#these are so outdated but do i give a fuck? the answer is no. hell no.

[little-tyrant-gortash]

I did suspect the "infernal" machine wasn't Gortash's creation (it wouldn't be called infernal, if it wasn't made there first), but I suspect that he benefited from that and it kickstarted his lil' tinkering business.

Why do I think that?

Because the Steel Watch recognises Karlach as an unstable, outdated, straight bad prototype. It's 100% Gortash was thinking ahead ten years ago when he sealed the deal with Zariel. The first machine, put in a living person at that, must've been hers. At least that was what she had told Karlach, if you can trust a devil and her tongue.

But there was a huge flaw about it: it wouldn't work for long outside the hells. Gortash had ten years to come up with a solution to that, and he did. He was actively looking to make his soldiers much more powerful without losing them, and in the end, he succeeded.

By Selûne, he's truly remarkable. It's such a fucking waste he's destined to die, I'm so angry about it.

By the way, all of this "I respected-trusted him and he returned it" coming from Karlach makes me think that Gortash did not want to originally give her to Zariel. But we've all dealt with devils throughout our journeys - I can easily imagine that he had absolutely no fucking choice, just like we had no choice getting Astarion's answer from Raphael unless we killed Yurgir.

[effervescentdragon]

My lil contribution to @1016week Day 2 - social media. This is the snippet of my SF Admin AU which I started writing a long time ago for @welightitup (and @mssr-monagato which is a given). I hope you enjoy it! 😘

" - and this is why I think I would be a good fit for this job."

She isn't looking away from him, and he doesn't let himself show how much he is intimidated by that glare, even though he really, really is. He did everything right, said everything right, showed her his best work. He knows he did. There is nothing more he can do. They will either hire him or not.

God please, let them hire me. I need this fucking job. This is my last chance, and if I blow it, it's corporate hell with dear Dad, and I will die. I will literally die.

Her long, red nails tap on the glass table twice. He thinks this may be what doom sounds like. It sure feels that way.

"Mr. Gasly. You have an impressive portfolio, and your CV is one of the best I've seen. What I want to know is, what will you bring to this job? What is the thing that distinguishes you from all the other candidates for this job?"

Her eyes bear into his, and he swallows. Goddamn she is intense. Pierre knows the question, it is a standard question everyone asks in job interviews, and he knows the answer he's expected to give. He opens his mouth to say the prepared, standard spiel, but in that moment his eyes stop on the pictures hung on the wall behind her. They are all the same. Same poses, same settings, same camera angle. A whole wall filled with the same picture over and over again.

Fuck this.

"You're wasting opportunities here."

She raises an eyebrow, and her eyes regain some of the focus they've lost during the rest of the interview, as she was listening to his pitch, probably the twentieth one and identical to every other one she's heard during the day.

"Oh?" She says, and it sounds like a challenge.

Fuck it. Full send.

"Yes. You are sitting on a goldmine, and you are doing nothing about it." Pierre takes a deep breath. You can do this. He looks her straight in the eyes.

"You have the most beautiful and the most attractive driver on the grid driving for you, bar Lewis Hamilton, who is, you will agree, in a league of his own. Your driver is very easy on the eyes, he is kind, he is extremely good at what he does. And you are doing nothing to capitalize on that and attract more fans, when you could literally have your social media engagement, and with it the revenue, go through the roof."

She says nothing. He plows on.

"He has the looks, and he has the brains, and he has the mythological-like background and appeal. Hell, the Italian media calls him Il Predestinato! He is a Ferrari child through and through, he lives and breathes for this team, which is an angle that can be explored so well, and yet you do nothing. He is even willing to speak about the hardships of his life, although I personally believe he should be left alone about that." He clenches his fist. "And again, I reiterate - there is not a bad angle for the kind of face he has. And you need something new; something fresh. You know what I've found out as I did research on the perception of Ferrari in the public, in the target groups?"

"Enlighten me," she says, and Pierre forces his hands not to shake as he shuffles through his papers and pulls out printed-out screenshots. He points to the highlighted words repeating themselves on the pages.

"Outdated. Old-fashioned. Uptight. And a million other synonyms, all meaning one and the same thing." He looks back at her. She isn't looking away, and her expression is stone-like, but her eyes are flashing. He swallows the bile rising in his throat, because he can't believe he's about to say it.

"Boring. People think Ferrari is boring. Ferrari." He laughs incredulously. "The oldest team on the grid, the team that is synonymous with motor racing. The mythological team. The red cars. All of that, and it comes down to one thing. Boring."

He can't help but scoff, too deep in his spiel to care whether or not he is crossing the line. "Which is unimaginable to me, especially when you have the history," he points around the room at the pictures of very inportant people with the drivers and Ferrari personell, "the glory", he points to the trophys in the room, a mere dozen of what he knows are hunderds more, "and the beauty." He steels himself and shuffles the paper, pulling out a printed picture of Charles Leclerc, who is smiling at the camera bashfully.

He taps on the picture. His finger lands on Charles' dimple, and stays there.

"You need to utilize this, and even if you don't hire me, please, make whoever you hire use this - use him. Because otherwise, you're going to end up like Red Bull, after Daniel Ricciardo left." She twitches visibly. "Utterly unlikeable."

Pierre feels like he's just run a marathon. His breathing is irregular, and he makes himself calm down, repeating those meditation techniques his brother insisted on him knowing. The silence in the office is deafening suddenly, and he swallows around the lump in his throat.

"I see." Her voice is calm. "Thank you for your presentation, Mr. Gasly, and for this interview. We will be in touch."

Fuck. I completely blew it. Fuck.

"Thank you for the opportunity," he manages to say.

He goes to gather his papers, but she hums.

"Leave your research here, if you don't mind?"

It's not a question; not really. It's an order, given with an icy smile. He makes himself smile back even though his stomach seems to be turning like he's on a roller-coaster ride.

"Of course," he says, and removes his hand from the picture of Charles Leclerc's face. "Have a nice day, and thank you again."

She says nothing more, only inclines her head in a silent dismissal as he leaves the room. He passes the security in a daze, moving on auto-pilot right up to the moment when he's sitting in his car.

"Fuck," he says out loud. "Fuck, Pierre, you absolute fucking idiot."

He crosses his arms over the steering wheel, and then after a second, he lets his head fall forward too.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He groans. "I am so stupid!"

"Excuse me, sir, are you - Are you okay?"

Pierre groans again, because he is nothing if not dramatic, and turns to look at the person interrupting his mental breakdown through his driver's side window.

"Fuck," he says, eyes widening, because right next to his car, crouching in what looks to be a very awkward manner and looking at him through his window is nobody else but Charles Leclerc.

Charles Leclerc, the Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari and the one everyone is convinced will be a World Champion someday. Charles Leclerc, who is a thousand times more beautiful in person than he looks in any of the pictures online. (And Pierre would know, because - because he did research. For the Ferrari interview. And not anything else.) Charles Leclerc, whose voice is kind, and whose French carries the lilt of the Principality. Charles Leclerc, whose eyes are wide in an emotion Pierre cannot recognize in his shocked state. Charles Leclerc, who is - frowning.

"Excuse me, I saw you were in - in distress. And I - I wanted to ask if you maybe needed some help?"

"With what?" Pierre asks, then wants to kick himself, because his tongue was always quicker than his brain, and his brain is currently screaming Oh my God that is Leclerc that is Charles Leclerc oh my GOD on a loop.

"With.. with whatever you are distressed about?" Charles says, and Pierre thinks the way he scrunches his face, half-confused, half-deternined, is absolutely fucking adorable.

Then again, Pierre thinks Charles Leclerc is adorable all the time, so that's not a revelation.

"No, no, ah, thank you," he laughs, because he can't help it. The irony is painfully laughable and laughably painful simultaneously. "You are very kind, but my problem is," he grins, "myself."

Charles laughs with him, and there is something knowing and sad hiding behind that smile. It makes Pierre want to smooth out the curve of it. It makes him want to bite it.

"Ah, I know that feeling well, my friend." He grins, and his eyes are sparkling green, perfectly offset by the dark purple of his shirt. "I hope your problem becomes more manageable."

There is sincerity in Charles' voice, and a whole weight of knowing, of understanding. Pierre can feel his hands relax on the steering wheel, and his utter desperation fade away a little.

"Thank you," he replies. "I hope so too."

Charles just nods at him, and they look at each other in commiseration brought on by shared diapazon of feelings.

"I should be going," Pierre says, then thinks Oh hell, I fucked up one thing already today. Full send. "Unless you want to give me your number?"

Charles' eyes widen and he looks - unrealistically good. Nobody should be that good-looking, nobody can, because Charles is just unreal. This close, Pierre can see him clearly, and the little tiny imperfections - the bitten corner of his lip, the little patch of hair he missed while shaving, the red spot on his cheek - they all make him even more beautiful.

"I -" Charles starts to say, cheeks red and face surprised, then seems to steel himself. "I could do that." He smiles sweetly. "But only if you tell me your name."

Pierre's heart feels like bursting out of his chest, a thousand and one emotions flaring as he replies "Pierre Gasly. At your service, cheri."

[hockeylovee12]

My Captains Sister-Adam Fantilli

Chapter Four

Summary: Things between Nolan and Lucy continue to get worse.

Warnings: Controlling behavior, possessive behavior, toxic behaviors, overprotective behavior, Nolan being overprotective, fighting, cussing

It had been a few days since Nolan had found out about Lucy’s grades dropping, he still had not had a discussion with her about it. He decided he needed a few days to clear his head and find out the truth. The following week Nolan insisted on walking Lucy to her economics class. Lucy protested but Nolan insisted not accepting no for an answer. 

Nolan watched as Lucy entered the building and stood waiting for a few minutes to see if she came out again. Just as Nolan was feeling satisfied, ready to leave, Lucy came out the doors hand in hand with Adam. 

Furious, Nolan stormed over to them and grabbed Lucy by the arm, pulling her away from Adam “What the hell do you think you're doing, Lucy? You’re failing your classes and you're skipping them to hang out with him?” 

A small wave of guilt comes crashing over Lucy, not because of Adam but because of her neglectfulness towards her studies. Lucy takes a deep breath “I’m sorry Nol”

“You think sorry makes up for the fact that you’re failing two classes, you’ve been lying to me, sneaking around and don’t forget hanging out with the person I told you to stay away from!” Nolan raises his voice. Lucy winces at the harsh tone.

Adam sees the look on Lucy’s face and decides to step in “Hey man, leave her alone alright” 

Nolan glares at Adam and all of the sudden Nolan is holding Lucy back with one hand and using the other to punch Adam in the nose. Lucy lets out an audible gasp as Adam reaches his hand up and holds his bloody nose

“Stay the hell away from my sister! I mean it!” Nolan yells before regripping Lucy’s arm and beginning to walk home. 

———————————————————————

Nolan slams the door shut as the two step inside. “Give me your phone! You are not to see, speak or even think about Adam ever again!” Nolan demands 

Lucy groans in frustration before placing her phone on the kitchen island and storming off towards the stairs 

“Stop! We’re not done talking!” Nolan yells Lucy turns around, says nothing and glares at him before continuing to walk upstairs and slam her bedroom door. 

Nolan angrily runs his hands through his hair. When he feels Lucy’s phone start to vibrate. He turns her phone over in his hand and sees a new message pop up from Adam. 

Nolan furiously throws her phone onto the couch, before searching for his car keys. Once he locates them he once again picks up Lucy’s phone along with his own and leaves the shared house. Nolan drives to the closest best buy and walks inside. It takes a few minutes but eventually Nolan finds what he’s looking for. 

———————————————————————

The next morning Lucy wakes up to find an old outdated flip phone charging on her nightstand table where her beloved iPhone typically resides. Lucy kicks the blankets off of her body, unplugging the ancient type of phone and jogging downstairs to find her brother enjoying a bowl of cereal at the kitchen island. 

“Good morning” Nolan says mouth full of frosted flakes 

“What the hell is this?” Lucy asks holding up the flip phone

Nolan finishes the flakes in his mouth before responding “That would be your new phone” 

“Haha, very funny, Nolan! Now give me my fucking phone!” Lucy shouts 

“That is your phone, your new phone” Nolan says calmly 

Lucy starts clenching her fists in anger “What the fuck Nolan! You can’t replace my phone! I need my phone!” 

Nolan rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed with her outburst. “You have a phone, just not an iPhone. You are still able to contact people. I already took the liberty of adding a few of your contacts to your new phone however I also added a parental lock so if you were to say try to contact an unknown number such as Adam’s the message wouldn’t go through” 

Lucy glared at her brother, her heart pounding with anger and frustration. She felt trapped, suffocated by his overbearing attitude. "Give me my phone back, Nolan. This is ridiculous"

Nolan shrugged. "I'll think about it. But for now, you're stuck with that old thing," he said, gesturing to the outdated flip phone on the kitchen table

“Also until your grades are up you are confined to this house. No friends, no games, no parties, no nothing!” Nolan sentences

Lucy wanted to scream. She felt like she was living in a nightmare, with no way out. All she wanted was her phone back, her connection to the outside world. But it seemed like even that was too much to ask.

“Now get ready for class I’m walking you and this time you’re not skipping!” Nolan shouts 

Lucy stomps her feet letting out an aggravated scream before heading to her room slamming her door and getting ready for class. 

———————————————————————

The next few weeks felt like hell for Lucy. She had never felt so trapped. Nolan’s strict rules left her with no outlet for her frustration. She only had a small flip phone that Nolan had given her, and he would often check in to make sure she wasn't texting or calling Adam. Nolan walked her to class every day and picked her up, staying to watch her go in. She wasn't allowed anywhere else on campus unless Nolan was with her. If she wasn't in class, Nolan made her do homework. And he wouldn't let her hideout in her room either.

Despite all of this, Lucy's grades had improved. With nothing else to do, she had focused all of her energy on studying. But she still hated it. She missed hanging out with her friends and going to parties. She missed the freedom. Most of all, she missed Adam.

One day, while Nolan was at hockey practice, Lucy couldn't resist the urge to search his room for her phone. She rummaged through his drawers until she finally found it hidden under a stack of clothes. With shaky fingers, she texted Adam and arranged to meet him after practice at the arena. 

It was the day before a game so Lucy knew Nolan had a captains meeting after practice which would give her at least an hour. 

Lucy made her way to Yost Arena, when she got there, she saw Adam waiting for her. 

“Hey,” he said smiling when he saw her. 

“Hey, yourself” Lucy replied, wrapping her arms around Adam’s neck as he pulled her closer and kissed her

The two were so lost in the moment that they didn’t notice Grano and Gavin walking towards them. 

“Lucy, what are you doing here?” Grano one of Nolan’s closest friends and teammate asks

“Look guys just mind your own business” Adam demands 

Grano took a step closer to Adam “The two of you getting together is my business because it affects this team” He growled “Now I’ll ask again what the hell is she doing here?” 

“Nick please” Lucy pleads 

Before another word could be said, they heard footsteps approaching, and they turned to see Luca and Nolan walking out. 

Adam lets out a sigh, when Luca sends him a disapproving glare. 

Nolan just shook his head in part disappointment and part anger before walking over to Lucy and grabbing her by the arm. “Come on, we’re going home. Now.,” he said, his voice firm.

Lucy shakes her head, tears threatening to fall. Nolan lets out another sigh before forcefully pulling her towards him and beginning to lead her home. 

———————————————————————

Lucy managed to get out of Nolan`s grasp as soon as they reached the front door, and she opened the door, stepped inside and slammed it in Nolan’s face.

Nolan furious shut the door and stood in the doorway, he let out a frustrated sigh before walking closer to Lucy. “Give me your phone!” Nolan barked 

Lucy just shook her head in disbelief, tears starting to fall. “No! No! You can`t keep doing this!” Lucy cried out “It feels like I’m in a fucking prision! I hate it here I fucking hate it! I’m not a little girl anymore Nolan! So stop treating me one! I fucking love Adam and you need to grow a fucking pair and learn to deal with that!” 

Nolan stood there and listened angrily until Lucy finished her rant. Lucy was out of breath and had tears streaming down her face, waiting for Nolan to react. 

Nolan just stared at Lucy, then turned around and walked out of the house, Lucy watched as he left, still crying before running up to her bedroom and locking the door. 

———————————————————————

The next day Lucy woke up and found Nolan still wasn’t back yet. Lucy started working on some homework before going downstairs to make herself lunch. 

While she was making her lunch Nolan walked in the door. Lucy took a deep breath and tried to talk to him.

“Nolan, can we talk?”She asked tentatively 

“Not now, Lucy. I have a game today. We’ll talk after,” Nolan replied sounding exhausted

Lucy nodded, disappointed but understanding, knowing how important the game was to Nolan.

Before Nolan left, Lucy followed him into the living room and asked him, if she could come to the game. Nolan looked at Lucy before shaking his head, “I don’t think so” Nolan answered. 

Lucy sighed as Nolan gathered his things and left, for once she did not have any homework so Lucy sat down and turned on the television.

———————————————————————

The locker room was tense as the team prepared for their next game. Luca could feel the tension between Nolan and Adam, and he knew he wasn't the only one. Luke and Gavin kept exchanging glances, and Rutger was fidgeting with his gear more than usual.

In the middle of the third period the tension boiled over. Nolan and Adam were both fighting for the puck, and they ended up shoving each other hard. The team jumped in to break it up before things could escalate, but it was too late. The coach had seen everything, and he was livid.

"What the hell was that?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the arena. "We're a team, and we don't take shots at each other. You two are benched for the rest of the game. Get to the locker room” 

Adam and Nolan sat on opposite sides of the locker room, both seething. The tension was still thick in the air, and no one was speaking. Until Adam stood up and shot a glare towards Nolan.

“This is all your fault. You’re a shit brother and shit captain, it’s no wonder Lucy wanted to study abroad so much to get away from you! You’re so fucking controlling! You treat her like a child! And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I wish none of this shit fucking happened but it did and now I fucking love your sister and it’s the worst thing in the entire fucking world! God you’re an asshole” Adam rants 

Nolan sighs before looking up at Adam “I know” 

[rollforjackass]

i'm gonna go ahead and answer all the questions from this fic writer ask game here, because. why not! i'm bored and i'm not used to talking about my own writing. gotta cut the cord on that shame game sometime.

(and if y'all wanna answer some yourself, the post is linked above! absolute guarantee i will send some if you do bc i'm nosy like that)

💘 - Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

oh god yes, a lot of them. i've got chronic perfectionism.

if i were to be kind to myself and narrow it down to one, my poor little Person of Interest fic deadman's switch was my first venture into the fandom i would come to adore, and it could definitely do with some tuning up. with a few rare exceptions, i've never liked post-episode fics that just recap the events of the episode with a few extra sentences of meta thrown in the mix, and unfortunately, i think that's exactly what i did with this fic. i don't think it deserves a complete do-over, but a re-work with a new direction and a concrete destination would do it good.

💫 - what is your favorite kind of comment/feedback?

any and every, but the ones where people share their favorite quotes and tell me what it made them think of and expound on their personal theories and thoughts, AGH!!!! i adore those!!!! go off about all the things you love about the characters and your scenarios for missing scenes, i promise you i am enjoying it immensely!!!!!

🌈 - is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

i mean, by default i feel like i'm a bit of a tryhard with my writing and i feel like that's fairly obvious a lot of the time (for better or for worse 😬). but i guess the one that's outwardly the most relaxed bit of writing and was actually really difficult was the burning question, because. how the hell am i supposed to translate a groupchat format into a fic and keep all the nuances of technology, i.e. nickname changes & people sending walls of text, that are meant to be funny??????

it took me Forever to settle on formatting that i felt maintained the spirit of the jokes, and there's so many folks that think groupchat fics are cringe that i don't think anyone would consider how much effort i had to put into it for a now quite outdated joke lmao. i love groupchat fics myself, though, so i am content with the cringe.

🦋 - what are you most insecure about when you post a fic?

always always ALWAYS characterization. i have the fandom attention span of a mayfly and the combination pizza hut/taco bell that is ADHD/autism to boot, so i pick up strong attachments to characters/media quickly and write my feelings almost as fast as i feel them. which means lots of one-offs that are barely two seasons into a series/one movie into a trilogy. i'm always worried that i'm missing the mark by a mile because i was too impatient to reach a Big Backstory Reveal, or that i've latched onto a single trait not indicative of the whole.

🌻 - what makes you want to give up on writing? what makes you keep going?

what makes me want to give up: the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known. i used to be super confident in putting myself out there, but i haven't always had support for my special interests and i've rarely had anyone willing to read my writing when asked. makes it hard to enjoy what i'm doing when i've got that annoying little earworm asking me what people would think if they ever eventually read it, even when it's a self-indulgent little thing that i don't plan on posting.

what makes me keep going: i love writing, plain and simple. i love to borrow people's habits, their thoughts, their dreams and hopes and fears and nightmares; i love to see the world from new perspectives. and the idea that what i have to say might connect with people, that people might recognize parts of the characters and stories that they care for in my writing, is pretty damn intoxicating, too.

🌿 - how does creating make you feel?

there's a book series i loved as a kid called The Secrets of Droon, which is about three kids who discover a staircase to another world in their basement, and writing has always felt like that to me. i open the door, and i am somewhere else. these other worlds don't need me to be there for events to unfold, but i can still try to change the things that i don't like if i wanted to. and nobody needs to know that i've been to these worlds, but if i mentioned 'hey i've been to another world', someone somewhere might be interested in what i saw.

idk if that makes sense shdjk but i just!! i like writing. i like seeing what would happen if i changed something. and it feels amazing when something i care about deeply connects with people i don't even know, and who don't know me. it's scary to venture into other worlds, but there's always the chance of finding yourself - and finding new friends - down that magic staircase!!

🍉 - in what ways has writing helped you process trauma and/or navigate through your own life?

whoof, i mean. how hasn't it.

i had a very difficult upbringing that left me absurdly angry with the world and only able to conceive of living as fighting for survival. i wrote stories where i could escape and be free, and i wrote stories where the fight was all there was so i could feel less alone. hell, my first favorite character on tumblr was gabriel from supernatural, running away from his family and still loving them even when it hurt, and writing stories where he was happy or angry or sad felt like validating those feelings in myself. i could fix his problems, even if mine weren't that easy.

these days i struggle with a lot that's out of my control, like PTSD with a very hard-to-avoid trigger. but writing is something that i can curate, that i can tailor to a situation. it's completely in my hands. so when i'm going through something, i can always pick up a pen and scribble out the strong feelings in a way that makes sense to me, if not to anyone else, and then i can close that book or tear the page out or burn it, whatever i want to do with it. i can shuffle through the life of a fictional character and find the times when they felt the way i did, and wonder how they got through it, and sometimes in doing so, i find ways that i can, too.

it certainly helps that i've found myself a good number of favorite characters who go through a lot but still remain hopeful. ones who make a place for themselves in the world that is safe and good, who manage to find the best in people even when being shown their worse.

🎀 - give yourself a compliment about your own writing

i like that i'm willing to try my hand at pretty much anything and give it every ounce of passion i've got, no matter how short a time i may have been in a fandom or how different a character might be from the ones i'm used to writing. tech geek with conflicting superiority/inferiority complexes? sure thing. prim and proper angel who's secretly a bitch? give it a whirl. chain-smoking self-sabotaging magician who's a time capsule of the 80s? devoted dad with apeshit anxiety? codependent gay cannibals? fuck it, we ball.

🎈 - describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

mmmm depends on how you define style. i want to say that it's generally all the same, but i do think i change tone A Lot, based on who i'm writing about. partially because i bounce between a lot of british and american shows and i tend to try to adopt the vernacular of the culture the media is based in to make the story more immersive, but also based on the tone and overall themes of the piece, i.e. who's hurt and who's comforting and what their relationship looks like, if one's more comedic or they both are or neither of them are.

i'm a bit of a metaphor & simile hound, for sure, that part's pretty fixed. i tend to like comparing simple things to grandiose ones, if only because i write 90% hurt/comfort and the things i always remember most about times when i've been hurting are the gestures that the comforter doesn't even remember making later on. i think i have consistent struggles in certain areas and consistent strengths in others. but i almost never want the version of me who wrote for, say, Good Omens, writing for Mission Impossible, because to me those are two wildly different atmospheres with wildly different stakes and baseline truths. if that makes sense? so i do try to switch up my style when i feel like it's appropriate.

🎉 - how often do you celebrate completing & posting a work? how often do you give yourself the credit/validation that you seek from others when you post? (if you don't, you should!)

i don't think i celebrate much at all, per se. it's always more of a relief that i've gotten all of the most pressing ideas out of my head for the moment than it is an accomplishment, i guess? i'll probably start trying to celebrate now, though.

as for credit/validation, i don't really know how to measure that. i'm able to acknowledge that i've sent something out into the world to bear scrutiny, and i'm usually able to like what i've written once it's out there, so i guess i give myself credit that way??

💞 - what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language

characters. always the characters. sometimes to the detriment of the rest of the story.

idk, i tend to start stories because something about a character's reactions/choices grabbed my attention, and flesh out a scenario around how those reactions/choices would be seen by others vs how the character would see it themselves, so the character is always at the heart of my storytelling. i'm always thinking about the faces we put on for different people vs the ones we wear when we're alone. i usually find that as long as i follow a character's patterns of behavior, priorities, and methods of self-expression, the story writes itself.

💝 - what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

i don't really have expectations when i post, but the outpouring of love i received for Red Witness was definitely a shocker!! i mean, i'd never even heard of The Mentalist while it was airing from 2008-2015, so i was definitely a latecomer to the fandom, but apparently a lot of folks either rewatched it when the pandemic started or remembered it fondly enough to be excited about me writing for it, so that was a lovely surprise!!

🤍 - what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

i mean, one of the things i love about writing for fandom is all the variation in opinions and the different takes on what parts of canon are rock-solid vs which should be different, so i don't think it's possible for people to not "get" a fic. it's just one lens through which a set of events and people can be viewed.

that said, i suppose waiting for the hammer to fall didn't land the way i'd hoped it would, as far as my investment in the ideas i was trying to convey vs audience engagement goes, but i can definitely see why it wasn't "gotten". i spent a lot more time trying to mimic the style and feel of Good Omens and relying on that style to convey my ideas for me than i did figuring out how to explain what, exactly, those ideas were.

my intention was to explore "how does someone as buttoned-up as aziraphale, who has lived millennia in peaceful denial, come to terms with an impending confrontation that he absolutely can't avoid or weasel out of?", and that's still something that is very enticing to me, but the fact that he had been in denial his whole existence wasn't something that aziraphale would have been able to recognize on his own. so the execution fell far short of the mark, and i ended up with a few snippets of passable wit and imitative texture that couldn't have connected with a reader even with an operator on the line.

so, as far as the message of the fic goes, i suppose people didn't "get" that one, but it takes reliable postage to deliver a message and i left off all the stamps. (do we think there's been enough methods-of-communication metaphors for one day? everyone's knees sufficiently slapped?)

🕯️ - was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

come together (over me) was a BRUTAL undertaking for a number of reasons, which is also why it hasn't been updated in two fucking years, for all my vain intent to finish it.

not only was it my first ever attempt at a multi-chapter fic, but it was also a long and involved discussion of the many different ways that grief can affect people that i started writing less than a year after losing a friend of mine to a tragic accident (which was also the way the mighty nein lost mollymauk). i started writing it in the first place in an attempt to comfort my partner at the time, for whom molly was an all-time favorite, so i was pushing myself obsessively to meet the perfect balance of canon-accurate and partner-approved characterizations, and giving myself a lot of grief about it.

at the same time, the outpouring of shock and despair from the Critical Role fandom was like nothing i had ever experienced before. this was the first PC death of their 2nd campaign, under circumstances that meant it would be a permanent one, and on top of that, mollymauk was - at the time - the only openly queer character in the party. people had become understandably attached.

unfortunately, though, IMO, this meant a large portion of the fandom deified him to unrecognizable extremes. to a lot of new enthusiasts, he became a saintly sacrificial lamb unjustly slaughtered, or worse, "bury your gays" in action (it was a random encounter at a time when the party cleric was away giving birth. just saying). people who disagreed or people who didn't like him all that much were met with outrage. wars of righteous indignation were waged. lines in the sand were drawn. it was a mess.

all this to say, a fledgling fan trying to be as canon-accurate as possible in my characterizations of people who'd known mollymauk, and of mollymauk himself, for this fic centered around what was now the most controversial fandom event i'd ever seen firsthand, had a higher-than-usual chance of getting me absolutely obliterated on the internet. the horror.

so overall, while i did get a lovely response from what i did end up posting, the circumstances of writing it were unexpectedly exhausting. i had a lot of great ideas, still have a solid outline for the rest of it, and i like what i managed to get done, but just thinking about continuing it (especially so long after it was relevant and after so much has been revealed in canon since) is. haunting

💥 - find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

oh Time Doesn't Stop. (but it should), we're really in it now.

my dear, sweet, first ever foray into posting on ao3, i'm still quite proud of you. it's one of the few times i've felt like i could say more with absence than with explanation. it's a time capsule of confidence in myself and in my skills, and i think i did a pretty good job depicting the ways that constantine both self-destructs and lashes out when faced with a situation that he can't worm his way out of. i like the fact that i let each section in the 5+1 format have room to breathe, rather than trying to blend them together into a seamless narrative; it feels more authentic to me, like time has actually been passing.

🍭 - why did you start writing?

re: writing in general, i genuinely can't remember. i've been writing stories since i was old enough to read them. maybe i've always wanted to create something that thinks the same way i do?

re: fanfiction, because i was an insatiable bookworm as a kid and there were never enough stories about the characters and settings i loved to satisfy me, so i decided to start making them up myself. it ain't a party until obi-wan kenobi is helping a larvitar set up a picnic for every legendary pokemon plus dustfinger from Inkheart.

💎 - why is writing important to you?

i don't really have a good answer for this, because i can't think of a reason it wouldn't be, honestly. i guess the closest thing would be: it's important because i've never been good at speaking my thoughts and feelings out loud, but on paper i can say exactly what i mean and have a better chance of being understood. no need for facial expressions that might be misconstrued, no way for anyone to misread my tone of voice, just uncomplicated self-expression.

it also means that i get to share my passions with folks who are just as passionate as i am, and that i have a less awkward social avenue for expressing my appreciation of their candor. integrating and crediting headcanons you adored into your personal interpretation of canon, writing something inspired by a one-off post because it made you feel something...there can be such confounding social rules around complimenting people when you do it verbally or in person, it's nice to be able to say "thank you for caring as much as you do!" by just. applying your craft.

📡 - why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

because of what i said for the last question, it's all a way of sharing how you feel!!! people write because they feel strongly about a subject, whether they love canon or despise it, whether they want to refute a popular characterization they disagree with or expand on an AU that's been making the rounds. not to quote spongebob, but there's love in every stitch, whether you love the way you think about a character/a story or you love the way somebody else does.

it's also a way of preserving fandom over time, as well as the present moment! fan fiction started because of Star Trek fans in the 70s and they're still making trek shows today, the critical receptions of which are strongly influenced by fan interpretations so time-honored as to become gospel!! (snw you know what you did.) writing fics and sharing them with each other is a tradition of story-telling that will outlast us by centuries, and it is damned wonderful to know that what we leave behind are affirmations of love and dedication.

🪄 - what is your post-writing/sharing aftercare? How do you take care of yourself or celebrate yourself when you've finished a fic?

my aftercare is closing out the tab and running away from my computer sdhjk. i'm always very anxious about posting my work, and that's before sharing links or putting it anywhere else, so i usually post any writing i've gotten done right before i go to bed, and then in the morning i can read it with fresh eyes and a calmer brain and pat myself on the back for getting it done. that's a celebration in its way. other than that, drinking water is probably what i do the most after completing something.

🎙️ - which one of your fics would you like someone to make a pod-fic of?

actually, somebody already MADE a podfic of my groupchat fic the burning question, which would have been my answer!!!! the wonderful frecklebomb absolutely made my life when they put that together with their friends, i've never felt anything less than absolute joy remembering it.

🤲 - what do YOU get out of writing?

catharsis, baby! i write a lot of hurt/comfort to fill in gaps that i find myself thinking about between episodes/movies/chapters, and it often ends up being very therapeutic. i get the double pleasure of comforting someone and imagining being comforted, with the cherry on top that is narrative completion (at least by my standards).

💋 - when you leave comments on a fic, do you want to hear back from the writer?

i wouldn't call it a priority when i'm leaving those comments, but it's always lovely when they do reply. i'm a collector of joy, knowing with certainty that i've "repaid" someone for their labor of love is never a bad thing, but i definitely don't expect or seek it. hoard all those compliments for a rainy day, y'all deserve them!!

☯️ - how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

"healthy" really comes down to your point of view in fandom, but i do think that multi-platform engagement for fic authors lets you exercise a level of boundary-setting on social media relationships that the rise of tiktok has sort of blown out of the water.

i'm very tired so i'm not sure i could explain my thought process properly if i tried, but basically, going from an author's works on ao3 to their tumblr/twitter often feels like a delightful sneak peek into the mind behind the magic, while going from an author's tumblr/twitter to their works on ao3 can be like walking into a neighbor's studio and realizing they're michelangelo reincarnated. either way, multi-form engagement makes you value them as a person as much as you value the fruits of their labors.

on a less labyrinthine note, getting a message or comment from someone who read your stuff and loved it can be really comforting! someone who liked your work is among the followers who see your fandom theories and wildly thirsty tags. no matter how self-conscious you may get about Being Perceived, you now have at least one person who liked what they perceived.

that's what comforts me, anyway, as someone who is frequently anxious about making bad impressions and bothering people. it also encourages me to send off that complimentary message i've been thinking about sending for ages, even if i only do it anonymously. if i think i would appreciate getting a message like that, then it's worth doing.

🧿 - what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to?

i really can't stress enough how much i write and post for myself more than for a potential audience. i tell the story that i want to read, not the one i've seen people wishing for. if the two end up being one and the same, that's the best feeling in the world, but it's not the motivating factor behind me writing/posting/sharing.

sometimes i do get less engagement on a fic than i thought i might and it makes me worry that i misread a character, or i write something that i find really funny that never gets commented on, but then i have to remind myself that i only post in the first place when i like it enough to post. if it's up, i've decided i liked it. i didn't decide it was perfect, and i didn't mind-read the fandom to figure out what they're looking for in a fic, and i don't need to as long as it's good enough for me. that's really the only step i take, i guess.

💌 - share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

rubbing my grubby little paws together because OH BOY, i have a Mission Impossible benji & ilsa hurt/comfort dawning-friendship fic coming down the pipes that is very soft and sweet to me, and involves benji braiding ilsa's hair because she's failed miserably at doing it on her own and she's never had anyone to do it for her. it's my sweet angel baby right now, at least until good omens comes out in 24 hours and my synapses misfire to permanently sear the word 'GAY' behind my eyes.

[bow-chicka-wow-wow-wow]

10 Favorite Family Guy Episodes

Again, like the South Park list, it’s not in any particular order. Also, it is kinda hard to pick 10, since there are over 400 episodes as of making this list! The newer seasons have a bunch of stinkers, so it’s a little easier this time around, but not by that much.

1. Road To The Multiverse - Most “Road To” episodes are pretty good, but this one really blows the others away. We’re taken on a trip through many of the infinite universes, including a Robot Chicken universe, and even a Disney universe. And who can forget “It’s A Wonderful Day For Pie?”

2. Da Boom - Who remembers the Y2K panic? The Griffins were apparently the only ones that were prepared for the nuclear apocalypse. But Peter establishes his own community and it goes surprisingly well until Stewie’s mutant octopus babies destroy the town. This also marks the debut of the longest running gag in the show: Peter and Ernie’s Chicken Fights. Seth MacFarlane even said his favorite moment was from this episode, when Peter feeds his TV beans when he sees Tom Selleck!

3. Yug Ylimaf - When Brian meddles with Stewie’s time machine to get laid, he accidentally causes time to reverse! We see Family Guy’s most infamous moments played out in reverse, such as Peter falling down the stairs, one of Cleveland’s “No no no!” moments, and the infamous ipecac puking contest! Needless to say, this was something Stewie’s and Brian did not want to go through again, but in reverse it’d be much more gross!

4. Family Guy Viewer Mail - I love a good ol’ What If/anthology episode! From the start of the show, Family Guy was given suggestions from the fans on episode ideas, and there were two episodes in the series that have answered some suggestions. They show Peter and the guys as the Little Rascals, the Griffins having superpowers, Peter having no bones, everything Peter touches turning into Robin Williams, British Family Guy, and everything being shown from Stewie’s point of view. These make for some hilarious moments in the show.

5. Hell Comes To Quahog - This episode has a similar concept to South Park’s “Something Wall-Mart This Way Comes.” A mega-store similar to Walmart and K-Mart, Superstore USA, opens in Quahog and takes away everyone’s jobs. Peter and Chris both lose their jobs due to Superstore USA having a brewery and paper route respectively. Also, the Superstore takes away everyone’s electricity to meet its power demands. Needless to say, as soon as the Superstore was destroyed, everything was back to normal. Also, who can forget “‘Meg!’ ‘*pbft*’”?

6. Pet****d - I’m not even gonna say the title. Peter is a moron. I think that’s already been established since the beginning of the show. But he wins a game of Trivial Pursuit thanks to Lois giving him the preschool questions. Of course, that makes him believe he is actually a genius. When Brian has Peter take an IQ test for the MacArthur Fellows Grant, the latter is shocked when the test results reveal that not only is he not a genius, but he is mentally challenged. Yeah, this episode aired in 2005, so some much more outdated language was used. Of course Peter uses this as an excuse to do what he wants, thinking he could get away with it, but this costs him his children after he accidentally spills hot grease on Lois. My favorite part is when Brian profanely tells Peter “I told you so” about not being a genius, but, YEAH!! IN YOUR FUCKING FACE, FUCKWAD!

7. E. Peterbus Unum - Can’t Touch Me! Instant classic. In this episode, after not being able to get a pool, Peter finds his property isn’t part of the US. Naturally, this prompts Peter to declare his house its own country named Petoria. And in classic Family Guy fashion, this goes about as well as one would expect. After being under siege from the US Army, Peter “invades” the US by breaking into his next door neighbor Joe’s yard, earning him the respect from the rest of the United Nations.

8. Back To The Pilot - Family Guy has been on the air since 1999, save for two cancellations, with the last of which lasting for 2 and a half years! Needless to say, the show has visually come a long way the past 24 years! In season 10, Brian and Stewie travel back in time to January 31, 1999, when the pilot episode “Death Has A Shadow” first aired. The world’s visuals were primitive, Meg was voiced by Lacey Chabert, Peter and the guys were watching a television set that’s not even plugged in, Stewie’s got a more diabolical genius vocabulary, Peter’s eye goes over his nose due to an animation error, everyone just sits there doing nothing during a cutaway, and the aspect ratio is in 4:3. Brian informs his past self about the biggest tragedy in America, which hails him as a hero, but causes Civil War II, and eventually a post-apocalyptic CGI future with Joe being a Terminator. Of course, Stewie and Brian have to go back and fix everything by showing up right before their counterparts do, erasing their timeline in the process.

9. Death Is A Bitch - Death pays Peter a visit. No, he literally pays him a visit! After Death sprains his ankle, the Griffins have to nurse him back to health. Of course, with Death incapacitated, no one can die, and Peter, being the idiot he is, drunkenly blabs it to everyone. Death then forced Peter to do his job for him, since the natural order of things has been disrupted with no one being able to die. Also, Stewie just can’t wait till Death gets better, as his attempt on Lois’s life has failed due to Death not lurking in the shadows. This marks the first appearance of Death as a recurring character, and the only time he was voiced by the late Norm Macdonald, whom I liked better than Adam Corolla voicing him in subsequent appearances.

10. I Dream Of Jesus - A WELL A BIRD BIRD BIRD, THE BIRD IS THE WORD! Ok, got that out of my system. Peter’s favorite song, “Surfin’ Bird,” annoys the hell out of everyone, prompting Stewie and Brian to steal it and destroy in a shot by shot remake of the printer scene from Office Space. This causes Peter to find Jesus. Literally find Jesus working at a record store when looking for copies of “Surfin’ Bird” to replace the one that was stolen. Of course, Peter reveals Jesus to the world, causing Jesus to reach celebrity status overnight. Of course the Hollywood fame gets to Jesus’ head, as he acts like a diva towards Peter. To say that many Christians did not take too kindly to this portrayal of the Messiah would be an understatement, but at least it wasn’t as bad as the way he’s depicted in a much later episode…

[re-ikrmso]

c!ikari ramble

rpd!universe has no real message or theme to it to be honest, the best i can do is probably point out patterns i guess? at least on my side of the story there was mostly nothing to prove. c!ikari is childish, and takes things very unsympathethically (almost) because i found no message to give. but i wanted to protray ikari as just that: someone who by nearly all accounts finds it hard to take a situation seriously (that they themselves are causing at least) and if something does happen (and this is actually kinda supported in-universe considering the last time they tried to get answers themselves they ended up dead)) they do little to find out more and just stick to thier guns. They have little course on sympathy/empathy because any oppurtunity to use it would end up with them or someone else/something dead/destroyed.

its kinda sad actually, in-universe events actually justify thier behaviors pretty well. they’re shocked that thier more outrageous comments are actually taken as advice, and that so much injury and death is happening nearby. thier usual brand of sarcasm and shitty humor is taken in stride and as much as they get invovled in a situation, they barely find out anything at all or don’t want to due to how intense it is (and they just kinda want to get away from it). the first time they try to get answers, the person they were motivated by in the first place ended up killing them in a fit of anger. ikari recoginzes that it’s not normal behavior, and yes they end up not getting anything done in retaliation due to circumstances but like. it left an impact on them. it MATTERED. one of the first things they talk about when being revived is hoping that c!eleven and c!asuka are still alive so that c!ikari can fucking KILL THEM FOR WHAT THEY’VE DONE. in text, i never stated that explicitly, but that was a very clear implication. in text i chose to put more echoing ikari’s response before dying. and then as time goes on, they stop trying to invovle themselves, but they still get dragged in anyways, and they try to escape and then the fcking world gets destroyed and remade. any bit of empathy/sympathy is shot more and more as ikari tries to get away but fails, and as they get hurt and thier friends get hurt. c!asuka isn’t even to blame for a decent amount of the destruction they cause, c!eleven defends her and believes in the good of her and that he can help-

because he can handle it. He’s in a good enough position to reason with her, becasue he’s powerful, he’s experienced, and the two are just...connected. They love each other. (kinda.) 

c!ikari can’t spare sympathy or empathy because they don’t HAVE a reason to. And it’s not SAFE to either. They have people to lose. They’re not lighting fast, or have fast reflexes or superhuman. So when c!ikari stares down the barrel of c!asuka’s gun, they’re fucking scared. c!eleven has no such qualms. Because the only thing that matters to him is c!asuka, and he’ll make it out! It’s all okay! because power of love, blah blah blah. and that in part plays so much into why c!ikari hates him so much--because c!eleven could willingly tie himself to a walking disaster, and when c!ikari tried to help him....well, i’ve already told you bout how they died, didn’t I?

//note that this is kinda important to me cause the entirety of rpd!universe was made up as it played out, no script nearly no direction (except for perhaps tones of the story) was had. Hell, events of the story would often happen with one person litteraly hijacking someone else’s actions if they werent there and lore went on without members (which is important since we only had 4 actual members). analysis was a moot point due to anything i wrote being wiped off the map and it quickly becoming outdated from new lore. so when i look back i realize a whole lot of things about the story itself and how THAT impacted my character :p i reason i keep getting so re-hyped over my charatcer is well. 1. personal reasons 2. my fucking character ohghhghg its them 3. i never really got to look at them much before and make connections or anything so. :D 

[kaoarika]

One of those weird days where I’m hating my laptop HARD.

1) Finally got my first “Uhm, hewwo? We cannot find the Wacom_Tablet.exe program” window in a while (I started using my tablet again in like March or April, so it is always around the 7th month mark, considering I vaguely remember last time it happened before all the disk error incident from late November, last year... which I will come back in a second). 

I couldn’t click it away and since W10, for some reason never really shuts down the computer and puts it in some kind of suspension, well, the window appeared juuuust before I shut it down and before I entered my session (heck, the session window loaded fast and I couldn’t see the gdmn window). Had to restart it.

I kinda have the slight suspicion that maybe putting a pw again might make this slightly easier and shooing away the window :/ I could ignore it, but knowing I cannot click it away unless I do this, it’s like, fuck.

2) My antivirus, for some weird reason, had my protection turned off... so it “updated” and told me “lol, restart your device” and you have me going through that.

With the previous situation above, I had been on this hell for almost 2 hours... My mood is pretty bad right now.

3) I suddenly remembered on Friday that the disk error from last year happened, basically around these days. I still don’t fully trust this laptop with this very early W10 OS version, because you can tell it’s quite... pirate. I feel like it is kept with bubblegum and clips so I barely move much around more deep issues. I was scared when the Antivirus had to update to its new UI version, and I did a back up and all (and, lol, I need to do one much more new, since this back up is already outdated from a few months back).Lucky enough, everything is still working nicely and I haven’t run into heavy issues (besides the Wacom thing, but that is a staple with them at this point, istg), but this thing that happened last year and the timing (I got the laptop in late Nov 2020, I had the disk error issue in late Nov 2021... and we are already entering late Nov 2022), isn’t giving me full confidence about “coming out from it clear” and it’s making me a little anxious and superstitious about the whole thing), so I’m a little scared, yes?

I wish it was easier to buy a new laptop (not preowned), but I do know for a fact that they are over 15k MXN pesos and I am still unstable enough to make such a decision for spending as much as that :/ (even if it’s an emergency of sorts...)

My parents believe I should talk about this with my psychologist, but that’s another issue and a half (btw, they did answer me back that hey have been busy with their side job thing, but... a heads up would have helped, you know? could’ve reduced my stress about it as a whole; I’m sending them another text tomorrow and a memorandum about it, however, because... the month is almost finished, lmao)... since, fuck, I have been pretty unlucky with my computers for more than a decade that, everytime a thing like this happens, it sends me to a spiral of anxiety because now I don’t have a “back up” computer at all... 

I hate this as much as you don’t know. When I got this laptop I thought I was lucky because it was smth I bought with my money, and honestly? it was a good deal and it was working perfectly (minus the initial disk error, minus the battery thing), but the year finished and left me with a bitter note when the thing became serious and had to reinstall the whole thing from scratch. I’m not sure what I am going to blame this time (if everything explodes into my face in a few days), since, again, I barely install ANYTHING and I’m cautious as hell and all that shit.

It freaking sucks.

[jungwonenthusiast]

hii can i request bestfriends heeseung and y/n who have never done anything together but one night while having a sleepover things just go in that direction 👀👀👀 (using prompts 8 & 12 please🥺)

A/N: this is such a cute concept i love it (u didn’t specify who says what so i chose lol i hope thats okay, I also made hee a soft dom)

Warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, cock warming

Word count: 3k

You tap lotion onto your face as Heeseung pulls his sheet mask off. He pats the remaining product into his skin.

“You don’t even need that,” you roll your eyes. “Your skin is already perfect.”

“Jealous?” he teases.

“Yes, I one hundred percent am.” you admit and he chuckles.

You finish up in the bathroom and then plop onto your bed. Heeseung leans over you and grabs the remote on your nightstand. He clicks to Bojack Horseman as always then lays down next to you, scrolling through his phone.

You kick him in the shin. “Gimme some space.”

He frowns and sprawls himself on top of you. “What, you don’t wanna love on me?”

You laugh and try to push him off. “I feel violated.”

He rolls away, chuckling.

You’re scrolling through tiktok together when a video of someone joking about porn comes up. You cackle and Heeseung looks at you.

“How do you know about that?” he asks, wide eyed.

“What do you mean?” you ask awkwardly.

“Do you watch porn?” he asks and you turn away from him, giggling.

“That’s a very private question.” you say, covering your face with your hands.

“So you do!” he exclaims and he’s blushing too.

You guys talked about sex occassionaly, only when you were sharing stories about hook ups though.

“What kind do you watch?” he says, only half joking and you punch him in the shoulder.

“That’s an extremely private question.” you say.

“I thought we were for lifers.” he replies and you laugh.

If he were a female friend you wouldn’t hesitate to tell her all of this, but for some reason he made you shy. You still remember when you became aware that he was a guy. It was the summer before tenth grade when he grew three inches, his voice dropped, and his shoulders began to broaden. It was the summer you became more aware of his masculinity and ever since then, things kind of changed. Not for the worse, things are just different now. 

You continue to scroll when another scandalous tiktok comes up. It said something about wanting to be dominated and taken control of.

You groan. “Why do I keep getting these things?”

“The for you page gives you things that it knows you’d like.” he remarks and you scrunch your nose at him. “What? I think it was pretty hot.”

You choke. “You’re a bottom?”

“No!” he guffaws. “I meant to be the giver in that situation.”

“Ohhh,” you say, trying not to get too embarrassed. The thought of him doing that to someone drove you a little insane.

“Are you?” he asks and you shove him.

“You weirdo.” you accuse and he holds his hands up.

“I just think best friends should know these things about each other.”

You shrug him off and turn your phone off. “I don’t trust my phone anymore, let’s watch yours.”

You scoot over to him and rest your head on his shoulder.

He scoffs. “I thought you wanted space?”

“Are you complaining?” you tease.

“Of course not.” He fake yawns to get his arm around you and you cackle.

He taps a gentle beat onto your shoulder while scrolling through instagram. You can’t help but tense up in his embrace. He had been a bit more touchy than usual lately; random hugs, playing with your fingers, adjusting your clothes, and tying up your shoelaces whenever he could.

“Wow I do not like this.” he says at someone’s prom outfit.

“Me neither,” you frown. “It’s kind of outdated.”

“When’s our prom?” he asks.

“I think in a month.”

“We’re going together right?” he asks and your heart skips a beat. You figured that you’d go together but him asking you made you anxious.

“Yeah,” you try to sound confident.

“Are we gonna coordinate our outfits?” he lightly squeezes your side and you squeal.

“But we’re not going as a couple.” you say and he rolls his eyes.

“So? It’d be weird to show up together with mismatched outfits.” he says and you nod in agreement. “Do you have an idea of what you wanna wear?” he asks.

“I think I wanna go more simple and do black.” you say and he groans.

“You always wear black dresses.”

“And? I look hot in them.” you defend.

“You’re right you’re right.” he accepts defeat and you giggle.

As the night goes on you slowly slump further into Heeseung’s side. At one point his arm goes numb so you scooch in front of him and rest your back against his chest. You’ve gotten used to being so close to him, and at this point you just wanted more.

His arms are wrapped loosely around you as you watch Coraline on the tv. He reaches up to run his hand through his hair but instead punches you decently hard in the boob. You yelp and hold your chest.

“Ahh! Sorry sorry!” he holds your shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

You can’t help but laugh through your pain. “Trying to make me lose a boob or something?”

“Noo, no I’m sorry, forgive me.” he asks, sounding genuinely worried.

Sure you were exaggerating your reaction, but what’s wrong with having a little fun with him.

You elbow him in the side and he cries out.

“Revenge.” you say with a smug smile.

He waits a moment before grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back. He’s always stronger than you would’ve guessed. You yell as he climbs on top of you and begins to tickle your sides.

You kick around and try to push him off but he won’t budge.

“Get off, I’m dying!” you cackle from his relentless tickling.

“You asked for it.” he says.

“I thought we promised no tickle fights?” you grab a pillow to protect yourself but he’s quick to chuck it away.

“I had my fingers crossed.” he jokes.

You muster all of your strength and hook your leg around him to get him onto his back, a trick Jungwon taught you.

Without thought, you climb on top of him and pin his hands down. It take you a moment to realize what position you’re in. You both freeze for a second before bursting out laughing.

You fall onto your back, holding your chest.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, laughing. “Some fifty shades of gray type of shit.”

You kick him in the shoulder. “I’m sorry!” you say through a fit of giggles. You try to push yourself up but your legs are bent in a way that makes it a little tough. Heeseung assists you and pulls you up into a sitting position by your waist.

You’re still giggling a bit when you feel his nose brush against yours.

“Hi.” you whisper and he waits a moment before gently pushing his lips against yours. Your heart leaps into your throat but you try to stay calm as possible.

He pulls away (to your disappointment) and looks at you with wide eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry-” he says and before he can finish your hold his face and kiss him back. His arms snake around your waist and he pulls you flush against him.

You can’t believe that this is happening. You wonder if all the things you’ve fantasized about would happen tonight. Of course not, you’re crazy, you think. But you could already imagine with hands adventuring your body, touching you just how you like it.

Your fingers dip into the back of his shirt collar. You’re barely touching his skin, but it still feels so special.

His lips move to your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck. Your breath becomes increasingly ragged as his kisses become more open mouthed and messy.

He looks up at you. “Is this okay? Like do you want this?”

You nod eagerly and he smiles. “Cute.” he says to himself.

He gently rests you onto your back and traces your waist before pushing your top up. He peppers kisses all over your stomach and ribs before getting to the band of your bralette.

You blush. “I would’ve worn something nicer if I knew this was gonna happen.”

He shakes his head. “I like it, it’s pretty.”

You tug your shirt over your head along with your bra. He lets out a small gasp and you rush to cover yourself.

“Wait, no no.” he pulls your hands away.

“You’re making me shy.” you turn your head away and he chuckles.

“So perfect.” he says before softly kissing your chest.

You let out a small moan while running your fingers through his hair.

He slowly runs his tongue over your nipples while rubbing your sides. You can feel wetness starting to pool in your underwear.

You instinctively swivel your hips, looking for some kind of stimulation and he smiles.

“Do you need something?” he asks teasingly and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“Yeah,” you answer.

“What is it?”

You shake your head out of embarrassment.

“Well you’re gonna have to tell me or I’m just gonna leave you like this.” he says nonchalantly and you sigh.

You swallow your pride. “Touch me, please?”

“Attagirl.” he says and tugs your shorts off. “Show me how you like it.”

Your eyes widen. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” he says. “Show me first.”

You breathe in nervously before sliding your hand into your underwear. You circle your clit once and do your best to hold in a moan. He pulls your underwear to the side to watch you.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” he asks. “When you’re home alone and it’s late at night?”

You nod sheepishly and he smiles. “What do you imagine?”

“I’m not telling you,” you blush. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. If you tell me, I'll tell you what I think about too.” he suggests and you accept the deal.

“I-I imagine my fingers being yours,” you swallow thickly.

“Mhm,” he encourages you while gingerly kissing your thighs.

“And,” you hesitate for a moment. “I imagine your tongue on me, and you filling me up. What about you?”

He smiles. “I imagine touching you like this,” he rubs his hands down your thighs and reaches up to pinch your nipples. “I imagine kissing you here,” he kisses your inner thigh, “and here,” he kisses you so close to where you need him the most and you quiver. He grabs your hand and pushes your fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widen and he smirks. “You taste good.”

You nearly cum just from seeing and hearing that.

“I imagine doing this.” He lowers his head and licks a gentle stripe up your pussy. Your thighs snap around his head and he pushes them back open.

“Relax sweetheart, let me make you feel good.” he says before delving into you. Your back arches off the bed right away and your fingers find his hair. Goddamn he’s good.

He circles his tongue on your clit, hungrily but still gently.

“Fuck,” you exhale and he smiles.

He pushes a finger into you with ease and soon adds another. You roll your hips against his tongue as his fingers pump in and out of you. You whimper as the overwhelming pleasure runs through your body.

“Oh my god,” you squeak as your legs begin to shake. Already? You think.

His fingers stay at a steady pace as he messily sucks on your clit. You tug at his hair and he moans into you.

“Please don’t stop.” you beg and he obeys.

Your hips begin to lift off the mattress and he pins you down, keeping you in place. Your orgasm pours through you like sweet syrup, leaving you trembling under him.

He comes up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself. You wipe your juices off his chin with your thumb then lick it off.

He watches you in awe. “God you’re hot.”

You pull his hoodie over his head and push him onto his back. Your fingers trace his shoulders, then his waist, and every muscle on his torso. You kiss him down to the band of his sweats before pulling them down along with his Calvins.

His cock springs up and hits his lower stomach. You slowly kiss up his shaft then waste no time getting him in your mouth. He hisses and caresses your hair.

He hits the back of your throat every time you bob your head but you don’t care. His head drops back with a tempting moan.

“Fuck you’re good.” he says with a small smile.

You stroke the inches you can’t reach with your hand.

You wish you could imprint this image of him in your mind: his head lulling back, his adam's apple bobbing every time he swallows, his brows furrowing, his mouth parting open. You’re almost tempted to take a photo.

You take him all the way into your throat and swallow around him. The moan he lets out sounds better than a song.

You look up at him and watch him rake his hand through his hair. His abs contract every time you come down on him.

“Just like that,” he purrs, sending heat straight to your core.

You feel so dirty with your spit dripping down your chin but at the same time, it feels so good.

“Such a good girl,” he coos. “Sucking this cock so well.”

You nod at him and he smiles.

“Come here,” he pulls you into a position where he can reach you better and squeezes your ass. He tenderly traces his fingers down your spine before slowly pushing two fingers into you. You whine on his cock and he smirks.

“Still so wet.” he says while slightly curling his fingers, you jolt and he chuckles. “Feels good huh?”

You nod and he pets your hair. “Keep going, that’s it.”

His fingers pick up the pace as your sucking and licking becomes more sloppy.

His moans become more desperate and when he expects you to pull off you keep your head down, taking his cum down your throat.

“Did you just swallow?” he asks you, still breathing heavy.

You nod with a smile and he pulls you into a passionate kiss.

He flips you onto your back, eagerly kissing down your body before lining himself up with your entrance.

“Fuck me please,” you exhale and he smiles.

“Of course,” he pushes into you and you whine from the feeling. He stretches you out just right. “God you have good pussy.” he moans and you giggle.

He leans down to kiss you and you whimper into his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” you plead and he kisses your neck, sucking and nibbling to leave a hickey. “People are gonna see.” you say and he smiles.

“That’s the point.” he says. "Don’t you want people to know how good you are for me?”

You blush and nod.

“Give me one too sweetheart.” he says softly while leaning over you.

You rub up and down his sides while gently biting and licking at his neck, leaving a pretty red blush on his neck.

His fingers trail down to circle your clit while grinding his hips into yours. Your eyes roll back as he does so and he smiles. He can’t stop thinking about how captivating you are. He can’t take his eyes off you. Which gives him an idea.

He grabs your jaw and turns it to the mirror next to your bed. “Look at yourself.” he says.

Your heartbeat quickens, not used to seeing yourself in this state.

“Look how good you take it.” he says and you can’t deny it, you look hot as fuck.

He looks at you watching his cock disappear in and out of your cunt. You drag your hands over your waist and go to roll your nipples between your fingers.

His fingers are so slick on your clit from your juices and everything feels so good that you can’t really believe it.

He grabs onto the headboard for leverage and he looks so fucking good like this. Ever since he turned your head to the mirror, you can’t look away. You only turn to face him when your legs begin to shake and the fire in your stomach starts to dance.

“Please don’t stop,” you say with sparkling eyes. “I’m close.”

“Cum for me sweetheart,” he says right by your ear. “Be good.”

That alone sends you over the edge.

You’re back arches and your eyes roll back as your orgasm surges through you. He moans into your neck as he releases into you. You’re still pulsing around him when he finishes.

He kisses your cheeks as you come down for your high. “You did so well princess.”

You can’t help but cling to him and he chuckles. “I have to pull out of you eventually.”

“I like the way you feel.” you whine and he smiles.

You opt to cock warm him. He lays on his back and pulls you on top to straddle him. He gently pushes into you as you lay on his chest and enjoy the feeling.

He strokes your back and kisses your shoulder for a bit before he starts to subdtley thrust up into you.

You give him a look and he smiles at you sheepishly. “Wanna go again?”

[dressed-euphoric]

The Collaring

By. Euphoric Dressed

A man found himself awake in a strange situation. Forced to trod along with a process of "collaring", he undergoes a dandy change.

Author's Note: The short story was inspired by a prompt post by @hypnosisuit. I haven't encounter any stories written of such so thought I'd take a try with my imagination. The story was written in 1 day as I had a lot of fun with it. As such, I apologize if there's more grammar issues than usual. The inspiration photo, not prompt, is included at the end. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the short story!

Word Count: 3080

This is not happening. No way is this all real. This is a dream. This is a dream. Wake up. Wake the goddamn up!

I could hear my heartbeat, my breath, my confusion that surrounded itself in the midst of the hallway that I stood in. The poorly lit wall was covered with floral designs, contrasted with the hallway white rug underneath my running shoes. To make it worse, the light bulbs on the wall struggled for their life, as each would erratically flicker and then falsely lit bright. 

One moment, I woke up in a secluded room with no windows. Then the next, I ran out the door and here I was, standing in the middle of this eerily situation.

Fuck. Shit. What the hell. Every damn curse word I knew poured out of my head. It was the first time in my life that many concurrent curse words escaped my mouth.

“Sir.” A voice announced itself behind me.

“Fuck!” My body jolted as I quickly turned around and faced the voice.

A man that seemed to be in his 40s stood to face me. His face was clean shaven, and his hair was nicely combed. He was taller than me by a few inches and his body was much more well built compared to mine. 

But what distinguished him was the clothes he wore. A blue tie matched with an outdated white high-collared dress shirt, tucked into a sharply creased black trouser. His black oxfords were well polished and even shined in the atmospheric hallway.

“Sir. You have not been called yet and must remain in your room.”

“Where am I? Who are you? What the fuck am I doing here?” I blurted out, pleading for answers knowing that the man won’t give me what I wanted. On the other hand, my body was ready to run in an unwarranted situation. 

“I’d like you to calm down, sir.” The man responded.

“Tell me, where am I!?” I emphasized my question.

The man stood still and stayed silent, as he contemplated the choices of his words. Then he moved his lips as carefully as he could upon his answer.

“You have been chosen for the collaring.” 

“The what?” 

“Looks like the boss is ready for you.” He suddenly commented.

My heart skipped. Whatever he had said didn’t sound too good. I turned around, and started running for it.

“Ouargh!!” I grunted out in pain, and my knees fell flat down to the ground. My scream of anguish echoes through the empty hallway. It was a pain that I had never felt before: a deliberate shock that cut through my body. 

“What did you do to me?” My body trembled, and my voice quiver. 

“Please do not run away, sir.” The man walked beside me and then in front. He bent down, reached his hands forward and gripped onto my arm.

Before I could retaliate, the man took out a piece of syringe and jabbed it into my arm. I slammed my eyes shut in anticipation of the pain.

Nothing. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it a drug? Was it to knock me out? The questions flooded my head in a span of a second.

I slowly opened my eyes, preparing myself for the worst outcome. But there the man stood with his hands still gripped onto my arm. I turned my head to the side, and there was the syringe on the floor.

I opened my mouth to curse at him, “what did you fucking do to me?” But silence escaped through my lips. A dread sense of the unknown settled into my stomach. Before my head could continue to process, the man gripped my hand and pulled me upwards, standing straight.

“Follow me.” He ordered.

He turned his back around me and started walking in what seemed to be an endless hallway. My feet stepped forward, and then another. I was following him. Why? Why!? Why was I following the man? 

My body wasn’t listening to me. 

Stop. Stop! Run. Run away. 

My commands to my body were useless, and instead it was the man’s words that were absolute. But that couldn’t be it, could it? No. There’s no way a drug out there exists: one that would make a man mindlessly follow another around. 

“There you are!” A voice exclaimed.

Who was that? What’s going on?

My mind quickly snapped back into reality as I stared upon another man, standing behind an opened door. 

My mouth slowly opened to speak, words wanting to gush out to fight the confusion. 

I was silenced.

No. That wasn’t it. It was that I couldn’t find the words.

I stared astonished at the man in front of me. It was an older gentleman, who was very well dressed. 

His hair was neatly parted and combed. It was a shade of a darker brown but consisted of small white streaks. His brown eyes stared at me, and it spoke volume about the man: fierce, strong, and commanding.

It didn’t help that his charcoal suit was well fitted. He wore a clean crisp white dress shirt with a dark navy tie, under his buttoned jacket. His purple pocket square gleam with elegance in his jacket pouch. Finishing his outfit were his polished shiny brown oxfords. 

“Thank you for escorting him here. You may take your leave.” The older gentleman spoke clearly and firmly.

“Thank you, sir.” My escort politely bowed to the older gentleman and turned his back upon us, walking off into the distance.

My heart pounded and raced against the time. What was going to happen to me? This isn’t real. It’s all fictitious. I need to wake up. This is just one big ludicrous nightmare. 

“Come on in.” The older gentleman said. 

I took a second to stare at him as he stared back at me. Part of the hesitation was the situation itself but what won in the end, was the pain I felt a moment ago. 

So I walked in with a lump in my throat, a rock in my stomach, and a zip on my lips. My destiny was sealed; I was doomed. 

I was greeted with a warmly lit room with a window in the center of the back wall. Two wooden bookshelves laid against the wall on the left and right of the window. Daylight was still out as it shone in the middle of the room, a large circular rug. On top of that rug was an armchair, with two end tables on each side. Across from the chair, was an already lit fireplace. Strangely enough, there was a modern flat tv mounted above the fireplace. 

I then darted my attention to the older gentleman as he walked to a wooden table behind the armchair. I stared and observed the items. A pile of carefully folded clothes and what looked to be shoes right next to the pile. After that, were some items that I couldn’t fully dissect as I was obstructed by the older gentleman.

He motioned me to come forward to him with his finger. I wanted to protest, to resist, to fight against this screwed up situation. But the look on the man told me he was not going to play around. So I slowly stepped forward to the man.

“To be finely dressed is to have the utmost respect for yourself. You are a man, and while you may choose not to wear a suit everyday, you must still hold yourself to a high standard of what’s acceptable.” The older gentleman declared. “Now strip.”

“Wh - What?” My voice finally croaked up to the man’s words. 

“No jeans, shorts, shirts, and especially no running shoes.” He said firmly.

Who does the man think he was to declare such monstrosity? 

“Strip. Now.” 

I quickly nodded in defeat, in fear of his voice and what he could do after that running incident. How could I let him do this to me? I bashed myself for not having enough courage to fight. Was I a coward? I quickly pulled off my t-shirt and slipped my running shoes off. I reached for the zips on my jeans and pulled them off. Then I bent down and pulled my shorts socks off. I stared at him, standing with my briefs. 

“Off.”

My heart sank. He was a man of little words. and with the apparent goal of humiliating me. I looked down to my body and noticed my hands and legs were trembling. I looked back up to the man, and his body confirmed his statement: he wants them off.

I slowly reached down to my briefs and pulled them under, slowly revealing my flaccid cock. He had me at his whims, and there was nothing I could do about it. There I was, forsaking away my manhood to the man in front of me. He had stolen it. He had shown that I was willing to do what the man speaks.

The brief dropped to the ground and I was truly silent, staring at the older gentleman. His eyes looked up and down, observing me like I was a specimen. I even caught him staring at my cock for a couple of seconds. 

“Moments from now, you will be a greater asset to yourself and to society.” The man proclaimed.

How dare he? All sorts of emotions flared through me as I stood naked in front of the man. My body tensed with anger. 

“Put these on.” He grabbed two pieces of garments off the table, and handed it to me. I looked down and stared at what he was making me do. A piece of white brief and a white tank top. I gripped them hard on my hands.

I was a coward. 

I bent down and succumbed to the man. I pulled the white briefs up and then the tank top over me. Instinctively, my body tucked the white tank top into the brief.

“Good. You’re starting to look proper.” He commented, as he gave me the next piece of clothing.

A pair of long gray ribbed dress socks. 

I had never worn dress socks nor worn long ones. I had no desire to, but I simply stared and conformed to the man’s words. I pulled them through my feet as the man simply watched. Then, I pulled them up beyond my calves.

Before I could get another chance to brace myself, he had already handed me the next piece of garment.

A white neckband dress shirt.

I had never seen such a dress shirt without a collar. Where was the collar? I put it on for the sake of the older man. My hands slowly trembled as it moved to button each of the buttons of the dress shirt, signing away my will to the older gent. As I finished, the next piece of clothing was already in my peripheral vision.

A gray trouser.

I was becoming like them. I was going to be dressed like them. And it humiliates me to do what my captor wanted. I didn’t understand the man’s goal, why would he make me dress like them? I didn’t understand anything in the first place. I simply oblige and put the gray trousers on. Then he dropped something in front of me.

A pair of brown loafers. 

I gulped. He wanted me to descend into them, and so my will shall. My feet sipped into the loafers and it went down comfortably and smoothly. It was a perfect fit. 

There, I finally looked like them, except I was missing a collar and, judging from these men, a tie.

He simply grinned at me with pride as he observed his dressed up doll. There was nothing left in me. No fight. No words. And maybe no emotions left. After all, I was stuck, and I’ve lost. 

“Good. Good!” He praised his work.

He walked to the armchair, “come, sit.” 

Like a dog, I simply followed his orders as it felt like I had nothing to lose. Even though there was still a sense of resentment and even a burning desire to fight, I couldn’t let myself go through. The fear of pain. So I sat on the armchair as he had instructed.

As soon as I sat down, the TV instantly turned on. There was an attractive man shown with a suit and a top hat. His lips moved and his words spoken.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see a single thing on the TV. I wanted it all to be over with. The words that he spoke turned gibberish as I blocked them out. 

I could feel something attaching to me on my neck. A collar. The older gentleman attached and buttoned the collar onto my neckband dress shirt. Then like a switch, everything became clear. The words on the TV started to paint a picture within my head. 

Home. I thought of home. For the first time since this madness, I smile at such a thought. I would walk into the door and be greeted with a warm sense of security and control. I would take my running shoes off.

No, that wasn’t right. I didn’t have any running shoes; in fact, I hated wearing them as they tarnish the image of a proper man.

Instead, I’d pulled off my beloved polished oxfords and set it next to my finely dressed shoe collection: from loafers, to brogues and oxfords. Classy and timeless and what should’ve been the expectation for years, before the world went casual. 

I’d take off my suit jacket and wander around the house with my dress shirt, tie, and trousers. I would read my news and drink my coffee, or tea whenever I feel like it. I’d make sure to look into the mirror and adjust accordingly. Whether my collar is on right, or my tie needs to be straightened, or I just needed to recomb my hair. 

I affirmed myself to the thoughts. It felt right. It felt correct. Like a man once said, “to be finely dressed is to have the utmost respect for yourself.”

“No jeans, shorts, shirts, and especially no running shoes.” A voice called out to me. 

I opened my eyes and stared back at the TV. The man on the TV was right. Those weren’t needed in my wardrobe. 

The man continued speaking on the TV, and I nodded along to his statement. I agreed with him. Men have lost the value of tradition, and the days where every man was finely dressed. I was to revitalize the lost art.

I could imagine it: a wardrobe consisting of only fine wear. There will no longer be t-shirts and instead, dress shirts. No more jeans, only dress trousers. There will be a plethora of ties waiting for me. But I can’t forget the most important of them all, the collars. 

Why didn’t I find the man sooner? He and I shared such similar values and beliefs. The man would have taught me so much. 

I felt another hand probing my neck as it was to attach the next thing. The older gentleman was tying a blue tie upon my collar. Then he swiftly completed me with the knot. That was what’s missing. I was missing the tie. 

“Thank you,” I thanked the older gentleman.

“Sir.” I quickly added, forgetting my manners.

My eyes quickly glued back onto the TV. This time, he talked about the etiquette, and the manners I was to show to others. I nodded along with each and every statement, ingraining them into my head. 

His words were like the gospel, and every sentence was an awakening within me. I looked down and observed my blue tie, my collared dress shirt, my gray trousers, socks, and brown loafers. 

I enjoyed them to say the least. No. That wasn’t it. Something about the program, something about the collar, had awakened me. It was excitement. It was gratitude. It was lust. I truly enjoyed the clothes and my manhood reflected it. I could feel it already erected under my trousers. 

I thought of the older gentleman that was working on me. He was plain astonishing and his clothes refined it. The escort that carried me in, I couldn’t believe it but I was starting to find him attractive as well. 

“This is proper.” I mumbled to myself.

A wide grin popped on my face as I stared at my brown loafers. As they said, clothes and shoes makes a man.

The older gentleman rubbed something behind me and then plopped it down to my head. I didn’t know what it was but it was gooey. I let the older gent have his way with my hair as he started to comb my hair. All I knew was that the older gentleman was guiding me. 

I continued to watch the TV, making sure I didn’t miss the program. 

“Yes sir.” I responded back to the TV.

“Yes.”

“That’s right.”

“Couldn’t speak truer words.”

Slowly and steady, the man’s words eroded into me, bringing along with it his beliefs and his values. I was collared and conformed to be a traditionalist, and I’m proud to be. That is who I am.

—

“You’re leaving, sir?” The gentleman asked as I approached the door. It was the gentleman who had escorted me to my awakening.

“Yes, indeed I am.” I replied with a smile.

He opened the door and held it for me as I stepped by him.

“I was instructed to give you this.” The gentleman said as he held out a beige trench coat and a top hat, “the boss has also sent you a couple of new clothes for you when you’ve returned home.” 

“He sends everyone a welcome present, due to the mass removal of undesired clothes.” The gentleman added, “I, and the boss, sincerely hope that you enjoy the gift.” 

“Thank you.” I expressed my sincerity and grabbed the two offered pieces, “I definitely will enjoy the gift.”

He offered to slip the trench coat on me and I accepted. I spread my arms wide and he slid it through. Then he handed me the top hat, which I grabbed and placed it on top of my neatly combed hair.

“It’s nice to have you, sir.” The gentleman said, “have a good day.”

“I’m glad to be here. You too now.” 

I was a new man with a new view in life. I smiled as I felt the collar on my neck and felt the newfound clothes on my skin. This is me.

=====

Inspiration Photo from hypnosisuit

It was meant to be. A piece of paper guided along the winds and towards your direction. As it followed the whispers of wanted temptation, it was caught by your hands, and you glanced at the poster with interest. 

“We would like to collar you.” It reads.

What would you like to do?

[cdroloisms]

I really love when people write about c!wilbur manipulating c!dream so I was wondering if you could write on about the smp realizing that c!wilbur manipulated c!dream into being a lap dog for him but a hell lot of trouble for then and if you could add c!wilbur taking advantage of the fact that dream is a god during a fight that would make my day. Hope you have a great day.thank you. Love your work.

ooh yeah - c!wilbur is back and GGG-ing as good as ever, , which Really makes you think abt what it’s gonna be like when he interacts with c!dream again. this ended up being a little more c!sapnap centric than i intended, hope that’s alright haha. (and thank you so much for the kind words!) 

tw: implied abuse, torture, drowning, dismemberment, manipulation, unhealthy relationships, emotional distress, dark content, prison arc/pandora’s vault, c!sapnap critical? not really?, dark portrayal of c!wilbur (typical MAD duo shenanigans)

Sapnap isn’t expecting to find anyone when he storms out in the middle of the night - he’s tense, they all are after the fiasco at the prison, but really his thoughts are filled with Karl once again going inexplicably radio silent for days on end and Quackity ignoring all of his questions with a simple “i’m busy” that he’d failed to follow up even twelve hours later, so Dream and Wilbur and whatever the hell happened that left Pandora’s Vault - obsidian, indestructible, tall and dark and proud - half-crumbled and sunken into the sea are just about the last things on his mind.  

Even so, he’s not an idiot, so he had enough foresight to pack a few potions and gather his armor and weapons before stepping into the summer night - it’s cool under the moonlight, a soft breeze cutting through the otherwise stifling weight of the humid air, and the comfortable night is enough to make his anger die down, just a little. Kinoko Kingdom glows soft and warm from the lanterns Foolish had scattered all over the place, thick with the earthy smell of fungus and flowers, and he takes a deep breath before walking to the city outskirts to hopefully clear his mind.

He’s no stranger to late-night walks; his temper had always been fiery, even as a child, and he’d figured out pretty early on that the easiest way to deal with it was to walk or run until his brain was too tired to think anymore. Walking at night also meant he could take out some of his frustration on mobs as well as the satisfaction of setting a random patch of forest on fire without worrying about burning down someone else’s property, and once he got good enough with a sword and shield to come and go relatively unscathed, Bad had stopped his worrying enough to let him do whatever as long as he came back in time in the morning. Sapnap frowns as he hacks at a random branch in his way with an axe, watching as it falls in a spray of leaves and crashes to the ground; he hasn’t seen Bad in a while, not since he became obsessed with the whole Egg thing. Quackity had mentioned some cryptic things, and Karl was adamant that they avoid the Egg as much as possible, but he probably should’ve at least visited, or something. Bad always knew what to say when it came to messy things like this.

Though - Sapnap laughs wryly - it’d never been this bad, before. Karl distant and absent, Q somehow even more so with a new glint to his gaze that sent a shiver down his spine. George, usually asleep, never around, expression perpetually foggy like he doesn’t know where he was. Dream- evil, insane, awful, somehow so familiar it hurt and too much of a stranger to recognize. He wonders when it all got this bad. He wonders what it says about himself, that he didn’t notice until it was far too late.

“Fancy seeing you out here.”

Sapnap whirls around, sword drawn; the figure staring back at him doesn’t even flinch. His eyes narrow at the sight, stance widening, shoulders tense.

“Wilbur?” He keeps his voice wary, guarded, trying his best to keep surprise from coloring his tone. Wilbur grins at him, tight-lipped, the planes of his face faintly lit by the moon shining over them, facial features only barely visible in the dim light. Without really meaning to, Sapnap cranes his head to look around at the surrounding forest, but nothing moves or makes itself known outside of the figure still staring at him, smirking. “What- what are you doing here?”

And where’s Dream?

Because Sapnap might not know much about what went down at the prison and what Dream’s plans are and the whole mess that he’d been so desperate to put behind him and utterly failed at doing so, but what he does know is that the two of them - Dream and Wilbur, Wilbur and Dream - had been all but inseparable, strangely attached to each other in a way that spelled out nothing but trouble for the rest of them. The rest of the server had been compiling sightings of the two in the hopes of being able to stop whatever it was that they had planned, but Sapnap knows his former friend, brother, and even if he doesn’t know Wilbur, his reputation more than precedes him: the two of them are smart, not to mention paranoid as fuck, and the rest of them have a better shot shooting targets in the dark than figuring out whatever the hell was going on in their heads with the two of them working together. Either way, he knows that they’d never been sighted apart - it was always Wilbur standing on a hill with Dream sitting next to him, or Dream hacking through mobs as Wilbur followed, or the two of them stepping into a fortress and leaving minutes after - until now.

“Could ask the same of you,” Wilbur laughs, just a shade to the left of friendly, and the moonlight scatters through the leaves and glints off his glasses. “Don’t be so tense, man! I’m just going on a walk, thought I’d enjoy the night. Didn’t see anything like this in Limbo, you know.”

Sapnap winces at the reminder, that Wilbur is here and alive in defiance of law and reason and the universe itself, but Wilbur barrels on, seeming unaware of his unease.

“Anyway - how are you doing, man? Haven’t seen you around in a while.” He leans back, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, stance loose, relaxed. “I’d ask Dream, but he’s been in prison for a bit, you know? Most of what he knows is pretty - ah, outdated, not that I tell him that.”

“What are you planning?” Sapnap snaps, grip tightening around the handle of his sword. “You and Dream. What do you want?”

“Who’s to say we want anything?” Wilbur seems to grin wider, and the expression on his face is unsettling, makes something cold slither up his spine. He shakes his head to rid himself of the feeling, half-wishing it was brighter so he could better see the other’s eyes.

“I mean-” he stutters. Because Dream always wants, he almost says, bitter and angry, that all-too-familar swell of betrayal rising in his chest at Dream, forever insatiated, forever wanting, forever looking for more more more. Because if he were to escape, and if he were to want nothing, then what did that mean for the rest of them? Because if he didn’t want, if he wasn’t left wanting, then did Sapnap ever mean anything at all? The thoughts stick to his skull like tar, words clinging to the roof of his mouth as it goes dry. Wilbur seems to stare at him, unimpressed, and he feels his face go hot.

“He’s not- he’s dangerous, you know,” Sapnap says instead of answering, because untangling the awful, knotted feelings that make up his remaining ties with Dream, half-frayed and neglected and forgotten, is more work than he can handle and more emotions than he has the energy to bear. It doesn’t matter, in the end, because Dream is still dangerous; he knows that, resolutely, and maybe it’s lucky, that he found Wilbur without Dream whispering plans and manipulations and meaningless words by his side. It’ll give him a chance to warn Wilbur, bring him back to their side instead of risking his life (again) in the company of his friend-turned-tyrant. Dream is dangerous, whether he wants or not, because Dream is Dream and he’s been in too many manhunts to face him with anything less than one hundred percent confidence. “You don’t want to be with him, Wilbur. He’s hurt- so many people.”

Wilbur’s expression doesn’t change, seeming as indifferent to the words as ever; if anything, he looks a little amused. “Really,” he hums, almost to himself. “Dangerous, you say?”

“He’s Dream,” Sapnap insists, because it’s the truth, and it’s the simplicity of it, really. It’s Dream, and Dream is dangerous whether he’s on your side or not, forever ruthless and unheeding as long as he gets what he wants. He’d been in Wilbur’s place, once, convinced that Dream’s strategies and planning and infallible logic had meant they had no way of losing. He knows better, now. “You’ve fought him before! He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anything.”

And if the words are a little more bitter than they should be when he says that, who but he is going to notice?

Wilbur’s eyes stay on his, completely silent, expression unreadable. The quiet gets awkward quickly, Wilbur’s expression seeming unchanging, nothing but the faint rustling of the leaves around them to break the stillness of the air, and Sapnap feels his gut roll uncomfortably as he looks off to the ground, waiting for Wilbur to react in some way, any way. It’s hard, he knows, to realize that someone you thought was on your side had been using you the entire time, he’s been there before and he gets it, but- it’s still strange, how still Wilbur has become. How he still hasn’t reacted - is his expression going to change?

And suddenly, starting quiet and then swelling in volume, Wilbur begins to laugh.

“Goodness,” Wilbur drawls through his chuckles, voice low and dark and sending chills down his back. “I thought he was exaggerating, man - you really do hate him, don’t you?”

“What- what’s so funny?”

Wilbur smiles, teeth flashing white as the faint light from the moon bounces off of them, “I have to give you my thanks, truly. I’d thought that Quackity did the most of it, or Sam, but you- I really couldn’t have guessed.”

Sapnap’s head is spinning. Wilbur’s expression is positively gleeful, eyes dancing, smile wide and brilliant, bouncing from one name to another with little explanation to how any of them tie together. Sam? Quackity? Nothing is making sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh Sapnap,” Wilbur croons. “You really don’t know, do you?”

He twists his hand in a flippant gesture, eyes directed into the forest surrounding them.

“Let’s just say that his, ah- stay, in Pandora, wasn’t exactly what I’d call a five-star experience. But you know that, don’t you?” Wilbur directs a flat smile his way, and Sapnap swallows, throat dry. Briefly, images flash behind his eyes - walls, dripping with crying obsidian, the lava’s heat hard to bear at his back, even for him, mining fatigue pulling at his limbs and making them heavy. How startlingly bare the cell had been, even through the haze of his anger, Dream, slumped in a corner of the cell, barely moving, barely even breathing as it seemed sometimes, sunken-in cheeks and sagging shoulders speaking of nothing but a bone-deep exhaustion. “Apparently, being psychologically and physically tortured for months on end has an interesting effect on the human psyche. Even more so when, say, your best friend comes once in the entire time to tell you that he’ll kill you if you ever try to escape.”

“How-” he trips on his own words, lungs seizing, “how do you know that?”

“He tells me things. A lot of things, really. Did you know it takes one and a half regen potions to reattach an arm after it’s been cut off? It takes three and a half for a leg, he thinks, but the blood loss made it rather hard to remember.” Wilbur steps forward. “Did you know that scars created by healing potions tend to be much thicker and more prominent than those made by regens? Or that he can hold his breath for a little more than two minutes before passing out?” Wilbur smirks, jagged, threatening. “Did you know that I can tell him just about everything, and he’ll believe me because there’s no one else to tell him otherwise?”

“Wh- what?”

“I’ll be sure to tell him what you said; I’m sure he’ll love to hear how his brother is doing.” Wilbur waves. “And when you see Quackity, be sure to give him my thanks, will you?”

“Wilbur, what- come back-”

And with a flash of purple particles, Wilbur disappears, leaving Sapnap alone in the middle of the forest. Stasis chamber. His heart pounds in his ears, breathing all-too-loud, and he stares desperately at the empty space where Wilbur had stood like it’ll bring him back again.

Fuck, he swipes his hand across his face, startled when it comes back wet. What does he do now?

[helloalycia]

overstepping [one] // jane banner (Wind River)

summary: after getting several voicemails from your colleague and best friend with her asking for your backup, you attempt to call her back, only to get no answer.

warning/s: mentions of rape, murder and injuries.

author’s note: this is a two parter because i finally watched Wind River and it broke my heart but also lizzie was v cute and i felt the need to write this, hope you like it x

part two | masterlist | wattpad

"C'mon, work you stupid phone," I complained for the millionth time, before standing on the chair to get a better signal.

When I saw the bars in the corner of the screen increase, a grin appeared on my lips. I loved my parents, but the fact that they lived in a remote cabin in Tennessee with zero signal was not my favourite thing.

When the bars remained, my phone decided to actually be helpful and receive all the messages, calls and voicemails I missed. I did a brief flick through, noticing nothing was too important that couldn't wait for me to return to work. As an FBI agent, I rarely got time off. And now that I had taken a two month vacation to spend with my parents, I was adamant on enjoying it, even if I was missing work a smidge.

Next were the calls, which I noticed were mostly from my colleague and close friend, Jane Banner. I furrowed my brows, realising she'd left me several voicemails, too, which was strange since she knew I was on a break from work. What could be so important?

I sighed, glancing down at my uncomfortable position standing on the chair and leaning above the wardrobe. It was the only place in the house with decent signal and the only other place that wasn’t in the middle of nowhere was twenty minutes out. Telling myself I'd just listen to one voicemail to make sure everything was okay, I played the earliest message.

"Hey, Y/N. I'm sorry, I know you're on a break, but I just had to talk to you," it began, and Jane sounded troubled. "I was in Vegas, as you know, but I've been called out to a reservation in Wyoming where this poor girl was–" She paused, releasing a shaky breath. "She was raped and left to die out in the cold. I thought I could send in another team to take a look – y'know, usual protocol. But the coroner won't rule it a homicide and you know what that means."

I swallowed hard, knowing exactly what that meant. If it wasn't ruled a homicide, no backup would come and we had to move onto the next case. But if this girl was raped and left to die, the rapist was still out there and wasn't getting caught by the FBI.

"I can't just leave it and go," Jane continued quietly, with that recognisable passion for her job evident in her voice. "I have to do what I can. But I... I can't do this alone. It's not like other cases, Y/N. It's different out here. And there's only so much their police department can do. I know you're on a break, but I was hoping that, maybe, you could come out here and help me? It's the Wind River Indian Reservation. That's it, I guess. Bye."

The message ended and I found myself chewing on my lower lip anxiously, unable to think about anything other than Jane now. She'd worried me with that one voicemail alone – I couldn't imagine what the others said.

She was usually so good at dealing with cases, but this seemed different. She sounded shaken up, attempting to put on a brave face by the sounds of it. What was so different about this case? She didn't need me. She was capable.

Curiosity got the better of me and I played the second message, ignoring the discomfort in my arms as I stretched to maintain the signal. It was left a day after the first one.

"Hey, so I just remembered that you said you don't get much signal up there with your parents," she began apologetically. "I don't mean to– shit, it's so cold..." There was a pause, a noise in the background, then she continued, "Sorry, just turning up the heating. Anyway, I was saying. I don't mean to intrude on your break. I just– I'm hoping you'll find signal and hear this because I could really use your help. I think we've got a lead on who may have done it. It was hectic today. Really could've used that backup."

She chuckled dryly at her attempt at a joke, but all I felt was guilt. She sounded exhausted within a day of being there.

"I hope you get this," she finished with a sigh. "I should go. Got a busy day tomorrow. Hope you're doing okay. Bye."

I wasted no time in playing the next message. Three days into her case.

"I don't know why I keep sending these," she began with a hoarse voice, and my heart clenched at the sound of it. "You clearly aren't getting them in time. But it's easier talking to you like this than not at all."

It went quiet, so quiet that I thought she may have finished and forgot to hang up. But then she spoke up again, a whimper escaping her lips.

"It's so hard," she admitted. "We've covered worse cases, but this one... everything about it makes me uncomfortable. Something doesn't feel right. I've got a lead – we think it might be the boyfriend who did it and we're gonna see him tomorrow. But I don't know."

I frowned, squeezing my phone tightly because I didn't recognise the girl speaking as my friend. This girl sounded broken and I wondered what she could have discovered that made her like this.

"I've got the police department with me for backup," she said with a sniffle. "And Cory, he's a hunter whose been helping me with the case. They're all gonna be with me tomorrow. But I wish you were here, too. You always make things easier."

The lump in my throat wouldn't disappear no matter how many times I swallowed it. She made things easier, too. Always. And all I wanted to was be by her side and be there for her like she always was for me.

"Sorry about this," she said with a watery laugh, and I could imagine the embarrassed smile on her face as she did. "I sound like such an idiot. Never mind these messages. Just enjoy your break. I shouldn't be worrying you like this. See you when you get back."

The message ended and I checked to see if there were anymore, but to my disappointment, there wasn't. That message was from a few days ago and she hadn't sent anything since which was concerning in itself.

Trying not to panic for no reason, I called Jane. Hopefully everything was okay and I was being stupid. She was a fully-trained FBI agent. She could take care of herself. Right?

The call rang and rang, but nobody picked up. One missed call. No biggie. She probably heard it and couldn't find her phone or something. So, I tried again.

More ringing and no answer. Okay, no big deal. Just try again.

Another call and no answer. The chewing on my lip became more intense. Why the hell wasn't she picking up? Was she still working the case?

I waited an hour, trying again at ten minute intervals, unable to fight my concern. But there was no answer every time and I realised that I couldn't sit and wait for her to call back. Not after how she sounded in those voicemails.

No, I had to go there. She needed backup.

—

Wyoming was way colder than I could have prepared for.

I mean, technically, I prepared for nothing. I bid my parents a goodbye, threw some random clothes in a bag and caught the next plane over there. I tried for Jane's phone constantly, knowing she was never one to ignore me for this long, but there was no point. She wasn't answering, which could only mean so much.

When I reached the reservation, I had no idea where anything was or what I was looking for exactly. I just knew that as soon as the taxi dropped me off in the centre of town, I didn't know where to go.

There were a lot of locals hanging around, so my first port of call was to ask them if they'd seen Jane around – or Agent Banner, as she may have introduced herself. I showed them a picture of her on my phone, described her with vivid detail, but they just stared at me like I was crazy. I was starting to believe I was at one point, until I stopped by the convenience store.

As worried as I was for Jane's whereabouts, the chill in my bones was real. Especially my hands, which I was certain would fall off any minute. So, I decided to buy some gloves and also ask the cashier if he'd seen Jane around or heard anything of her. Whilst I was doing that, a customer caught my attention, probably having overheard my conversation.

"Did you say Jane Banner?" he asked with a quirked brow, interrupting my purchase. "The FBI lady, right?"

I nodded quickly, facing him. "Yes, that's her! D'you know where she is?"

He nodded casually. "Yeah, she's in the hospital. That big shootout that happened a few days ago, right?"

My stomach dropped. "The what?"

"The shootout," he repeated, not aware of the concern in my face. "At the drill site. A bunch of officers were killed and the FBI lady was one of the only one left standing." He tutted as he shook his head. "Very lucky that one."

A shootout? The hospital? Only one left standing? No wonder she hadn't been answering her calls.

"Can you– do you–" I stopped, clearing my throat and trying to stop freaking out. "Which hospital?"

After getting the address from him, I caught a taxi to the only hospital in town and prayed to God that Jane was okay. The one thing she'd asked for was backup and I couldn't even give her that. If I'd just looked at my messages sooner... fuck.

Getting past the front desk and to Jane's room was no issue at all. A quick flash of my FBI badge was enough for the receptionist to give me the details and wave me through. My heart was constricting in my chest the longer it took. What if it was really bad? What if that customer's intel was outdated and Jane was– no. I couldn't afford to think like that.

Upon finding Jane's room, I spotted an older man leaving through the door, being careful to close it behind him. I didn't recognise him at all.

"Excuse me," I called, earning his attention. "Is that Jane Banner's room you just came from?"

He seemed surprised, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I was speaking to him, before nodding. "Yes. Sorry, who are you?"

I pulled my badge from my pocket and showed him, though I doubted anyone would take me seriously when my eyes were watering at thought of Jane being severely injured.

"I'm her friend," I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat before lowering my badge.

"Oh, you're the backup that didn't come," he said with realisation.

My eyes flickered to the floor guiltily. He wasn't exactly wrong.

"I didn't mean it like that," he added quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

I shook my head, lifting my eyes to meet his. "It's okay. I should've... I should've been here." It went quiet as he didn't know what to say, so I looked to him halfheartedly. "I assume you're from the police department, one of the ones who helped Jane."

"Not exactly," he said, before putting out his hand for me to shake. "Name's Cory. I'm a hunter by trade."

Returning his handshake, I recalled Jane's voicemail. "Oh, yeah, she mentioned you... thank you for helping her out."

When I couldn’t, I added in my head.

He offered me a small smile and I couldn't find it in myself to return it. I must have looked like shit, since he gave me a pitiful gaze.

"You want me to catch you up before you go in?" he asked, nodding to Jane's door. "She's okay by the way."

I nodded, sucking up a breath. My nerves were eating away at me the longer I didn't see Jane – half of me was terrified of what I'd find, and the other half was afraid she'd be upset or angry because I left her to it, even when she pleaded for my help.

Cory and I took a seat down the hall and he proceeded to explain about the case and how they found the guy who raped that poor girl. The shootout was the worst bit, making me shiver with discomfort. Apparently, Jane had gotten blasted with a shotgun, puncturing her torso and neck despite the vest she wore. All of the officers with her were killed and by the sounds of it, Jane almost was, too. But Cory managed to take out the criminals and the rapist himself. When he was finished telling me, I had no words.

"She's a bit shaken up, but her surgery went well," Cory reassured with a short nod. "Does she know you're coming?"

I shook my head, voice thick with emotion. "She wouldn't answer her phone. I guess I know why now."

Cory nodded, rubbing the back of his neck before sparing me a consoling glance. "She talked about you a lot. I think it'll cheer her up seeing you. You should go."

My eyes met his, teary and stinging with unshed tears. "Thank you so much."

He shrugged bashfully, but he didn't realise all that he'd done. I gave him a small, tight smile before standing up with a sigh. No point dwelling anymore – I had to see her.

Pushing my selfish feelings aside, I sucked it up and approached Jane's room. She would either want to punch me or not, but either way, I had to see if she was okay. And so, when I opened the door slightly, heart racing in my chest, said heart jumped in my throat at the sight of her.

She was laying on the bed with wires stuck in her and, only from what I could see, bandages were covering the side of her neck. I thought she was sleeping at first, but then her head tilted towards the door curiously, and bright blue eyes widened with disbelief.

"Y/N?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "What are you– how did you get here?"

I closed the door behind me and hesitantly approached her bedside, unable to stop my eyes from soaking in the sight of her. She looked so feeble and vulnerable and unlike how I saw her last. Then, Cory's words came back to me and I began to imagine the worst scenario of her getting shot, blood seeping from her wounds, the life draining from her eyes...

"Y/N," she called, and I looked to her startlingly, hoping I didn't look as troubled as I felt.

"Sorry," I said, clearing my throat. "I, er– the messages. Voicemail. I heard them and tried calling you back, but..."

She pursed her lips, exhaling with a wince and looking up at the ceiling, as if suddenly remembering she left messages in the first place.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," I said quietly, guilt seeping back in.

"No, no, don't be," she said, and I just about noticed the pink dusting her cheeks. "It's not your fault. I shouldn't have interrupted your vacation like that. I know you said you wanted a break and–"

"Jane, no, don't even say that," I cut her off, reaching for her hand in an instant. She looked my way, eyes flickering between mine nervously. I squeezed her hand gently and said, "I should have been here. You needed me and I– I didn't come. Maybe if I had, this could have ended differently."

She tried to smile, but I could see the discomfort in her eyes. "It's not that bad, honestly. It just looks bad."

I pressed my lips together, eyes falling to the bandage on her neck. Even though it was big and covered her wound, I could still make out the bruising around it from the impact of the shell. I didn't imagine the torso wound looking any different, and that thought alone made me regret leaving her alone. It was very much as bad as it looked; I knew that and she knew that.

Her lips trembled as she avoided my eyes, her own tearing up. I pushed away my guilt momentarily and changed the subject.

"So, I met Cory. He seems like a great guy."

She didn't say anything as she seemed lost in thought. Either that or she was trying not to cry in front of me. I hoped it wasn't the latter, since the last thing I wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable.

"You know," I said, when she wouldn't speak, "I'm pretty sure I told you to stay safe before I left for my vacation."

At my poor attempt to lighten the mood, she cracked a small, tight smile, but a smile nonetheless, and my racing heart slowed down momentarily.

"I'm glad you're okay," I said, now that I had her attention again, and she looked my way with a softened expression. "Kind of okay. But you know... okay."

Thankfully, she knew what I meant and her hand tightened around mine.

"I'm glad you came," she returned, and I couldn't look away even if I tried. She was always able to trap me with a single gaze.

With a tug of her hand, she motioned for me to sit on the edge of her bed, so I did. And then she began to ask me about my vacation, what I'd been up to this past month, how my parents were... basically anything and everything except for the case. And it was understandable, since she was reminded of it all the time. If I could be a form of escapism for her, so be it. It was the least I could do.

We spoke for hours until the nurse came in to let me know visiting hours were over and I'd have to come back tomorrow. With a regretful sigh, I got up from my seat on her bedside and stretched my limbs.

"Where are you staying?" she asked, a slight frown on her lips.

I smiled awkwardly, realising I didn't think that far ahead. "I'm not gonna lie, I don't know. I came straight here. There's gotta be a hotel or something in this town, right?"

She nodded and flicked her hand to the shelves on the other side of the room. "You should stay in my room in the inn. Key's in my bag over there."

"Oh, I don't have to do that–"

"Y/N, it's not like I'm going to be staying there anytime soon," she cut me off, smiling halfheartedly. "Please."

I chewed on my lip and nodded, giving in. When I grabbed her keys from her bag, I stopped by her bedside and gave her a supportive smile.

"I'll back first thing in the morning, if you don't mind," I said, and she finally gave me a smile that reached her eyes.

"I'd like that."

I nodded, resting a hand on hers and squeezing comfortingly. "Goodnight."

—

Though I knew Jane was okay, I still couldn't stop myself from thinking about her all night. The sight of her wounds and the broken expression on her face was enough to keep me awake. And the guilt that came with it all... why couldn't I have just picked up my damn phone?

As promised, I returned to Jane's hospital room the next morning, this time bringing some breakfast snacks from the hospital cafeteria since I knew the food would be much better than whatever they were serving her. Judging by the content expression on her face when I gave it to her, I was right.

When she finished eating, she was able to sit up slightly and move over on her bed, urging for me to join her and watch some TV with her. There was no way I was going to turn down that offer, so I slid next to her and kept a packet of sliced apples between us as we watched whatever was playing on the TV.

About halfway through watching, she spoke up randomly, taking me by surprise.

"When are you leaving?"

I tore my gaze from the screen and realised she was staring at me with intense green eyes.

"When you're well enough to," I answered truthfully.

She looked down to her hands. "You don't have to stay with me. You can go."

I studied her profile, knowing it was the wrong time to appreciate how stunning she looked even when she was makeup-free, sporting a bed head and tired.

"Do you want me to go?" I asked softly, afraid I may have overstepped.

She was quick to shake her head slightly, finally lifting her gaze to meet mine with glossy ones. "No."

I nodded, trying very hard not to smile, cleared my throat and grabbed her hand. "Then I'm not leaving. I'll be right here until you get better and I can take you home."

A ragged breath escaped her lips as she nodded in response. We both looked back to the TV and I noticed she didn't let go of my hand, her fingers warm to the touch and giving me goosebumps at the contact. But I wouldn't have had it any other way.

[rhinozilla]

Detroit: Become Family 2022 - Prompt 8: Confidence

@dbh-found-family

Despite Connor’s arguments that there was technology that would make lawn maintenance more efficient, Hank had continued to push back. He had one small autonomous mower: one of those first or second generation models that was well past its prime. It made little wobbly buzzing noises as it mowed the yard, but Hank had to admit he’d developed a fondness for the outdated old thing.

No, he’d argued against Connor’s statements, he preferred to maintain his yard manually. Some therapist back in the day had tried to tell him that doing stuff with nature—gardening or weeding or whatever—could have positive effects on his mental health. He’d ignored the professional at the time, but now that he was…now that things were different…he was loathe to admit that she’d been right.

Something about the feeling of dirt and grass in his hands, the sun on his back, and the smell of the earth in his nose was just…soothing. Yeah, it took longer to pull weeds and pick up sticks and trim trees by hand, but it kind of forced him to be alone with his thoughts during these times. And not always in a downward-spiral kind of way, but just a…Hell, he didn’t know how to describe it. It was a pleasant escape from digital screens and phone messages and techno-noise.

By the quiet, contemplative way that Connor was assisting him in the yard, they were both benefitting from that effect.

“Hank…How do I make new friends?”

Aw shit…Too much contemplating.

Hank hid his cringe under the brim of his baseball hat, wiping sweat from his jaw with the side of his wrist before chancing a look over at the android. They were working on either end of the landscaping that surrounded the air conditioner unit, working their way toward each other by pulling weeds and lining up the brick edging that time had knocked eschew.

“Uh…not sure I’m the best person to ask, son,” he grunted in answer. “I’ve isolated almost every person who’s ever given a shit about me, but, uh…hey, you managed to make a friend out of me, so you seem to be…pretty good at…Why are you asking me that?” he asked, cutting off his own rambling.

Connor frowned, wiping dirt from his hands onto the knees of his jeans. He looked like some fashion magazine’s idea of what “manual outdoor labor” was supposed to look like: neatly kneeling in the grass, nearly-clean clothes, perfect hair, and not a drop of sweat on him. The bastard.

“I just…I feel as though I’ve made positive progress in my work relationships among our colleagues at the station. The human officers have become much more friendly and receptive to my input on cases. The android staff as well are beginning to trust me and…one of them even smiled at me yesterday.”

Hank bobbed his head, keeping his expression solemn even as a bubble of pride welled up in his chest. It was a relief hearing how Connor had begun to overcome the others’ mistrust and anger toward him for his history as the Deviant Hunter.

“However,” Connor went on. “I feel as though…that’s where it ends. I hear them speak among themselves about times that they spend together outside work hours at…at social outings. They all appear to have friendships built among each other that don’t end with the workday. The androids at the station do that too. And…I…” Connor exhaled as he seemed resigned to confess his problem, “I would like to be included in that…to be…invited.”

Oh. Ah, fuck.

“Or at the very least,” Connor went on quickly, “for it not to bother me when I’m not invited to social outings. Yes, that—that would be easier. If I could just...not mind…that I’m not friends with any of them…How do you do it?”

Hank sighed, giving up on the pretense of weeding and sitting back on the grass. “It does bother me, kid, but that’s the bed I’ve made for myself. I was very thorough in letting all those friendships wither back in the day. All things considered, you’re starting from scratch. Like you said, they’re already coming around, but odds are you’re gonna have to be the one to push a little.”

Connor seemed to shrink, averting his eyes. “I don’t know how to do that.”

It was an odd reaction, considering how he’d muscled his way past Hank’s defenses with all the confidence in the world…but back then, there had been a mission involved. As a deviant, Connor was much more reserved and self conscious socially than he’d been before; that seemed to be his natural personality coming through.

Hank eyed him for a quiet moment, then pursed his lips. “Is this about that team retreat thing?”

Those were the magic words. Like a balloon wheezing as its air came out, Connor was immediately babbling.

“It was announced as the annual team retreat at Officer Wilson’s cabin out of town. All of the other officers sound familiar with it and are excited about it. No actual invitations were issued; it’s almost like there’s an implicit understanding that all officers are invited…Well…I’m an officer, but…I’m the only android officer at the station. The patrol androids don’t seem interested in going, but…I don’t want to presume that I’m invited and burden the rest of the squad with my presence if I’m not wanted.”

Hank listened patiently to him ramble.

Connor looked at him agonizingly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

Hank shook his head, going back to his weeding. “No way. That thing was always a fun and relaxing experience with the other officers, but I haven’t gone since…Anyway, Ben’s the only officer that goes on those trips that was around the last time I went…besides Reed…No, it’s…no.”

He huffed and looked at Connor again.

“Is Ben going this year?”

Connor fidgeted. “Yes.”

Hank nodded. “Then stick with him if you decide to go. He thinks you’re a hoot.”

Connor’s eyebrow raised inquisitively. “A hoot?”

Hank shrugged. “His words, not mine.”

Connor’s eyes drifted to the side in thought over that, and his shoulders started to relax a little.

Hank reached over and patted him on the arm. “The squad are all good people; you’re starting to see that. The only one who might give you any shit is Reed, but Ben won’t let him get away with it. And Chris, Tina, Wilson, they’re all good as gold too. I haven’t worked with Person much, but she kinda keeps to herself so I doubt she’d give you any trouble.”

Connor still looked nervous about the idea, and Hank threw a little uprooted weed at him playfully.

“You’re a good guy, Connor. Have some confidence in that. You said yourself, you’re making good progress with them. Hell, if they can tolerate Reed for a whole weekend retreat, then they can more than tolerate you.”

Connor snorted but then frowned. “I’d rather not just be ‘tolerated,’ Hank. I’d like for them to consider me a friend.”

“And that’ll come with time, but you gotta start somewhere,” Hank suggested. “I’d start with Ben. He’s the biggest softie of them all. And once he’s in your corner, there’s no getting rid of him. Trust me; in my worst days, I tried.”

Connor tilted his head thoughtfully. “I appreciate your advice, Hank. I’ll…think about it.”

The mower chugged past them in a line, huffing and puffing as it went. Hank watched it with a smirk, and then looked at Connor again.

“Murderers, robbers, and drug lords: you have no problem with. But a weekend around your coworkers intimidates you this much?”

Connor pouted and threw the uprooted weed back at him. Hank shielded his face with his hands and laughed.

Whether Connor ended up going on the retreat or not, the rest of the squad stood no chance. If Connor could stubbornly bully and charm his way into Hank’s crotchety heart the way he had, then the others at the station stood absolutely no chance. It was just a matter of ‘when’, not ‘if.’

[ghostly-cabbage]

Party In The Graveyard (Shiptember 2021 : Drunk)

It’s a day late but heres the Danny x Wes fic I wrote for @ghostgothgeek ‘s Ship Event!! Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: Language, Underage Drinking, Mild Suggestive Themes Additional Tags: Post-Reveal, Aged Up Characters, Mutual Pining, Flirting, Getting Together

Summary: So, here’s the thing; Wes never wanted to have a fucking house party, okay? This was all stupid Kyle’s stupid idea. Kyle isn’t even in highschool anymore. He graduated last year. But he invited his whole college freshmen class, and just about everyone from the senior Casper class. And it's just getting better and better. Why? Because about half an hour ago, Danny Fucking Fenton walked in.

--

Or a fic in which Wes sees Danny getting shitfaced and says, "Is anyone else gonna take care of him, or?" and then doesn't wait for an answer.

Words: 6,233

Ao3

“I take back all my poor words. Talk is cheap, but my mind is rich When I close my eyes You grab my wrist, And pull me in to your cold dead lips”

So, here’s the thing; Wes never wanted to have a fucking house party, okay? 

This was all stupid Kyle’s stupid idea. 

Kyle isn’t even in highschool anymore. He graduated last year. But he invited his whole college freshmen class, and just about everyone from the senior Casper class. 

And it's just getting better and better. 

Why?

Because about half an hour ago, Danny Fucking Fenton walked in. 

He walked in like he owned the goddamn place and the reaction went through everyone like a Whoop—like some kind of synchronized celebration of a miracle. 

What, just ‘cause everyone knows he’s Phantom now? 

Give him a fuckin’ break. 

Currently, Wes is standing adjacent to the fridge, nursing a god-awful drink Kyle shoved into his hands before disappearing back into the throng. 

Lighten up, bro, he’d said. 

Yeah. 

Sure. 

The music pounds through the house—a heart beat—a fucking jack-hammer. 

People talk and yell and spill their drinks on just about every surface that can stain. 

A cheer goes up from the dining room and he rolls his eyes. 

He slams his drink and focuses on the outdated calendar on the side of the fridge to keep from shuddering. It makes his mouth water, burns the whole way down and Jesus, seriously, what the fuck did Kyle put in this? 

He throws his cup at the overflowing trash can. 

His cheeks feel warm, but not even a buzz touches the wound up feeling in his chest. 

He passes through the dining room, stops to watch Danny and Dash shotgunning sixteen ounce Mike’s Harder cans. From the looks of the table, they've already gone a few rounds.

Danny finishes five whole seconds before Dash. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crushes his can. 

“Slowing down already, Baxter?” he says, a smug grin plastered across his face. His shoulders are slumped and he talks just a bit too loud.

Dash finishes his and tosses it over his shoulder, which—cool. Fucking nice, what, does he think they have a fucking maid? 

“In your dreams, Fenton. We're just getting warmed up. No way I'm getting out-drank by a twig like you, half-ghost or not.” 

“Guess we’ll see.” Danny shrugs. He talks like he’s one of those people, has always been one of those people. 

Wes rolls his eyes and is just about to slip out of the room when— 

“Ohhh shit! If it isn’t the one and only Wesley Weston!” 

Fucking hell. 

He turns and levels as unimpressed of a look as he can manage at Danny. 

“Imagine that. It’s almost like I fucking live here.” 

Danny swipes up a plastic cup and then proceeds to walk through the table towards him. People act like they’re finding out all over again. 

“Oh come on, Wes. You’re not still mad are you?” He comes up to him and slouches against the archway’s frame. 

Wes scrapes his tongue along his teeth. “Mad? What could I possibly be mad about?”

Danny looks at him like a puzzle. 

When he talks his voice is quiet, hard to hear over the music. “I dunno, the fact that you knew all along but no one ever listened? They thought you were crazy and you weren’t but no one's even said sorry?” His lips quirk up at the corner and Wes can smell the artificial black cherry dancing on the top of the alcohol in his breath. 

He wrinkles his nose and it has nothing to do with the smell. 

“I was being facetious, prick.” 

Danny smiles bigger, and his eyes glitter, something doe-eyed.  

“Right. So you are still mad?” 

He pushes air through his teeth. 

“Not like it matters,” he says, looking away from Danny, drifting over the room. “Where’s your chaperones? Weird to see you anywhere alone.” 

Danny just stares at him for a few seconds before understanding sparks. 

“Ah. Sam’s got a family thing. Tuck took a closing shift.” He waves a hand and his head lolls against the wall with a thunk. He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a swig. 

Everything about him looks heavy. It’s weird for Danny.  

“Have you tried the jungle juice your brother made?” he says. “It sucks. You’ve gotta try it.” 

Wes lifts a brow and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“How many’ve you had?” 

Danny looks down into his cup, swirls its contents. It’s silent for several seconds too long. 

“I’m not really sure, honestly. Didn’t know I was supposed to keep count.” 

Wes slides a hand down his face. 

Jesus Christ. 

“Listen, maybe you should slow down—”

“Yo! Fenton! Stop flirting with Wes and fucking get over here, we’re not done.” Dash calls across the room and— 

Flirting?! 

They weren’t fucking flirting. 

What the fuck.

Wes’s face heats up far beyond the liquor in his veins. 

Danny looks up and flashes Dash a thumbs up. And then Danny is even closer—grabbing his arm. The chill of his hand goes right through to his stomach. 

“Hey,” he breathes, “come watch me outdrink Dash.”

“Why would I wanna do that?” He ignores the way his breath flutters in his lungs, the way he feels light all the way to his toes.

Danny smiles like what he’s about to say is a secret—like it’s just for him, and all of a sudden Wes wants to be as far from Danny as humanly possible.

“Isn’t watching Dash lose at something for once reason enough?” 

Wes forces himself to keep breathing and he swallows. 

“Fine,” is all he can force out and then Danny is dragging him towards the table. He ignores all the people looking at them. 

The fragmented group of A-listers cheer again and Dash slams a bottle of Fireball onto the table, making people's drinks jump and slosh. 

“Let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” he says, grin just shy of evil. 

“Where’d you get that?” Wes asks. 

Dash cocks a brow. “Paulina found it? Duh.” 

God, Kyle really wasn’t joking about getting people fucked up. 

Wes is not going to clean up anyone’s puke this time. This shit is all on Kyle. 

“Dude, is it even cold?” Danny asks. 

“No, it wasn’t in the freezer long enough,” Paulina says. She’s drinking from a champagne flute for some fucking reason. He didn’t even know they had those. 

“Gimme that,” Danny says, swiping it from Dash. “No way in hell I’m drinking warm whiskey.” 

His eyes glow blue, and when he breathes out its a thin vapor. Frost creeps over the glass and Wes can’t help but shiver.

“Dude, fucking wicked. I’m still not over this,” Dash breathes, clapping his hands together. 

How could Wes forget that Dash is Phantom’s number one fanboy after all?

But Danny isn’t looking at Dash—he’s looking at him. 

Only it’s different this time. Because before it was always a taunt, blatantly rubbing it in Wes’ face when he used his powers and no one else noticed.

But the way Danny is looking at him now… like he’s waiting for something, thinking about something.

Danny hands back the Fireball and his eyes slip away from Wes and he feels like a fish wrenched from water. 

What the hell was that? 

“Fuck yeah, Fenton.” Dash unscrews the whiskey, flicks the cap off the mouth with a finger, sending it flying. He pours directly into their cups, the liquid glugging through the frosted neck of the bottle.

“Two shots of vodka,” someone says and everyone laughs.

“No chasers?” Danny asks, eyeing his cup. 

Dash puts down the Fireball. “What’s the matter, you scared of the burn?” 

“Not a chance,” he says, and holds out his cup to Dash. They cheers each other and then they’re throwing it back. 

It sinks in his stomach like a rock. There’s no way this ends well. 

.

It’s on the sixth round of Fireball that Dash starts to look green. He sets down his cup and leans on the table. He stares at the clear storage container of jungle juice and Kwan comes up beside him, pats his arm. 

“Dude, maybe you should call it.” 

“I’m fine, ‘s fine…” His words slur together. He tries to stand up straight and Kwan and Paulina both have to keep him up right. 

Danny laughs. “Not lookin’ great, Baxter,” he says, his own words falling sluggishly from his mouth. Danny goes to lift his cup to his lips again and Wes puts his hand over it. 

“Nope. You two are done.” 

“Come on, Wes. Don’t be a buzzkill. I’m good!” Danny says. “Dash is the one that lost!” He flings his hand towards Dash and knocks the Fireball over, spilling it all over the table.

The group all crows at once, a choir of “oh shit” “nice one” and “duuuude noooo”’s. A few people rush to grab their phones from harm's way.

Danny blinks at the table. “Oops,” he says. 

A smile splits his face and he starts chuckling. It builds from him, a laugh, something outside of him—beyond him. 

He laughs until he’s doubled over, holding onto Wes to keep himself stable. 

“Yeah, that’s it. You’ve had more than enough.” He grabs Danny’s cup from him before he can spill that too and drinks it himself. The cinnamon burns through his sinuses and he shudders. Ugh. 

Danny straightens and sways just a bit, stumbling into him—their faces inches apart.

“Hey, that was mine,” he says, voice twisted in a pout. “Not cool.” His breath is cold, thick with the smell of whiskey. 

Wes feels frozen, feels like he can’t breathe. 

His heart pounds in his chest and he prays Danny isn’t so close he can feel it. 

Around them the choir starts again, a chorus of suggestive “ooo”’s. He can feel their eyes on him and it makes his skin crawl. 

Fucking dammit, this is all Fenton’s fault. 

He pushes Danny away from him. Not fast or rough, just to arms length. He coughs. 

“Star, you should go to the kitchen and get them both some water,” he says. 

She gives him an annoyed look. 

“I don’t see you doing anything else,” he snaps. 

“I’m drunk too, you know,” she says, but gets up and leaves towards the kitchen. 

Paulina and Kwan coax Dash into a chair, and he puts his head down on the table, groaning. A few others are sopping up the Fireball with paper towels. 

Danny sags in his grip, goofy smile still plastered all over his face. 

“I’ve never been drunk before, this is awesome,” he says. 

Wes rolls his eyes, and maneuvers Danny into a chair. His head lolls back and he stares at the ceiling for a second before perking back up and trying to go for someone else's cup. 

“Dude, I’m serious.” Wes moves the cup out of his reach. “Quit while you’re ahead.” 

Danny groans, sinking down in his chair like he’s boneless. 

“Come on, Wes,” he says. “You think I don’t know my own limits?” 

“You just said this is your first time being drunk.” 

Danny blows a raspberry. 

Star walks back into the room and hands Wes a glass of water and then slides one across the table at Dash. 

“Here. Wanna drink? Drink this.” 

“Ugh, fine,” he says. 

He’s a few swigs into it when he stops. 

“God, it’s hot in here. Is anyone else hot?” And before anyone can answer his eyes glow that bright blue and a chill works through the air, plummets the temperature. 

“Danny—” Goosebumps rise over Wes’ skin and his breath fogs from his mouth. 

At varying levels of exasperation, the people around cry out. 

“Dude, cut that out,” he says, smacking Danny’s arm. 

“Ow, why are you hitting me?” 

“Because you’re being a pain in the ass.” 

Danny looks at him, blinks heavy eyelids. He smiles. 

“What.” 

“Nothing, you just… You’re cute when you’re all annoyed sometimes.” 

The ground feels like it opens up underneath him. 

His thoughts screech to a stop. It smells like burnt rubber, like cinnamon and black cherry. 

It’s just the alcohol. No fucking way Danny of all people would say that to him. 

“You really are drunk,” he says, but his voice sounds off kilter. 

Across the house the last song fades out and Usher’s Yeah comes on. People scream and cheer. 

“Holy shit, I love this song,” Danny says and stands up. He sways and catches himself on the edge of the table, starts laughing again. “Whew, that was close. The spinning is normal, right?” 

Fucking Christ, how did he end up on babysitting duty again? He rubs his temples. 

Is he really about to do this? 

“You should lay down.” He heaves a sigh. “Come on.” 

“Jeez, Wes, that's pretty forward,” Danny says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Heat flashes through him. 

“Would you just shut up,” he hisses. “And stop making it cold. Jesus.” 

Danny snorts and when he moves from the table he wobbles. Wes grabs him before he topples and slings Danny’s arm over his shoulder to keep him up. 

Danny leans into him, almost unbalances them.

“You got a problem with the cold, Wes?” he says, this time his cold breath is against the side of his neck. It sends chills down his spine. 

“I don’t have to help you, you know,” he says, voice thick. “You can get alcohol poisoning for all I care.” 

“You’re a bad liar, Wes.” 

Wes yanks Danny along beside him and out of the dining room. 

“Shut up, Danny. You’re drunk.” 

He hauls Danny past the living room and the knot of people dancing and singing. A few call out to them, ask them to come have fun. He steers them away before Danny can pull away and join them. 

“But I wanna have fun, Wes,” he whines. 

“Dude, you can’t even stand without my help right now, you really wanna try dancing?” 

“Dance with me, then.” 

Wes stops. He looks over at Danny and… 

He— 

He blinks, shakes his head.

“No, not—not right now,” he mumbles. 

“There’s a whole reason I came alone, you know,” Danny says. 

“What, so you could get fucked up and no one would stop you?” 

“Yeah! I mean… well, that’s part of it.” 

Wes guides them towards the stairs, ignoring the looks. 

“Your house is bigger than it looks from the outside,” Danny says. 

“Thanks?” 

“Mmhm.”

God. This is so not what he thought tonight was going to be like. 

“Where are we going?” Danny asks. 

“Somewhere you can lay down and sober up.” 

“Tha’s not vague.” 

Wes starts pulling Danny up the staircase. The second floor is dark, and he gropes around to hit the light. 

The first few steps are fine, which is to say the next steps aren’t fine. 

What he’s saying is that Danny says, “oh shit.” 

And then he’s falling—pulling Wes down with him. 

More accurately, Danny trips and pulls Wes down on top of him. 

They end up in a heap and Danny groans like someone does when they fall on the fucking stairs.

“Ow.” He reaches for the back of his head. Then he’s laughing, like it's the funniest goddamn thing in the world, what just happened. His face screws up, the face of someone who doesn’t know he’s in pain, just pretending.

“Seriously?” Wes snaps. His shin smarts—must have hit it on the stairs. 

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughs each syllable. “You good?” 

“No, I’m not—” And he looks down and he realizes how close they are. Realizes the way Danny’s hair falls into his face, the light catching the slope of his jaw. 

Danny quiets at the same time and it’s like they get stuck there. Like nothing else exists other than this staircase and this moment and the way Danny feels cool and solid like a summer night underneath him. 

“Hey,” Danny says—sounds almost breathless. “Come here often?” 

Wes rolls his eyes and just like that the moment is over. 

“Ugh.” He pushes himself up, detangles himself from Danny. 

Danny reaches for him, that stupid smile back on his face.

“Oh come on, Wes,” he says. 

“Quit messing around, dude.” 

Danny pushes himself up, runs a hand through his hair and Wes tracks the motion with his eyes against his best wishes. 

“You’re so mean. I could have a concussion and this is how you treat me?” 

Wes stands up and straightens his clothes. “You’re fine.” 

Danny gives him a look and then something sparks in his eyes. “I’m going to text Sam and Tucker and tell them how mean you are to me.” 

Psh. He says that like they don’t already hate him. 

“Would you just get up?” 

“These stairs are actually kinda comfy,” he says, head rolling back, sinking back down and closing his eyes. “I think I’ll just stay here.” 

Wes kicks his leg. 

“You can lay down in the room. Get up.” 

Danny heaves a sigh, throws an arm over his eyes. 

“Fiiinnneee.” He pulls himself up by the handrail, stops in a sitting position. “Jesus,” he says, voice just above a whisper. His breathing gets weird. It makes Wes pause. 

“You okay?” 

“...Spinning,” Danny breathes. He’s quiet for a bit, and Wes just lets him sit there. Danny holds his head in his hands for a while.  

Worry creeps into the back of his mind. Maybe Danny wasn’t kidding about the concussion thing. Maybe he should get someone— 

Then Danny is standing up and Wes steadys his other arm. 

“I got you,” he says. “Feeling okay?” 

Danny sends him a weak smile. “Yeah. Laying down does sound good though," he mumbles.  

They make it up the rest of the stairs, and Danny leans against the wall as Wes opens the door to his room. 

It’s dark and quiet inside and he flips on the light. 

He helps Danny in, and he flops face first onto his bed. He groans and rolls over. 

“I’m thinking those last few shots of Fireball were a bad idea…” 

Wes snorts and closes the door softly behind him. 

“Oh, just the last few, huh?” 

“I was havin’ fun, smartass,” Danny grumbles. 

Wes leans back against his dresser and crosses his arms. “I said you should have stopped but noooo, no one listens to Wes.” 

It gets quiet and he can feel the heaviness in the air. He clears his throat. “If you throw up in my bed, I’m kicking you out the window.” 

“I’m not going to throw up.” 

“Famous last words, Fenton.” 

“Shaddup,” Danny says, and it gets quiet. 

Wes can feel the bass from the music through the floor, the muffled sound of singing, laughing, talking. He’s used to ducking out at parties early. He’s used to laying in bed and listening to the songs through the walls until the voices slowly fade and the house is empty again. He listens to Kyle stumble up to bed and knock into the walls and yell “I’m okay” when he does.

He’s not used to having… company. 

Danny sits up like a puppet on too few strings. He makes a frustrated noise.

“It’s still hot,” he sighs. 

“It’s the alcohol, dude.” 

Danny runs his hands over his face, and then reaches back and starts pulling his hoodie off. It drags his shirt up with it and Wes can’t help but look. He looks at the multitude of scars staining Danny’s skin and the way his muscles move over his ribs and—he pulls his gaze away and studies the floor instead. 

“This is your bedroom, huh?” 

“Yep.” 

“Doesn’t look how I thought it would.” 

Wes wrinkles his nose. “How'd you think it would look?”

Danny takes his time looking around the room, hoodie pooled in his lap, before he looks at Wes and gives a boneless shrug. 

“I dunno. More,” he holds his hands up, splays his fingers, “raah!” 

“I… don’t know what that means.” 

“You know! Like… newspaper-clipping red-web on all the walls,” Danny says, smile creeping back. 

Wes squints at Danny. He pushes off his dresser. 

“That’s still all you think of me?” He picks a pillow from his bed and throws it at Danny’s face. Danny lets out a yelp. 

“Besides, I took all that shit down when the truth came out anyway,” he says, trying and failing to keep the inkling of a smile from his voice. 

Danny looks at him blankly for a second before he starts to smile again. 

“Wait, was that… Did you just make a joke?” 

Wes snorts. 

“You did! Holy shit, Wes has a sense of humor, this is bigger news than my shit. I gotta tell everyone.” 

Danny looks soft, sitting like this in the middle of his bed, eyes warm in a way Wes didn’t realize they could be. 

Something in him loosens. 

“Good luck getting people to believe you…” he says. 

“Oh, how the turn tables,” Danny says, and for a bit all they do is smile at each other. 

Danny looks away first, he glances up at the light and squints. 

“You got a light that isn’t so fuckin’ bright?” 

“I thought the light sensitivity was supposed to happen the morning after drinking.” 

“You’re full of jokes tonight.” 

Wes rolls his eyes and flips on the bedside lamp and then shuts off the overhead light. 

Danny hums and flops back down. “Better,” he says.

It’s silent for a few beats and Danny lifts his head to look at him. He smacks the comforter a few times with a flat hand. 

Wes blanches; he’s all too aware of himself, of Danny and the dim light and the closed door. 

“Dude, chill,” Danny says, like he can read his mind—wait, he can’t actually do that, right? Ghosts can’t do that? 

“Sit down or something. You just standing there watching me is creepy,” Danny says. 

Wes swallows his own heartbeat, shakes his head. “Seriously, between the two of us, I’m not the creepy one.” 

“Says the stalker.” 

“I didn’t stalk you.” 

Danny gives him a look, with raised eyebrows and everything. 

Wes sits on the side of the bed, scoots back so he’s leaned against the headboard. 

“I was… investigating.” 

Danny laughs. “Sure, dude. Whatever you say,” and his voice is like smoke—hickory and rough but winding through the air like silk.  

They fall into an amiable silence, cotton soft, but cold. Danny has an arm over his eyes again, and his breathing is so slow it’s hard to pick out from the music downstairs. 

He rakes a hand through his hair and takes out his phone. He unlocks it and scrolls mindlessly for a while. 

He can’t focus. 

Not with Danny so close like this. Not when everything is different now. His mind drifts off and he tries to keep track of every breath, wonders if he’s fallen asleep— 

“Hey, Wes.” 

He jumps. Just a little bit. 

“Y-yeah?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He puts his phone down. 

“...For what?”

“For making everyone think you were crazy.” 

Wes twists his hand in his comforter. Why the hell is Danny apologizing to him? After everything he’s done to him… tried to do to him. It gets stuck in his throat. 

“It’s… You don’t have to—” he wishes he’d had a few more drinks. 

“Nah. I do. Looking back, I didn’t handle you knowing very well.” 

He chews on his lip. He’s never felt so out of place. 

“Danny…” 

Danny moves his arm and looks up at him and his courage almost shrivels. 

“I’m the one who should apologize. Not you. I—” He balls his hands into fists. “What I did, trying to basically out you, that wasn’t… that wasn’t okay.” 

“You didn’t know the whole situation.” 

“Did I need to? It was still fucked up and. I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in wanting to be right that I didn’t care what it could have done to you.” 

It feels like glass coming up from his throat. 

He’s lost sleep, engraved in the ceiling all the ways he fucked up, all the times he's glad now that no one listened to him. His eyes feel hot and there’s no way in hell he’s going to fucking get emotional in front of Danny. 

“It all worked out in the end,” Danny says. He says it easy, gentle. “You were still technically right, though, so… There’s that.” 

Wes huffs. “Yeah. I guess.” He fights through all the mess. “I don’t know how this didn’t happen sooner though. You were terrible at hiding it.” 

Danny props himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude, I'm a great liar.” 

Wes leans his head back on the headboard. “Sure, but you’re reckless as hell. How many times did you stick your arm through your locker in front of God and everyone?” 

Danny smiles wide and bright. 

“Honestly, after a while, it was just fun to see how far I could go before anyone noticed.” 

Wes can’t help but chuckle. “Pretty far, obviously.”  

“No kidding.” 

Wes runs his palms over his jeans. 

“You’re good though, right?” Wes looks anywhere but Danny. “At home and all that.” 

“Oh. Yeah. It was, uhm, a lot for my parents. But we’re getting there.” 

“Good… That’s good.” The words feel sharp and blocky, and he doesn’t know what else to say. What else can he say? 

His buzz pulls away from him, pulls him down, makes his lids heavy. 

“How do you think Dash is doing?” Danny says. 

“Pf. If he isn’t hugging a trashcan right now, I’ll be shocked.” 

Danny laughs. 

Wes leans over onto some of his pillows. 

“How are you this okay after drinking all that?” 

Danny shrugs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m feeling it. My guess is something to do with the healing factor ghost shit.” 

“Right, makes sense.” 

He feels tired and heavy and the darkness at the corners of the room get fuzzier. 

“Paulina brought her own champagne glass,” Danny tells him. And he laughs because, who does that? 

He rolls onto his back and they stare at the ceiling.

“Are you kidding? Paulina does that, it’s Paulina,” Danny says. 

They stare at the ceiling like it’s not a ceiling, like it might become more than just ceiling. Wes imagines it disappearing completely.

Danny likes stars, doesn’t he? 

When Danny talks again it’s like he’s far away. An arms length, an atmosphere’s length… he doesn’t know. 

Danny says, “sucks that I’m missing the Super Smash Tournament.” 

Wes tries to keep his eyes from slipping shut. The bed pulls him like quicksand, the smell of sleep. “Trust me, dude, Kyle always wins anyway.” 

Danny says something, something about who he mains or doesn’t main. It becomes all the same, the sluggish rise and fall. 

At some point between light and dark Wes decides that he likes the sound of Danny’s voice. He somehow likes that the room is colder than it usually is. 

And maybe somewhere between all that he decides some other stuff too. 

— 

Wes wakes up before Danny. The sun streams in through a gap in his curtains, pooling on the wall and floor.

He doesn’t have a headache, but his neck hurts like hell. 

Danny is lying on his side faced away from him and, fuck, thank God. He thinks about last night, about Danny in his arms and he— 

He sits up and rubs his hands over his warm cheeks. 

Water. He should get some water. 

He slips out of his room and goes downstairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet. 

Well. 

Mostly. 

He can hear the sink running and the clink of glass. When he comes around the corner he sees Kyle washing dishes. The house is only half as trashed as he thought it’d be. 

Kyle looks up at him as he walks in. 

“Morning.” 

He grunts, going to pluck a clean glass from the drying rack. 

“Hangover?” 

“Nah. Slept wrong.” He fills his glass at the fridge and downs it all at once. The water helps wash the sour taste from his mouth. Ugh, he should still brush his teeth. 

He fills the glass again and heads back upstairs. He pushes back into his room and when the door creaks he sees Danny jump. 

He walks around the bed and offers the glass to a squinting Danny. 

“Awake?” he asks. 

Danny groans and pushes himself up. His hair is messy, hanging in his eyes. It's infuriating. 

He rubs the side of his face and when he takes the cup their fingers brush. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

“We have pop-tarts and cereal and shit downstairs.” 

Danny gives him a thumbs up while he drinks. 

He wants to ask if he’s okay... He decides to leave it for later. 

Wes leaves his room and goes back to the kitchen. When he gets there, he pulls the pop-tarts down from the cabinet. 

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Kyle says, “if you wanna clean the dining room, I’ll clean the living room.” 

“Nope, no. This was your thing, dude. You threw the party.” 

“But Wes,” he whines, “Dad’s gonna be home tonight.” 

“Then you should probably get started,” he says and claps him on the shoulder on his way to the toaster.

“Dude, cold blooded. You’re just gonna watch me slave away for hours and not even help your own brother?” 

“Uh... yeah.” He slots the pop-tarts into the toaster. He turns towards Kyle and leans against the counter, grinning at him. 

Kyle gives him a look. 

“How much.” 

“No. No, I’m not gonna be bought this time.” 

“Twenty bucks.” 

“Kyle.”

“Fine, you drive a hard bargain. Forty.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“‘This time?’ What happened last time?” 

They jump and look at Danny as he comes down the stairs. He has his hoodie slung over a shoulder and the half empty water glass in his hand. 

“Holy shit,” Kyle says. 

“It’s not important,” he says, sending a glare at the back of Kyle’s head. 

Danny walks up to the counter and sets the glass down to pull his hoodie on. 

“No fucking way,” Kyle says, voice pitched up. “I didn’t believe it when everyone was talking about it last night, holy shit.” 

Danny tugs the hem of his hoodie down and gives Kyle a confused look that he moves over to Wes.

He returns the look, just as lost.

“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” 

“You two hooking up last night,” Kyle says, like it’s obvious.

It feels like for a second time stops—  

Hooking up?

Hooking up?! 

His heart skips in his chest and heat rushes to his face and the tips of his ears. He feels like he’s been slapped across the face.

Danny looks like a deer in the headlights. 

“Uh—” 

The toaster pops. 

“Which, can I just say, I totally called it. I knew there had to be another reason Wes was so obsessed with yo—” 

“Kyle!” he snaps, his voice higher than he anticipated. “Kyle, oh my fucking god, shut up. We didn’t— Nothing happened last night, we just—”  

His breath feels tight in his throat and he wants to lock himself in his room forever. He can’t make himself look at Danny. 

“Who the hell told you that-that we—” 

“Uh, dude, a bunch of people saw you guys go into your room together. You know Pualina was telling me that Danny was all over yo—”

“Okay! Thank you, Kyle!” he cuts in. “Jesus fucking—” He buries his face in his hands. 

This is it, this is how he’s going to die. 

“I’m just glad for you two! I mean, like, jeez, finally!” 

“Kyle, I’ll help you clean if you shut up right now and never bring this up ever again.” 

Kyle stops, face lighting up. “Dude, deal.” 

“Cool. Now please leave.” 

“What?” 

Wes grabs him by the arm and starts dragging him out of the kitchen. “Leave. Go get the cleaning shit from the garage or some shit, I don’t know.” 

“Oh. Ohhhh, I see. I get you. I’ll leave you two kids alone to enjoy your breakfast together,” he says with a wink and holy fuck, he’s going to kill his fucking brother.

Kyle heads for the stairs and calls down, “Lemme know when it’s safe to come back down!” 

Wes drags his hands down his face. He lets out a slow breath and he tries to ignore his pounding heart. 

Wes goes to the nearest counter and puts his head down. The surface is cold against his burning skin. He groans like an injured animal and at this point he really wishes someone would put him out of his misery. 

“Well…” Danny says from behind him.

 He hears Danny moving and the sound of the fridge being opened. He looks up, watches as Danny takes orange juice from the fridge. When he turns around he sees his face is red too. 

“I mean… hardly the worst rumor to get spread around about us,” he says. That stupid smile makes its way onto Danny’s face. 

“I once had this dude tell everyone at school that I was a ghost. It was super weird.” 

Wes shakes his head. “Dude, shut up.” But he can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. 

Danny laughs, a quieter thing today than it was last night. 

“I can have some, right?” he asks, lifting the OJ. 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” 

They fall into silence while Danny pours a glass and Wes goes to numbly retrieve his pop-tarts. 

“It’s probably spread through all of Casper now, huh.” 

Danny glances at him. Something dances through his expression. He hums as he takes a drink of his juice. 

“Uh. Probably further than that, now that everyone knows I'm… you know.” Danny shoots him an uneasy look.

Right. Right. 

This was just getting better and better. 

He takes a bite of his pop-tart. It crumbles in his mouth like sand. 

“Are you… okay?” Danny asks. He reaches back and rubs his neck, and dammit, now he’s just adding insult to injury. 

He looks at him, and he sees the nerves in the way he holds himself, stitched into the way the light hits him. He’s not asking just one question.

Wes swallows. 

“Yeah… Yeah, I mean, like you said. There could be way worse rumors,” he says. He looks at Danny like he’s too far away, like he enjoyed last night way more than he should have. And he sees it in Danny too, some sort of mirror. 

“I think so too,” Danny says, heavy the way he exhales it. 

They break eye contact and Wes doesn’t really know what to do, what to say. 

“Well, uh. You have cleaning to do, I guess. I should probably get home before my parents get too freaked out.” 

Wes nods. “Yeah, probably.” He wonders if Danny knows what’s in his voice. The dark from last night is clouding his mind, pulling him, begging him to just say it.   

“Yeah… I’ll, uh, see you at school?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool.” 

But Danny doesn't move. 

He lingers like a shadow. He looks like he wants to go. He looks like he wants to stay. 

“Wes,” he says. 

Wes looks at him.  

He worries at his bottom lip and moves along the counter towards him. 

“Thanks. For last night.” 

He lets out a puff. “Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t die the rest of the way from alcohol poisoning.” 

Danny rolls his eyes. 

“I wasn’t that bad.” 

“You were pretty bad.” 

“Not even.” Danny smiles.

And they’re close again, sharing each other's space. 

“It wasn’t… awful, I guess,” he says before he can stop himself. “Even with you being a pain in the ass the entire time.” 

“Maybe we could do it again sometime,” Danny murmurs.

“What, me looking after your drunk ass the whole night?” 

Danny snorts. “No, I was thinking more like I match you drink for drink instead,” he says. 

“At least then you’d last till the Smash tournament.” 

Danny glances away. 

“I didn’t mind missing it too much, actually.” 

Wes’s breath gets stuck and his heart beats like a drum in his ribcage. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah…” 

In some ways it’s just like last night; Danny’s close enough he can feel the movement of his breath between them. 

“It’s way more fun, bothering you.” 

It’s a slow motion sort of thing, a hair raising thing. 

“Well you’re an expert at it by now.” 

Wes thinks about theme parks. Sitting at the top of the sky and just before his stomach drops—

“Always room for improvement. I could get better at it if you want me to.” 

And what if he does? What if he wants to see Danny in all the ways he can? What if he wants to know Danny for real this time?  

Maybe he wants pictures, proof that it’s real. 

Maybe it’s always been leading to this. 

Maybe it’s fucked up. 

Wes having the power to hurt him all over again. 

“Drink for drink?” he says, barely a whisper. 

“Drink for drink,” Danny says—closer, closer, breath against his lips. 

Danny gives him time to pull away. But Wes doesn’t. Something to do with what he decided last night.  

“Prove it.”

[dlwritings]

Aftercare | Tom Holland

masterlist found here

pairing - Tom x reader word count - 6,568 (I have no idea how this happened) warnings - language, bad/uncomfortable first time, bleeding after sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, good sex! A/N - this wasn’t requested but the idea came to mind a while ago so here we are (I think I’m just sick of being a virgin and this came out of it)

summary - Not everyone cares about their first time. Some people just wanted to get it over with .You had always wanted it to be special. A special time with a special guy. But after ages of never finding that guy, you decide to just get it over with. Tom helps with the aftermath of the disaster.

You had always wanted your first time to be special. It wasn’t that you wanted to wait until marriage. You just wanted it to be with someone you loved, not a random stranger. But as the years went by, you felt like the chances of you finding someone you loved were slim. Hell, you were 22, and you hadn’t been in a serious relationship since you were 17. Your virgin status was starting to irk you. Not because of the label. No, you knew virginity was a social concept at best that society created to shame girls. The reason it irked you was because you wanted to have sex. You wanted to be in a relationship with someone so you could get absolutely railed by someone who loved you.

Was that too much to ask?

It didn’t help that you had a crush on your best friend. Girls all over the world swooned over Tom Holland, and you were one of them. The only difference was, you actually knew him. You had been friends for ages, and you had been in love with him for about just as long. Despite all the flirty comments the two of you shared and the endless platonic cuddling, that’s all it was. Platonic. Sometimes you swore he felt the same way, but after years of never making a move, you decided it was all in your head.

You weren’t sure at what point you just caved and downloaded Tinder. You couldn’t say what pushed you over the edge. Maybe it was the smutty Harry Styles fanfic you read that just went too hard (literally) and turned you on to the point of cracking. Regardless, you had done it, and you were actually doing pretty well on the app. You were getting a lot of swipes, and you were feeling pretty good about yourself. When one particularly handsome and charming guy -Theodore- asked you on a date, you agreed.

The restaurant you were going to was pretty fancy, so you wore a cute black skater dress and some killer red pumps. You did your makeup and hair to the best of your ability and finished applying your lipstick just as Theodore texted you that he was at your apartment. Okay, so he wasn’t going to pick you up at your door. That was fine. The gesture was a little outdated anyway, right?

“Hi,” you said, opening the car door and sliding in. “Theodore?”

“Theo,” he said with a smile. “(Y/N)?”

“That’s me,” you said. “It’s great to meet you.”

“You too,” he said. “Ready for dinner?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “‘M pretty hungry.”

“Me too,” he said with a chuckle. 

The date was fine. It was nothing exciting. Nothing to write home about. Theo was nice enough. He was polite and everything, and he made some jokes that genuinely made you laugh. Still, he spent a lot of time talking about himself and not a lot of time asking questions about you.

As the night wore on, you could tell where it was headed. And Theo really was nice enough. You didn’t love him, but you liked him, and at this point in your life, you would take that. You invited him back to your apartment, which he accepted. You got into your apartment, and Theo wasted no time pressing you up against your front door and kissing you. You kissed him back, all the while hoping he didn’t notice how scared you were and how long it had been since you had kissed someone.

You two eventually stumbled into your bedroom, and Theo all but threw you onto your bed. You scooted up to the top of the bed and watched him unbutton his shirt and toss it aside. You expected him to kiss you or pull your dress off, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved to unbuckle his trousers and tugged them down along with his boxers. He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it onto his already hard length. He smiled down at you and fumbled with your panties, pulling them off and throwing them to the floor. Part of you wondered if you should tell him it was your first time, but you also didn’t want to kill the vibe. Didn’t want him to run away. So, you let him thrust into you, biting your lip to stop the painful moan that wanted to escape your lips. You definitely weren’t wet enough, and he hadn’t stretched you out at all before sliding in. “Oh, fuck,” Theo moaned, hanging his head in pleasure. You focused on blinking back tears and tried to find any good feeling that might be there, but you couldn’t. It just hurt so much, and you wanted to tell him to stop. You should’ve told him to stop. You shouldn’t have to suffer through shitty sex just because you felt obligated to put out. But, you were the one who wanted to lose your virginity.

“(Y/N), Jesus fuck you’re so fucking tight,” he moaned. “You like my cock splitting you open like this?”

You weren’t sure how long guys were supposed to last, but you were sure it was longer than this.

Theo spilled into the condom and collapsed on top of you. He panted against your neck before placing a soft kiss to your skin. “You finished, right?” he asked.

“Hm?” you said. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

You winced as Theo pulled out of you and went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. When he came back, he pulled his boxers and trousers up his legs and buttoned his shirt back on. “This was great,” he said as he slid his shoes on his feet. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you watched him. He walked over to you, placed a kiss to your forehead, and saw himself out of your apartment.

It didn’t take long for tears to spill from your eyes. When you lifted your dress to look between your legs, you saw you were bleeding. The sight made a sob escape your lips as you covered your mouth with your hand. You knew you needed to clean yourself up, but you felt actual pain between your legs, and your mind felt numb. As you cried softly, mascara running down your cheeks, you blindly reached for your phone that you had set on the bedside table and opened your contacts. There, you clicked your third favorite contact: Tom.

The line rang a few times -you didn’t pay attention to how many- before Tom answered. “Hello, love,” he said, an audible smile in his voice.

“Tommy?” you croaked out.

Tom had been laying back in bed watching TV but sat up as soon as you spoke. Not only did it obviously sound like you were crying, but you only called him Tommy when you were sad. He knew you had a date that night, and his mind immediately went to the worst case scenario. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?

“Can you just come over?” you asked. “I’m sorry to do this.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll leave right now. Be over in ten.”

“Okay,” you whispered. “See you soon.”

You hung up before he could respond. You laid in bed curled up in a ball, clutching your arms over your stomach. You couldn’t stop crying, and wished you could go back in time and stop yourself from downloading Tinder in the first place.

“(Y/N)?”

You opened your eyes at the sound of Tom’s voice. You were grateful you had given him a key for emergencies. Seeing him only made you cry harder, so he rushed over to you and sat beside you on the bed, pulling you onto his lap. You hissed at the movements, the pain between your legs even more present. “What happened?” Tom asked, running his hands through your hair.

“It hurts,” you sobbed, not knowing how to sit to ease the pain. Squeezing your legs together made it worse, but keeping them open was painful too.

“What hurts?” he asked.

You sniffed, trying to compose yourself so you didn’t sound like a blubbering idiot. You knew Tom wouldn’t judge you no matter what you said or did. That was one reason you loved him. “He wasn’t gentle,” you whispered. “And, and he didn’t prep me at all, but I didn’t want to stop him because I thought it’d be rude.”

Tom was quiet for a few moments, trying to let the words sink in. His heart broke at what you were implying. He knew you were a virgin, but you had always expressed to him that you wanted your first time to be special. He wasn’t judging you for losing it to some Tinder date, but it made him sad that you didn’t get the memorable first time you had always wanted.

“Are you bleeding?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you said back. “Hurts too much to get up and, and clean it.” Tom nodded in understanding, petting your hair comfortingly again.

“How about I run you a bath,” he said. “And while you’re in the tub, I’ll go get you some ice cream, okay? And we can watch some films for the rest of the night. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah,” you choked out. “Thanks, Tommy." He nodded, kissed your forehead, and stood up from the bed to get a bath going in the bathroom. You stayed in the same position on the bed, doing your best to keep your tears in while you were alone.

“Alright, love,” Tom said when he came back in the room, crouching beside the bed so he was level with your face. He stroked your cheek with a soft smile. “Bath’s all ready. I put your favorite bath bomb in.” You managed to give him a smile back, but when you sat up, you frowned again at the ache between your legs. Tom licked his lips and gave you a tight, sad smile. “C’mere,” he said as he stood up straight and held his arms out to you. “I’ll carry you.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue with him, so you stuck your arms out and let him pick you up and carry you bridal style to the bathroom. He sat you on the toilet and knelt in front of you. “You want me to help you into the tub too?” he asked. You bit your lower lip and hung your head in shame.

“Do you mind?” you asked.

“Course not,” he said. “You take off your clothes, and I’ll lift you in.” You nodded and waited for him to turn his head so you could undress without his watchful eye. Not that it mattered, because he was literally about to lift your naked body into a bathtub. When your clothes were off, you muttered his name, so he turned to face you. He made sure to keep his eyes on yours rather than your body as much as he could as he hooked one arm under your knees and one around your back, lifting you up and setting you into the bathtub. He took your hair tie from your wrist and pulled your hair up into a ridiculously messy bun on the top of your head. You managed a soft smile as you sunk into the tub.

“Okay,” he said, petting the top of your head. “I’ll go pick you up some ice cream, yeah? You call me if you need anything, and I’ll come right back.”

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you.” He nodded, kissed your forehead, and left you alone in the bathroom.

When Tom got in his car, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to compose himself. God, when he found this son of a bitch, he wasn’t going to hold back. And he would find this son of a bitch. For now, he had to focus on helping you feel better. He drove to the store to pick up the ice cream he knew you liked, and on the way there, he found himself calling his mom.

“Hello, lovely,” she said when she picked up.

“Hey, Mum,” he said back. “Can-” He cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you about something kind of serious?”

“Of course,” she said. “What is it?” He hesitated, but knew his mom would be able to help. After all, mother knows best.

“(Y/N) called me and, and she had sex with someone, but it, it wasn’t good sex.” He was trying to keep out awkward, intimate details.

“She’s sore?” she asked.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Like, really bad. And she was bleeding a little too.”

“Oh dear,” she sighed.

“Yeah,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of the store. “I’m going to pick her up some ice cream, but I want to know what I should get to actually help her.”

“Well, there’s not much you can do, really,” she said with another sympathetic sigh. “As odd as it sounds, she might want to use an ice pack. And-” She paused. “-are you ready to be an adult about this, Thomas?”

“Mum, I called you about this,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Lay it on me.”

She chuckled. “If you want to buy her some Vagisil moisturizing gel or something, it couldn’t hurt. Maybe some Midol.”

“Okay,” Tom said, letting out a heavy breath. “I can do that.”

“Good boy,” she said. He could hear her smile. “You’re very sweet to do this for her, Tom.”

“Thanks, Mum,” he said, a blush forming on his cheeks. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

They exchanged I-love-yous and goodbyes, and Tom hung up the phone. He was in and out of the grocery store fairly quickly (the most time was spent searching for the Vagisil) and headed back to your apartment as soon as he could.

You were still in the tub when Tom got back, so he set everything on the vanity in your bedroom and helped you out of the tub, wrapping a dry towel around your body. You both headed into your room, and you got out some pajamas to put on. Over the shorts and tank top, you pulled on a hoodie you had once stolen from Tom. He didn’t know, but it was your comfort hoodie. You wore it whenever you were sad or stressed because it made you feel safe.

“Um,” Tom said, rubbing the back of his neck as you crawled into bed, “I got you some stuff.”

“Stuff?” you repeated, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he said, fumbling with the grocery bag. “I got ice cream, and, and, uh, well, you said you were hurting, so, um-” He cleared his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile at how nervous he was. He dumped out the contents of the bag and revealed that he bought an ice pack, some Midol, and a small tube of Vagisil. Suddenly, you wanted to cry all over again. You sucked in your lower lip and looked up at Tom who immediately frowned. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep?”

“No, no,” you said, shaking your head. “This is just-” You took a shaky breath. “This is really sweet, Tommy. Thank you.”

Tom’s smile returned as he nodded once. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go get spoons, you pick a film, okay?”

“Okay,” you said back. He took the ice pack to put in the freezer for a while, and you moved everything else to the bedside table. “Tom?” you called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me some water too?”

“Of course!”

You worked to open up the Midol which you did just as he came back with spoons and a water for you. You thanked him, downed two of the pills, and smiled as he plopped beside you on the bed. “Did you pick a film yet?” he asked, allowing you to sit between his legs and rest your back on his chest.

“No,” you said. “Something on Disney+ I think.”

“Whatever you want, love.”

You eventually settled on Monsters Inc. which Tom said was fine. Realistically, you knew he would’ve been okay with whatever you picked. Less than halfway through the film, you and Tom had already abandoned the ice cream, allowing it to melt slowly on the bedside table. One of you would put it away in the freezer before going to bed. As the minutes ticked on and the ache between your legs started to subside, you couldn’t help but think about Theo again. Tom must’ve noticed your shift in demeanor, because he rubbed your stomach with his thumbs and nudged your cheek with his nose. “Are you okay?” he asked. You hung your head and closed your eyes, not wanting to burst into tears all over again.

“Just wish I did it all different,” you whispered. He hesitated a moment.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked. You swallowed back the lump in your throat before speaking.

“We got back from dinner,” you told him, “and I invited him into my apartment.” You shook your head at the memories. “Everything happened so fast. We were kissing, and then, he was taking off his clothes and-” You couldn’t help it. Tears started to come again. You felt so sad and stupid and embarrassed and hurt and used. “-he didn’t even take off my dress. He didn’t touch me or anything. He just put on the condom and-” You cut yourself off with another shake of your head, figuring Tom got the picture. “It was over pretty quick, and he asked me if I came and I just said yes.”

“But you didn’t?” he asked.

“Of course I didn’t,” you mumbled, painfully aware of the shake in your voice. “He didn’t do anything to make me feel good at all. I feel so stupid.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said. “If anyone should feel stupid, it should be him. He’s clearly shitty at sex.” You giggled softly which made Tom smile and nudge his nose against your cheek again. You looked up at him. “I’m sorry your first time wasn’t more special,” he said. “I know you wanted it to be nice. And you deserved something nice.”

“It’s whatever,” you said dismissively. “Maybe I made a bigger deal out of it than I should’ve. I set my expectations too high.”

“No you didn’t,” Tom said. “You just wanted a good first time. That’s not asking too much. Hell, you didn’t even get to cum. You’re allowed to be upset about this.”

You scoffed. “Well, let’s just say I’m deleting Tinder, so I don’t see me getting anything better anytime soon. Not unless I meet some sex god at the office.” Tom sighed and kissed your temple.

“You’ll find someone better,” he mumbled against your skin. “I promise.”

-

After the whole Theo fiasco, you deleted Tinder, deciding whatever game you wanted to call that just wasn’t for you. Everyday went by with the same routine. Wake up, work, come home, watch TV, go to bed, repeat. Eating was sprinkled in here and there, and you tried to change up your meals whenever you could for a little bit of variety. Otherwise, it was all very monotonous.

So when you got home on Friday and found a note taped to your front door, you were rightfully confused. You pulled it from the wall, let yourself into your apartment, and closed the door behind you with your foot as you ripped the envelope open.

(Y/N)-

We haven’t gotten dinner in a while. Wear something nice, and I’ll pick you up at 6:00! It’s gonna be great x

Tom

You pressed your lips into a tight line and held the note to your chest as you leaned against the door. Sometimes you hated Tom for doing stuff like this. He was such boyfriend material, but he would never be that. Did he have any idea what he did to you? How he made you feel? Probably not. You loved Tom, but he sure was thick sometimes.

It was already about 5:00, so you had to get ready pretty quickly. You put on a white, lace, bodycon dress and started to do your hair and makeup. Tom arrived before you were quite finished, but he let himself in. “(Y/N)?” he called.

“Bedroom!” you called back. He came in, and you caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked handsome, as expected: blue slacks, a white button-up, and brown shoes that matched his brown belt. You turned to look at him, your lips slightly parted. Before you could say anything-

“Wow,” he whispered. “You-” He chuckled. “Wow.”

“Shut up,” you said with a laugh. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not!” he said, matching your laugh. “I’m just saying. Wow. You look great.”

“Well thank you,” you said, walking up to him. You straightened his collar that was folded oddly. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” You patted his chest and tried not to let your hands linger for too long. Tom stuck his arm out for you to take, which you did, and the two of you walked out to his car.

You and Tom had been going on friend dates for ages. Once he became famous, he loved treating you to fancy dinners whenever you both had time to spare. You on the other hand were a sucker for bowling nights and paintball tournaments. But nice restaurants were lovely too, and any time you could spend with Tom, you would take.

Dinner flowed as nicely as it always did when you were together. You chatted about your work, and he shared as many details of his newest project as he could. The whole time, you couldn’t help but feel like there was a weird tension in the air. Maybe tension wasn’t the right word. There was just something going on with Tom that you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t ask him about it until you left the restaurant. He invited you back to his place for drinks, and you obliged.

“Are you okay?” you asked him as he pulled out of the restaurant parking lot. “You seem a little off.”

“Off?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Forget it.” Tom just chuckled and continued the drive down the street. When you arrived at his apartment, you knew for a fact something was going on with him, and you didn’t like how he was hiding it. “What is up with you, Tom?” you asked him. “I know something’s going on. I know you.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair as he closed the door behind the both of you when you got inside.

“You know I love you and care about you,” he said.

“Of course,” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Why are you-”

“C’mere,” he said, taking your hand. Your eyebrows furrowed even deeper than they already were but allowed him to walk you over to his bedroom. When you walked in, your lips parted slightly in shock. He had a lamp light on and his essential oil diffuser (the one you bought him for Christmas) going, the soothing smell of lavender filling the room. On the bed -which was neatly made; a rare occurrence at Tom’s house- were rose petals. You turned to look at him, sure he could hear your heart pounding in your chest. “There’s no pressure,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it is that your first time was so horrible. It should’ve been with someone special like you wanted. Someone who cares about you. And, well-” He sighed as if realizing he was fumbling around the point. “I want to make it up to you. I want to show you what good sex is supposed to be like.”

“You, y- you, uh,” you stuttered. “You want to have sex with me?” He licked his lips and took a step closer to you.

“No pressure,” he said. “No strings. Just good sex and the guarantee of at least one orgasm.”

You swallowed thickly. “At, at least one?” Tom smiled and nodded, then closed the distance between the two of you by wrapping his arms around you.

“At least one,” he repeated. He could tell you were hesitant by the way you were nibbling on your lower lip, so he stroked your cheek gently in an attempt to calm you down. “If you say yes and you change your mind while we’re doing it, that’s okay too. I’ll take it nice and slow for you.” He paused, licking his lips as he glanced down at yours, then up at your eyes again. “But if this is too weird, that’s fine. I just wanted to give you the chance to have great sex with someone who cares about you.”

You giggled a bit. “Are you saying you’re great at sex?”

“Mm,” he hummed with a smug smile. “I don’t want to brag, but I’ve never heard any complaints.” You melted into Tom’s touch as he pulled you a little closer and buried his face in your neck. “What do you say, darling?” he whispered, kissing your skin lightly. “You want me to make you feel good?” You took a shaky breath and closed your eyes as Tom sucked the skin of your pulse point, surely leaving a bruise.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You felt Tom smile before he pulled back to look at you. He pressed his forehead to yours and kissed your nose.

“Okay,” he said. “C’mere.” The two of you walked over to the bed, and Tom helped you move to the head of the bed. He sat in front of you with his legs crossed, and you mirrored his position. You tried to give him a strong smile, but you knew it came out small and nervous. He chuckled softly and put his hand on your cheek. “S’okay to be nervous,” he said. You bit your lip and nodded just as he started to lean forward and brush his lips against yours. You released your hold on your bottom lip and accepted his kiss, opening your mouth as soon as Tom traced his tongue across your lip. Already, this was different than when you were with Theo. It was like Tom was pouring his care into the kiss.

You put your arms over his shoulders and played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. He started to lay you down on the bed, and you could feel your breathing pick up. Still, you kept your lips pressed to his. His tongue massaged against yours, and you held in your whimpers as best as you could. It got harder when he started trailing kisses down your jaw and neck. His mouth wasn’t muffling your noises, so you had to bite your lip to keep yourself quiet. “Darling,” he whispered against your collarbone, “you look like an angel in this dress.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Can you lay on your stomach for me?” he asked. “Wanna unzip you.” You nodded and rolled over, and you swore you heard him hum as he put his hands on the back of your thighs. He ran them up your body, pausing to squeeze your ass which made you jump. He chuckled and moved to unzip the dress, kissing the skin that was exposed as he removed the fabric. You turned to sit up so he could pull the dress off you, and he licked his lips when he saw you weren’t wearing a bra. Everything suddenly felt very real, and you moved to cover yourself. Tom frowned and shook his head. “You’re so beautiful, (Y/N),” he said. You hung your head, still feeling an odd sense of uncomfortableness, but Tom was having none of that. He lifted your head and kissed you again. He laid you down on the bed and started kissing down your neck. “How’re you doing?” he asked, feeling your erratic pulse against his lips.

“Just nervous,” you admitted. Because this was Tom. You could be honest with Tom.

“That’s okay,” he said, sucking your pulse point until a bruise formed and you whimpered. “‘S not gonna hurt, okay, love? ‘M just gonna use my mouth to start. Warm you up and make sure you’re ready for me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“And you let me know if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said. You nodded, and Tom kissed down your body, pausing to pay attention to each of your breasts. He sucked on each nipple until it was hard and extra sensitive to the touch. He smiled as he nipped at your bud until you whined and tugged your fingers through his hair. You could feel a pulsing between your legs, and you needed more. Tom could tell, because he smiled again and kissed down your stomach until he got to the waistband of your panties. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, and you licked your lips and stared up at the ceiling. When you broke eye contact, he tucked his fingers in your panties and pulled them down your legs. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t say anything. Tom would take care of you. You had no doubts about that. If he said it wouldn’t hurt, you believed him.

Tom pushed your legs apart and brought his mouth down to your thighs, kissing each of them before placing his mouth on your opening. You gasped and put your hands in his hair, and you felt him smile. His thumbs dug into your thighs as he licked up your slit, avoiding contact with your clit. And as badly as you wanted him to touch you there, this was already feeling better than everything Theo had done to you. “Tom,” you breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut. “Feels so go-” You cut yourself off with a moan as Tom started swirling his tongue around your clit. “Oh Christ,” you muttered. “Tom!” He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, causing you to whine again and arch your back.

“Can I add a finger?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you gasped. “Yes. Please, Tom.” He nodded and sucked his finger in his mouth, then slowly eased it into your opening. “Ahh!” you moaned.

“You okay, love?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you hummed. He slowly started moving his finger, still keeping his mouth on your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut as he slid another finger inside you. The sudden change in fullness startled you in a good way. So this was what foreplay was supposed to feel like. Tom added another finger, and you swore you were in heaven. He could tell you were feeling good by the way your jaw was dropped but no noise was coming out. He smiled and curled his fingers a bit so that they grazed your g-spot perfectly. “Tom,” you whispered. “I, I’m-”

“Cum for me, darling,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Your thighs squeezed around his hand as he flicked his tongue over your clit and moved his fingers faster in and out of you. In seconds, you were coming around his fingers with a soft cry as you dug your head into the pillow. Tom kissed your thighs and slowed his fingers down to help you ride out your high. When you caught your breath, you blinked your eyes open and looked down at him. He had a lazy smile on his face, and he kissed up your body until he got to your lips. “You want to keep going?” he asked. You nodded and lifted your head slightly to kiss him. He pulled back quickly and tugged his shirt over his head, then let his jeans and boxers follow.

His cock was more impressive than Theo’s. Longer. Thicker. If his foreplay wasn’t enough, you knew now that sex with Tom was about to be much better than it was with Theo. Tom reached into his bedside drawer and pulled out a condom, wasting no time rolling it onto his length with his lower lip tucked between his teeth. He pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, and you gripped his biceps in your hands, your nails leaving little half moon shapes across his skin. “S’okay,” he whispered to you, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. “S’not gonna hurt, okay? I promise.” He leaned down to pepper gentle kisses across your face. “Do you trust me, love?” You nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah. I trust you.”

Tom smiled and gripped his cock, lining himself up with your pussy. He guided himself in, inch by inch, kissing your neck and whispering words of encouragement into your ear as he did so. He was right. It didn’t hurt. In facte, it felt so fucking good, you wanted to cry. “Oh, Tom,” you muttered, your head tossing back. He kissed up the column of your neck, and you could feel a smile across his lips. Once he bottomed out, Tom paused, giving you time to adjust. You let out a shaky breath, and he moved his head so he could look in your eyes. He only hovered for a moment before pressing his lips to yours. You sighed into the kiss as his tongue slipped into your mouth, fighting for dominance against yours. He stayed still until you wrapped your legs around his waist, silently encouraging him to move. He pulled his hips back and thrust them forward in a slow, smooth stroke. You cried out in pleasure, and Tom moved to kiss your neck again.

“Oh fuck, (Y/N),” he moaned. “How’s it feel?”

“Tom,” you cried. “Feels so good.” He brought his fingers up to his lips and licked two of them before sliding his hand between your bodies. His fingers found your clit right away, and he started rubbing fast circles, hoping to bring you close to that edge. He wanted more than anything to move faster, to pound into your tight cunt like it was all his -like you were all his- but he held back. This time couldn’t hurt you at all. He wouldn’t be like that other guy. He wanted you to remember this. To happily remember this. Even more than that, he wanted this to mean something.

He just wasn’t sure he was ready to admit that much yet.

You squeezed around his member, and Tom muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath and moved his hips a little faster. “You’re close,” he said. It was a statement. Not a question. Like he already knew your body better than you did.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “‘M close.”

He let his hand move at the same pace as his hips -faster and faster, bringing you closer and closer to climaxing. “Tom,” you cried. “I’m, I’m gonna, oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and came, squeezing so tightly he came right after. He moaned your name in your ear, slowing the movement of his hips to help you ride out your high. You gripped his hair in your fists, and he started kissing your neck again. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Did you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are?” He pulled back so he could look in your eyes, then brushed his knuckles across your cheek again.

“Thanks, Tom,” you whispered. He smiled and pulled out of you, frowning as soon as you winced.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m okay.” He smiled softly and kissed your cheek, then pushed himself out of bed.

“Want you to go to the bathroom, okay?” he said. “Then we can go to bed.” You nodded, your head feeling a little hazy, then got out of bed. Tom watched with a soft smile as you trotted off to the bathroom. While you were gone, he changed the sheets, put on some clean boxers, and got you a pair of boxers and a t-shirt to wear to bed. You were back in a few moments, your hair now up in a bun and your makeup off your face. You gave him a sheepish smile, your arms folded awkwardly across your chest, and he smiled back. “I got you some clothes,” he told you. “You’re staying the night, yeah?”

“If that’s okay,” you said, hanging your head a bit.

“Course,” Tom said. You smiled, then took the clothes he offered you and changed. By the time you were dressed, Tom was under the covers. You got into bed beside him, and turned on your side to face him. “So,” he said, reaching out to stroke your cheek again, “how was that?”

You giggled. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

He chuckled. “It’s always good to hear the compliments out loud.” You rolled your eyes and gave his shoulder a shove. Your expression shifted a bit.

“How was I?” you asked. He gave you a soft smile.

“You were perfect, love,” he said. “Best I ever had.”

“Shut up,” you said. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying!” he said. “I’ve ever had sex with someone I-” He cut himself off, his smile dropping a bit. “It’s just different.”

“With someone you what?” you asked. Tom swallowed, and you could sense something that looked like nerves in his eyes. “What?” you pressed, a giggle passing your lips. “What’s on your mind?” He sighed and sat up, causing you to furrow your eyebrows and mimic his position.

“(Y/N),” he said, “I love you.”

Your response was immediate.

“What?”

“I love you,” he repeated. “And, and I care about you so much. When, when you said sex with that douchebag was so bad, I wanted it to be better for you. You deserve something better than that. I really mean that. But, but what I didn’t tell you was that it was also, it was a way for me to-” He sighed, clearly annoyed with himself. “I wanted to sleep with you because I love you. I, I saw this as a chance to, to be with you the way I want to be with you. And I know how wrong that is. I know how messed up that sounds, but-”

“You love me?” you said. You were still having a hard time processing the admission. He just sighed and nodded. Before he could say anything else -and he looked like he was going to say something else- you closed the small space between the two of you in a kiss. He jumped, but the shock wore off quickly, and he rested his hand on your cheek. He smiled beneath the kiss, and you smiled back. When you pulled away, you kept your foreheads pressed together. “I love you too,” you whispered. “And, honestly, I wish my first time had been with you, but, but I’m glad you made this one count.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small chuckle. “Me too. And don’t you worry-” He pressed a kiss to your nose. “-all the times after this are gonna be just as good.”

“Yeah?” you giggled. “Promise?”

“Oh yeah,” he said with a grin. “I promise.”

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

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[depressedacadamia]

Dimples

Summary: Apparently Nico has dimples and Will did not know.

A/N: Heheheee, motherfuckers my exams are in a week and a half and I haven't revised shit. Instead, I'm writing these. Wish me luck, this might be the only fic I post for the next 2 weeks but if you're lucky, I might post pt 2 for 'How to passive aggressively say Fuck you in flower'. Toodle pip and <3 from mee!

Extra edit: I forgot it was solangelo week, woops. 

Read on A03

Nico Di Angelo was not known for smiling. He was not known for grinning or laughing. He was however, known for snarling, sarcastic, outdated remarks and terrifying people to the point where they’d rather face death itself than face him and his wrath.

So of course, Percy and every logical being would avoid him at all costs when he was in one of his ‘moods’. These so-called ‘moods’ referred to when Nico seemed particularly dangerous, like when his eyes had a dangerous glower to them that hinted he enjoyed threatening others a tad too much- in fact, so much so that Leo had suggested that Nico may be a sadist (That hadn’t gone well for Leo, to say the very least).

But of course, William Andrew Solace was in no way a logical being nor was he very fearful of Nico’s alternating and very much violent auras. Now, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing necessarily, in fact, it was the very thing that had started their relationship and while everybody thought Will was insensitive with his historical jokes he made towards Nico, Nico greatly appreciated being able to understand something from his time.

Will, on several occasions, related him to Captain America in Marvel's Avengers.

So when Nico, in his terrifying rage, stormed into the infirmary, Percy wasn’t sure what he was about to witness. Were these two having an argument? Nico looked like he was going to set the infirmary ablaze or perhaps bury it 6 feet under- it was truly the unpredictability that created the suspense and fear.

“Where are they?” Nico’s voice was calm, cold but sharp. His words felt like the gentle, smooth slant of a knife, apply pressure and you get cut. Nobody dared to answer. The infirmary’s silence seemed like one of lambs, too scared to speak out until another leader did. Whether they expected Nico to simply leave if no one answered, they certainly did not expect him to ask again.

“Where. Are. They?” He punctuated his words, his voice combined with a deadly hunger that could only be satisfied with death.

The room felt like a cave. The only words being echoed back were Nico’s own words, bouncing off the smooth walls of the infirmary. The corners seemed dark, the white presence of the infirmary slowly being poisoned. It seemed like fate sealed their hands- they were like lambs to the slaughter: helpless.

“WHERE ARE THEY!” Nico roared. This time, he did not wait for a response. He took a small glimpse at the camper in front of him, who was obviously avoiding his gaze, and the next thing the kid knew was that he was pinned to the wall with a metre of stygian iron under his neck. The kid hyperventilated and in a moment of sheer panic and pure fear, blurted,

“I don’t know where they are! “

Nico, holding the camper up with one hand, shoved him into the wall again. “ But you hurt them anyway?”

The camper was completely clueless but he wasn’t stupid. Simply denying whatever Nico was accusing him of would increase Nico’s rage and that could lead everyone down a very dark road.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt them! I swear...” He started to sob. “ I swear it was an accident!”

“You hurt them! That isn’t an accident. You will pay for your crimes. I swear I will-”

“-Dear god, Nico what the hell?” A voice of pure confusion entered the infirmary. Nico, on recognising the voice, felt his head snap backwards-trying to find the course of the voice. There on the other side of the infirmary, with his leg in a cast, stood Will solace, still as unfashionable as ever.

Nico almost teleported to Will, considering how fast he appeared by his side. “ Are you okay? It’s okay, I found out who did it and-”

“-Jesus, Stalin, calm down there.” Will looked at the terrified boy who was in tears. “This kid knows nothing. He wasn’t even there. Were you just putting on some show trials?”

Nico had to resist the twitch in his lips at the communism jokes. Ever since Will had found out that Nico’s weakness was communism jokes, he had been exploiting it, just like the working class were exploited, and using it to his own advantage.

“Wait, this kid wasn’t involved?” Nico looked at all the terrified people in the infirmary, still frozen to their spots, waiting for the go sign for them to continue with their lives.

Will waved his hand. “Go ahead, continue with your business. He will be on his best behaviour now that I’m here.”

“Uh, says who?”

“Says my broken leg.”

On the mention of a broken leg, Nico’s worry instantly returned. His hand reached out to touch Will’s face, in a gesture of affection before quickly snatching it away. Will reached for his hand, took it in his own and intertwined their fingers as in to say It’s okay, they support us. It’s okay, I love you and you love me. It’s okay, I’m not ashamed of being in love with you.

Nico appreciated the gesture and once again, fought the urge to give in to the overwhelming desire to smile at his perfect boyfriend.

“Are you okay? Can you show me your leg? What happened? Why can’t you heal it?” The words began flying out of Nico’s mouth, the concern on his face unhideable. His eyebrows were cutely creased together and he kept on placing his hands all over Will- it was driving him crazy.

“Calm down there, communist. This is my injury, not yours.” Will joked, trying to hide his blush- truth be told, he did not want to tell Nico the real reason behind how he broke his leg because it was honestly the most ridiculous reason one may ever hear in their entire life.

Nico let out a little snort of laughter after hearing another communist joke but was careful to keep it on the downlow. He noticed that Will was being quite indirect and avoiding his gaze: he knew that could only mean one thing.

“What did you do to break your leg?” Nico smirked wickedly, understanding that Will had, once again, been quite idiotic.

Will, gasping in mock offense but also quite embarrassed by how well his own boyfriend knew him, let out a bubble of nervous daughter. “ Hahaa, what do you mean? I broke my leg the same way everyone else does...”

“... which is?”

Due to the vast amount of broken legs he had healed, Will actually knew how to answer this question. “ Through sports.”

“Sports?” Nico snorted. “ You? Sports? Have you ever even run in your entire life? I swear the only thing you do is heal and read. Maybe sleep on the offhand you listen to me.”

“You can’t talk over there!”

“Just tell me how you broke your leg, for the love of the Gods!”

“I was having a competition with Percy for who could heal faster.”

“You were doing what?”

“A competition Nico, have you ever heard of one? Normally the losers forget they exist so I wouldn't be surprised that you had never heard of one-”

“No, I know what a competition is, you idiot. What I don't know is, why on earth you were having a regeneration competition with Percy of all the demigods you could have chosen, you chose the one with the ability to heal themselves as well?”

Will pouted slightly, his eyebrows making a small frown. “I would have thought you would be halfway through murdering Percy right about now.”

“If Percy managed to win, then honestly, you kinda deserved it.”

“I thought you liked me!”

“I thought my boyfriend wasn’t an idiot!”

“Technically I won because Percy was too baby-ish to break his own leg!”

Nico took a very long pause. Slowly, he began shaking his head, from side to side. The expression on his face was illegible but eventually it morphed into one of laughter. His laugh was rich and so was the expression on his face. His lips were curled upwards, his eyes were creasing, with long beautiful dimples on both sides of his face- as clear as the moon on a clear night.

The infirmary was silent. They simply stared at the beautiful angel who graced the place with their voice. They were horrified and in awe. Nico Di Angelo was capable of smiling! He was capable of laughing!

It was a fucking miracle.

“What did I tell you!” Percy yelled, throwing his arm over Annabeth who simply sighed. “I fucking told you! I knew he had dimples!”

Will, slightly stunned, simply took Nico’s face in both his hands. His crystal blue eyes were wide open and to Nico it looked like the ocean was inviting him to take a dive into int’s complex and unknown depths.

Into the unknooooowwwwwnnnnnn.

He cursed himself for that being his first thought. He then cursed Will for making him watch Frozen because it was apparently culturally inappropriate to not have seen it. Then he cursed himself again for cursing Will.

“Holy shit,” Will whispered as he stared into his boyfriends grinning face. “Holy fuck Nico, you never told me you had dimples.”

“Language.”

“Holy shit, holy fucking hell. You cannot smile at me like that Nicolo Di Angelo and expect me to keep my language appropriate. Have you ever seen yourself in a mirror?”

“Calm down,” Nico groaned, throwing his head backwards. He could feel his palms getting sweaty from Will’s words- what could he say, he was slightly embarrassed.

“Wait!” Will cried. “ Do it again. Smile again!”

Nico gave a sultry smirk and Will whacked his arm. “ I asked you to smile at me, not seduce me. Smile!”

“Who wouldn't be happy to be seduced by me?”

“Just smile, please!”

Nico sighed before looking at his gorgeous boyfriend. His eyes darted down at the cast around the leg and immediately Nico remembered the cause of injury. He started laughing, his lips stretching into a genuine smile and his dimples flashing all across his face. Will, still holding his boyfriend's face, couldn’t help himself as he brought their lips together.

Will was so used to feeling Nico’s smile when they kissed so when he brought their lips together, he didn't know what he was expecting. It felt different for some reason, it felt more.. It felt better, it felt like he was getting a new piece of Nico. Feeling Nico smile and seeing him smile were two different things and now that he could picture Nico’s smile as he kissed his smiling lips, Will thought he’d explode from happiness.

Will pulled away quickly, his hand still cemented to Nico’s grinning face. He had pulled away just so he could see Nico’s smile and more importantly his dimples again.

“What?” Nico’s innocent voice and grin combined confirmed for Will that if he died on that very spot, he would have died a happy man.

“Holy shit, you’re the cutest person ever.”

And with that, he brought their lips together again.

Neither of them noticed Thalia and Annabeth sulking as they paid up their debts to Percy from losing the bet.

[wolveria]

Inside Your Wires - Chapter 1

Pairing: Human!Connor x Android!Reader

Summary: Assigned all cases involving android-related crimes, saddled with a prototype that follows him around like a plastic puppy, Detective Connor Anderson knows this must be karma for all the bad shit he’s ever done.

He thought he'd hit rock bottom, that he didn't have much left to lose, but he's proven wrong by the android sent by CyberLife. And Connor learns just how much further he can fall.

Prompt: For the @dbhau-bigbang​ 2020 challenge!

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, slow burn, fantasy bigotry, violence, brief noncon elements, angst with a happy ending

AO3

(Story moodboard by @uh-kitty-got-wet​​)

November 5th, 2038

Friday 11:21PM

The whiskey was harsh and burned like liquid fire as it slid down his throat. He dropped the shot glass onto the bar top and closed his eyes and savored the bloom of the cheap booze warming his chest. The music from the old jukebox behind him belted out tunes that would have been considered outdated when the place opened.

It was like this most nights. He was alone, exhausted, and well on his way to a pleasant buzz. The one thing Connor had going for him was that he hadn’t started in on his third drink until 11 PM.

That had to be some kind of record. On a Friday night, he was usually shitfaced by 10. Call it the long hours he’d been working, or maybe the fact he felt more self-loathing than usual, he’d somehow managed to hold off on spiraling until nearly midnight.

Definitely a record. And Connor deserved to celebrate.

When he tipped the glass with one finger and caught Jimmy’s eye, he nearly looked away in shame. The bartender had never given him shit before, at least in a verbal sense, but the cool stare he gave Connor now made him want to crawl into a hole and die there.

But Jimmy didn’t say a word, just gave him another dose of poison and turned away, leaving Connor in relative peace to enjoy the game. Denton Carter was kicking ass tonight, so at least there was that.

It was all going beautifully until the door opened and the sound of rain echoed throughout the tiny bar, along with a distinct smell of wet asphalt and dirty concrete. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw two of the other regulars shift in their seats to stare at the newcomer.

Not another regular, then. And by how lengthy the stares were and the sudden shift in atmosphere, Connor guessed the barometric pressure had taken a drop due to a pair of long legs and pretty eyes.

Turning his body only far enough to get a glance for himself, Connor was not disappointed, eyeing the stranger from their black dress shoes, up their shapely legs clad in dark jeans, past curvy hips and—

Oh.

Connor turned back in his seat, hunched over and grimacing in disgust, put there by the sight of a blue triangle on a lapel and a glowing armband around one arm. He hadn’t even needed to look higher for the LED to know what the fuck had just waltzed into the joint like it actually belonged there.

He nursed his whiskey, praying the thing would pass him by and leave him the fuck alone. Or better yet, Jimmy would throw it out.

No such luck, of course.

“Detective Anderson,” spoke a smooth, raspy voice to his right. “I’m the YN800 model sent by CyberLife.”

He elected to ignore it. Maybe if he did so for long enough, it would take the hint and go away.

Again, Connor’s luck was not holding out.

“I called your cell phone, but you didn’t answer,” the voice continued, unimpeded. “I then looked for you at the station after checking your home, but you weren’t there either. Your colleagues indicated you tended to frequent the bars in the area, and I was fortunate to find you at the fifth one.”

His eye twitched. This thing had gone to his apartment?

“Well, here I am,” he answered, dry and caustic as he stared straight ahead at the wall of bottles. He calculated how angry Jimmy would be if he took out his service pistol and shot it through the head.

Pretty angry, Connor decided. It would probably leave a stain. Also, he didn’t want to compensate some asshole company for property damage.

“What do you want?” he finally growled, scratching his nail into the bar top already marred with various scuffs and dings.

“You were assigned a case earlier this evening. A homicide.”

Already, a headache was forming between the eyes at the sound of the android’s irritatingly friendly voice.

“Yeah, and?”

“It involved a CyberLife android,” it said in that same smooth inflection. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

You have to be shitting me.

Connor grit his teeth and clenched his glass tighter, a flush of heat moving through him that had nothing to do with his blood alcohol content. A fucking android was sent to help cops do their job?

Fuck that, and fuck this hunk of junk.

“Good for them,” he answered as he tipped the glass up to his lips. “I couldn’t give less of a shit. Now get the fuck out of my face. We don’t need any help, especially from a plastic pair of tits like you.”

He should have known that wasn’t the end of it. The android spoke again, adopting a tone of what it had probably been programmed as “sympathetic.”

“I understand you may be experiencing reluctance to having an android’s assistance in this matter, but I am—“

“—ruining a perfectly good evening, butting your nose where it doesn’t belong and sure as fuck isn’t welcome.”

Connor put his glass down harder on the bar top than he meant to, nearly spilling his drink.

“I suggest you leave before I void your warranty.”

Connor thought the machine got the message when it finally went silent. He could even see its mood ring spinning yellow out of the corner of his eye before it settled on that annoying placid blue.

He’d just brought the glass halfway to his lips when it said, “I’m sorry, Detective, but I must insist.”

Connor set the glass back down and started to count to ten. He couldn’t lose it now, he’d promised Jimmy he wouldn’t break anything else after the last brawl he’d gotten into.

But the fucking thing just kept on talking.

“My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany you.”

“You know where you can stick your instructions?” Connor growled before downing the glass of whiskey.

It was a good thing he had, because its next words made him choke on spit.

“No. Where?”

Connor set the glass down, and for the first time that evening, fully turned toward the android and stared at it.

The damn thing was staring back, head slightly tilted like a curious puppy. It had large eyes to match the image too, earnest and innocent and entirely too sincere. Its attire at second glance wasn’t the typical android faire. A smooth grey android jacket and a dark, patterned tie marked it as something different. Unique.

And just a little too pretty. Every designed, group-focused imperfection on its face made it that much more appealing. Its hair was neatly coifed, pulled up and pinned behind its head, exposing the smooth curve of its neck.

Hanging down the left side of its face was a strategically-placed lock of hair that Connor immediately want to twirl his finger around. He suspected that was the point.

The further down Connor’s eyes traveled, the more he lost his train of thought. The perfectly sensible tie was lying on the slope of its breasts, something even the jacket couldn’t cover. Why the fuck androids had breasts to begin with, Connor couldn’t begin to fathom, and it seemed even more ludicrous now seeing them on a “specialized model.”

The android hadn’t moved apart from its artificial breathing, another thing about the machines that was uncanny. They weren’t human, and the fact CyberLife kept trying to pass them off as such was a goddamn insult to humanity.

He met the thing’s eye, gave an unimpressed huff, and went back to nursing his drink. If the fucking tin can didn’t understand a dirty innuendo, he certainly wasn’t going to ruin its pristine, virginal programming.

Connor doubted everything that had just gone through his head as those unnecessarily realistic tits were pressed against his elbow, without warning or any sense of decency or a concept of personal space.

“How about this, Detective?”

Connor fumbled, nearly spilling his drink, a massive what the fuck! warning flashing in his head as the machine pressed closer.

“I’ll buy you another drink, on the house. Surely that’s worth a few minutes of your time? And if not, you can send me on my way.”

Connor couldn’t speak with that voice right into his ear like a close confidant, sultry and low and borderline pornographic, so it was a good thing the android didn’t bother waiting for a response.

Instead, it turned to Jimmy and said in a louder, more normal tone, “Bartender, another round for the detective, please.”

Jimmy turned from where he was cleaning glasses on the counter, eyebrows shooting upward as he looked from the machine to Connor. It had backed up a few inches, but there were a lot of reflective bottles on the wall. Connor wondered just how much Jimmy had seen.

Connor gave a little helpless shrug as if to say, Don’t look at me, I don’t know what the fuck it’s doing!

But when the damn thing actually brought out real paper money and set it on the counter, Jimmy got moving. Seemed he wasn’t picky about where his money came from, and Connor almost resented the fact he hadn’t thrown the android out on principle.

Who the hell gave it money in the first place? CyberLife? What, did they hand it a few bucks of allowance before letting it off its leash?

Despite all his reservations, and there were a great many of them, Connor was not about to turn down a free drink. Or two.

“Make it a double,” he grumbled, purposefully avoiding the android’s focused gaze. He could practically feel the thing staring into the side of his head, but at least it remained at a distance and wasn’t pressed against his side like a drunk, horny badge bunny anymore.

“Thanks, Jim.” Connor took the glass and tipped it back, drowning it in one go. The slide of the familiar burn down his throat, spreading throughout his limbs, did quite a lot to help ease the tension in his muscles.

He released a heavy exhale, pushed away from the bar, and got to his feet.

“You want to play plastic cop? Okay, then. Keep up,” he said, tilting his head in its direction without actually looking at it. “Or I’m leaving your ass behind.”

Connor didn’t wait for a response, only raised his hand in parting to Jimmy, and pushed open the door to let the rain-drenched Detroit night swallow him whole. But even through the sound of the rain pinging off the hood of his nearby car he could hear the even footfalls behind him, just a little too close for comfort.

Fucking androids.

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