie!reader

TW: references to PTSD, insecurities.

where the reader helps Tara accept her scars as part of herself

Y/N was the type of person to always be drawing while a song played in their headphones. 

Today, they were sitting on their bed listening to Folklore on shuffle, their girlfriend, Tara’s, head in their lap. 

They desperately wanted to grab a sharpie and write all over themself, an old habit, but didn’t want to disturb the beautiful girl in their lap. It’s hard to just do one thing, and aimlessly doodling always helped calm their nerves. 

In an attempt to find something to preoccupy themselves with, they subconsciously slip their hand into Tara’s and start caressing it. Tara jerked up at the unexpected touch.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologized, “is it okay that I’m doing this?” Tara nodded slowly. Y/N looked down at her, smiling, “I’m never gonna hurt you.” 

That was all of the reassurance Tara had needed. She immediately settled back into Y/N’s lap. Y/N loved when Tara wanted them to hold her in their arms. They ruffled Tara’s adorable bangs, kissing her forehead. She giggles and mumbles something unintelligible into Y/N’s chest.

It was getting late, and the temperature on the thermostat reader had gone down.

“Y/N/N, I’m cold,” Tara whined, pulling them closer, earning a warm hug from their partner.

“Do you want some hot cocoa?” they asked. Tara nodded happily.

Y/N got up, busying themself with making the best hot cocoa their girlfriend would ever have.

They got out the good cocoa powder  and favorite mug, which said “it’s a love story, baby just say yes! (to this cup of coffee),”in excitement, they’d been waiting to use this flavoring, but wanted to use up their old packets first. After brewing the drink, they got out marshmallows and whipped cream. It was almost like they were a little kid again.

“Cocoa’s ready” they beamed proudly, walking into their bedroom with the cocoa. Tara’s hands trembled vigorously from the cold, so naturally when she took the drink, it tipped and spilled onto her shirt.

She winced at the pain from the hot liquid’s collision with her skin.

“Oh shit, Tara,” Y/N worried, immediately grabbing a napkin and drying her off, “are you okay? Do you want a new shirt?”

“I’m fine, honey,” she reassured them, “a new shirt might be nice, though.”

“I’m going to make sure you don’t have a burn anyway,” they said.

“Is this your well thought out plot to see me without a shirt?” Tara smirked.

Y/N blushed a bright shade of red, “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

They gently folded back Tara’s blouse, exposing the red, but unburnt skin. Tara immediately placed her hand over a certain area on her stomach.

“Are you in pain?” her partner asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Tara snapped. Y/N pulled away.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude,” Tara clarified.

“It’s okay,” Y/N cupped her cheek, “I’ll get you a new shirt now.” They lightly kissed her nose before getting up to go to their closet and got Tara’s favorite shirt to steal. It was a soft material, very comfortable for sleeping. The shirt itself was a t-shirt from Taylor Swift’s reputation tour. It was black, with a green cartoon snake hissing at a telephone.

“Here you go Tar,” they handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she smiled, and started to lift her dirtied shirt off, exposing her scarred stomach.

This was the first time her partner had seen her scars. They knew about what happened at Woodsboro not too long ago, but had never seen the physical damages it had done to her.

“Tara,” they started to say. The smaller brunette quickly realized what was going on and covered them with her hands.

“You don’t need to cover them for me,” they said softly.

“But they’re ugly,” she cried.

“They’re hardly ugly Tara,” they reassured her, “they show how strong you are. Your scars are your history. You wouldn’t be where you are or who you are today if you hadn’t gotten them.” She burst into tears, Y/N could tell she was hurting. Maybe not physically, but she was definitely hurting.

“How does that not make them ugly.”

“Because everything about you is beautiful. Your past, your present, your future.” She blushed at the compliment.

“Can I hold you?” Tara nodded. They pushed away all of her fears and insecurities, wrapping their arms around her, peppering her face with kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” they repeated over and over, “you always will be.” They held her close and they held her tight. They racked their brain for any way to make the broken girl in their arms feel better.

An idea soon popped into their head.

“Hey Tara,” they started, “can I try something?”

“Y/N, this is hardly the time for… that.”

“No!” they realize the implications behind what they just said, “nothing sexual.” Tara gave her permission with a nod.

“Don’t put the shirt on just yet.”

“It’s not sexual but you need my shirt off?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Just trust me, please?”

Y/N got up from the bed where the two had been cuddled next to each other, already missing the warmth their girlfriend surrounded them with. They made their way over to the desk when they found it. They grabbed the pencil case and took out a sharpie.

Tara had lay down in her partner’s absence, perfect for what Y/N was planning.

“This might tickle a little,” they uncap the pen, and started to draw on her stomach. 

“What are you doing, cutie?” she asked.

“Drawing stars around your scars,” they replied, innocently.

“Alright, that’s enough Taylor Swift for you!” she giggled.

“You don’t like it?”

“No! Don’t stop, it’s cute,” she smiles. Y/N presses a kiss to her nose, “don’t worry, I didn’t plan on doing anything differently.” So they went back to their work on their beautiful girlfriend.

“And done!” they finished the last stroke of the pen. They helped Tara up from her position and guide her to the mirror so she can see the constellations of her scars. The pair stand in front of it, Tara admiring her partner’s work. She nearly cried at how much attention her partner had payed to detail.

The cool hands of her partner pressed against Tara’s stomach, the sudden touch causing her to shiver and let out a gasp.

“That one is your star sign,” they traced their hands around the scars, “felt like you deserve a bit of your identity in this.” Tara giggled at the tickle their soft touch.

“Tell me about the others,” she begged, loving this artistic side of her partner.

“This one is Orion,” they continued, “I love his story. Shows how potent jealousy is.” They brought their hand up to the scar.

“This is Pegasus,” they trace their hand down to the scar right beside her belly button, “because you’re like no other, beautiful, unique and …” they racked their brain for a word, “sensational.” Tara blushed. Y/N could see a tear coming down her cheek.

“Oh no, Tara, did I do something wrong?”

“No, No No,” she stuttered, “This is just the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.” She wrapped her arms around her partner’s neck, getting on her toes to pull them in for a kiss. 

“I’m so glad I have you, Y/N.” They cupped her cheek.

“I’m so glad I have you, Tara,” Y/N put a jacket over their girlfriend’s shoulders, “Come on, let’s get you some more Cocoa.”

[undrgrnd-nft]

Tezos Goes Big

I really didn’t want to write this, I swear. I have real work to do, podcasts to edit and my daughter is home sick; but, it’s like holding in a sneeze, when I have something to say it’s best to get it out.

This is not about the @tezos event at Art Basel Miami. It may be what is driving the conversation but this is not really about the displays in a lobby of a hotel.

This is the culmination of years of disrespect to a driving force of adoption and endemic of the crypto space (and society) at large.

Art rejuvenating dead space is not a novel concept. In fact, in Miami, there’s an entire area that could have been used as a template by all blockchains. It’s called Wynnewood, look it up and you’ll get the New York Times article I reference all the time.

What was once an industrial park became a hub for restaurants, music and entertainment: culture.

Why? Because some graffiti artists began painting on the cold gray walls of a concrete jungle.

Did those artists share any of the financial gain brought to the neighborhood? No, but think of the exposure!

Web3 was not built by nor built for creatives like us (yea, I’m putting myself in that group, shut up about it). It was built by boys and men that look, talk and act like me (white, male, presumable douchey based on appearance) but lack a moral and emotional foundation.

They use the right words, have picked up key phrases and platitudes, but at the core it’s not about the things many of us value. It’s not about art.

It’s not about a reorganization of institutions that were built to keep specific classes, races and sexes subservient.

It is not building a utopian-Marxist future where the moral and decent are rewarded financially for their collective effort.

Look at the state of streaming services: Netflix, Hulu, Paramount, Peacock, Max. What was once meant to disrupt the cable industry has now become Cable Networks 2.0.

The same is true in crypto. What started as a revolution has become a hype parade led by influencers masquerading as cultural relevance.

Remember the @TezosFoundation Permanent Collection drama? In a Twitter space shortly after things began to spiral downward, one of the leads made a comment on the criticisms, “if this is the response maybe we won’t do this again.”

We all knew it then.

But many of us came here to create something better. So we, many of them my friends, gave second chances, put a positive spin on it and took their opportunity when it was offered.

I was jealous.

Because I would have done the same.

UNDRGRND is just me: a stay at home dad, taking care of a toddler who disrupts the means of production constantly. I know how hard it is to put together something and share it with an audience.

But so does every artist I write about.

So when we watch people with large budgets, people who are able to make a living on crypto already, getting paid to present the work of others and the result is done with the level of care it takes to hang a Missing Cat poster on a telephone pole, it’s infuriating.

Many of the artists I’ve gotten to know over these past three years were creative directors in their web2 lives. Do you know what they could have done with a fraction the amount of money @tezos has in its war chest?

It’s disrespectful.

It always has been.

I’m going to push post on this in a few minutes and the anxiety is rising. I know others are going to criticize what I’m launching in the coming months.

I’m in a glass house throwing rocks.

The difference is I’m not deluded enough to think I have all the answers or have an ego like I’ve done anything yet.

I’m just a guy writing about the things I like while my four-year-old sleeps on me.

This was never about the display.

It was about the devaluation of creatives for years and the continuation of a broken social contract that promised an idealistic future.

So heed the lesson because we’re tired of this shit.

And I’m fucking coming…

- Founder of UNDRGRND, @NFTjoe

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Romeo & Juliet by Peter McPoland is SO evanstan you don’t understand

its literally all I think about when I hear that song

"Someday, down the road, I hope to be your Romeo I'll climb the wires to your landline While you're crying on the telephone And you're sitting, feet dangling Cheeks so rosy red and saying "Baby, I was so upset, I thought you'd never set me free" "Hello?" I'd say, "Oh, I love you" to my Juliet If you only knew, I'd kill for you, I am for you I am just who you need me to be Let's get down, and let's grow old This fire escape is getting cold I love that dress, I love the rest Of all that you've got going on One day when the lines have all been read and memorized I hope you mean it when you say that I am yours and you are mine Singing down here, on my knees I'm begging, "Won't you marry me?" I love that dress, I love the rest So Julie make me go, go on But how do you know? Is it just something hits you? Yes (look, just do a bit for me) No (no, I don't, I don't mean it, I don't mean it) I mean just the words Um (no, my babe, it's done so many times) Oh for goodness sake Alright do another bit, any bit Um... Oh God I have nothing to fucking sing"

Aw!

That's so fucking cute, like I know how Romeo and Juliet ends so it's not cute there, but, like, the song is really sweet. Also, I love the part about memorizing and reading lines for them <3 that and the mention of fire escapes because fire escapes will ever be attached to pre-war stucky for me, so, in a song about evanstan, it seems like it connects their origin back to those days when they were first cast together. Sweethearts

Thanks for sharing!!

You have a very wholesome song that makes you think of evanstan, but you know what songs make me think about them the most? Rumors by Jake Miller and Strange Love by Halsey. Both of them are much less wholesome songs 💀💀

For some reason, I can only link the live version? Idk, listen to the normal one, haha, I enjoy that recording much more

Rumors feels self-explanatory, like, that's just easy to picture--what if the tabloids caught wind of evanstan? Shit would go insane.

Strange Love is less obvious and more about the fact that I've been meaning to, for literal years, write an evanstan fic using that song. But-! It's still so coded for them: the fucking in the bathroom reads like quickies, the fame of it all, everyone wanting to know, the lyric "you walk like you're a god" makes me think of Chris and his insane strut and "I made you weak" for Sebastian, the saying your name, the keeping it a secret but letting everyone see it, etc.

Yeah 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Thanks again!

[blitheringmcgonagall]

P.S. I Still Wait for You

Chapter 2/4

Ten days before the wedding and he comes home from training to find Marlene McKinnon sitting on the low wall outside his flat, smoking a cigarette. The door is open and there’s a muggle contraption inside making an infernal noise.

“S’ up?” she says, without moving. She is the epitome of cool – backcombed blonde hair, black leather trousers, black eyeliner, The Cure t-shirt, red Doc Martins.

He raises his brow.

“Do I want to know about…?” he waves his arm vaguely in the direction of his home.

She shrugs, chips at her black nail polish, takes a long drag of the short cigarette.

“I can explain.”

He snorts, sits down beside her on the wall, and waits in companionable silence. A muggle man emerges after a while, wearing navy overalls, pencil behind his ear.

“There you are, love, all sorted,” he says, grinning at the two of them, like he’s just done them a massive favour.

“Thanks Mr. Smith. How much do we owe you?” Marlene says, stubbing out the cigarette on the wall and rummaging in her black satchel.

She pays him and watches him leave, scanning the street, hand on the wand in her pocket, eyes narrowed.

“Still worried in case a Deater follows him?” James says.

“Yup,” she nods. “Force of habit. Can’t seem to stop. Even after three years.”

“Some things don’t change easily.”

He’s talking about something else entirely and Marlene knows it.

She takes a deep breath, turns and faces him head on.

“I got a telephone installed, line’s connected now. Lily wants to ring you. She’ll phone you before the weekend, after seven some time.”

It’s simultaneously the worst and best news he has heard since she left.

“Why?” he finally manages to say.

“Because.” Marlene shrugs again. “She wouldn’t say.”

He runs a hand down his face.

“What the actual fuck.”

She stands closer to him, grabbing both his shoulders.

“Just talk to her, yeah?” she says.

Like it’s perfectly easy.

“Please. She deserves one conversation.”

He can’t seem to answer so he doesn’t. He nods, brusque.

“You’ve gone quieter in your old age,” Marlene smiles back at him, then leans in and gives him a strong hug, suffocating.

He laughs then, smiles back at her, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“I love you both,” she says. “You coming Friday to the local? Dorcas’ll be there. So will the lads. She got a promotion. Assistant Editor.”

“Holy shit! Congrats!” he gives a low whistle.

“Will we see you?”

“Probably,” he says, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the concrete.

It depends on the call. It depends on what Lily says.

***

 The phone rings on Friday night, at 7pm exactly. He’s been walking up and down the hall, repeatedly, for the past two hours. He picks up the receiver and finds he cannot speak.

“James? Hi, hello. It’s Lily… are you there?”

He laughs then, short and bitter. As if him not hanging on to every word she says was ever an option.

“James?”

“Lily.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

There is an awkward pause.

“Hi,” she repeats. “Thanks for taking my call.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Hello?”

He takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling.

“What do you want, Lily?”

He didn’t want to sound like a pathetic looser. A weirdo who still thinks about her most days. He tries for polite, detached. He hears her swallowing.

“I was hoping we could have a brief talk.”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“I, er, when I was, I was surprised to receive the invitation to Remus and Sirius’ wedding. I didn’t feel it was right to go. But they insisted. To the point of visiting me on a number of occasions. And they were my friends, are my friends. I don’t want to upset them. I’m so happy for them…” she pauses, and she sounds like she’s short of breath for some reason.

“Yes, I’m happy for them too. They both deserve to be happy.”

“They do. It’s… it’s just… difficult. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“A favour?” he slides down the wall, until he’s hunched into the corner, on the floor, telephone cord in his left hand, twisting it repeatedly.

“If I come, I… I don’t want to talk to you. It would be too… difficult. Too hard. I couldn’t… I’ve told them. If I come, I’m not sitting at your table and I’m not talking to you.”

He makes a sound, so she knows he’s listening.

“I can’t do it.”

“I understand,” he says.

He hears her long exhale.

“Thank you, James.” She sounds relieved.

“Would you do it again?”

“Sorry?”

“Would you walk away, without saying a word? Would you do anything differently if you could go back?”

A heartbeat.

“No, I would do it again, every time.”

He’s glad she can’t see his face. His knuckles are white from how hard he grips the phone.

“I won’t talk to you, I won’t even look at you. You needn’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye Lily.”

“I hope you are alright.”

He’s perfectly fine. His heart isn’t breaking down this long-distance line tonight.

“I’m fine. I’m not missing you at all. I’ve moved on. Made new friends. Met new lovers.”

He sounds so plausible he can almost convince himself.

“Good. That’s good, James, I’m so glad to hear that.”

If she’s been feeling any remaining sliver of guilt about how she left him, he’s made it easy for that to evaporate.

“Yeah, so, you needn’t worry, I’ll leave you alone. It won’t be any problem.”

“Okay. Thank you, James.”

If she says James one more time he will scream or sob or punch something.

“Goodbye,” he says, formal, brisk.

“Good –"

He hangs up the phone, before she can say anything more hurtful. He’s struggling to understand how he was ever in love with her. Why he was ever in love with her.

@jilychallenge2023 this is from April, but I kept going… 🩷

[nhstadler]

A/N: This is a scene from The Stumbling Stag (Chapter 24) - some of which wasn’t told from Seth’s perspective - featuring a particularly delusional James and a charmingly tipsy Seth. I hope you guys enjoy the snippet and, as always, I’d love to hear from you :) 🦋

A LITTLE LIKE FLYING

Seth is pushing her glass back and forth between her hands, frowning at the residue of Whiskey that clings to the bottom like it might have all the answers, before she cuts her gaze up to me. 

“Thank you.” Her head tips to the side, strands of blonde hair falling into her face, and it feels a little like falling off a broomstick and slamming into the ground. “For this.” She nods towards the shabby bar where one of the patrons has just fallen asleep with his hand still wrapped around his half empty drink and I wish I had taken her somewhere else. Somewhere more impressive than this dingy rundown pub. 

“Yeah, it’s quite magical.” I want to give her my best smile, but I’m not sure it’s working when my gaze catches on hers and my idiotic heart stumbles.

“It’s perfect,” she says and then she smiles at me and I’m not alright, no matter how much I’ve been trying to tell myself otherwise. My head is a mess. Because I almost kissed her and I’m pretending like I didn’t - like I’m not constantly thinking about it; like I don’t care that she’s just told me that she’s practically engaged.

Shit.

“Tell me something, Potter. Anything.”

I look at her for a few seconds too long - at the slight pucker between her eyebrows as she frowns at me like she still hasn't made up her mind about me - and something behind my chest pulls taut like a weird muscle spasm. “I think I’m wearing someone else’s pants.”

Seth raises her eyebrows at me and then snorts, the corners of her mouth pulling into a genuine grin. “What?”

“I swear,” I say as I push my empty glass to the side and lean my forearms on the table, closer to her. “It’s been bothering me all night.”

“Whose pants are you wearing?” She asks, leaning towards me as well, and I’m momentarily distracted by how close our hands are. I could just reach out and touch her; interlace my fingers with hers, brush my thumb against the inside of her wrist. 

I think she might let me. 

“I don’t know. Al’s, probably.” I shrug and pull my hands back, because what the fuck am I doing? “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

She’s still grinning and I feel a weird sort of pride at being the cause of it; like I somehow earned it. “But how can you tell, Potter?”

There’s a wealth of vaguely sexual nonsense I could say, but I open my mouth and then close it again. I’m not delusional. I know she’s probably heard the gossip - all the things people say about me. It’s not wholly undeserved, but I still don’t want her to see me like that. I want -

Fuck.

I don’t know what I want anymore.

“Closing time!” The guy behind the bar calls out, rousing a few of the half-gone drunks that are slumped over their lukewarm beers, and Seth’s smile falters as she pushes her hair behind her ears.

“I wish we didn’t have to go back.”

“We don’t.” I say stupidly, even though I have absolutely no plan. But I’d stay out with Seth all night if she asked me to. If she wanted me to.

“We do.” She sighs and then she looks up at me, giving me this vague sort of smile that I’m not at all prepared for. It’s a fucking disaster.

***

“After you.” I pull open the door to the old telephone box and then follow Seth inside. It barely fits two people and she has to back up against the fogged-up glass to make room for me. 

“James,” she says softly, pulling my jacket a little tighter around her shoulders, and it throws me off kilter for a moment. It’s the first time she’s called me James, not Potter, and it feels insanely intimate. “Do you believe in love?” 

Her cheeks are pink and, even in the dim light, I can see the constellation of freckles that spills across her nose. I’m not sober enough to pretend that being this close to her isn’t doing things to me - that she doesn’t manipulate my heartbeat like she owns it - and I swallow as I try to sort out my tangled thoughts.

“Do you?” 

She gives me a weird look and then shrugs, like it doesn’t really matter. “I don’t think I want to, really.”

But it matters. I know it does.

I’m not thinking straight as I bring a hand up to her face - slowly, carefully - and then slide it to the back of her neck. She tilts her head and looks up at me, surprised and a little unsure, but she doesn’t move. Not when I put my other hand on her waist, not when I step into her, not when I push her against the misted-up glass that separates us from the outside world.

The music, the noise, the pink glow that lights up the windows of the phone box; nothing feels real as I lean in and brush my lips against hers - as she lets me. As she kisses me back; slowly, deliberately, like she means it.

But then the palms of her hands press against my chest - gently, though enough to make me stop - and I pull away. My jacket has slid off her shoulder on one side. She’s breathing fast, short breaths as her eyes rove across my face like she doesn’t quite know what to make of this.

But I don’t know, either. My heart is beating too hard, too loudly, like it does when I’m flying and I know I’ve gone just a little too high to be entirely safe; too high to survive the fall unscathed.

Because flying is all about control. And once you lose it, you’re fucked.

I should let her go. 

Before I can’t anymore.

But I feel the light press of Seth’s fingertips against my chest, watch her lips part as she considers me, and our breaths slide into another kiss. Then another one. And another one. 

Falling feels like flying for a little while, doesn’t it?

“Oi!” There’s a sharp knock and it takes me a second to catch on as Seth jerks away from me. It’s too bright all of a sudden, too loud, and I blink as Freddie’s grinning face comes into focus behind the glass. “Sorry to interrupt, but you might consider taking this somewhere else.”