#then i just have to make slides for a presentation i’m doing on the secondary plan for the waterfront redevelopment in my city

[the-raindeer-king]

Safe

Based off this

Poly 141 (with a focus on Price x Gaz) Omegaverse, angsty with a happy ending! Enjoy my lovelies!

--- }I{ ---

Kyle can’t recall exactly when it started: this itch beneath his skin. Maybe it had always been there, dormant until the perfect moment. Or maybe it had just been a recent development, a side effect of his medication. Or maybe�� no. He knows exactly when it started, and he knows exactly who’s to blame for it.

John Price.

Maybe blaming the alpha is unfair. He might not even know what he’s done specifically to upset Kyle, but the omega doubts that. Price doesn’t do anything unintentionally, and surely he’d have seen this coming when he built the team - the pack.

Using heat suppressants and scent blockers had always seemed like a good choice. Kyle didn’t want his secondary gender to get in the way of his job, didn’t want to be overlooked just because he was an omega. And he stands by this decision. He wouldn’t have made it this far in his career without those two prescriptions, and he doesn’t regret using them. He doesn’t regret using them…

Right? 

No. No. He doesn’t regret it. Being treated like a beta is what he wanted. Omegas tend to get overlooked in this field, shielded from anything considered “too difficult”. Sexist beliefs that society has clung to for far too long, and Kyle refused to let it stop him from doing what he wanted. So, then why does he feel like this? 

This bubbling, itching feeling beneath his skin, emotions he can’t name threatening to pull him out to sea, threatening to drown him if he doesn’t get a grip on himself. And all the doctor had to say was to stop using his suppressants. But Kyle already knows that won’t fix the problem. The only way to fix this is to bury himself in the scent of - 

“Gaz!” 

The hand on his shoulder makes the omega jolt in his seat, dragged out of his thoughts. He blinks, eyes darting around the empty meeting room before turning to look up at Price, worry written all over the alpha’s features. 

“You alright? You’ve been sitting here for almost five minutes,” Price asks, hand sliding from Gaz’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. 

Gaz immediately goes tense, fighting the urge to whine. Fighting the urge to lean into Price’s touch, the urge to submit to this feeling that sits below the surface of his skin. But there’s so many reasons why he can’t do that, and instead, he scrambles out of his seat, away from Price. 

“Sorry, sir. Just lost in thought,” Gaz replies, failing to hide the panic in his voice. But he’s out of the room long before Price can say anything else, missing the way the alpha watches him with a worried expression.

It’s in this scrambling panic that Kyle doesn’t realize where he’s going, how fast he’s moving, focused solely on putting space between himself and the aching feeling that always settles in him whenever he’s around Price. He ends up crashing into someone else, nearly knocking them both down if not for Ghost’s reflexes, the larger omega grunting as he catches Kyle. 

“Easy, Sargent,” he grunts, one arm wrapped around Kyle. 

The smaller omega shoves himself away from Ghost, who lets him go willingly. Whatever’s going on, pushing Kyle isn’t going to help. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he forces out, running a hand over his face. 

“Ye don’t look fine,” Soap pipes up, peeking around Ghost with curiosity in his eyes. Both of the omegas are holding a pile of blankets in their arms, the scent of Price and Nik - the two alphas in the pack - heavy on the fabric. It makes Kyle’s nose twitch, and that whine starts to build up in the back of his throat again. 

He doesn’t understand how Soap and Ghost can both be just… fine with presenting as their secondary genders. Neither of them seem bothered by the prejudice or the expectations. It probably helps that they’re both built like a brickhouse. And while Kyle’s not dainty by any means, he’s built leaner than the other two omegas. 

“Do ye want us to go get Price?” Soap offers, taking a small step forward. The blankets in his arms shift, scent of the alphas filling the air between them, and Kyle’s hands curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out, from grabbing the blankets from Soap.  

“No!” Kyle snaps, harsher than he meant it to sound. For the first time in a couple of months, he’s grateful for his scent blockers. Otherwise, the hallway would reek of an omega in distress, and he can’t bear that kind of embarrassment right now. 

Taking in a deep breath, he exhales shakily before continuing, quieter now, “No. I don’t need…” Another sigh, a step backwards. “I’m fine. Think I’m gonna… go lay down.”

He’s already making his way back to his room before the other two can argue against it.

***

This feeling only grows worse over the next couple of weeks. He can’t be around Price or Nikolai very long, antsy and desperate. And he can’t be around Ghost or Soap either, territorial and snappy. It’s turning into a bigger problem than any of them care to admit, and Price is ready to put an end to it. 

“Careful, solnyshko, we do not want to push where we’re not wanted,” Nikolai croons as they settle for bed. Simon is settled between the two alpha, face pressed against Nikolai’s neck while Price rubs his back. It’s been a rough day for the omega, and he wanted comfort, despite the conversation going on around him. 

“He doesn’t have a bloody choice. Been disrespectful and bratty all fucking week,” Price shoots back. If it were up to him, they’d drag Kyle into their room and just force him to accept what his body wants. But they can’t risk him going feral. The omega’s already teetering on the edge of something, mentally and emotionally, and they don’t want to make it worse. 

“Hmm…” Nik hums for a moment before turning his attention to Simon, gently nudging the omega. When he gets a grumble in response, he asks softly, “What do you think, zaychik?”

“Think you need to ease ‘im into it,” Simon mumbles out, leaning back just enough to look at Nikolai. The omega blinks slowly, sleep pulling at him. He yawns softly, before adding, “Or jus’ hold ‘im down. I don’t fucking know.” 

Nik huffs softly in amusement, running a hand through Simon’s hair, nails scratching against the omega’s scalp. He lets out a rumble of approval at the way Simon melts against him. “We will not be holding anyone down,” he says, although the alpha would be lying if he didn’t admit that the idea was tempting. “Gaz is our packmate. We will respect him.” 

Price snorts, settling down in bed behind Simon, one arm slung over the omega. “Better off bending him over my knee. Teach him some manners,” he huffs, swatting at Nikolai when he pinches him. 

“I’ll bend you over my knee,” Nikolai threatens, but there’s a lightness to his tone that makes Price laugh, tension bleeding out of the room as the two alphas relax into the bed. There will be time to worry about this in the morning, to figure out how to help Kyle whether he wants it or not. 

***

It starts simple. Blankets left at Kyle’s barrack door, saturated in Price or Nikolai’s scent. Sometimes both. Sometimes with Ghost or Soap’s as well. At some point, someone sneaks in a giant teddy bear, but it has all four scents on it and it’s impossible to figure out who did it. Not that it really matters. Kyle’s finally starting to put together a proper nest, and it helps soothe the itching beneath his skin. 

He’s been going without his scent blockers for the last week as well, a small attempt to help. And when he can’t find them, seemingly having gone missing from his room, he decides that maybe it’s for the best, unaware that his naturally sweet scent is driving all four of his packmates crazy.

However, the itch doesn’t go away. After a few days, it only seems to get worse. He has to stop himself from snarling every time he sees Ghost cuddled up to Price, or Soap receiving affection from Nikolai. It’s so bad that sometimes he gets upset seeing Soap and Ghost scent each other. There’s no way that they’re all intentionally displaying more affection in front of him, but it certainly feels that way and Kyle’s not sure how much more of this he can handle. 

Lucky for Kyle, he doesn’t have to wait very long. 

Recruits. Stupid, idiotic, bloody recruits. Too fresh faced to really understand what they’re signing up for; cocky morons with veins full of hormones and a head full of idealistic heroics. And somehow (thanks to Ghost), Gaz is stuck watching over training. He shouldn’t have agreed, but something about being called ‘Price’s favorite’ had him feeling far more agreeable than it should’ve. 

One of them, an alpha who’s name Gaz can’t bother to remember, is being a showoff, flexing at any given opportunity and puffing his chest out, showing off for the omega Sargent. It’s obnoxious, watching how hard he’s trying to impress Gaz, and it’s kind of funny how uninterested Gaz is. 

There’s only two alphas that Gaz is interested in, and he can feel the weight of Price’s stare from here. 

“Sargent Garrick!” Private Show-off calls, missing the way Gaz tenses up as he approaches. The private smiles, scent heavy in the air between them. While it’s not a bad scent, it still makes Gaz scrunch his nose up.

Everything happens quicker than Gaz can process it. The recruit’s hand reached out for him, something about fuzz on his uniform, and Gaz is swinging his leg around, knocking the recruit’s feet out from underneath him, snarling and snapping until - 

“Garrick!”

Price grabs him by the back of his shirt, yanking him away from the recruit. The alpha snaps orders at all of them, but Gaz can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, and it’s not until Price gives him a rough shake that he realizes he’s even talking to him. 

“My office. Now.”

The walk there is silent, save for the sound of their boots against the floor. It’s been a while since Gaz has been reprimanded, usually on his best behavior while they’re on base. It’s really just a bunch of technical, bureaucratic bullshit, but he knows the song and dance and can play it well. Usually. 

For a moment, Price doesn’t say anything, just stares with a clenched jaw and stern expression. Without a word, he grabs Gaz by the arm, dragging the omega to the couch in the corner. It’s warm, a blanket forgotten by one the other omegas draped over the arm. And Gaz doesn’t fight it when Price manhandles him into his lap, face shoved against the alpha’s neck. 

“Don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Price mutters, one hand holding Gaz’s head, the other splayed across the omega’s lower back. “You’re better than this.”

Kyle wants to snap at him, scream that it’s the alpha’s fault. That he wouldn’t feel like this if Price would just stop. But… that’s not really the issue here is it. Whatever’s wrong, it’s all with Kyle. Suppressed instincts and hormones and heats - it’s all dying to come out, safe in the hands of Price and Nikolai. If Kyle would just let it happen. 

The omega sighs softly, practically melting into Price’s embrace. He nuzzles his face against the alpha’s neck, taking in a deep breath of Price’s scent, something warm and smokey and quintessentially Price. 

“... been fighting my instincts, sir,” Kyle admits quietly. Growing up as an omega had its own drawbacks, but being a male omega seemed to make it twice as hard. Yet another reason Kyle had been so insistent on taking his suppressants. But now? Now he just wants to stop, wants to willingly fall into Price’s arms, trusting the alpha will catch him. 

“Don’t have to do that anymore. Not with me, or Nik, or the others,” Price reassures him, his hand slowly sliding up and down Kyle’s back. “You’re safe here. With us.”

Kyle whimpers quietly, trembling, but he knows he’s safe. Knows that whatever baby steps the pack will have to take before he’s ready to fully integrate, they’re all more than willing to work with him. And he knows that in due time, when he stops taking his suppressants, when he has his first heat in years, there will be two alphas and two omegas more than willing to help him through it.

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

The Arcane - Chapter Four - Anomaly

Summary: You find an anomaly in Viktor's blood. He takes you down to see his old doctor. You meet Vander.

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Dr Raven) x Jayce (Eventually)

Warnings: Blood

Words: 2,408

After Viktor departed from your lab, you set the centrifuge, prepared a slide, poured yourself a drink, and sat down to examine his blood more closely. It was clear right away that something was wrong.

“What the…?” you mumbled as you gazed through the microscope.

His red blood cell count was fine and the cells were dispersed nicely – not too close together, not too far apart, not clumped up in groups. But there was an… anomaly. Around the white spot of hemoglobin at the center of each cell was a blue ring.

That’s why his blood seems purple. The red and blue are mixing. You made a quick, preliminary note of the observation. Without more testing, there was no way to know whether this anomaly was strictly discoloration, or if it was something more serious. Was it preventing the cells from transporting oxygen throughout his body? You would have to separate a cell and look more closely at the… mutation? Toxin? You weren’t sure. Normally, this kind of mystery would delight you. You were excited at the prospect of making new discoveries, of course, but you were also worried. Would the research you were conducting on your own blood be able to fix a problem you’d never seen before and hadn’t accounted for during testing? The best way to find out what would happen if you mixed your blood with Viktors was to do just that.

You prepared a secondary slide, focused the microscope, then pricked your finger. Carefully, you picked up a tiny bit of your blood on the end of a scalpel and dropped it into Viktor’s on the slide. You peered through the lens, holding your breath. With other samples of diseased blood, the common trend was that your blood would mix with the foreign sample and dissolve whatever anomaly it found present, whether that be an infection or something else, rendering it harmless. From there, the theory was that this bi-product would be filtered out of the blood when it traveled through the liver, and then be disposed of in the urine.

That was only a theory, however, because none of your subjects ever survived long enough to prove it. For some, death took seconds. For others, minutes, hours, or even days. For all of them, though, it was excruciating.

And this was why: After a few seconds of contact with your blood, Viktor’s cells began to burst. You expected no less. The main focus of your research was figuring out how to make your blood less volatile. You couldn’t figure out why it had the effect it did, and while some of your research had proven promising in delaying the inevitable, you had been unable to stop it entirely.

This small test was a good sign, despite the outcome. This proved that your blood could remove the anomaly from Viktor’s cells if it turned out to be harmful. You just had to find a way to get it to work without killing him, which is what you’d been trying to do for the last hundred years with no success. You sighed and leaned back in your chair, pinching the bridge of your nose. There were other tests to run, other observations to be made. It could be that the blue ring was nothing more than a strange pigmentation phenomenon and wasn’t hurting him at all. It could be that his previous doctors had been so focused on this strange blue ring that they had completely missed a more obvious answer. The human body, so intricate and complex… Everything was connected. If one thing went wrong, everything was affected.

You stopped by Heimerdinger’s office later that evening, around five, with dinner for Viktor.

“The apple wasn’t enough?” he asked slyly when you set the bag of take-out on the desk next to him.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take more than an apple to keep this doctor away. Sorry,” you smirked.

“What if I throw it hard enough?”

You chuckled and pulled up an extra chair to sit next to him. He put down the notes he was organizing for Heimerdinger and opened the bag to see what you had brought him. A fresh, hot, healthy meal awaited him, and while he didn’t usually have much of an appetite, the smell of it was making his mouth water.

“Any breakthroughs?” he asked as he fished the fork out of the bag.

“Breakthroughs? No. Curious observations? Many.”

“Do tell.”

“There’s still more testing to be done, but what I can tell you is that your blood is healthy, except for one thing.”

“Oh?”

You nabbed the orange out of the bag and peeled it for him.

“There’s an… anomaly," you explained. A blue ring around the hemoglobin in each red cell that shouldn’t be there.”

“Anomaly indeed,” Viktor agreed, his brows furrowed. “So what does this mean?”

“Like I said, there’s more testing to be done to find out what that ring actually is and what effect its having on your body. It could just be pigmentation.”

“But then, what’s causing it?”

You shrugged.

“That’s the million dollar question. A question I’m afraid I’ll have to take a lot more samples in order to answer. Samples of more than just your blood.”

He tilted his head to the side, not quite understanding.

“Plasma and bone, primarily.”

Oh. Those were not pleasant samples to give.

“But those can wait for now” you assured him with a soft smile when you saw the sick look on his face.

After dinner, you took Viktor to your lab to show him the slides and explained what he was seeing, chatting at length about the possible causes and effects of the mysterious blue ring. Then, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, it was time for Viktor to show you to the Undercity, where you hoped his medical records could be found.

The Undercity was damp and smelly, with a comforting darkness pierced by blinding neon lights. The gaze of every Trencher was on you and Viktor as you wound through the narrow, muddy streets, some glittering with greed as they took in your expensive clothes, and others darkened by fear when your red-hot gaze found theirs. You were on edge and Viktor could tell.

“Relax, will you?” he said as he limped along.

“Not sure I can do that,” you chuckled dryly.

The streets became thinner, the buildings more dense and compact the farther down you traveled. The deeper he led you, the thicker and more oppressive the air became, as well. It didn’t take long for Viktor to start coughing.

“Stop, Viktor,” you said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “I can find my way from here. I want you to go back where the air is nicer.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but another coughing fit overtook him. When he finally got control of it, he nodded.

“I’ll met you on the bridge.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I want you to stay close. Meet me at the edge The Lanes.”

Worried I’m going to get mugged, are you?” he smirked.

“Of course I am.”

His smirk fell, and he frowned.

“The people of The Undercity aren’t animals, doctor.”

“No, but some of them are desperate, and you would make an easy mark.”

“That applies to people in Piltover, too, you know.”

“I know. Which is why I would be asking you to stick close if we were up there, too.”

He sighed. He wanted to be offended, to argue that he could take care of himself, but instead, he found your protectiveness… endearing.

“At the edge of The Lanes, then,” he agreed.

It wasn’t a long walk back, and anyone who so much as looked at Viktor shied away when they saw you watching. He would be fine. As he limped away, you turned and continuing deeper into The Fissures. The air down here wasn’t necessarily toxic anymore, thanks to the filtration system that House Kirraman had installed years ago. But it was still heavy, and, gods, the smell. Like sulfur and sewage. The people down here regarded you with mistrust. Topsiders didn't come down here unless they were there for shady dealings. You didn't belong... Or did you? You were scary enough to fit in, that was for sure, but your clothes betrayed your status. You yourself were an anomaly in the veins of The Undercity.

You approached one of the first people you encountered, but she scurried away, hissing obscenities, before you could ask your question. It took you quite some time to find anyone willing to point you toward Viktor’s former doctor. When you did finally find him, you were not impressed in the least. Actually, you were appalled. The “hospital” was nothing more than a run-down shack. It may have been a proper hospital at one point, but now it was nothing more than dirt and grime on some old boards.

A bell chimed overhead when you opened the door and stepped inside. Somehow, the air in here was even stuffier than out there. You curled your lip, disgusted at the state of the place. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned in years. Bottles with various colored liquids filled shelves alongside ancient medical tools. You were thankful the glass on the bottles was so filthy. Some of the things floating in them were… questionable. You weren’t sure you wanted to know exactly what they contained.

An older man with a potbelly appeared from a door in the back. He wore a leather apron, stained with old, dried blood, and the frizzy white hair atop his head stuck out at odd angles. He was hunched and limped when he walked, and one of his eyes seemed to be glued permanently shut with some kind of greenish pus. He looked more like a mad scientist than a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asked with a voice like gravel, resting his fat, filthy hands on the reception desk.

“My name is Doctor Raven. I’m here regarding a former patient of yours, Viktor. I need his medical records.”

He didn’t react for a moment, and you wondered if he’d heard you at all. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“Viktor, yes… I remember now.”

“Do you have his records?” you asked.

He grumbled and looked around.

“I think… Yes…”

He shuffled back into the back room and was gone for ages before finally reappearing with a file. He handed it to you, and you were thankful you’d worn your gloves as you took it from him. You opened it. Three pages.

“This is it?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He shrugged.

“There wasn’t much to record. Bad bones, bad blood.”

You scoffed and shook your head.

“Thanks,” you mumbled as you turned to leave.

He cleared his throat loudly, catching your attention, and you heard him shuffle up behind you. He glared at you, his hand out, palm up.

Of course.

You fished a few coins out of your pocket and handed them to him, careful not to make contact.

You were frustrated and in poor spirits when you met back up with Viktor. He stood when you approached, eyes bright and curious.

“Did you find him?”

You held up the file.

“Not sure it was worth our time, but yes.”

He took the file and thumbed through it.

“This is it?” he asked.

“I asked the same thing.”

“I visited him hundreds of times while I lived down here, and this is all he has…” He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll make do,” you assured him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

You stuck close to his side as you picked your way back through the broken streets to the bridge, giving more than a few warning growls to those with greedy eyes and sticky fingers. You stopped halfway across.

“Go ahead,” you said. “I think I’m going to linger for a bit. I want to have a look around. This place disgusts me, I won’t lie, but… It’s also exactly the kind of place I want to help. The kind of people I want to help.”

Viktor smiled.

“Take your time, Doctor.”

You did take your time, talking with those that would give you the time of day, asking about their health and their woes. You knew that the Upper City didn’t care much for those below, but you didn’t realize the full extent of their neglect. You were glad that Viktor got out of there. Eventually, you found your way to a bar called The Last Drop. The barkeeper greeted you heartily and asked what you’d like to drink. You declined the drink politely and instead continued your investigation.

“Yeah, things can get pretty bad down here,” he said quietly. “We don’t have much in the way of medical attention, but the doctors we do have do what they can to help. On top of that, the food down here isn’t great. We have plenty of seafood, but fresh fruit and vegetables are few and far between.”

You nodded, listening intently. He leaned forward on the bar.

“What’s a fancy doctor like you doing down here anyway?” he asked, more quietly.

“I came with a patient, to get medical records from his former doctor. I’ve only been in Piltover for two days, and I have to admit, I’m not delighted to see how they treat this part of their population.”

He scoffed.

“Topside couldn’t care less about what goes on down here in the Trenches.”

“Yes, that’s the conclusion I came to as well,” you said quietly.

“Sure I can’t get you a drink?” he asked. “You look like you could use one.”

You chuckled.

“No, thank you. I should be heading back. Thanks for talking with me.”

You tried to give him some coin for his time and information, but he refused with a chuckle.

“No need for that, Doctor. You just do what you can to help the people down here, and we'll call it even. Hey, what’s your name, before you go?”

“Raven,” you answered as you stepped down from the barstool. “Doctor Raven.”

“Vander,” he said, offering his hand.

You didn’t want to touch the Fissures doctor, but Vander’s hand, you didn’t hesitate to shake.

“Until next time, then, Vander.”

You bid him farewell and made your way back toward home, following the path illuminated by the silver glow of the moon.

[crackrodent]

Week 22:

Blitz was not the smartest imp.

It was almost dinner time by the time Blitz returned to his (kinda sorta) partner and daughter sitting together at the dinner table waiting for him to explain himself for running out the door, ignoring their calls and disappearing for hours.

Blitz ran in with a box in his arms with a dozen holes cut in the top, and a manila envelope tucked halfway into the flaps. His smile was ear to ear, clearly reflective of a man who did not yet realize people were upset with him.

Stolas was the first to speak, shushing Blitz as he tried to start, “Where have you been all day? You have not been answering your phone at all! What was the point of getting me a cell phone to have you ignore not just my calls but Loona’s as well?!” Loona understood the emphasis on her name, but Blitz was buzzing with excited energy, so the secondary meaning went unheard.

Loona couldn’t even speak as she eyed the box in her father’s hands. The small sounds of whimpers coming from the box and the unmistakable scent she has spent almost six years trying to forget. Before Blitz even had a chance to explain himself her phone had Bee’s number dialed and Loona was shutting the door to her room.

“Stols, Loony, I have a surprise for us!” Blitz said, holding up the box and accidentally raising one side a little higher and causing the box to slide out of his hands and hit the floor. “Whoops. Well I’m sure they’re fine.”

Stolas’s irritation was introduced to his curiosity as he heard a small yelp as the box hit the ground. “Blitz, what is in the box?”

Blitz’s eyes lit up as he pulled the flaps of the box open and presented the newest family members to Stolas. “I ADOPTED PUPPIES!” he announced, showing off the pair of young hellhounds who were starting to cry, the fall having clearly startled them. He picked up the brownish one first, “This is Oklinn” he announced, shoving the baby into a shocked Stola’s arms before his mind had time to protest. “One of her eyes is a little lazy, but she kinda reminded me of Loona with her widdle snout,” he booped her nose, “so I picked her.”

Then he scooped up the smaller black and white one, her soft to fur broken up with patches of scabs almost paining maps on her small frame, and held her to his own chest and started patting her on the back nervously, “Okay well, I do not know exactly what kids this young like but this little girl here I did find out really likes when you move with her if you are still she will just cry a lot-”

The sound of Loona in the other room, yelling at the sin of gluttony about why the hell she allowed Blitz to adopt more children, broke Stolas from his trance.

He looked over at Blitz, “So, while we are poor, you own a dangerous and mildly illegal company, I am separated from my daughter, not to even mention we live in the ring where once a year almost the entire town gets destroyed by Heaven, you went out, without talking to anyone, and brought home two more mouths to feed?”

“Yes,” Blitz replied, very matter of fact, hoping his plan might still kinda work. He was wrong but Stolas knew there was no explaining to the imp that replacement children were not going to make up for Octavia refusing to contact him. It would be a full-time job to explain how absurd that was, like most of his ideas to help the former prince.

Stolas, simply did not have the energy to explain to Blitz why all of those things meant he should not have adopted more children, all he could manage to sigh and say was, “What is the other child’s name?”

Blitz smiled before announcing, “This is Lieruh!” he turned gently, rocking her with his whole body. Stolas watched him, the imp already wrapped around the finger of the small hellhound. His heart swelled despite the ever present ache, then looking down at the small eyes slowly blinking shut on little Oklinn, falling asleep in his arms.

Stolas looked back and forth between the babies, feeling much more aware that they genuinely had nothing to offer these strays he brought home. No money, no status, no toys or space. Well, he supposed Blitz did have a lot of horses everywhere that could entertain the girls.

Blitz watched as Stolas’ shoulders softened as he looked around the apartment. He could see the vision playing out in the man’s eyes. The life they could have in their stitched together little life. Their home.

Blitz knew they would need to pick up some things for the babies but he knew the most important things were already there. As long as love and some family were at home, even if some members were missing for now, anything was possible.

Well, anything except changing the wet diapers on the child in their arms without a quick trip to the store.

And possibly a quick YouTube tutorial.

[jjungkooksthighs]

He can hear the audible rush of her blood under her skin as he leaves small bites along the back of her neck. Can feel the way her cunt readily wraps around him like a silken sheath as he penetrates her sex. Can see the way her muscles, finally, slacken beneath him as she lets her front fall onto the soft cushion as he pushes her down.

By now, she knows exactly what he expects.

So when she turns her face to the side so she can hold his gaze, his lips turn up and he praises, “That’s a good girl. This is just how I like you. Submissive and presenting just for me.”

She wants to show him how sorry she is.

That’s why she nods into the cushion, “Yes, alpha. Just for you. This is all yours. I’m all yours.”

How he would’ve have given anything for her to profess that for the world to hear. He wished for the world to know of his deep seated affections for her, but her rejection had made it clear she did not care to display her love for him as he did to her.

Not like when she’d rejected him not so long ago.

Her resistance had not only begun to leave hesitation and questioning into the extent of their bond, but some of the alphas now found their belief in his dominance lacking. Some females, he’d heard, had already begun whispering of their own hopes to become his concubine. His to spend ruts with or even just nights of desire with as he saw fit.

The thoughts leave a sour, bitter taste in his mouth. One he quickly sheds for iron when his canines lengthen and pierce her flesh just with the very tips of them.

As if he’d take anyone but her. The very thought is ludicrous, and yet, the prying eyes and incessant whispers had not stopped since then.

His length slides deeper still into her, and she takes it. Takes it until he’s fully sheathed within her before-

“Pack Alpha Jungkook?” A feminine voice, deep in the forest beyond the open window calls.

What? Her blood freezes at the voice, irritation bubbling through her very veins. Who the fuck was that? A small growl makes its way out of the back of her throat as a display of her disapproval. However, she still has her eyes on him, not moving an inch. She doesn't dare look away. He hasn't given her permission to do so yet. "a-alpha.." she calls out for him. "w-what.." she stutters, not knowing what to ask, for she has far too many questions on her mind now.

His gaze bore into hers as he drew in a long breath.

The familiar scent of his omega envelops his nostrils, but there, when the wind blows toward them, it carries with it the stench of another female.

A fertile female no doubt nearing heat in the gross potency of said smell.

“It looks like your foolishness and retaliation are now coming back to bite you in your little ass, omega,” he drawls. He doesn’t dislodge himself from her, but instead sinks himself even deeper into her sopping cunt. “You made it very evident in your rejection of me that you were not willing to satisfy and obey.” Those burning gold irises flicker away from her toward the source of the sound, “but there are many others that would. Because of your denial, some females wish to whore themselves out to me in the hopes that I will take them as my secondary lover.” He grips one of her hips as he slowly-torturously- inches himself out of her sex, “and this one… she comes for this purpose. To see if she can give me what you have not.”

[hearditinapastlife2019]

current study spot :)

[softshuji]

3:56PM | HAITANI RINDOU 

Rindou swears he left them right there by you, right on the sofa, tucked snug next to one of the multitudes of pillows you keep strewn about, peeking out from the side. You had watched him do it, that was the funny thing, watched him take his glasses off and tuck them against the crevice in the sofa before padding to the kitchen in his pyjamas, a hoodie thrown haphazardly on top. 

You had smirked, deliberated for a fraction of a second as you listened to him open the fridge, the faint sound of water sloshing around in a glass, your own outline in the reflection of his glasses. It would be cruel but funny at the same time and it’s not as if you’d keep up the pretence for very long. Just a joke, no?  One look from Ran lounging opposite you, the beginnings of a devious smile curling at his lips, his eyes alight with mischief, was all it took to make your mind up. You grab the glasses and sneak them into your pocket, turning your eyes back to the book on your lap when you hear the deep timbre of your Boyfriend’s voice get closer.

‘Yeah and then I was- wait where are my glasses?’ He furrows his brow, blinks owlishly, pouting slightly and jutting out his bottom lip when he digs a hand into the gap between the armrest and the sofa. ‘I swear I left them right here.’

‘You sure Rin?’ The act comes awfully naturally to you and you add a little extra drama by matching his furrowed brow, closing your book and standing up, patting the sofa down as he sets his drink on the table. It’s almost comic, the way you bend to sweep a hand over the fabric, burrowing it into the creases.

‘Yes I’m sure,’ he says and scratches his head, tufts of purple and lilac wound tight in his fingers. ‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘Maybe you left them in the kitchen my love.’ 

He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip, a habit he picked up off you. It’s cute really, and you know how blessed you are to see this side of him. Happier, funnier, looser even, as if the impenetrable wall that he took such pains to keep up had cracked enough to let you in. 

His eyes widen suddenly and he whips around to where Ran has his legs thrown across the secondary sofa, something dark whirling around in the glass perched in his hands.

‘Up.’ Rindou points an accusatory finger at his Brother and stalks over, his figure still that much shorter and you suppress a giggle as Ran all but fails to hide the knowing smirk thrown in your direction. Rindou is still pouting by this point and you have the sudden visceral urge to kiss his lips, smooth the faint worry lines creasing his forehead. He is adorable, that’s the only word for it, as he puts his hands on his hips and looks up at his much taller Brother.

‘What, you don’t trust your own Brother? That’s cold Rin,’ Ran says, sliding the glass onto the coffee table. He holds his arms out as he stands and raises an eyebrow at you over Rindou’s ruffled head, feigning innocence when Rindou glares at him from beneath pinched brows.

‘I trust you with my life,’ Rindou mutters, his hands grazing his Brother’s pockets for anything that might be even vaguely the correct shape. ‘Just not with my glasses.’

He tuts under his breath when he finds nothing but Ran’s wallet, keys, gum and a silver cigarette tin inlaid with his initials, a present from you from years far into the past. You note absent-mindedly, that at no point has he suspected you and the thought has a thrum of warmth simmering in your chest.

‘Where could they have gone?’ And the look he gives you is withering as he squints, his gaze directed towards the sofa in case he’d happened to miss it. His eyesight truly is terrible and you’d feel bad if it wasn’t for the fact that he just looks so cute as he scratches his head, bites his lips and turns on his heels to look at the coffee table littered with cups and books and ashtrays, discarded takeaway the three of you have just finished. 

The tenderness of the moment however, is not lost on you as Rindou runs a hand over his own pockets, patting his chest, his pyjama bottoms, ruffling his soft hair in case he’d left them perched on his head. 

Briefly, a flash of some memory flits to the front of your mind and you soften, tendrils of love leaking into your heart. You remember the days when Rindou was cold and unfeeling, when your acts of kindness had seemingly gone unnoticed, and the concept of having a joke with him was practically unheard of. The days when he was distant as a star you could barely graze with tentative fingers. You hide the smile behind a hand remembering it, comparing it to the easy lifestyle you now have, one in which the love between the three of you blooms as naturally as day and night. It helps that Ran isn’t put out by the concept of third-wheeling, and in fact has bounds of love for you, as he does for his Brother, that he is always there to watch over the two of you, a hand on your backs propelling you forward in that easy way of his.

With a final glance at the coffee table over his shoulder, Rindou pads to the kitchen again, tripping over his feet and cursing, muted whispers of “where the fuck have they gone?” left in his wake. It’s only when you hear the clatter of a cup and the flick of a kettle do you and Ran dare to exchange glances again, both of you fighting the laugh bubbling in your throats.

‘Well played Y/N.’ Ran says in that lilting tone of his and makes to pick up his glass again, stretching languidly on the sofa, his back arched as he sighs, throwing an arm over his tired eyes. 

‘Thank you Ran.’ A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth and your hand shuffles inside your own pocket, pulling out Rindou’s glasses and carefully, silently, placing them in the nook between the armrest and the seat, fluffing up the cushions and picking up your book again in time for Rindou to slink back into the room, his forehead now permanently creased with a tiny crescent moon of stress lines. 

You make a show of accidentally nudging the pillow and Rindou’s eyes (which are straining enough as it is) flick to the gap where his poor glasses are wedged. ‘How the fuck-?

‘I guess you just didn’t look well enough,’ Ran says, watching, his low baritone voice laced with mirth and the sluggishness of sleep. His throat bobs as he removes his arm momentarily to wink at you conspiratorially. 

‘I thought I did…’ Rindou frowns but says nothing more of it when he perches the glasses on the bridge of his nose, the world now sharp and focused. He smiles at you, a warm and genuine smile, marvelling at the sharpness of your features in the gleaming light, your outline now punctuated by soft yellow and the coppery burnt orange of the setting sun just beyond the window.

The fading sunlight, the slash of iridescent pink on the horizon, bled through with purple and red makes his irises seem catlike from here and the colour bleeds through the soft and fine strands of his hair that frame his face, wisps escaping his tied up mullet to kiss the metal frames.

‘You’re beautiful,’ you say almost on instinct and the action catches him so off guard that the only sound he makes is both wordless and strangled, tight and stuck in his throat as he mutters something about you embarrassing him in front of Ran. If Ran heard at all, he makes no indication of it, and instead softly snores, curled in on himself, one hand tucked under the pillow.

That was the first time and since then, misplacing , or rather moving Rindou’s glasses has become a sneaky but favourite pastime of yours and Ran’s. Often at Bonten’s HQ, with you slipping them into your handbag as you passed, or tucking them under the seat, your legs crossed under the chair to keep up the pretence and poor Rindou squinting at practically anyone who dared make eye contact with him.

You’re pretty sure he terrifies the secretary at least twice a day every time they pop a head around to deliver a message, always greeted by the gruff and gravelly voice of your Boyfriend that perfectly matches the glare he shoots their way.

He’ll pat down his pockets, ruffle his feathery hair, look left and right, sucking in his bottom lip till its pulled behind his teeth and every time, you repress the urge to peck his lips, to taste the strawberry lip balm you know he meticulously applies before leaving. 

You truly wouldn’t do it if he wasn’t so cute.

‘Rindou, is there something wrong?’ Mikey asks, the sheaf of paperwork momentarily lowered as he peers up from beneath dark lashes and Sanzu snickers under his breath, attempting to hide his glee behind a hand swirling around a glass of something heady and honeyed.

Rindou jolts in his seat, too focused on trying to see and to make out something other than the vague shape of his boss with his white undercut and black turtleneck, that he doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to till Ran nudges him subtly with his elbow.

‘Hm, sorry, what did you say Boss?’ Rindou shakes his head and Takeomi smirks wordlessly into his glass, his lips curling around an unlit cigarette. Even Kakucho is smothering a giggle when he sees Rindou squint and lean forward in his seat. 

‘Where are your glasses, Rindou?’ Mikey cocks a head to the side, and while it’s rare that he allows himself a flicker of anything other than indifference, this is one of those times in which the beginnings of a smile twitch at his lips.

Yes, Mikey is also in on the joke.

‘I….’ Rindou fumbles, and absent-mindedly his hand strays to his pocket again, only to touch the bare silk of the inside. ‘I lost them.’ How utterly humiliating, he thinks, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks, licking at his ears.

‘Why have you not gotten contact lenses? This is a regular occurrence is it not?’ Mikey is genuine this time and if it weren’t for the running joke he is very obviously in on, he would have ordered it ages ago. ‘Is it the money? You know that-’

‘No!’ Rindou stands immediately, his hands braced on either of his chair, and so quick to dispel the misconception that Ran has to bite down on his lip and pretend to scratch his neck to crush the smile that threatens to break his innocent facade.

Oh now this is embarrassing. How does he tell them how lame he feels for the fact that he enjoys you sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose every morning? That he craves those intimate seconds in which he can have an excuse to stare back at you, to flick your forehead, tuck your hair behind your ear as you trail your hands down his chest, his stomach thrumming with tenderness and warmth. That if he wears contact lenses, there will no longer be an opportunity for you to fix the tie he leaves deliberately askew and then adjust the glasses on the bridge of his nose, kissing his lips fervently before waving him goodbye, that he snatches those precious moments as a dying man would snatch a mirage in the desert.

But what’s even more humiliating, is the way he’ll drop his jacket on the sofa, muttering a soft and subdued I’m home, listening for the quick footfall that tells him you’re coming down the stairs. He’ll wait for you to run a hand through his hair, pull him by the collars and take off his glasses as his hands slide down to your hips, gently squeezing the flesh as he pulls you into him. And he’ll blow his hair from his eyes, now adjusting to your gleaming outline flaring against the sun’s evening light and his heart will thud against his ribs and he’ll thank every star and a God he’s not sure he believes in for every decision which led him here.

And of course, he’s Haitani Rindou. Ever observant, every sense honed, a living weapon in himself and that means he’d be dumb not to notice you sliding your hand across the table, his glasses gripped tightly between your fingers. Into your bag, into your pocket, conveniently misplaced almost every few days, but turning up all the same, and always with a comical but adorable gasp, your mouth falling open and your eyes dancing with a flicker of light.

‘Y/N do you know where my glasses are?’ He’ll ask, as if he didn’t see you tuck them behind the TV set five minutes before that. And he’ll watch you deny it with an adamant shake of your head, your nose buried in the book resting in your lap and Rindou will quash the smirk and gleeful smile at seeing you deny it all, knowing that you’d just feign innocence for teasing him.

He lets you have it every time, your five minutes of laughter that you and Ran often share for his sake because he knows in his heart, it’s all out of love. Every meticulous thing, every kiss to his nose that has his cheeks turning pink after you adjust the gold rimmed glasses, every giggle and smile and ounce of warmth that slips through your fingers like stardust when your hand touches his hot skin or tucks the errant strands of hair behind his ears. You are the sun, and he is the moon, redeemed by the constancy of your love.

And if being subject to a bit of embarrassment was the price to pay for you, to see your smile as radiant as the sun, to see you throw your head back and laugh, then he was happy to pay it. It was a no brainer for someone as deeply entrenched as he was. 

So yes, he knows, he’s always known. 

He’s Haitani Rindou after all. Your Haitani Rindou at that.

a/n: This is a birthday present for my lovely love @tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang (happy birthday sweetheart<3) I had so much fun writing this, but then again I always do writing for Rindou, I hope everyone else also likes it, thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback so far on everything I write. As always, likes and reblogs are so appreciated<3

taglist: @mxnjiros @stroberrylite @islascafe @prettyiolanthe @brownsugarmoonie @wotakuhime @snakegentleman @ranyechka @severellamahottub @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @invisible-cardigan-33 @seagoddesslove @manjirosgrl @crown5 @the-travelling-witch @bladesandguns @reiners-milkbiddies @girl-by-the-lake @1900-aria @rottingreveries @qiumiisoup @bontenacious (let me know if you would like to be added!!)

[shih-coulda-had-it]

27. From the 200 lemon dialogue sorahiko. And sakumo

27. "Hey. Hey. Hey, guess what? Hey? Hey! Hey, guess what! … I love you.” | pre-OT3 shimurastorino, w/ focus on sorahiko/sakumo | wc: ~860

a/n: tw vaguely described Sex Quirk (Pollen-adjacent) but explicitly described situation (>:3c), with consent given prior to the event

//

Looking down at Sorahiko’s arched spine, all tensed muscles and flushed with warmth, Sakumo has the feverish thought that his wife really had the right idea, asking Sorahiko if he would consent to being their secondary all-purpose emergency contact.

Not that they really expected to be blindsided by a Sex Quirk, but he supposes every infamous tall tale has a grain of truth to it. 

“Come on,” says Sorahiko, a thinly-veiled plea disguised as a demand.

“I’m trying to start slow,” Sakumo chides. He tries to hide his fond smile, in case Sorahiko twists around in disbelief, and distracts himself by rubbing the other man’s back, going a little harder on the shoulders than the lower back. A shiver shakes the exhale leaving Sorahiko’s lungs as he goes from his hands to his elbows and even lowers his head.

He stays on his knees. His hips are lifted higher, enticingly. The weak orange light from the nightstand’s lamp just barely touches the slick rim that Sakumo had fingered open minutes ago.

“Just--just go,” he says. “I can take it.”

Sakumo sighs, but ultimately obliges: his left hand cups Sorahiko’s rear, groping at the muscle and fat, teasing the give of the hole with his thumb, and his right hand guides his cock. It’s slippery with lubricant, and blood-hot in Sakumo’s own hand despite the condom. He grits his teeth to hold back a groan.

“Sakumo, Sakumo, come on--please--”

“Slowly,” Sakumo says, shuddering when the tip finally pushes past the lackluster resistance, when he sees, feels, the shaft of his cock being enveloped by heat. “Oh, you feel good. You feel incredible, Sorahiko.”

Sorahiko makes a noise in the back of his throat, rough and helpless, and he tightens at the praise. In a blind attempt to get Sorahiko to repeat that moan, Sakumo grasps for handholds, finds purchase at the trim waist, and thrusts forward. He doesn’t linger long enough for Sorahiko to adjust; he pulls halfway out and fucks back in again, and again, finally satiating that vicious-edged appetite the Quirk had honed.

The exact noise doesn’t make a reappearance, but Sakumo can hear the similarities in the ragged groans that escape Sorahiko’s stranglehold on his vocal cords.

He regrets that Nana and Recovery Girl chose this weekend to have their girls’ trip in Kantonica. If Nana were here--well, if Nana were here, Sakumo would’ve turned to her for relief, not Sorahiko--if she could only just stumble home unexpectedly, and aid Sakumo in wrecking Sorahiko’s sensibilities…!

“So,” Sorahiko manages, “do you--feel any better y-yet?”

Sakumo refuses to even pause (though he flounders internally, because, what? Had Sorahiko not been picking up on all the flirtations and affirmations of his inclusion in their family? Didn’t Nana make enough throuple jokes?), instead letting out a guttural snarl, driving into Sorahiko harder. Boldly, he bends, presses his chest against Sorahiko’s back and holds them together with one arm.

With the other, he splays his hand against a trembling stomach and slides it down, following the treasure trail to Sorahiko’s own hard and leaking cock. 

Sorahiko muffles his cry into the bed. He moves jerkily into the greedy fist, unable to time it with the relentless rocking of Sakumo’s hips. His knees slip open degree by degree.

“Yes,” says Sakumo belatedly, breathless with the effort to stave off his climax until Sorahiko comes first. “Yes, I feel so much better, you’re so good, Sorahiko--”

Another bitten-off cry. A not insignificant burst of air that brushes Sakumo’s legs, and the sudden feeling of something wet and hot smearing onto his hand, but most present of all: Sorahiko’s walls bearing down on Sakumo, convulsive clenching that triggers Sakumo into coming.

The bloodrush dissipates, leaving Sakumo with a faint ringing in his ears. The both of them are gasping in the immediate aftermath, not yet settled into the afterglow, which Sakumo is determined to get. There’s no way he’s just going to let Sorahiko stagger off into the bathroom to ‘clear his head’ or whatever excuse he comes up with in misguided panic.

He noses at the sweat-damp silver hairs fluffing up at the back of Sorahiko’s head. “Hey,” Sakumo breathes, then repositions his mouth closer to the burning pink shell of an ear. “Hey. Hey, guess what?”

“Mngh,” Sorahiko grunts. His legs are still spasming, minute twitches that match the hiccupped gasps for air. Clumsily, his hand fumbles the shove at Sakumo’s right forearm.

“Hey? Hey!”

“Stop touching my dick,” he says in a rasp, squirming.

Sakumo is reluctant to move, but magnanimously wipes his hand on the folded towel they (Sorahiko) laid on the bed to protect it from stains, then hugs Sorahiko tighter. He says, insistent, “Guess what!”

“What?”

He swallows past the apprehension in his throat, but if Sakumo doesn’t say it now, if he tries to wait for that ‘opportune’ time, as Nana likes to wax eloquent about, then he’ll be waiting forever. He wants so badly for Sorahiko to stay in their bed, and their home, and their life. He needs to take the first step, so Nana has the confidence to add her voice.

Carefully, Sakumo confesses in a firm, steady voice, “... I love you.”

[buckleyblueyes]

once you find it (it can never be replaced)

Wrote this as a little late birthday present for @diazchristopher! I hope you like it Neethu! Happy belated birthday! 

Summary: It’s not an earth shattering realization, there’s nothing dramatic about it. It’s as simple as it is inevitable (also read on AO3)

Buck realizes he’s in love with Eddie three days before Halloween. It’s not an earth shattering realization, there’s nothing dramatic about it. It’s as simple as it is inevitable. It happens on a Monday morning at the station. The coffee maker breaks on the first cup of the day, and nobody's happy about it. Chimney makes a run to the coffee shop to get them through, but he’s not back yet, and Eddie is glaring daggers at the broken machine, as if he can intimidate it into working again.

“Hey, Bobby, can we get a Hildy?” Albert asks.

Eddie whips around before Bobby can say anything. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. It’s bad enough I have one of those hell machines spying on me at home.” He glances at Buck. “I refuse to let Hildy infiltrate the station.”

Bobby chuckles. “Calm down, Eddie. We couldn’t afford a smart coffee maker anyway.”

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief, and Buck can’t help the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” is what he says out loud. “God, I love you,” is what he says in his head. It doesn’t take him by surprise, doesn’t freak him out like maybe it should, given that he’s dating someone who isn’t Eddie. He’s always known his feelings for Eddie were more complicated than simple friendship. He hasn’t let himself dwell on it, has always had good reasons for ignoring the flutter in his chest when Eddie looks at him a certain way, or the warmth that cascades through his body when Eddie finds a reason to touch him (a hand on his shoulders as he passes by, an arm brushed against his, a knee pressed against his thigh in the truck). It was always there, a faint hum in the back of his mind.

Easy to ignore, until suddenly it’s not.

Buck breaks up with Taylor on a Tuesday in November, two weeks after the hum in his mind has graduated to an all encompassing buzzing under his skin, three days before their six month anniversary. It’s not dramatic, or even very painful, for either of them, and Buck knows he made the right decision. He likes Taylor, but he doesn’t love her, and as sad as she is to see him go, he knows that she doesn’t love him either.  

He’s not sure why it takes him so long between the realization and the decision to break things off with Taylor. Maybe it’s because breaking up with Taylor means actually acknowledging that he’s in love with Eddie to someone other than himself. Not that he says it, but he knows it’s implied in the way he says, “I just don’t think this is what I want,” and the way she just nods, like she’s seen this coming. Which she probably has. Subtly has never been Buck’s strong suit.

He announces the breakup the next day at work because Chimney is asking when he’s free to babysit Jee-Yun next and mentions something about not wanting to get in the way of Buck’s relationship and Buck assures him that there’s no relationship to get in the way of. Chimney pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Buckaroo,” he says with a small smile.

“I’m okay,” Buck insists. “I was the one who broke it off.”

“Oh.” Chimney sounds dumbfounded, which Buck supposes is fair, given how often Buck talks about being lonely. “Why?”

Because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, Eddie choses that moment to step out from the otherside of the ladder truck. “Why what?”

“Buck broke up with Taylor,” Chimney says, like he’s not stepping in the middle of an emotional minefield--after all, none of the mines will blow him up.

Eddie’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. But Buck knows him well enough to see it.

“We wanted different things,” Buck says, shrugging. The bell rings before Eddie or Chimney can ask more questions. Buck sighs in relief.

By the end of shift, everyone at the station knows about the breakup, because Chimney knows, and Chimney loves gossip, and Buck told Chimney he could tell people. It saves him the trouble of having to acknowledge it, lets the word spread without him having to have the same conversation a dozen times. Instead he focuses on his work, pretending not to notice the sympathetic looks his coworkers keep flashing him. Poor Buck, they’re all probably thinking, alone again.

Well. Almost all of them. Buck has no idea what Eddie is thinking, but he’s sure it’s not the same sad sympathy everyone else is exuding because Eddie never even liked Taylor. He’s probably relieved he doesn’t have to make awkward small talk with her again, if anything. Eddie watches Buck like their other coworkers, but the look in his eyes isn’t sympathy. Buck pretends not to notice Eddie’s looks, too.

A week after Buck’s breakup with Taylor, he’s leaning against Eddie’s kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, and Eddie’s at the sink washing dishes (only fair, since Buck cooked dinner). Christopher is in his room working on homework, and the house is quiet, which only serves to emphasize the tension that’s been building between the two men for the last week, like a rubber band slowly pulled taut, just barely held in place between two fingers.

“So,” Eddie starts, in a tone of forced casualness. “How have you been doing since your breakup?”

Buck takes a swig of his beer. “Fine. It was my choice, and I don’t regret it.”

“Your choice,” Eddie echoes, placing the last dish on the drying rack, before turning to face Buck. “Y’know, you never really told me why.”  

Buck gulps. “Eddie…”

“Why did you break up with Taylor?” Eddie asks, dark eyes boring into Buck. The rubber band stretches even further. “And I don’t want the lie you told Chimney.”

Buck sets down his beer, and crosses his arms. “Why did you break up with Ana?”

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” Eddie doesn’t hesitate. “She wasn’t who I wanted.”

Buck’s arms fall back to his sides. “Who-what do you want, then?” He tries to swallow the word “who” in the back of his throat, but it comes out anyway. His palms are sweating and his heart is racing and oh, God, what if he’s wrong about this?

Eddie just takes a step forward, expression unreadable. “Don’t you know, Evan?” His voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet, almost a whisper. Like he’s forcing the words out before he loses his ability to speak completely.

It’s not even really an answer, not entirely. There’s just enough plausible deniability that Eddie could walk it back. Maybe. If they weren’t six inches apart. If Eddie wasn’t looking at him like every hope and dream he’s ever had rely on what Buck does next. If the last time Eddie used Buck’s first name wasn’t in a hospital room. If Buck didn’t know Eddie so completely.

The rubber band snaps.

Buck practically lunges forward into Eddie’s space, wrapping his hands around Eddie’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. He kisses Eddie hard, pouring every ounce of pent up emotion from the last three and a half years into it, and Eddie kisses him back with equal intensity. Eddie’s hands on his waist, callused and warm, and Buck pushes Eddie up against the edge of the sink so their bodies are pressed together as firmly as their lips are. Buck’s fingers find their way from Eddie’s neck into his hair, and he tugs gently, earning a moan from the other man. Seizing the opportunity, Buck slides his tongue along Eddie’s lower lip, which falls open further to let Buck in. Time moves slow as honey around them, as they melt into each other. Nothing else in the world seems to matter except getting more and more of Eddie.

Buck’s giddy with the feeling. He’s kissing Eddie. Eddie is kissing him back. Eddie wants him. He has to pull back, unable to stop himself from letting out a small giggle.

“What?” Eddie asks, breathless. He sure is a sight, hair mussed and lips swollen. He looks wanton and a wave of smugness bubbles up in Buck’s chest because he did that.

“Nothing, I’m just happy,” Buck says softly, leaning down to rest his forehead against Eddie's. “I thought you might--but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

Eddie’s brown eyes soften with fondness. “Me too.”

Buck swallows. “Should we talk about this?”

“Probably," Eddie says, and then continues in that casual, matter of fact tone of his, "I’m in love with you."

“Oh, well, good,” Buck ducks his head and smiles bashfully. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Eddie sucks a breath through his teeth, moving back just so he can move in again at the right angle for a kiss. “Well, then. Are we done talking?”

Buck pretends to think about it for a moment. “Hm, yeah. I think we’re on the same page.”

He barely finishes his sentence before Eddie’s lips are on his again, and this time he’s the one pushed up against the counter, the cold tile digging into his back. He knows they have more to talk about--how to tell Christopher, how (and when) they want to tell the team, what this means for their working relationship--but that’s all secondary. They’ll figure it out, together. Because he’s Buck and Eddie is Eddie, and they’ve both been all in since the day they pulled a live grenade out of a man’s thigh together.

Right now, all he needs is for Eddie to never stop kissing him like this.

(Eddie never does.)

[yoolee]

Actual, real world advice from Lee: Useful corporate phrases

I have no idea if anyone still checks this blog, and if they do, this has nothing to do with what usually gets posted, but I’ve done two of these, so here’s a third!

“Thanks, you’ve given me something to think about.”

Use it: When you get feedback you don’t agree with - especially if you have an immediate emotional reaction to it.

Why: Because it acknowledges but doesn’t agree. Basically buys you time to react privately without damaging the relationship. Immediately (and emotionally) jumping into telling someone why they’re wrong is only going to strain the relationship. When you’re getting feedback, you want the other person to feel heard (science says even having the opportunity to air negative feelings makes people feel more positively about the thing). That doesn’t mean you have to AGREE. This statement lets you acknowledge, while buying you time to process. This also gives you an out on things like opinions people have on presentations or projects: if they bring it up later you can say you thought about it, but decided to keep what you had because A/B/C and by then you’ll have had time to craft an ironclad response. 

“I can’t, I have a prior commitment.”

Use it: When you’re being asked to work hours that your coworkers aren’t, or that you are not part of your regular schedule, or, you know, when you have a prior commitment and don’t want to give details.

Why: Your time is your time and you don’t owe an explanation! Yes, it’s important to be a team player, and it’s important to be flexible and get the work done when it needs to get done, bit if you’re in a situation where, say, a parent isn’t asked to come in the weekend because your boss knows they have kids, and you are because they know you don’t, draw the line. There’s often a temptation to justify unavailability (lie and say doctor’s appointment, family event, traveling) but you do not owe justification for your time being your own, and not wanting to take the burden of additional responsibility without additional compensation in return. Being in the habit of not providing justification will come in handy if you ever don’t want to disclose something later (eg, private appointment, interview at another workspace) - it won’t seem suspicious that you’re suddenly being vague. 

“The goal/outcome for this meeting is...”

Use it: When you’re running a meeting.

Why: You would be amazed how different everyone’s perceptions of their role in a meeting are, and setting expectations so obviously may feel silly but wow it helps. Let’s say I schedule a 1:1 with my boss. I just call it, Lee/Boss 1:1. I walk in and start venting about how Coworker is always late in responding to my emails. What does my boss do? In this case, my boss doesn’t know if I want them to fix my problem, if I want them to just let me air my grievances, or if I want them to give me advice, etc. If they do something other than what I want, we’ll both be frustrated. If I instead I preface it by saying, “I’m going to handle this on my own, but I just need to say it and be heard.” or “I need some advice.” then we both go into the convo knowing our roles. This works on big meetings too, “I’m going to make the final decision but I schedule this meeting to hear your input…” “At the end of the meeting I want to walk away with a budget we’ve all approved…” 

“What is the most important thing for us to accomplish [during this meeting]?”

Use it: When you don’t know the expectations for a meeting, you don’t think you need to be in the meeting, the meeting has a lot of people on it, or you’re getting frustrated because you don’t know why there’s a meeting in the first place.

Why: So that you and the person leading the meeting don’t focus on different things! See the above entry :)  

“Hypothetically, what would the ideal outcome look like?”

Use it: When someone is stuck on a problem (including yourself).

Why: We tend to artificially impose limits on our problem-solving, which stops us from being creative, going into an open-ended hypothetical offers a new vantage point.

A lot of times when we’re stuck, we try so hard to make do with what we’ve got that we fail to consider how much more is actually available to us. Start with the ideal and figure out which components of it are accessible. Then work backwards with what/how/who questions. What/how/who are open-ended. They make you think! Consider: “Can you rent space by this weekend?” this is a closed decision, it limits you to yes/no, and puts limiters on the delivery (what comes to mind are event halls, restaurants, etc) Compare to: “What kind of space do you need?” which could prompt something like, oh, just space for 10 people - what about a park? Open-ended questions are your friend when trying to help someone solve a problem (even if that ‘someone’ is yourself!) 

(not a phrase)  Save ‘I’ for remediation, passive voice for problems

Use it: When you have to communicate a problem that is not your fault.

Why: Because you shouldn’t take responsibility for something that isn’t your responsibility - but throwing someone else under the bus is NEVER a good look. Putting the ‘I’ on action shows you’re working on it. Consider, “I don’t have bandwidth to take on this project right now” vs “This project will require more analysis than that timeframe allows, but I can start on it [later ETA].” The latter is stronger - the fault is on the project, not your time management (or your leadership’s inability to see that your plate is full). Also, “I haven’t finished because Bob hasn’t sent me the graphics.” vs, “The project’s just waiting on graphics. I should be able to wrap up by Tuesday if they arrive Monday. I’ve reached out to Bob, his ETA is [ETA]”. Same thing - it’s communicated that the project isn’t finished, but the fault is left sort of nebulous. You’re not artificially taking it one, and you’re not tossing Bob under the bus. Takes some practice, but definitely makes life easier. Caveat (there’s always one): If you screw up, take ownership and do it fast. It is always, ALWAYS better to control the narrative of failure than for your leadership to find out you failed from someone else.

(not a phrase) KEEP TALKING

Use it: When you’re interrupted by someone being obnoxious.

Why: Because you’re not done, and they’re being rude, and this communicates that without calling them out. Legit, just finish your sentence like you don’t hear them talking. Don’t miss a beat. Not to make this about gender, but this is something I, as a female on mostly all-male teams, have found to be EXTREMELY effective, to the point of other people reaching out to me after like wow that interrupting person was kinda bein’ an asshole, sorry, and me being like no biggie thanks for noticing and taking my back. Has that secondary reach out ever happened when I just meekly cut myself off for them? No. Caveat - maybe don’t do this if the person interrupting is like, a VP/CEO they won’t take it well. Also, second caveat, have some grace for your coworkers if it’s not something they do often and you work with them frequently - we all get overexcited and interrupt unintentionally. This is specifically for use in scenarios where a) you are not being heard  and you need to be b) you are the authority (either by knowledge, seniority, or scheduling) c) to make someone who interrupts habitually aware they’re doing it to you.

Edit: The fantastic and wise @han-pan​ offered as well, “Can I finish?” quoth she: “I find it helpful because it identifies that person has interrupted, it is stark and direct enough to startle someone out of talking louder and louder until you finish, and it’s really hard to be mad at someone for asking your permission when you’ve fucked up.” AND I AGREE. This is a good one to use in those ‘have some grace’ moments, as it’s less likely to damage the relationship.

“Sorry, but I don’t have the decision-making or budget authority.”

Use it: When someone on LinkedIn wants you to try their service...

Why: Because they’ll leave you alone, usually.

“What’s the most important issue for you to solve/question for you to answer?”

Use it: When you’re disagreeing on approach with someone.

Why: Again, expectation aligning!

Sometimes people just dig their heels in on something. There’s usually a reason. Let’s say Coworker A and Coworker B are both working a presentation for Director C. Coworker A is frustrated because they’ve been given strict instructions to keep it to 15 minutes, but Coworker B keeps adding slides, even after A deletes them. By asking B what the most important question for them to answer is, A can use that as a guidepost to focus the presentation. (Likewise, if B asks, what’s the issue, they’ll understand A is really concerned about going over time)

[yellowocaballero]

Web!Jon Roleplays Canon!Jon: With Mixed Results?

I wrote this a while ago and now that Sucker’s Bet is finally finished I can post it! Yay! This takes place an indeterminate amount of time after the end of Sucker’s Bet. The exact opposite thing happened with this story that usually happens: I had a very depressing idea and then I was REALLY METICULOUS to make sure it was fluffy. What’s fluffier than healthy discussions about boundaries, needs, and consent?

CW for some unnegotiated roleplay stuff? The same topics that were hit in Sucker’s Bet are hit here. Suggestion of future sexual activity/language but no follow-up. 

“Do it! Do it! Do it!” Sasha chanted, thumping her glass on the table and cheering uproariously. “Do it! Do it!”

Tim laughed drunkenly, slapping the table too. “Double dog dare you! Do it! Do it!”

Good lord, this was like secondary. Jon rolled his eyes, hiding himself behind his cider. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Martin.

Sasha: thought it would be funny, scientific curiosity. She wanted to see some magic, and Jon was a magician. Little more than a pub bet.

Tim: similarly, morbid curiosity.  Had more complicated feelings about the whole thing, but that was partly why he was doing it: make everything normal, settle in, stop awkwardly hiding parts of us from each other. Thought that this would help them make friends, also a pub bet.

Martin…

They probably wouldn’t have asked if they weren’t drunk as hell.

Or maybe they would have. Jon was silently hoping that Tim and Sasha would become more comfortable with him. He had a lot of tricks and methods to make them more comfortable with him, but he had decided very firmly to relax. If Tim and Sasha didn’t like him...well, he had already done possibly the douchiest thing possible to them, and they hung out with him anyway, so their expectations were probably on the floor.

Granted, that was mostly in Martin contexts. He rarely hung out with them alone. They were probably only putting up with him because he was Jon’s boyfriend. Jon knew how it was, and frequently exploited it: you think you’re part of his group until you realize he’s terrible and break up with him, and then suddenly you have no friends, so you never get around to breaking up with him and you’re never happy and you never find someone you’re happy with. 

Martin assured him frequently that they liked him. He suggested that Jon ask them, which he may have gotten from a CBT workbook that he surreptitiously read, but Jon was well aware how that put people in an awkward position. If they didn’t like you, what would they do - tell you?

Well. Tim would. Yeah, Tim would. This was why Tim was trustworthy and a good person. Jon loved people who were incapable of lying, it was like watching zoo animals through binoculars. 

They wouldn’t have asked if they weren’t drunk as hell. But they were drunk as hell, and there was nothing better than pub tricks. 

“What I don’t understand,” Tim said, in that kind of dancing lilting way that only the half-drunk were capable of, “is how you convinced everyone that you knew how to do that job when you, like, don’t read anything more complicated than fashion magazines.”

“I knew he couldn’t do the job,” Sasha said furiously, draining her gin and tonic. “I knew it, but did anybody listen?”

“We all knew, honey.”

Jon shrugged, adjusting his long linen shirt that hugged his torso flatteringly. Honestly, if Jon had been born a woman he would have been too powerful. “That one involved a little bit of spider powers,” he admitted. “But not much. I didn’t do much other than record statements. Telling Sasha that we ‘appreciate her initiative’, but, like, grudgingly, meant that she actually did most of the work.”

Sasha’s jaw dropped in indignation. “I did most of the - shit, I did! I did all of the archiving stuff, didn’t I?”

“I just looked really hurried and spent a lot of time in my office,” Jon said apologetically. “If you always sound stressed then people just assume that you’re doing things. I was really chatting up people on Tinder most of the time.”

“I was not paid enough,” Sasha grumbled, leaning back in her seat. 

“You keep making yourself out to be lazy,” Martin said mildly. He wasn’t drinking, designated as the sober one of the group tonight. “But you were using that downtime to do other work for your other job.”

Jon himself had a drink or two and he was pleasantly light headed - not drunk, but tipsy enough to feel confident and to shut up all of the annoying anxious voices in his head. It was refreshing, and felt very good. That being said, when Jon was fourteen and Gerry sixteen Agnes sat them with a twenty slide powerpoint presentation on how drinking culture in the UK facilitated alcoholism without recognition of it, so these are things you should never do while drinking and this is how to prevent binge drinking and unhealthy drinking habits. Jon didn’t always listen - alcohol was God’s solution for anxiety - but he tried. Agnes also tried that with Annabelle, but she just hissed at her and downed an entire energy drink at once while staring her in the eyes. They figured Annabelle wasn’t at risk. 

“I still don’t believe you,” Tim said imperiously, slamming his pint on the table and making his beer slosh. “If you did the whole schtick now, it would come off so fake.”

“Definitely. I never fall for the same thing twice,” Sasha bragged. “It would obviously still be Jon - what, Hawthorne? Jon Hawthorne. Or was it Hastings…”

“Hawthorne today,” Jon said politely. But he just shrugged, leaning back in his own seat and sipping delicately at his hard cider. “I can guarantee that, if I pulled out that persona again, nobody at this table would be able to see through it.” At Martin’s surly look, Jon appended, “Maybe Martin would.” Everybody shot him slightly incredulous looks, and he sighed. “I promise I’m good at my job! I’m only...transparent when I’m socializing outside of a persona. You all caught me at a weird time in my life.” He shuddered. “Vacations. Never again.”

“The problem with all of that was vacations,” Martin said flatly. 

“Do it! Do it! Do it!” Sasha chanted, thumping her glass on the table and cheering uproariously. “Do it! Do it!”

Tim laughed drunkenly, slapping the table too. “Double dog dare you! Do it! Do it!”

Good lord, this was like secondary. Jon rolled his eyes, hiding himself behind his cider. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Martin. 

Sasha: thought it would be funny, scientific curiosity. She wanted to see some magic, and Jon was a magician. Little more than a pub bet. 

Tim: similarly, morbid curiosity.  Had more complicated feelings about the whole thing, but that was partly why he was doing it: make everything normal, settle in, stop awkwardly hiding parts of us from each other. Thought that this would help them make friends, also a pub bet. 

Martin…

In Martin, Jon saw the same thing that he had always seen. Even stronger, today, than ever. For a month, back then, it had been little more than intrusive thoughts and some light, bored mental meandering. For two, three, months, it had grown deeper and deeper, so thoroughly that it was a surprise. Jon had done a very good job with him. Granted, he had just meant to flirt to keep him complacent, not to end up...doing all of that, and going through all of this, and ending up here. That had never quite been in the plan. 

Martin thought that this roleplay would he really fucking hot. Which, ultimately, swayed Jon: he liked it when Martin thought he was hot. It wasn’t hard, but somehow it meant much more to him than it did from anybody else. It was very strange: that something so easily attained was treasured so highly. Deeply nonsensical. 

“I’m not doing it,” Jon said firmly, and both Tim and Sasha groaned. “It’s not a party trick, guys. Martin, can you scooch? I need the loo.”

Jon, of course, took a slightly meandering approach to the loo. He ditched his pea coat and scarf at the table hidden underneath the tablecloth just out of sight. He fetched a pair of abandoned glasses left on a pub (their owner was annoying a woman), grabbed an abandoned blazer off the back of a chair (its owner was almost passed out drunk, Jon could give it back before the end of the night). He slipped into the bathroom and added his new accessories, taking care to tuck his shirt in. He slipped a hairband from his wrist and quickly did his hair up in a messy bun - he really did need a lot of gel and some combs to get it in his bun normally, but he’d do the best with what he had. Jon glanced in the mirror, looking himself over and fixing his bun as best as he could. He took a deep breath, then two. 

There was always that moment: when Jon slid into it. It felt like skidding on ice, thrust someplace else. Or like an exhale, centering himself as his molecules rearranged. It was a thrilling feeling, often accompanied by a heady thrill or adrenaline. 

No matter how many times he did this, it was still fun. Jon loved it. He really, really loved winning. And Jon always won. 

When Jon walked back to the table, his posture was uncomfortably stiff yet visibly hunched over. Look proud and professional, but deeply feel uncomfortable with the noise and sound and clamor of the pub. Anxious and socially awkward, but trying to hide it - that was familiar. 

Jon halted at the table, where Tim was already telling Martin about a snowboarding accident. They stopped short when they saw him, one hand worrying at his blazer as he scowled at them. “Martin, will you move over? I can’t get to my seat.”

“Uh,” Martin said intelligently. 

“Any day now,” Jon said frostily. 

Martin quickly got up and let Jon slide in. Jon, who had been sitting pressed up against Martin’s side, took care to slide much further away so he was more hovering at the edges of the group -  not enough that it was awkward, but definitely a bit to the right of Sasha directly ahead of him. He avoided eye contact with everybody, picking up his drink and sniffing it suspiciously. The accent was the easiest part of it, the only wrinkle carefully making it almost perceivably fake. 

“Holy shit,” Tim said loudly, voice rising in incredulity, “you actually did it?”

“Did what?” Jon asked. He carefully took a sip of the drink, before grimacing in distaste. “Absolutely vile…” 

“You did the thing,” Sasha said, so excited she was almost bouncing up and down. “You’re doing the thing, holy shit! That was such a Jon face!”

“Er. If you say so.” Jon busied himself with the drink again, obviously pantomiming sipping as he fiddled with the arm of the blazer. Under his breath, yet very audibly, he muttered, “What a waste of time…”

“Man, this is like, what, LARPing?” Tim batted at Sasha’s arm, looking excited. “I’ll play along. Remember we used to do this together?” 

They had. Jon had to pretend that he was unbearably awkward about the whole thing, yet secretly excited to be invited. In reality, pubs were such a cornerstone of Jon’s existence he found them dull as bricks, but it had been fun to channel someone terrified of too many people in a room. 

Sasha’s chin was propped on her hand, giggling. “What’s your organization system for the files, huh, Jon? What’s your organization system? How are you sorting the documents?”

“Tim told me that you don’t talk about work at pubs,” Jon said defensively. “He said you talk about - what was it -” He looked at Tim planatively, obviously lost. “Hobbies? You talk about hobbies?”

“How do you organize the files, Jonathan?”

“Yes, Boss, hobbies,” Tim said faux-sympathetically. He put a hand on his heart, pulling a face. “You gotta have hobbies, right? Shopping, haircare, stealing money, getting fake married?”

“That’s all for his job,” Martin muttered. 

“I have hobbies,” Jon said defensively. He adopted an expression of panicked thought, groping for something. “I like...television.” 

“What television, Jonathan,” Sasha said flatly. 

Jon pretended to sweat. “Television shows?”

“Unrealistic!” Tim slapped the table. “Everyone at least knows a telly show, no matter how much of a nerd they are. Fakey Jon Sims.”

“I do!” Jon protested. “I - well, not recently, but - documentaries count. I watch documentaries. I was watching this fascinating one about the Jonestown Massacre, and the intriguing series of events the lead into the mass death -”

Then he was off, shifting into his confidence when infodumping. Confidence because he was so wrapped up in the joy of sharing information he forgot that it kind of included dominating the conversation, and he watched with satisfaction as everybody’s eyes started glazing over. Everybody except Martin, who was scrolling through his phone looking disinterested. 

Looking. His cheeks were a little flushed. Jon patted himself on the back. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, cutting himself off, “am I boring you, Martin?”

But Martin didn’t even look up. “I’m not participating in this.”

“Aw, come on,” Tim wheedled. “Look, he’s even doing the Mah-tin thing. You always started fanning yourself whenever he did that.”

Sasha was, very drunkenly, taking notes. “It’s uncanny. Like a dead person brought back to life and annoying you.”

“Are we really making this entire outing about Martin?” Jon asked, pretending irritation. Play into it. Bloke wouldn’t admit it, but there was a reason he had liked Jon back then. It wasn’t for his sparkling personality, beyond the little flashes of something more tender underneath. Have your cake and eat it too. “You said that this would be fun, Tim.”

Tim just laughed. “Aw, Martin’s not fun?”

“I never said that,” Jon said stiffly. He glanced at Martin out of the corner of his eye, clearly working himself up to say something. When he spoke, the words were almost forced out. “What..are you playing?”

“Sincerely buzz off,” Martin said flatly.

Jon couldn’t help it - his cheeks genuinely burned. He looked away, careful to keep an expression on his face as if he was examining the molding because Martin had said something socially awkward, but hot shame flared in his chest. 

He made it seem as if he downed his drink. “Excuse me, I’m...getting us more drinks.”

Jon made a show of slightly stumbling as he made his way to the bar. Martin had given him the permission to extort drinks out of people through flirting and judicious eye-batting - guy was very strictly monogamous but also practical - and in barely a few minutes he had enough collected for their table. He carefully walked them all back, settling them on the table, and waited for both Tim and Sasha to grab their drinks and start enthusiastically downing them. 

He wanted to drop it, ask Martin if he made him uncomfortable, reassure him. But that would ruin the momentum of this, the steam train picking up speed, and it was impossible for Jon to miss the dual things that Martin was feeling.

Super turned on. Also very uncomfortable. Jon decided that he was uncomfortable because he found it attractive, and he was dealing with some guilt over that. 

It would be fun to reassure him, but Jon had the sense that he wouldn’t like him to do it in public. 

Soon afterwards, with a little more friendly yet understated performance from Jon and uproarious laughter from Tim and Sasha, Sasha’s head had begun dropping onto the table more frequently than not and Tim decided that it was time to take her home. More accurately, Jon knew, to Tim’s place, as it was closer. He’d drop her on the couch, he’d slide into his own bed, and he’d think about a different situation. She’d wake up in the morning, eyes squinting against the harsh sun, and hope for a moment - but no, the couch again. Neither were willing to bridge the gap. 

Jon and Martin stumbled out too. Jon had been intending on spending the night at Martin’s place - Jon loved cuddling, it was his favorite thing - and Jon made a show of acting slightly drunker than he was as Martin thoughtfully kept a hand on his back. He stumbled out the door, gripping Martin’s coat and giggling. He had strategically returned the blazer back to the guy, and Martin had his other clothing draped over his arm. 

“And, in my opinion,” Jon stated decisively as he swayed, “as part of our anti-colonialist efforts we should give Ireland back to the Irish -”

“You can drop it,” Martin said, gently guiding him towards the tube station. They still had an hour before the last trains ran. “Seriously.”

Jon giggled, before slightly bending down to whisper in Jon’s ear. He kept the accent, the inflections, everything. “But you really find it hot.”

Martin sputtered as Jon laughed uproariously - not his laugh, the Archivist’s laugh - and they teetered towards home. 

On the tube Jon kept a hand on Martin’s thigh, and Martin kept glancing and glancing towards him, and Jon would shoot him a prissy look as his hand wandered up his thigh, and Martin would get redder and redder. 

When Martin unlocked his flat door it took several times, with his hand shaking slightly, and Jon hid a smirk behind a hand. On some level, he was always roleplaying when he did these kinds of things, but with Martin it was usually so authentic that this was positively novel. Jon’s mind was already furiously churning as he set up the scene - yes, that would be exactly right, this would be fun -

Jon stumbled inside after Martin, who was already taking off his coat and hanging it on the peg. He put Jon’s coat up too, glancing at Jon out of the corner of his eye. 

The Archivist wouldn’t really notice something like that, so he didn’t either. “Lord, Martin, your flat’s as messy as your desk.”

Martin still looked a little pained, even as his cheeks were quite red. “Yeah, ha ha. My desk wasn’t that bad, you were just being picky.”

“Yes, I suppose I must apologize for that.” Jon drew himself up to his full height, stepping close to Martin - closer than the Archivist ever had. “Martin, I’m afraid - well, I have a confession.”

“Oh, boy,” Martin said. 

“Don’t get snippy with me,” Jon said prissily. But he leaned in, keeping his expression just on the faintest edge of innocently scared. “I never wanted to admit this. It was just so inappropriate, what with me being your boss and all. I always - well, I always knew how you felt about me. It was...charming.”

Obviously involuntarily, Martin squeaked a bit. Adorable. 

Jon reached out and put a hand on the back of his neck, leaning in. “Truth be told, I was looking at you too. I was just embarrassed. I didn’t like admitting it. But I couldn’t help thinking about it.” That was, obviously, how Martin’s fantasies had always worked. Not realistic, but realism wasn’t the point of your absent daydreams during a boring workday. “But I’m tired of hiding it. I really want you, Martin. I always have. I want you to bend me over my desk and -”

“Shut it off, Jon!”

Jon shut it off. They had agreed on the phrase ages ago, the very solid cue to drop all of Jon’s shit. Jon regularly kept up the shit just because he found it entertaining, and oftentimes comforting, but Martin sometimes found it unbelievably obtrusive when he was trying to have a serious conversation. It was difficult - Jon got panicked during serious conversations, so he usually defensively threw his shit back up again, and it was a self-perpetuating cycle that had frustrated and upset the both of them until they had sat down and talked about it. If Jon couldn’t keep up the conversation without lying, then they both walked away and came back to it later. It was work. But it was good work, the kind that allowed for the good stuff to flourish. Uncomfortable, messy, and real - but maybe that was what Jon liked about it. 

“Sorry,” Jon said. He straightened, letting every expression drop away until he was back at his favored neutral. He knew that Martin found it unsettlingly blank, but he rarely complained. “Did I go too far with the desk thing?”

Martin just stood there, carefully controlling his breathing. Jon waited, letting Martin pick through his thoughts and try to shape them. It was probably more difficult than usual, considering how well Jon had been striking the right notes, so he gave him some time.

Finally, Martin said, “I get having fun with Sasha and Tim. I get us doing roleplay, privately, together. I get you doing a role for your job. But the Archivist gig has a lot of baggage with it, for all of us. Do you understand why I feel weird about you pulling that into bedroom stuff?”

“We watch TV in your bedroom,” Jon pointed out. At Martin’s flat, unamused look, Jon had to fight the urge to shuffle his feet. “I sincerely don’t understand your reaction. I’ve seen your search history -”

“Jon!”

“Research for before we got together, don’t think anything of it,” Jon said quickly. “But doesn’t that make it better? It’s not often somebody gets everything they want from somebody unattainable. Or, you know, not real, but…”

“Jon, for a mind reader you can be terrible at picking up cues sometimes,” Martin said, exasperated. “I know your reasons for doing stuff like this -”

“I’m fantastic at picking up cues,” Jon corrected, oddly huffy. “Because I always know what people want. Their desires, even if they don’t like admitting it to themselves. Do you have any idea how many people on this Earth are bisexual but won’t admit it?”

But, somehow, that just made Martin’s eyes widen a little, as if a realization had cracked. “It cannot be comfortable knowing how many people are attracted to you when you’re sex-repulsed.”

“It’s fine,” Jon lied. “I like it.”

“Jon.”

“Whatever. I got used to it.” Jon shrugged. “I like it when you like me. You’re my boyfriend. I want to make you happy because I like seeing you happy. That’s my ulterior motive.”

Martin sighed again, but thankfully he didn’t look as stressed anymore. Win. He broke away from Jon, instead dropping heavily onto the couch, and Jon hesitantly sat down next to him. His costume abruptly felt stifling, and when he saw Martin’s eyes linger on the bun he undid it and untucked his shirt. God, his hair was a wreck. 

“The Archivist has baggage for me,” Martin said quietly. “I know how I feel, and I try not to be embarrassed over stuff that most people go through and feel. Had enough of that internalized homophobia for a lifetime. I...can’t avoid you knowing how I feel, or what I’m thinking. I know you can try not to look, but you can’t completely control it either. I understand all of this. But you knowing what I want isn’t the same as me asking for it. Do you understand that difference?”

Jon shrugged uncomfortably. 

“Jon. Do you get that I felt uncomfortable because what you did was unnegotiated and you didn’t ask my permission?”

The feeling of embarrassment and guilt spiked higher, and Jon looked away and stared fixedly at some admittedly quite pretty art on the wall. “You’re making it sound bad.”

“I should have shut that down earlier. That’s my bad. You should have stopped to ask. Your bad. We’re both at fault, so we shouldn’t be mad at each other. Are we all good on that?”

Jon stayed silent for a little bit, staring at the wall, trying his best to assemble his own thoughts in his brain. He wasn’t smart. He had problems assembling the words for the complex and large and overwhelming feelings he felt so often. How was Martin so good at breaking this down and putting it into words, when Jon could barely even express how he felt?

Well, Martin probably had more practice…

“You’re so frustrating,” Jon whispered. “You don’t like asking for what you want. You do make me guess. You’re embarrassed to say any of it - the things you want me to do, or the things you like. You do want me to read your mind, because everybody wants a mind reader in their relationship. Especially when it comes to sexual things. But what I can’t read is the...choices you make. Just what you want. And you always make a choice that’s contrary to what you want, and I can never guess. So I do what you want, which is always the exact opposite of what you want me to actually do, and…”

After a second of silence, Martin said, “I need to work on that. I have to be more vocal too. But, Jon, nowhere in that did you mention what you want.”

Jon turned back to look at him, and saw that Martin’s expression was creased. With a mix of - sadness, frustration, conviction, dedication. Imagine being that dedicated, about anything. “Nothing about me minded this time,” Jon said, flabbergasted. “I liked it. I like playing, I like making you feel good, I like winning.” Martin opened his mouth, and Jon quickly said, “Don’t pretend that socialization isn’t a game that everyone is always trying to win, you liar.”

Martin shut his mouth. He could not deny it. Finally, he said, “I hate how you have to say this time.”

He couldn’t help it - he cringed, very hard. Terrible memory. Terrible, terrible, terrible - “I don’t want you to touch me the rest of tonight,” he said, in one rushed breath. Georgie told him to say it. Georgie, Melanie, and Martin. He was supposed to say this. 

“Of course, no problem,” Martin said, quickly yet calmly. “Was there anything in that I shouldn’t bring up again?”

“That never happened,” Jon said, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. “Stop bringing it up, it’s over, I’m fine - I’m going to bed!”

Hilariously, it was Martin’s flat, but Jon needed to dramatically retreat, so he ended up claiming Martin’s bed for his own. He was very aware that Martin would grab the couch for tonight, because Jon had asked him to. So he was left shoving himself into the pyjamas that he left at Martin’s, wrapping his hair, and sliding under the covers. 

But he wasn’t really tired. Jon’s mind kept churning and churning, trying desperately to tease out his own feelings, before realizing that he really didn’t want to know.

It was a really good conversation. Jon was glad that they had it - that Martin hadn’t gone along with it if he wasn’t comfortable, that he had actually pointed out where Jon crossed a line. Nothing about it was bad. Everything was a work in progress - Jon and Martin most of all. 

So much of them clashed. So much of them cared about each other more than the clashing. They ran up against these things incessantly, and Jon felt as if they worked it out every time. 

He would definitely make Martin breakfast tomorrow. Lots of bacon, although Jon never ate the stuff. He would have to clarify that the way this ended - it wasn’t Martin’s fault, not really. He would probably also have to clarify that his random terror wasn’t something that was any of Martin’s business. He was the one person Jon didn’t want to talk it over with, actually. 

Martin respected Jon a lot. More than Jon thought was rational, considering...himself. He never vocalized what exactly he wanted, because he respected that it was never in consideration. Jon had even seen him want it less and less - it barely even came up anymore. Except, of course, when Jon teased on purpose…

When Jon teased on purpose and didn’t tell Martin that he didn’t want something so then he made himself -

It was a good conversation, except Jon ruined it because something stupid that didn’t mean anything at all sent him into abject shame and terror.

This was so hard. Jon hated thinking this much. He decided to fall asleep instead. Much simpler.

In dreams, where everything was an illusion and nothing meant anything at all, nobody minded that none of it was real. 

*

Tim: omfg im so fucking hungoverrrr I hate being 34

Tim: good time last night tho

Tim: also like it WAS funny but you know we like you best as you, rite? U normally dont so Ill validate: liking you best as you, always

*

Sasha: THE DOCUMENTS, JON!!! 

Sasha: Tim says you might have gotten the wrong impression from last night so I’ll also validate: all of you is good. Even the bad parts are good. Does that make sense?

Sasha: Tim said that that sounded ‘backhanded’ but you know what I mean

Sasha: Man why is it so hard to just say what I mean!!! 

Sasha: Life’s stupid. Tell Martin I said hi. 

[lucefrs]

          tl;dr: luce thinks about how she should have never ended up at georgetown in the first place, and the domino effect it had on her life. after flunking out of gallagher, she savours the summer. her and scott break up sometime after new years. a quick onslaught of success makes her feel wary, unsure how to not take up space she doesn’t deserve after doing it so many times before. she performs her own song in the lower east side.

                                                                      insp for the song she plays at the end. 

BEFORE.

luce is a bright child but lacks in the area of self discipline and application. she would benefit from paying closer attention during class discussion.

she knew from a very young age that she was not smart. at least not by the metric that institutions measure by. the unlucky curse that has kept her in the stream of academia is this: luce frear is smart enough. to graduate secondary school because it’s a key that unlocks america’s golden arches. to pursue higher education when she gets the encroaching feeling that she’s going to be found out that she doesn’t actually have any family friend's as guarantors. at the time, she doesn’t know how impossible georgetown is. but finding herself in the company of a man who will pay for her to do well, with a tutor that makes the s.a.t’s boil down to a formula of memorization and deduction is a genius move. those three hours are brutal, she struggles but she struggles through it, proud that only a handful of questions were left unanswered. it’s only after she's sat for it that she realizes how impossible georgetown is with it’s fourteen percent acceptance rate.

she uses his mailing address to apply, so it’s him that greets her with a sealed envelope that makes her stomach turn as soon as she opens the door. out of the corner of her eye she sees a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice. she knows what the letter will say: her sat score’s a valiant effort, enough to get her into any state school, but by no means exceptional. bracing herself for his disappointment she pushes the folded paper towards him so she can pretend his disappointment’s directed at the words on the page and not at her. but the skin at the corner of his eyes pinches and there’s no crease between his brows and she knows something is very wrong. or very right. she’s not sure, at the time it’s all very muddled, thinking about how much she likes that there's no place for his smile to hide, and how that's going to be one of her favourite parts of getting old. his smile that runs right to the tip of his nose, bumps against her cheek when he kisses her. he’s kissing her. he’s happy. because of her. she’s made him happy. that's good. she's happy too. then he’s by the kitchen counter, shaking off the champagne from his hand that’s flows over the lip of the bottle and she’s saying things like, ‘   my sat scores were no where near the average,    ’ and he counters that she shouldn’t disregard the importance of supplemental essays and she makes fun of how he talks because she always does. a girl’s got nothing but a gut to trust, and every glass of champagne’s a fuck you to it. luce never pukes from having too much to drink. she pukes in his shower. luce is not smart, but she’s smart enough not to question how she got into georgetown university.

‘   god, you’re so smart luce. we could call it the boyfriend guesses my lip gloss challenge.   ’ she only hears the first part, boasting a smile that makes the apples of her cheeks swell, all rosy like. at the time gallagher had felt like a enticing romp, bound by infatuation, the glint of the dew that hung at the end of the school’s weeping willows sparkling so bright that her heart-shaped sunglasses couldn’t subdue it. luce has never waited for anything, but her first few months at gallagher felt like a gift the universe had hand-picked, oblivious of her christmas list doodled with music notes and brand names of dresses that cost seven hundred dollars, it felt like finding treasure. smart’s an understatement, genius is more apt. she lets this sentiment lead, when the offer to stay comes soaring towards at her like paper plane that falls right into the palm of her hands. it makes logical sense to stay. scott’s here.

she’ll adapt. but gallagher starts to feel worlds away, and as much as she digs her heels into the gravel, gravity starts to slip from her grasp. but how could she can complain? in outer space, anywhere she looks there’s an endless landscape of stars, bright and twinkling, beckoning her towards the nearly planet. but it makes her want to cry when she sees the blue-green dot recede into the distance.

PRESENT-ISH.

luce has her final exam tomorrow and she’s going to crush it. she’s so excited she can’t sleep. there’s no way she could fail it, unless she slept through it but that won’t happen because she has five alarms set and a scott for safe measure. she’s so excited her heart’s sprinting from her sternum to her stomach and it would be classified as nausea if she didn’t know it was just plain excitement. she winces at the brightness from her phone as she checks the time. 3:36. if she falls asleep in the next four minutes she’ll have a solid four hours, but as soon as she closes her eyes her heart runs like it’s just heard the start of the piston, and the percentage she needs to get in order to pass the class rings aloud and reverberates against her brain. forty six percent. she doesn’t even need to pass the exam in order to pass the class — she’s going to be a gallagher girl. whether she likes it or not. in the dark, her hand finds the nob of his bedside drawer, carefully sliding it open, her fingers tinkering inside to feel for whatever weed scott has, gifted joints or a prized gram for winning a dumb luck game. he always has something, even after he passes some of it on to seb. she doesn’t go far, slips out of his grasp and onto the lantern lit cobbled pavements, follows it strictly like she’s on a board in a game of snakes and ladders, stopping every time she takes a drag. she eventually falls against a bench like an abandoned rag-doll, limbs splayed every which way and falls asleep until she's woken up by the rev of a motorcycle engine set as her alarm. luce goes through the pre-test motions with due diligence, takes a shower and eats a proper meal, as though there's someone waiting to accuse her of self-sabotage. she picks up her tote that's packed from the night before and gives the test her all. it's not her fault that her focus wavered in five minute blocks, or that nerves make her feel as though there's an ongoing tussle in her tummy. she treats the residual high as something she couldn't possibly have controlled, it should've left her system by now. and she’s a hero for persevering through it. she tried her best. and in spite of it all, she still fails. thank god.

SUMMER.

she doesn’t want the summer to end. it does anyways.  

INTERLUDE

she's not the type to tuck herself into the booth, but harper’s gone to the bathroom and luce has a gnarly blister on the back of her heel, and her head’s been swimming in cheap liquor all night with no reprieve. she can’t get her head above water for more than a minute before falling back under. her gaze catches a couple in the corner, slow dancing to david guetta and her lips curl into a wry smile, his lips cushioned against his neck, murmuring something she’ll never know, and then they’re laughing — maybe about the fact that they’re slow dancing to memories, or because they’re in love, everything’s funnier when you’re in love. a tiny giggle, lost to the boom of the speakers escapes her, because she’s so in love too.

i miss you.   missing ur 🍆 spare nudes? 🙏🏼 ft? x

she holds down the backspace key and puts her phone away.

                                                         ***

‘   i don't know how to miss you in the right way,   ’ she says after a bout of silence, it makes her stomach lurch, like stepping off a ledge and finding the ground lower than expected. there’s no chance to blink back the tears, and she’s so in shock from what she’s just said that she makes no motion to cover her face from him, staring down the barrel of the webcam, like she’s on the brink of death. she’d give up the forty years of her life to get to the part where she can look back on this fondly, of a great love that once was. her child-like whimpers have her grappling for breath. ‘   it hurts.   ’ she manages to sputter out, and she knows it’s hurting him too. eventually, luce will blink away the last of her tears, because she needs this picture to really believe it.

SOMETIME, SOME DAY.

she's not so much herself as she is everyone else. there are pieces of her in the crescendo of what billboard deems the song of the summer. she’s etched in the familiarity of the bass in the last song played before last call — the resonant thrum of waking up blacked out on the front lawn of an ex best friend. the producer that the lead singer can't function without. the origin story of a grammy nominated album which started on the fire escape, exiled by roaches, a guitar slung like a rifle entering the wild wild west of cicadas and greeted by an empty ashtray save for a half abandoned spliff. a story deified for late night talk shows with parrot hosts and their fake squawks. it’s all made up names in CD booklets that no one looks at anyways. it doesn’t make her an enigma, she has a wikipedia page. record labels take her out for lunch, and she goes because she likes people, even the kind who gawk at her pretty face, drooling at the dollar signs in her doe brown eyes and blonde hair. of course, they love her, a girl who orders salad but doesn’t skip dessert — a reluctance toward fame but endlessly optimistic about the future of the music industry, splits the bill and turns a handshake into a hug when they express their keen interest in working with her. there’s a twinkling note of laughter when she pulls away and says, ‘    you’ve never even heard me sing. i’m not good enough.   ’ and she realizes with a twitch of bitterness that she doesn’t have to be, and things working out feels more like a curse when it isn’t deserved.

she talks but can't write unless it's in time signatures and treble clefs and if she does manage to write in a language comprised of letters ( which has only ever happened once ) she can't sing - unless it’s for boys she likes. so she poaches a voice, scrolling through the repertoire of people who have held her heart in their hands. her song is the last song of his set and it sounds like this. they smile through every note, she laughs at his falsetto in the last chorus. she plays her heart out with a vigour that leaves her palms moist, expecting that when the song ends there’ll be a silence broached by the slow clap of j.k simmons. luce lives in a movie and can feel the montage scene catch up to her. she can feel the lingering memory that never existed : a swollen belly and walls painted pink, a toddler that makes their white picket fenced garden a stomping ground, a cinematic pan across a fairy-lit paris, and night walks. when she looks over, she’ll see him, but she’s going to change the ending. her pinky hovers above the last key she played, letting the sound ring out into silence, before they’re met with fervent applause and whistles. this is the moment. luce looks into the crowd. she looks into the crowd and none of the faces are him because why would they be ? she hadn’t told anyone. the only person who knew was herself. it was hers. this moment is hers and she cradles it close, because she’s never had something of her own before. not really. but she likes the way it feels. the man who once held her heart in his hand kisses the top of her head and praises her with a plunging bow. she looks into the sea of strangers who watch her and she watches them back. this is the moment. hers alone. and she’s never felt less lonely.

[gingermintpepper]

100 million years ago, I sent an ask to @nostalgicbookworm

requesting headcanons about a High School AU and after a ridiculous amount of time, I've finally gotten around to writing some stuff for it. It's Drolxinia centric, naturally.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

"I like you."

Is what he said, the scarlet of his hair a curtain that blocked the sunset from Drole's relaxed eyes. His honey coloured eyes gleamed gold, cherubic face scrunched awkwardly as usually delicate lips frowned in earnest concentration. And, in the end, that was what tipped him over the edge. The earnesty.

Gloxinia was a creature of cold smiles and borderline cruel words, a perfect blend of wintry disposition and welcoming charisma. He was rarely straight forward, a faerie's trickster nature given human flesh and forced to abide by mortal man's nonsensical laws and Drole accepted this easily. For all his contradiction, Gloxinia was passionate and where it counted, more dependable than even the ever rising sun.

So when met with a pale face twisted in genuine effort; vulnerability and ill-fitting openness blatant in the trembling of tiny fingers which valiantly clung to the empty packet of sunflower seeds, Drole did what any surprised yet undeniably relaxed person would do.

Drole laughed.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

He knew he was wrong but Gloxinia was not an easy person to apologise to.

He made himself scarce almost immediately, jumping off the roof and sliding down the guttering to save face then presumably running all the way home. It all transpired so quickly that Drole barely understood what happened, nevermind formulating an adequate response quickly enough to de-escalate the situation. His friend was smart though, he'd chosen Friday afternoon to make his confession and each call Drole made to him that night went straight to voicemail.

It wasn't that Drole...didn't like him.

In fact, he's pretty certain that he's been in love with Gloxinia since they were in primary school and the spitfire had defended him from a group of bullies. The image of bright bright vermillion had been burned into his vision that day, the tiny child who looked so frail that the girls all whispered that he was a doll whenever he left class with his back arched and scowl fierce. He'd let out a battle cry unlike anything Drole had ever heard and leapt at the biggest bully to scratch and spit at him. Naturally, he'd been beaten as well (bare fists weren't exactly a match for chairs and sticks especially not when those fists were about as large as a first year's), but they'd ended up laughing about it in the nurse's office later.

They'd been inseparable since then, Gloxinia a whirlwind of red hair and sharp fists while Drole contentedly stood by his side. Two misfits facing the world. David and his Goliath. Drole could've died happy if things had stayed that way - he never was a being particularly fond of change. Even after they'd joined secondary school, Gloxinia had continued to be a bit of a terror in his own right, too charismatic for people to be rightfully frightened of him yet too unapproachable for him to actually make friends. Drole's appearance kept the faint of heart away but his quiet disposition meant that even the brave found him uninteresting company. Gloxinia was the only one who accepted him entirely. The only one who had never been disappointed with Drole's truths. He'd accepted that Drole wished to dance instead of fight or play sports, he'd accepted that Drole was happiest in the middle of the botanical gardens on a cloudless summer afternoon, that flowers and butterflies and other childish symbols brought him peace.

He was the only one who understood everything Drole stood for - had stood by his side resolutely through every battle and struggle and Drole had laughed at his confession.

He sighed. No matter how he thought about it, he was unequivocally in the wrong.

"You could always apologise, you know?"

An unimpressed violet eye glared past his veil of brunet locks. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he'd forgotten all about Diane's weekly check-in which, naturally, led to the girl squeezing her way through his perpetually open kitchen window when she found the front and back doors locked.

Drole wasn't... upset at her appearance. Diane was excellent company, one of the newer members of the school's dance team, trained in both ballet and contemporary. Her energy was infectious and she was surprisingly sharp when she wasn't pretending to be a pure maiden from one of her endless fairy tales. She'd taken one look at Drole's ragged countenance and had firmly planted herself on his couch, tea clasped in her dainty hands as she tapped the open cushion next to her in invitation.

Even though Drole hadn't any intention of divulging his troubles to another soul - he had gotten himself into this problem, he would see himself out - somehow, Diane had managed to pry almost everything out of him before he had drained even half of his warm milk.

"Gloxinia doesn't want to talk to me."

Diane hummed, her cup long drained of whatever spicy smelling drink she'd concocted in his kitchen. Her hands were busy twisting his too long hair into something presentable, part of her plan to cheer him up no doubt. "That's fair," she said eventually, voice light even as her thin eyebrows scrunched in concentration, "I wouldn't want to talk to the jerk who laughed at my confession either."

He stifled another sigh. "It was an accident-"

"Doesn't matter!"

His fingers dug into the textured cloth of his upholstered couch, anxiety returning to gnaw at his stomach lining. He'd spent all night replaying the moment in his head in-between calling and texting Gloxinia like some obsessive ex-partner. He felt plenty bad without Diane continuously reminding him that he'd messed up. "Must you continue to bring that up?"

Agile fingers stilled, the warmth of her hands almost uncomfortable against his ear. She grew quiet beside him and Drole cautioned a look in her direction, freezing as he noticed the rueful smile on her face. "Diane-?"

"Sorry," she said and her fingers suddenly double in pace as they make short work of the remnants of the plait she'd been braiding, "I don't mean to beat a dead horse or anything, it's just--I feel sorry for him." Her hands drop and she pulls them close to her chest, bowing her head in a melancholy turn of events, "I can't imagine how I'd feel if I confessed to the guy I liked and he laughed at me."

With a huff, Drole uncurled his hand from the back of the couch to pat Diane's head. It didn't take a genius to figure out where her mind was and Drole wasn't about to let her get lost in her insecurities, "Harlequin wouldn't."

The blush that spread across her face was immediate. Somehow, she grabbed a pillow and ineffectively smacked Drole's stomach with it, mood shifting drastically again, "Why would you bring King into this?! I-I'm just speaking hypothetically!"

He weathered the pillow assault with a placid expression, waiting for her to work her wayward emotions out so they could continue speaking like normal people. Eventually she calms, hugging the pillow to her chest and pouting at his relaxed nature, "Anyway, that's why you need to fix things."

Drole blinked.

She gave an exasperated sigh, "You have to give your juniors hope! Everyone at school already thinks you and Gloxinia are dating, y'know! If you let things break apart now then everyone's gonna take that as an omen."

Now that...was certainly news to him. He couldn't recall any particular instance where his peers gave the impression that they thought he was gay. Then again, given the wide berth most students gave him, Drole supposed he didn't talk to enough people for that to be a provable truth. As for Gloxinia, he'd been turning down over eager confessions from both boys and girls since form one. He'd actually managed to gain a bit of a reputation for being unattainable which--and Drole clearly remembers this particular lamentation--only proved to make him more desirable.

Drole thought it was fair though. To call Gloxinia beautiful was to understate his beauty. Everything about him from his royal attitude to the neatness of his appearance to the way his secret smiles would reveal the cutest dimples on his chin and cheeks - it was all a certain degree of perfect. Thinking about him made his chest heat up, made him ache to call him again. He wanted to run his fingers through Gloxinia's pretty hair again, wanted to laugh at his dark jokes and feel the wind on his skin as they sat for late evening picnics. He wanted Gloxinia's hands pressed against his neck as those smart fingers braided flowers into his thick hair. He just wanted Gloxinia.

"I just want to fix this," he mumbled.

Diane grew silent for a moment. Drole closed his eye, tried to lean his head against the backrest of the couch and let out a stiff exhale as his head connected with the hard wall instead.

"What about Gerheade?"

Drole frowned. Gloxinia's sister was not a force to be taken lightly. He'd tried calling her the minute he realised that Gloxinia wouldn't be picking up his calls but instead of being met with her usual sweet voice, chips of ice had whispered into his ear and had firmly warned him against trying to bother her brother again. He shook his head, not bothering to pull himself up from the wall, "She hates me now too."

Diane chuckled, "That's impossible! Gerheade's too sweet for something like that-"

He caught her eyes, voice chilled, "It's the truth."

She sighed, finally seeming to understand the depth of the hole Drole had inadvertently dug himself into, "How will you apologise then?"

A non-commital shrug met her question, listless eye stuck to the blue phone laying innocently on the coffee table. He'd bothered the both of them enough to last the weekend and he knew Gloxinia enough to understand that he'd never be able to meet him on his own turf. He'd hate to do it, but the only option left to him was to wait and pray that Gloxinia's temper would subside come next week. "We'll talk. Eventually." He furrowed his brows at how unbothered that made him sound, "Monday."

Diane frowned, "Do you think he'll be willing to talk with you by then? Gloxinia's pretty..."

Petty. Prone to holding grudges. Unreasonable.

"It'll work out."

[xlovely-daydreamsx]

an angel on my shoulder and the devil in my heart (yandere!hawks x reader) ch2

Summary: Your first day at Hawks’s agency arrives and it’s nothing like you expected.

Warnings: Yandere, stalking, mentions of ns///fw, more warnings to be added

Note: thank you all so much for the support on the first chapter! i’m really glad you’ve all enjoyed this story so far, because it’s really fun for me to write! i’ll be updating again soon <3 hope you enjoy this one as well

P.S. For future reference, all chapters and post relating to this fic will be tagged with ASDH for easy finding

Find Chapter 1 here!

Find Chapter 3 Here!

The first thing you notice is how insanely tall Hawks' agency is. It must be at least 50 stories, you think, as you stroll up to the door. A tower this tall is fit for such an ambitious bird- it’s his own personal Tower of Babel.

The handle of the big, glass door is cold against your palm as you pull it open, giving way to the main hall of the building. It's... quiet. At least, a lot quieter than you had expected; it's not packed to the brim with heroes and office workers, hustling to get their tasks done for the day. Instead, there's a single woman behind a counter, typing away. The clicks of the keyboard echo off of the towering white walls around you, and you step quietly towards her, hoping your shoes wouldn't sound too loud against the marble floors. It feels as if you make one wrong move, those huge walls will come crashing down around you, burying you in a pile of pristine, spotless white debris.

The woman glances up from her computer as you approach, staring you down over the top of her glasses.

"Hi, I'm (L/N) (Y/N); I'm here for-" she interrupts before you can finish, pointing past you to a glass elevator.

"65th floor," she says. You nod, turning away from her, but she speaks up again. "And for future reference," she grimaces, "show up early next time. You'll be three minutes late by the time you get up." Rude, you think, but give her another nod.

"Uh, thanks, I guess." You reply awkwardly and take your leave towards the elevator.

Hawks eyes his watch impatiently as he waits, the minutes ticking by towards the time you were supposed to arrive. For someone seemingly concerned with their image, you were cutting it pretty close to your deadline.

He sighs, brushing a hand through his hair as he props himself up on his desk.

He can feel his heart racing in his chest, his fingers picking nervously at the side of the desk- ah, he finally realizes- he's nervous. When was the last time someone had made his chest flutter like this? Barely a conversation with you and he's already falling hard. Although, the nights he's spent watching you have certainly helped foster his infatuation .

He hadn't meant to make a habit out of it, honestly. A quick search in the hero database gave him your address, so by the time you were home from the sports festival, he was perched on the side of the apartment building next to yours, peering into what he believed to be your bedroom. Three floors up, right side of the building, he remembers, of course- he's been there every night for the past week.

He just wanted a quick peek, that's all- a glance at you outside of your hero persona to make sure he was making the right decision, but watching you was too addicting to quit.

From what he could see from his little perch, your bedroom is pretty plain. Cream colored walls plastered with posters for movies and bands he doesn't recognize, little knick-knacks sitting on your desk, and in the farthest corner, a peek of a stuffed rabbit on your bed. He can't help but picture you in bed, arms wrapped around your fuzzy friend. Adorable.

Really, it was innocent- no harm no foul; except for the fact that he didn't leave after you came home, and didn't close his eyes as you undressed.

Hawks shakes his head, patting his cheeks as he tries to pull himself out of the memory of your body in the yellow glow of your lights, arms stretching as you pull your shirt- no, he can't think about this right now; you'll be in his office any minute, and he doesn't want to get too excited and scare you off now, does he?

The elevator lets out a little ding as you reach your floor, the doors sliding open into a large room. Most of the walls are glass, you notice first, large panes reaching up towards a dome ceiling, showing nothing but the sky above you. It's stunning, more so than anything you've ever seen before, but you can hardly ignore the centerpiece of this room: Hawks. He's sat on a desk towards the back of the room, feet dangling and red wings spread wide, a grin on his face as he watches you try not to gawk. His arms stretch behind him as he pushes himself off and strolls towards you, white teeth practically glistening.

"Four minutes late," he clicks his tongue, letting out a tsk, "I expected more from my future sidekick." You know he's joking, but something in the way he looks at you makes you feel a bit of an obligation to apologize. Another part of you wants to rub it in his secretary’s face that she was wrong.

"We're jumping the gun a bit there, aren't we?" You say instead. You try to match his playful tone, but your nerves make your throat dry and you swear you hear a crack when you speak. If Hawks notices, he doesn't mention it. He waves his hand dismissively and gestures you towards the overstuffed chair in front of his desk.

"I just have high hopes for you," he winks, "sit down, please; if I'm being honest, you look a bit like a deer in the headlights." You sit stiffly in the chair. How exactly does he want you to respond to that?

"Well, I have to admit- I am a little nervous." You chuckle awkwardly. He takes his place on top of his desk once more, his looming presence not doing much to comfort you.

"Don't be," he dismisses the thought and reaches behind him, taking a little black box in his hands, "here's a little 'welcome to the agency' present from me; I'm sure you'll do great here, kid." Your eyes grow wide at the sight of it; when was the last time someone gave you a gift? You can hardly remember. Your excitement takes over any rational thinking that would tell you not to accept the gift,- you don't need it, after all- and you swiftly pull the lid off. Inside lays a necklace. A shimmering gold chain leads downwards towards a slim and simple gold circle. In awe, you stare quietly at the gift.

"Like a halo," Hawks chimes in after more than a few seconds of silence, "to go with your hero name. I know it's a bit cheesy," A grin spreads across your face.

"Good thing I'm not lactose intolerant," you chuckle at your own joke, but the realization sets in and you freeze. You just said that to the fucking number three hero. Your first day here and you’ve already horribly embarrassed yourself.

"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. I-I'll be more professional from now on-" you ramble a bit, cheeks flushed red. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you tell yourself, regretting ever opening your mouth. You hear Hawks laugh, and god, he's laughing at you.

"(Y/N), calm down," he draws out your first name, a lazy smile on his face as he stares at your flushed cheeks, "it was cute. No need to apologize." Well, if your face wasn't red before, it certainly is now. Hawks just called you cute, you think. Really, that should've been a red flag, but you're caught up in the experience and you mechanically let out a thank you.

God, you're adorable, Hawks reminds himself as he watches you fidget in your seat. Your face is completely red at this point- only a bit of teasing and you're already a mess; would you flush like that if he put his hands on you? And exactly how far does that blush go down? He wants to bend you over his desk, has been thinking about it since the moment you stepped out of the elevator, but no- restraint is key for now. He'll make you want him just as much as he wants you, just you wait; you'll be begging him to fuck you by the end of the week. 

"Can I put it on you?" He asks innocently, like it isn't just a ploy to touch you. You hesitate, thinking of refusing, saying you can get it yourself, thank you, but Hawks tilts his head and all your resolve melts away- he's just trying to be nice. So you nod in agreement and he eagerly hops off the desk, taking his position behind you. The metal of the jewelry is cold against your skin as Hawks moves your hair to the side, and you suppress a shiver that you swear is from the cold.

The clip of the necklace clicks into place, but Hawks' hand lingers, shifting downwards.

"What are you-" you begin to ask, but you're stopped by a gentle tug at one of your feathers.

"Do your wings not retract?" He asks, genuinely curious. His hand glides across the sensitive expanse of your wing as you speak.

"Not like yours do, but they tuck in pretty tight." He hums in appreciation.

"How do you get your clothes on?" A bit of a weird question, you think, but nothing you haven't heard before.

"My wings are surprisingly flexible; they can fit through pretty much anything the size of the radius bone." He hums again.

"Can you stand up? I'd just like to get a better look at them," he says, "as long as that's okay with you."

"Of course!" You reply immediately and stand up, letting him lead you to a more spacious area. He threads his fingers into the feathers, spreading your wings out like he's appraising them. His fingers card through your secondary feathers; you wonder for a moment if he knows how pleasant his touch in your wings is, if his own feel the same when someone touches them, but with the way he's prodding at you, you figure he doesn't. 

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" He whispers behind you. You swallow thickly around a newfound lump in your throat and hope you can hold back a whine as you respond.

"Not at all." You hear him sigh happily, continuing his ministrations.

"They're really soft; you must take good care of them."

"I preen them every night," you respond proudly. Your wings are your staple as a hero; without them, your Angel persona crumbles, so of course you're going to take care of them. Hawks' hot breath tickles your neck as he laughs.

"What a good bird, preening yourself," he jokes, "you can just say groom, you know." Your face is back to red as quick as it left, and you mutter out a little sorry. 

"Stop apologizing,” he whines, tugging at one of your feathers like he’s annoyed, “you're bumming me out," you pause, wondering if you should apologize again, but think better of it.

"Y'know,” he continues without any response from you, “it really pissed me off when that guy at the festival grabbed you like that.”

"I was hoping you had missed my epic defeat," you can hardly call that one a joke, but you let out a dry laugh.

"You deserved to win that one; it was a cheap shot," he runs his finger along the edge of your wing, his face a bit closer to your neck now, "I'm just glad he didn't mess up such a pretty thing," it's a ghost of a whisper against your ear, and you wonder for a moment if he's really talking about your wings.

His fingers are wrapped in your feathers one moment and gone the next as he steps behind you, clapping his hands together casually, like nothing had just happened.

"Well, I suggest we stop wasting time and jump right into training. What'd'ya say?" You turn to face him, a tint of red still on your cheeks and you nod, electing to forget the uncomfortably intimate moment you just shared with your mentor.

"Yeah," you breathe, preparing yourself for the rest of what you’re assuming will be a long day, “let’s do it.”

Hi! If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi!

[ryosei-hime]

Date Night

Continuation of Personal Space. Husk spends the day getting ready for his date with Angel and the rest of the night being a mess. Can also be found over on AO3.

Husk groaned as he rolled off the sofa in the foyer, bottles clattering as he disturbed them. He dragged a paw down his face before a huge yawn escaped. A sound of agony followed as he stretched his back, every vertebrae popping and shifting. That damn thing was not meant for sleeping on. A feather floated down to the floor and he followed it’s trajectory back to the sofa to find more littering the cushions. Oh, great, molting. That’s what he needed.

He checked his phone for the time and saw a message from Angel. It was a picture of him splayed out on the sofa with his mouth open, a bottle clutched in one hand, and a leg over the back. He’d captioned it “Sleeping Beauty” followed by one of those winking kissy faces. 

Husk rolled his eyes as he picked himself up off the ground. If he found that damn thing on his social media, he’d kill him. Nobody had any damn privacy anymore. He texted back a threat and searched around his empties for any remnants - hair of the dog and all - until a static-filled voice interrupted him.

“Good afternoon, Husker.”

“Yeah, what’d you want?” 

“Simply passing through, my friend.”

Husk’s lip curled. Every time Alastor called him friend it caused a visceral reaction. Fuckin asshole. He’d rather the fucker just treat their relationship as it was instead of trying to paint a polite picture. You could put lipstick on a pig but it was still a fuckin pig. 

“But good luck on your little date tonight.”

Alastor’s smile turned sharper and his eyes more sinister. God dammit, Angel. Couldn’t he keep his fuckin mouth shut? Husk just gave Alastor the finger as he moved on with his day. He checked to make sure Angel hadn’t blabbed about this anywhere else. But it must have just been good old fashioned word of mouth.

Actually, he’d barely posted at all today which was weird for Angel. Probably knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he did. Husk sighed and dragged himself to his room. He had a few hours to get himself together enough for this. Plenty of time to go over everything that would go wrong in minute detail.

It was Nifty who helped him get ready. Of course, she knew, too. Whole damn hotel knew. She insisted on helping him get dressed up in an old suit and tie. He didn’t see the need to bother. Wasn’t like he wore clothes regularly and they wouldn’t be on him long.

But it made Nifty happy to get him ready, giving him advice so fast he couldn’t take half of it in even if he’d wanted to. He smiled at her as she fixed his tie and stood back with her hands on her hips.

“You look great! Angel’s gonna love it. I’m so excited for you!” 

“At least someone is,” Husk muttered, resisting the urge to loosen the tie a bit. 

“Aren’t you excited?” 

“Ah, I’m no good at this stuff. You know that.” 

“Don’t worry! Just let Angel help you. He’s great at it.” She started dusting Husk’s own fur off his suit as it shed, her efforts only making it worse. “And he really likes you!”

“Yeah, I know,” Husk replied. “Thanks Nifty.”

Nifty gave him a big hug and he returned it gently. Her slight frame made him extra careful with her. 

“I have to get back to cleaning, but I hope you enjoy your date!” 

“Yeah. I’ll try.” 

He raised a hand in a slight wave as she hurried off. He decided to spend the rest of the day waiting for Angel at the bar. That turned out to be a mistake. Everyone had something to say. They wished him luck. They cooed and sighed like it was some big fuckin show. Their words were supportive but somehow they only made Husk more nervous, maybe even a little bitter. This shit seemed so easy for everyone else. 

It had been easy for him once, too.

Eventually the foyer emptied out as it got late. Husk knew Angel would be returning for him any minute. He finally had to loosen the tie around his neck and decided to fix himself a drink to calm his nerves, but just as he reached under the bar, the doors opened. 

His wings lifted slightly as Angel made his entrance. Husk wasn’t the only one who’d gotten dressed up. Angel’d gotten his hair done or some kind of extensions or something. Fuck if Husk knew. He wore a strapless pink number, the skirt covered with some kinda fake flower and vine decorations. Looked like it was supposed to be a train, but he was too tall for it to do much but brush the floor as he approached. Husk actually thought he looked beautiful all dolled up like that. Maybe he should tell him. Instead, what came out of his mouth was: 

“What’re we going to the fuckin prom?” 

“I dunno. Will you be doin’ my taxes when we’re done?” Angel shot back with a grin. 

He reached across the bar and fixed his tie. Dammit, he’d choke to death before he got through this night. Angel didn’t release his tie right away. He used it to pull him closer for a quick kiss. 

“Ready?”

No.

“Yeah, sure.” 

Husk came out from behind the bar and let Angel take his arm. He had no idea where they were going, but he just let Angel take the lead. Like Nifty had said, he was good at this. When they arrived at their destination, Husk was a little grateful she’d insisted on dressing him up. Angel had chosen some high end, classy joint. 

They got a lot of stares on the way to their table. He knew Angel was the center of attention wherever he went, but he didn’t like being caught in the crossfire of all those lustful gazes. A growl sounded low in his chest before he could stop it, his teeth bared. The stares become a little less overt.

Angel put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t scare my fans, Husk. I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not. People need to mind their own fuckin business.”

Without thinking about it, Husk pulled a chair out for Angel. At least he remembered something from the old days.

“Whatta gentleman,” Angel joked, batting his lashes at him as he sat. 

Husk gave his chair a rough shove up to the table, taking his own with a grumble. When he looked up, Angel had his chin on his hands, fingers laced to make a cradle, staring at him with such a soft look it took Husk’s breath away. He made himself busy with the menu. As the waiter approached, Angel sat up suddenly.

“Oh, I forgot. This place is Italian. Like Italian Italian. But I can order for ya, if ya want.” 

Angel looked quite proud of himself and Husk hated to burst his bubble. 

“I got it.”

He gave the waiter his order in perfect Italian and looked back to Angel as the waiter turned to him. Angel stared at him in shock for a moment before stumbling through his own order. He waited until the waiter had disappeared before going off.

“You know Italian? Holy shit, Husk! I been dirty talkin ya all this time at the bar and you knew?!”

Husk hid his smirk behind his menu, trying not to laugh. Angel pushed it away and stared him down, motioning with two fingers between them.

“You look at me, look at me!” 

Husk looked up, still grinning. Angel’s face had gone stern, and he held his gaze for a moment before simply uttering,

“You bastard.” 

Husk let himself laugh a little and teased him. 

“You get real creative when you’re drunk, you know that?”  

Angel just smirked and crossed his second set of arms while another hand brought a glass of wine up to his cheek.

“Well, I guess you know what you got to look forward to then, donchya?”

The conversation during dinner remained light-hearted and Angel kept reaching out for Husk’s paw, making eyes at him. He avoided making direct eye contact, insides churning every time Angel tried. Once their plates were taken away, Angel stood and held a hand out to him.

“Can I get a dance before we go?” 

Husk felt a little more confident as he put a paw in his hand. Dancing was something he knew he could do at least. He smiled back at him.

“Sure.” 

He let Angel draw him out onto the dance floor and pull him into a waltzing position. His extra hands found a place to rest on Husk’s hips as they began to move. Angel took the lead, but Husk had expected as much with the height difference. He wouldn’t let Angel know, but he was surprised he knew how to waltz. It seemed a bit old-fashioned for him. Or at least for how he tended to present himself. It was easy to forget he was from an older era than he was.

“Thank you.”

Husk looked up and felt all the air rush out of his lungs again. Angel gazed down at him with such a genuine look of gratitude. If he didn’t stop stealing his breath, he’d never make it through this night.

“A bet’s a bet,” he repeated.

“You didn’t have to go on a date with me, but ya did. I really appreciate that. It’s nice.” 

Husk closed their stance and pressed his forehead against Angel’s shoulder in response. Angel’s secondary arms held him close, his other hands sliding softly over his shoulders and down his arms. Husk turned his face in towards Angel’s neck instinctually. Everything felt so warm and comforting in this moment. Husk had to say something to break the spell before he started purring and embarrassed himself.

“You’re payin’ right? Cause I can’t afford this shit on my salary.”

“Don’t worry. I gotchya, babe,” Angel replied. “The least I can do is buy ya dinner first.”

Husk pulled back and a hand found his cheek as Angel leaned down to kiss him softly. Then again, a bit harder, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. Husk had to close his, but his paws slid up Angel’s back to grip his shoulders as he reciprocated. Angel broke the kiss and lowered his lips to Husk’s ear, brushing over the hairs at the tip for a moment, sending a thrill through his whole body. 

“Let’s get outta here.”

Husk just nodded his agreement as Angel moved towards the table to pay, his hand sliding off Husk’s shoulder as he went. Husk loosened his tie as he focused on breathing. Fuck. This was happening. Shit. Fuck. As he panicked, a feather slowly floated to the floor then another. Oh, fan-fucking-tastic! This shit!

He stepped on the feathers to hide them as Angel returned, trying to keep a neutral expression. He probably wouldn’t have noticed the feathers anyways. He had his eyes locked onto Husk’s as he reached for his arm again. A devious light there had chased away the tenderness that had been prevalent the rest of the night, letting Husk know Angel’d fully shifted gears. 

Thankfully when they returned to the hotel it wasn’t to some kind of fuckin fanfare. He’d half expected some kind of congratulatory party, the way people acted around here. But the foyer was as empty as it usually was this time of night. Just the two of them as it so often was. Angel stopped by the bar and released his arm. 

“Okay, gimme ten to slip into somethin more comfortable,” Angel said with a joking tone. “Then meet me in my room.” 

He made a show of walking away, swinging his hips and looking back at Husk over his shoulder before disappearing down the corridor. Husk just stood there calmly until he was out of sight. Once alone, he threw himself abruptly over the bar, gasping in air like a drowning man. He sent bottles clattering to the floor as he fished around for a drink. He leaned back against the bar and sank to the ground as he chugged whatever booze he’d managed to grab. The chugging became less frantic after a moment and he started to breathe again. Thank fucking god for alcohol. 

“You did this to yourself, asshole,” he muttered under his breath. 

He watched the clock as it ticked away the seconds he had to get himself together. He finally did away with his tie entirely and ran a paw over his head. Okay, this wasn’t such a big deal. God, it wasn’t like he didn’t find Angel attractive. And this would make him happy. 

All of Husk’s limbs went limp and his head banged back against the bar. Dammit, he wanted him to be happy. How had he let this happen? He sighed and let the empty bottle roll out of his grasp before picking himself up off the floor. 

He trudged down the hall to Angel’s room, leaving a sparse trail of feathers in his wake, and gave a light rap on the door before pushing it open. The lights were low and tinged pink from the scarves draped over the shades. Angel had tossed rose petals around the room wildly. He followed their general trail over to the bed where Angel was, of course, poised seductively. 

He’d changed out of the prom dress and into lacy black lingerie, makeup entirely redone to match. How the fuck did he do that so fast? Angel shifted forward and pushed himself off the bed, sauntering over to him the way he approached a pole at a show. He brushed the back of a hand against his cheek as he circled around behind him. All three sets of arms snaked around him, hands working at buttons and sliding under his shirt.

Husk froze as his clothes just fell around him, only brought back to motion by the shiver that went down his spine when Angel pressed soft kisses against the back of his neck. Damn, he was good. His paws rose to find the closest pair of Angel’s hands and slid over them. Angel nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck before finding his ear. 

“I’ve been waiting for this.” 

Husk turned in his arms and tried to think of something to say. All he could think of was how long it had been and how badly he was about to fuck up. He started backing away slowly, but Angel followed. 

He felt his knees buckle as he backed up into the bedframe. He fell back onto the bed and Angel leaned over him, using a pair of arms to hold himself up while the other two ran down his chest. Husk’s throat felt like it had closed up and he gasped for air. 

“W-wait.” 

[ficsnroses]

Worried - John Wick x Reader Oneshot

From the Comfort Series of Fluffy Oneshots :)

Word Count : 3.5k

Warnings : So Much Fluff. Angst. Brief hospitalization (nothing serious!) Also, will I ever come up with a creative title?

Summary : On his way to pick up his girlfriend, Y/N, for an evening out, John receives a call from the hospital.

A/N : Alright. I’m nervous about this one because it didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted, but I worked really hard on it & would love to hear what you all think  ❤️ This was requested by @cynic-spirit​ , I hope its alright! I’m not 100% happy with how I approached this request, so I may re write something similar in the future to toy with the concept more. Enjoy!

*Also, I included date outfit pictures at the end, because it’s a fun thing to do, right? It’s cute!*

Spring is near, and the longer evenings are here to prove it. The sun has bid goodbye, leaving a violet hue channeling the sky outside John’s bathroom window. The trees stand in black silhouettes, the smell of apple trees blossoming filters in subtle.

Dog sits at the doorframe, with his paws tucked secure under his resting head, watching John dry his hair with a cotton towel. His chest and torso are peppered with aqua globes, skin still steaming lightly as he’s stepped out the shower. With a towel held around his waist, he grasps Y/N’s favourite cologne of his – a sophisticated blend of spice & wood. He dabs some around his neck, collarbones, and wrists, setting it down for an exchange with a hairbrush.

The sound of his phone vibrating diverts his gaze, to the picture of his love reflecting on his phone screen.

Y/N was facetiming. 

Tonight, John was taking her to a nice dinner date at a restaurant by the water. Sure, they’d technically seen each other every night that week, but they hadn’t been able to go out together in a while.

John loved to treat his lady.

Picking his phone up, he accepts the call, holding the camera to his face.

“Hi baby,” he greets her, eyes lighting up, with those beautiful laugh lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes.

“Ooo hello handsome,” She giggles, eyeing his clothing clad, bare chest. “Quick question, are we going somewhere really nice?”

Her beautiful locks shine under the lights, her makeup looks seamless, light, just enough to compliment her elegantly stunning features. John’s heart must have skipped a beat, he still found it hard to believe that this wonderful, amazing women, was all his.

His for the keeping.

John chuckles a bit, running a hand through his fluffy locks. “It’s not formal, but it’s a nice little place. Why?”

“I’m not sure what to wear.” She flips her camera, showing him the array of dresses she’s laid out, a navy blue, a black, and white. “Help me decide!”

John smiles, letting out a content sigh. He let out a lot of those recently, ever since she’d came into his life, made it brighter than what he’d been used to. 

“You look beautiful in anything, sweetheart.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, whining. 

“John! Can you not be a softie for just one second and help me out?” She sits down on the bed, holding the camera to her face. “Come on, which one do you wanna see me in?”

John lightly scratches his chin, voice deep. “Well, I think you look amazing in white. Makes me go weak in my knees.” He chuckles, giving her a warm smile. 

John didn’t know if it was too early, regardless, he’d dream of the day his Y/N would wear a white dress for him, in front of all their family and friends, as he waited for her at the end of the isle.

Someday. Whenever that someday may be.

“Do you want to stay over tonight? Dog misses you.” John proposes, grabbing his beard trimmer.

Y/N snickers, grabbing the white dress on the hanger. “Sure. I miss Dog too. Besides, I like falling asleep beside you way better than here, on my own.” She holds the phone steady in front of her face again. “You’re like, the fluffiest pillow I have.” She giggles again.

John watches her in awe, as always. The way her eyes glimmer when she speaks, the way her tone shifts, highlighting the happiness in her voice. Each word, from her mouth, felt as if a song to him.

His favourite song.

“Glad to be of service.” He winks, letting out a laugh. “Are you almost ready, babe?” He questions, retrieving his hair dryer from the cabinet drawer.

“Yeah, I just need to throw on outfit, and pack a bag for tonight.” She replies, shuffling around her room.

“Aren’t most of your things here already?” John chuckles. “It looks like you own this counter space, not me.” John flips the camera to showcase all her creams and moisturizers, her scented perfumes and skin care routine gadgets. She’d been spending a whole lot of nights at John’s place, leaving her belongings nicely peppered around his bedroom.

“You’re right. I’ll just sleep in one of your shirts.” She bites her lip, looking him in the eyes. “Or maybe, I won’t need one tonight…” Smirking, the tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Alright then, I’ll see you soon?” She confirms.

John nods his head, replying. “I’ll be right over in an hour. I love you, sweetheart. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t. I love you too. Bye.” She blows him a quick kiss, ending the call.

Grinning to himself, John blushes at the though of her still, returning to his closet to throw on his outfit for the evening. As each second passes, he anticipates seeing his love soon, being embellished in her company and grace all evening.

Exactly where he loved to be.

-

With his cellphone propped on the seat beside him, John navigates through the busy New York evening traffic, checking his reflection in the rear view mirror every so often. He runs his fingers through his hair, positioning it just how Y/N liked it.

Before Y/N, John never tried too much to look good. He didn’t care if his hair got lengthier than normal, or if his beard had a few strays in it. But ever since he’d met her, fallen in love with her, he cared. He cared for himself more, tried his best to stay healthy, and presentable.

For her. Because she deserved, to get the best version of him.

She deserved for him to be his best self.

As John drives in silence, his ears pick up the occasional traffic honk, or speeding car beside him. Night has fallen on the city, leaving it to light up brighter than the stars, glowing, glimmering lamp posts and restaurant lights igniting the city streets. He sees couples walk arm in arm, holding hands as they explore the town.

To himself, he smiles.

Smiles, that he had that, finally, for himself. He finally had someone.

To the ring of his cellphone, John snaps out of his thoughts.

An unknown number.

His brows knit in confusion, wondering who it could be. He thinks to ignore it, however, decides against it ultimately, in case it was someone from work.

With his eyes locked on the road, John manages to slide the phone onto speaker, letting wonder lace his tone. “Hello?”

“Hello, sir. Am I speaking with Mr. Jonathan Wick?” A woman speaks on the other end, her voice calm, present, monotone as could be.

“Yes, can I help you?” His deep, ridged voice starts.

“I’m calling on behalf of New York General Hospital. I have you listed as a secondary contact for a recently admitted patient, Ms. Y/N Y/L/N?”

In that moment, John felt his heart drop. His eyes widen, and the world around him seems to stop turning. The traffic seems to pause, the city folk seem to cease walking, the stars seem to melt into the darkness above.

The darkness above, seems to swallow John whole.

With his mind terminating to work straight, his heavy, racing voice speaks. “Y/N? Is she alright?! What happened?! I just spoke with her not too long ago, please tell me she’s okay?!” John almost yells, fear overtaking each nerve in his body.

“Mr. Wick, we need you in urgently for an update on her condition, and form work.”

“I’ll be there, I’m coming, I’m coming!” John shouts, breathing heavier by the second. He feels his body run cold, his mind racing a million a second. “Is she okay? Please, Ms., I need to know.” John begs, foot trudging the accelerator to sprint through traffic.

“She’s going to be alright. Unfortunately sir, I can’t disclose anymore information over the phone, for confidentiality.”

John ends the call in fury, throwing the phone across the seat. “Dammnit!” He hollers, to no one but himself.

In a long time, he hadn’t felt this way. He hadn’t felt a single negative emotion, since she’d came into his life. But now, in this moment, he felt, a mixture of everything he hadn’t felt in a while. But most of all,

He felt fear.

He felt fear, for the thought of anything happening to her. Anger, for not being there fast enough. Fright, for not knowing if she was okay.

Guilt. For not protecting her, as he’d promised himself he would, from the second she gave her heart to him.

-

His body is tense, his fist clenches beside him, his feet only route the path so quick, leaving his mind paces ahead.

He needed his Y/N to be okay. It couldn’t be any other way.

He wouldn’t let it.

As he finds himself at the door of 116, the room the receptionist had claimed to be Y/N’s, John swings the door open.

There Y/N sits, on a chair, with a band aid on her arm, and a juice box propped on the chair beside her.

She looks alright. John makes note, to thank the sky later.

The nurse has just finished her work beside her, greeting John with a warm smile. 

“Hi! You must be John. I’m Y/N’s nurse for this evening.” She extends her arm out, for John to shake. “She is perfect, nothing to worry about. Her iron had dropped very low causing a minor fainting episode, but her neighbour called just in time. I’ve given her a stabilizing injection for now, which should restore all her red blood cells over the course of the next few days. She’s all good to go, and ready to be discharged immediately.” The nurse smiles, walking out of the room, leaving them alone.

John looks to her, worry still shone in his eyes, looking her up and down. His mind seems to stay skeptical, unable to believe that she was actually alright. 

That what he loved, hadn’t been taken away from him this time.

“John, I’m so sorry.” She frowns. “I’m all okay. See?” She proposes.

John stares at her for a few seconds longer, before walking up to her, dropping to his knees. He kneels in front of her, both his hands coming forward to hold both of hers tight in a clasp, pressing kisses all over her palms, her knuckles, her wrists. He lets out a weary exhale, resting his forehead against their connected hands for a few moments.

“John, you seem shaken up. I’m so sorry, I forgot to take my medicine this morning. I swear it’s really nothing big though, I’m alright. I’m sorry, I should have-”

John cuts her off, with a shake of his head. “It’s okay.” He stands, subsequently helping her up, placing a hand on the small of her back as he holds her other hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

John holds her hand tight, fearing she’d vanish any second. He guides her, holding the door open, keeping her tucked secure with his arm wrapped fitted around her smaller frame.

-

As the forms of release had been taken care of by John, he guides Y/N to his car, hand never leaving hers, with his arm still placed on the small of her back. He holds her close to him, making sure to never let her out of sight. As they arrive to the car door, he holds it open for her, helping her get settled in. Neither of them have spoke a word the entire way down.

As she sets herself in, John leans down to plug her seat belt in across her. “John, it’s alright. I can do it.” She assures, placing a hand on his arm.

Crouching down beside her again, John looks up at her, sadness still littered in his eyes. With a calm tone, John reasons, grabbing hold of her hand again. “Please.” He sighs. “Let me do this for you.”

Shutting the passenger door for her, John walks over to his side, taking place. He places his hands on the steering wheel for a moment, staring at the view ahead. Y/N watches him, worry in her own eyes. John seemed incredibly shaken, uneasy still. She feels horrible, and a heaviness overtakes the feel in her chest.

Reaching over to place a hand over his, she sighs, breaking the silence. 

“John, baby, I’m really sorry. I should have been more careful, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin our night, I know you had an evening planned, reservations and all. But I promise, its nothing. I’m really alright.” She smiles, grasping his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Please cheer up?”

John lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Slowly, he turns his gaze her way, locking their eyes. “I couldn’t care less about the reservations.” He grieves, eyes unable to connect with hers. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”

She grips his hand tighter, offering him a small smile, hoping his eyes would light up to his normal self again, glimmer as they do in the moonlit night. 

But they didn’t. She frowns, bringing her thumb to brush the delicate skin under his eye, cupping his cheek. “It’s hard for me to see you like this, John. Talk to me. Please?” She whispers, pleading.

John sighs again, before turning his body to face her better. “Its just…that call, Y/N.” He exhales, shaking his head. He firms his eyes tight shut, facing down as he continues. 

“It was so hard to hear your name on the other end.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking at the distant city lights again. Y/N rubs her thumb over his hand as she holds it, soothing him, trying her best to calm him.

He stays silent for another moment. As the city out in the distance moves, flows to pace as the night falls, Y/N feels her world standstill. She grips his hand tighter, her soothing strokes brush across his skin, refusing to let him wallow in his thoughts alone. 

She’d always be there for him, she’d promised herself. She’d be there for him, because the world had failed to do so.

“Y/N,” He begins, gloomed, tense. “Anytime I get something good, its always been taken away from me.” He looks down at his lap, collecting his thoughts. His eyes are heavy, and they seem to be glistening.

But not in the way Y/N wanted to see them glisten. They were glistening with tears.

“Today, when I got that call, I felt all those things again, all those feelings of hopelessness, guilt, fear…I felt like something was being snatched away from me again. Only this time, it was as if all of the other things combined together, but so much more.” He shakes his head. “It was you. Y/N.”

Her heart drops. She feels the ache.

“I can face anything. I’ve been built that way, I’ve learned, because these things happen to me. I’ve accepted that maybe I’m not deserving of... good. But I can’t…I can’t bare the thought of you being taken away from me. Not you.”

She feels her heart break, shatter for the man in front of her. The man who thought, that he didn’t deserve good. The man who in her eyes, deserved the entire world, if she could give it to him. She brings her other hand to hold both of his, assuring him, that she’s there.

“I just felt so fucking hopeless. I felt guilty that I wasn’t there with you, that I didn’t protect you like I promised I would.” He frowns again. 

“Y/N…I don’t have anything. All I have is you. I never had a family, I never had friends, everyone sees me as…” his aching tongue halts to finish he sentence. “I’ve never had anything. And after all I’ve done, all the blood on my hands, I don’t deserve anything.” He tries to hold himself together, staring in disgust at his hands that she held tight.

He sees them as an omen. 

“You are all I have, Y/N. Just you, and Dog. And today, when that operator called, I felt like my entire world was being taken away, and I couldn’t do a single thing about it.” His voice cracks. “Like always.” He looks down again, trying to keep himself together.

Y/N watches him, with eyes full of sadness. She felt daggers in her heart with each word he spoke. Trying to channel a smile, she brings her hand to cup his cheek, making him connect his eyes with hers. She leans forward, cupping his face with both her hands, pressing delicate kisses to each inch of his face.

She showers him in love, because that’s what he deserved.

“I love you,” She whispers between kisses. “So much, John. You deserve so much. You deserve more than you think.” She whispers, looking him in the eyes. John brings his arms around her, holding her close as he buries his face in her neck. She rubs up and down his back, running her hands through his hair, making him feel ease.

They hold each other, for what feels like an eternity, eyes closed, sulking in each other.

Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, Y/N breaks the silence, still holding him close. 

“John? Do you feel that?” She waits a moment, before speaking. “I’m right here. In your arms. Exactly where I belong,”

John smiles into her shoulder, wrapping his arms tighter around her now. She was right. She was right here, where she belonged. Her silken voice speaks again, in just above a whisper. 

“And if I’m not, I’m always just a daydream away.” She smiles.

John chuckles, pulling back, to look her into her shining eyes. “Just a daydream away, I like that.” He presses a kiss to her lips, resting his forehead against hers, as they close their eyes briefly. “Gosh. I love you so much. Don’t scare me like that again.”

She giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I love you more, John. You deserve everything. And I promise, I’ll say it to you each and every day until you believe me. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

~~~

As they reach home, John, to no surprise, falls into full paranoid boyfriend mode. He helps her each step of the way, holding her hand as they climb the stairs to the front door. 

“John, I love you, but you do realize that I’m not hurt in any way? I just have a bandaid from the injection, silly.” She giggles, showing off her patched arm.

“I don’t care, Y/N. You’re not doing anything tonight and you’re going to let me take care of you, okay?” He shimmys the keys in the lock, opening the front door. “I’m not taking no for an answer.” He eyes her.

Y/N smiles, heart content at the man in front of her. She ruffles his hair playfully, pressing a kiss to his bicep, as he takes hold of her hand again, leading her in.

“Jonathan, there’s nothing to take care of. I’m fine.” 

Hanging his coat on the coat hanger, John rushes to Y/N’s side to take her coat off for her. Being the gentleman he is, he bends down to unstrap her heels, gently taking her shoes off her feet, storing them away for her.

“John, I’m okaaaaay.” Y/N tries again, although John lets it in through one ear, and out the other. There was no way he was letting his girl do anything at all, until she’d fully recovered. 

Placing a hand to the small of her back again, guiding her to the sofa, he ponders out loud. “Spinach is high in iron, right?”

“Yeah?” Y/N replies, getting herself comfy.

“Good. I’ll go make you a spinach smoothie then.”

Y/N scrunches her face in disgust, debating. “John, no. That’s gross.”

“Come ere boy!” John calls out to his Dog. As Dog runs to the room, Y/N hears John’s deep voice speak, as he pets his ears. “Keep mommy company, okay?”

Y/N blushes, at the thought of being Dog’s mommy.  

-

As the night falls further, John helps Y/N change into one of his oversized shirts. It comes to the same length as a dress would on her, John finds her absolutely adorable in it. He feels his heart full at the way she wears a piece of him on her.

A symbol that she was truly, undeniable, fully, his. 

After more of John’s antics, trying to help Y/N recover as fast as possible, they lay together in John’s bed, John’s mind partially dozed off to dreamland already.  He’d have an eventful evening for sure, but in the end, it was all going to be okay, with the love of his life rest beside him.

As the midnight sky covers the city horizon, moonlight filters in through the window, with a cool breeze flowing through the curtains, as steady, ocean like waves. The world is falling asleep, with the stars scattered in the black and blue marbled sky, the moon gleams around them, beaming its light, radiating over the busy New York night. 

To the rise and fall of her lover’s chest, Y/N hums in contentment. 

Tight in each others embrace, John and Y/N are tucked away, holding each other after the events of the night. John holds her to his chest, providing her a haven, where no harm could reach, no matter how strong. He places lingering, soft, drowsy kisses to her temples, to her shoulder, to her cheeks, as he pleases, letting her know he’s close, protecting her.

That he’d always be.

The fear, has brought along an overwhelming plethora of love. Nothing but pure, unconditional love. As they lay, secure next to the one who matters most, Y/N’s honeyed voice murmurs into the evening air, thick with sleep,

resting her head further into John’s chest as she pulls him closer,

with a gratified smile on her face.

“The fluffiest pillow I have, indeed.”

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Johns Outfit!

Y/N’s Outfit!

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First Year of Undergraduate Study: Lessons Learned

1) Notebooks won’t work for your year- long modules. They just don’t- you’ll find by the time your first semester has ended, you’ve already got three per module, and they’re all over the place. Unlike a binder, you can’t just clip in and reorder: missed readings completed later, seminars with additional notes emailed to you after class, will become random pages of notes in an (often indecipherable) spider’s web of in- class note taking, jotted information from readings, scraps of essay planning, that will take too much time to unravel. Do yourself a favour, and use folders- whether digital or physical- that you can divide up into weeks, or document types, and reference with ease when it comes to the exam crunch. Plus, you’ll save luggage space, something I’ve stressed, and will continue to stress time and again, will do your back and shoulders so much good as a commuter or big city student.

2) Talk to fellow students in all your classes. Talk to the people around you, for your own sake and theirs. They are just as dithering and clueless as you are- the kids you think are lofty and intimidating are often the friendliest. Making friends in your classes will make the awkward interim between reaching your lecture hall and taking your seat so much less daunting. It will also boost your confidence academically- being surrounded by people in the same boat as you is such a lovely thing, and when it comes to exam and deadline season, you’ll have shoulders to cry on, and like minds to share your ideas with.

3) Come up with your own, personal, deadline- hitting strategy. From the moment you choose your essay title, to the last hurrah of the final read- through, devise a loose method that works for you. Whether that’s starting weeks ahead with a detailed plan, or making brief summaries of readings to incorporate in the lead up to that final deadline, it will be so helpful to you in the long run to understand how you work in this respect. For many of us, it’s a totally new departure! Certainly with my a levels, I was so exam- minded from the get- go that I treated my coursework as secondary, an addition I took upon myself to nail and then pushed to the sidelines upon completion. Having a good, loose but solid method is integral.

4) Invest in a durable, lightweight planner. Even laptop users should have a paper planner- perfect for planning in advance, squeezing in your readings and research, scribbling email addressed, and jotting down room and time changes as they are mentioned. I discovered the Moleskine Weeks in January of last year, and I highly recommend it- it’s so slim and portable (did I mention I’m a commuter student???!!), and gives you your weekly overview on one side and an entire notes page on the other, as well as calendars at the front for the entire year. 

5) Know when to give yourself a break. When you’re tired, sick or burnt out, do not fret over missing a day of lectures- befriend your seminar leader, and like- minded students, and ask them to catch you up. Seminar leaders are so approachable, and willing to send off any missed information. Become familiar with your university’s online database- often, lecturers will post lecture plan documents, and the slides of their presentation.

6) Check yourself when you start skipping regularly. Soon, the realisation that there are no immediate consequences for skipping class will hit. Make sure you’re going more often than you’re skipping: aim for an 80:20 ratio as a means of maintaining academic discipline.

7) Know where, when, and how, you work best. I mentioned in a previous post that now is the time to find your “thing”- your particular method of learning that Makes Things Stick. For me, it’s watching, and taking notes on, content (Crash Course World History being a long- standing favourite), alongside my readings and lecture notes. Not only should you try to come to know how you learn, but also when, and where, you learn best. I know plenty of people who can work for hours, in silence, in the university library- I personally cannot bear the absence of noise. I’ve found that I work best in two hour stints in coffee shops, and at home with some music in the background (Death Cab for Cutie have tonnes of gentle background music perfect for soft indie lovers). When is also a vital factor in your learning: whilst you don’t always have the luxury of determining when you study, it’s great to know when you work most efficiently when the day is all yours. As a self- professed “evening person”, I work the most efficiently between 4 and 10 p.m.- as a first year, I would often try and cram huge chunks of reading at 6 a.m. ahead of my morning lecture, and would suffer for it. This will help you immensely in the long run, and come exam season you will know what, when and where works for you.

8) Maintain your notes. In reading for, and taking notes during, lectures, you are creating a body of content to refer back to later. Treat it as such- read as broadly as you feel necessary, take notes in all of your classes, and do the work to catch up after skipped classes.

9) Enjoy learning, and exploring, your specialist subject. This slew of teaching and learning is the perfect time to enjoy the privilege of immersion- you’ve got tonnes of resources at your fingertips, professors who are absolutely infatuated with their fields, and time is on your side. Enjoy learning unabashedly! This first year of study is an incredible opportunity to find your niche.