#turn down that racket people are sleeping

[cesailee]

[Paul/Gene] Room Service

Blondes, brunettes, raven-haired beauties, and fiery redheads – Gene always appreciated the full spectrum of womanhood. A gorgeous girl, putting the prime of her life on display in the glossy centerfold of Playboy, didn't care who eventually picked up the magazine. Her youth was like dew at dawn in high summer – if it wasn't shown off right then, it would vanish the moment the first rays of sun pierced her.

Luckily, Gene remembered them for her. All it took was a quick phone call, and she'd be invited to grace the pages of his Polaroid album.

That's what Paul saw when he walked into the room, but it wasn't what concerned him. "Any news?" They'd maxed out Bill's credit card, new tour money wasn't coming, and now they were all stuck, dead in the water at this grimy motel.

"Nope. Just realized the chick on the back cover of page 23 is the same one who was in my bed the day before yesterday." Gene shook his head at the dial tone buzzing in his ear and tossed the magazine carelessly onto his lap.

"What?"

Paul frowned, his gaze dropping to the Playboy on Gene's thighs. Finally, he processed what Gene had said.

"Hefner's daughter just started working at her dad's company... Huh. Interesting." Gene ran a hand over his chin, rough with the stubble he hadn't bothered shaving. It looked a little messy, sure, but with no tour on the horizon – Bill was too busy fighting with Neil – the band was grabbing some rare downtime.

"Gene." But not everyone was enjoying the break. Paul's lips were pressed into a tight line.

"You know... maybe I could get her number."

"GENE!"

Gene couldn't be bothered lifting his eyelids much, so he just tilted his head back using his neck. Paul's wild curls sprang out like coils gone haywire. Dark bags hung heavy under his eyes, and the collar of his white bathrobe was rumpled, its loose belt knot offering weak support around his waist.

"God, Paul, when did you last sleep?"

"Why don't you ask Ace and Peter? They were carrying on all night like a couple of horny dogs locked in a cage."

A knowing smirk spread across Gene's face. "What did those guys score?" He drawled, letting the question hang. "...Room service?"

"A pair of big-titted twins, gone by 1 AM. Don't ask how I know..." Paul slumped onto the edge of Gene's bed, rambling from exhaustion and frayed nerves. "I was the one running around apologizing for the racket! Who knows what kind of people are in this dump, Gene? We could get fucking shot by gangsters! Couldn't they keep it down for five minutes? Same damn noise at 3 AM, not a fucking decibel quieter!"

"Honestly, gangsters showing up might be easier." Gene raised an eyebrow, steepling his fingers against his lips, adopting that signature annoying tone he'd used a thousand times before. "We'd just throw Peter at 'em. Like the Avengers throwing the Hulk."

"You're not serious, right?" Paul shook his head, his wide, worried eyes fixed on Gene's face.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." Gene kept it vague, not wanting to kill the joke, but catching the genuine fear in Paul's big eyes, he also knew he shouldn't stoke it. "Paul, actually I—"

"Yeah," Paul cut him off, clearing his throat and speaking slowly. "At least bring Ace. That laugh of his is pure magical damage..."

"STANLEY!" Gene's laugh caught in his throat, his grin stretching almost painfully wide. "Damn, you're not as nice as I thought, are you?"

"You think you're the only one who's ever wanted to strangle them, Gene?" Paul rolled his eyes dramatically. "Haven't I had the same damn thought?"

Rarely did Gene's mind slip its leash. This time, it conjured the image far too vividly: Paul, arms like King Kong's, grabbing Ace and Peter by the scruffs of their necks, hoisting them up like ragdolls... He burst into a coughing fit of laughter. Paul turned away, chuckling too, letting the stupid moment hang. When the laughter finally died, the room plunged into silence. Both men retreated into their own thoughts, sifting through the conversation for any shred of usable intel.

"Seriously, Paul, I didn't mean..." Gene started, his voice flat.

"I know. Me neither," Paul sighed. "They're just a couple of dumbasses, at the end of the day."

"Uh-huh."

......

For the next ten minutes or so, neither spoke. Gene picked up the magazine from his lap again but didn't really read it, his gaze drifting toward Paul on the bed. The singer lay on his side, curled in slightly, offering Gene the vulnerable line of his back. Gene wondered if he'd finally fallen asleep – then, as if hearing the thought, Paul shifted his hips beneath the robe, eyes still closed as he rolled onto his back. He cautiously opened his eyes, his wandering gaze colliding with Gene's like a plane crashing straight into the tarmac. He licked his lips, awkward. "Alright, fine. I can't sleep."

"Figured. Something else on your mind?" Gene asked idly. He often didn't know why he bothered filling the silence; maybe just habit, not wanting Paul's words to hang unanswered.

Paul, however, perked up. He flipped onto his stomach on the covers, feigning nonchalance. "So… this Hefner daughter. She hot?" The angle made his fuzzy chest practically spill out of the robe.

"Who?" Gene blinked rapidly, then chuckled, amused. "She's a blonde, Paul."

Paul's lips thinned, annoyed at being read. "Didn't ask that."

"Alright, my bad," Gene conceded, standing up and planting his hands on his hips. "I just assumed you'd gotten laid at least once on this trip. That brunette who slipped into your room the night before last?"

"No... Yes. The black-haired undergrad," Paul groaned, dragging a hand through his hair before biting his lip, looking utterly stressed. "Except Peter apparently had her fed before I even got out of the shower. Left me to fuck my fist in the bathroom."

"You know, I never understood why you—"

"—Why I share with Peter? It was fun, at first. Supposed to be. Not anymore. Selfish bastard!"

Gene nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. "Right. Got it."

"Thanks. Feels better just… saying it out loud," Paul muttered, residual anger simmering.

"What you need," Gene stated abruptly, "is a volunteer."

"Uh... huh?"

"I said I've got a solution for you. To unwind."

Paul froze for a second, then scrambled up so fast he nearly slipped, his shriek piercing Gene's eardrums: "No! Oh hell no, you are not pulling that stunt again! I am not sleeping with a hooker!"

Was he actually going to bolt? Gene felt a sting of offense. He exhaled heavily. "Who said anything about a hooker? That was a mistake! Ace was just…" Just mentioning Ace's name made Gene's head throb. "Can we please bury that? And you really think I'd get you a hooker? Me? You?"

By the time Gene realized he was yelling, Paul had gone quiet. The singer sank back onto the edge of the bed, sniffing lightly. "So… you got someone in mind?" he asked, voice small.

"Obviously. A better option. Me."

Paul's eyebrows shot skyward for a split second before crashing down. His mouth fell open. "You've gotta be kidding me…"

"I'm not." Gene swallowed. Okay, maybe he wasn't entirely sure, but the bassist was a born pragmatist – propose the solution first, figure out the details later. "It's the most logical solution right now. I volunteer. You, me. Today. This room. Nothing more."

Gene laid it out like he was discussing album profit margins with Bill – clinical, almost comically serious. Somehow, that absurdity eased the tension coiling in Paul's shoulders. He hesitated. "So… I… what is this? Room service?"

"If that's what helps you wrap your head around it, sure," Gene replied, his words measured, neither urgent nor overly eager. He didn't want to scare Paul off or layer this with weird meaning. Both outcomes were equally bad.

"Screwing your best friend probably doesn't feel like any kind of service, GENE!"

"For God's sake, I was just using your word," Gene retorted, feeling his resolve waver. If Paul pushed back now, if he voiced one more protest, Gene knew he'd apologize and drop it. He could never force Paul into anything. He wouldn't want to. It never ended well for either of them.

Unaware of the power he wielded in that moment, Paul just twisted a strand of hair around his finger, the black nail polish chipped. "Okay. This thing… Jesus Christ… I mean how… how does this start?" He sounded deeply apprehensive, yet his decision was made.

The moment the words left Gene's mouth, his whole demeanor shifted. A mischievous grin spread across his face. "Take off the robe."

"What?! GENEEEEE! Jesus, give me a minute to process, will you?" A high-pitched, almost feminine shriek escaped the singer.

"Fine. Take me to a fancy restaurant. Fill my belly with everything on the dessert menu," Gene shot back without missing a beat.

Paul gave the bassist one last look, then stood up silently. He tugged loose the robe's flimsy sash knot, letting the garment slide to the floor. "Now what?"

"Not reconsidering the dessert option?" Gene's gaze drifted pointedly over Paul's hairy chest.

"Nope. I'm on a tight schedule," Paul stated flatly, his voice devoid of inflection. Was it the humidity? Gene's stare prickled his skin, raising goosebumps he tried to ignore.

Gene laughed again, but this time without the edge of mischief, just pure curiosity. "Why are you so tense, Paul? I've seen you naked on stage hundreds of times."

He was right. By halfway through any given show, Paul was usually stripped bare, his sweat-slicked chest gleaming under the lights. But that confidence clearly didn't translate to this setting. Now, Paul felt ridiculous for his own shyness.

"I don't know, okay? I just don't! Just do whatever it is you're gonna do, Gene, and stop asking me questions!" Paul crossed his arms defensively over his chest. What was he expecting? That Gene would suddenly charge across the room like a linebacker making a touchdown, tackling him to the bed? He'd be crushed under the bassist's bulk. Paul quickly banished the image. He turned his head, surprised to find Gene hadn't moved an inch. He was still standing there, watching Paul, but now with a deep, concentrating frown.

"What are we waiting for?" Paul asked, though a sinking feeling told him he already knew.

"Uh... I'm not entirely sure how to start this?"

Paul looked ready to shatter. Instinctively, he bent to snatch the robe from the floor, desperate to cover himself, humiliation burning through him. Gene saw the panic flash and quickly closed the distance between them, reaching for the robe Paul was clutching.

"What are you doing?" Paul didn't let go, tightening his grip instead, his eyes blazing up at Gene.

Before it could devolve into a tug-of-war, Gene tried to soothe him. "Stop, okay? I'm just thinking—"

"It doesn't matter, Gene, don't you get it? This is idiotic... Me being here like this, agreeing to... Christ, I'm such an idiot." Paul cut him off roughly, clearly wanting to bail – to stomp out, swallow his pride, lock himself in his own dingy room, and not emerge for the rest of the day.

On one level, Paul was right. Gene hadn't truly expected him to say yes. On another, Gene was notorious for his hetero exploits; intimacy with another man was uncharted territory. He wasn't Ace, who'd kiss anyone within reach after three beers. Hell, Gene didn't even drink.

So, would it be a terrible idea to go knock on Ace's door for pointers right now?

"You don't have to do this for me, Gene," Paul said softly, as if reading his mind. His grip on the robe slackened. He'd just go back to his own bleak room with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper and jerk off like a pathetic loser. What was one more time?

"No. You're staying here. With me." Paul's resignation hardened Gene's resolve. He didn't need Ace. He had experience with women, didn't he? All he needed now was a little imagination. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself Pauline Stanley was just a particularly fuzzy, flat-chested chick.

"You—"

He let instinct take over. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Paul's. Reality hit him like a freight train. This was no fuzzy chick. The scrape of stubble identical to his own against his cheek. His hand brushing against something unfamiliar and solid beneath the thin fabric of Paul's underwear as it slid down the inner thigh. And worst of all, the overpowering, distinctly male scent of Paul's Aramis cologne invading his nostrils, making his skin crawl.

We should start over. Gene swallowed the words. He pulled back just enough, catching the harsh puff of Paul's breath against his face. Suppressing the frantic thrum of his nerves, he kept his voice low, coaxing. "Let's get on the bed, okay? Come on."

The only blessing in this whole grimy motel was the bed. The mattress was reasonably soft, and big enough for two grown men... well, maybe for Peter and Ace – one was wiry, the other slight. For Paul and Gene, it was a tighter fit.

"Ow! Gene, my hair... now my foot, no, not that way, ah...!" Paul yelped and complained from beneath him as Gene maneuvered clumsily on top, muttering apologies. His mind raced until, abruptly, Gene slid down the bed. His feet found the floor again, his face now hovering less than a foot above the thatch of dark hair on Paul's stomach.

"Gene?" Paul propped himself up on his elbows, his voice tight with nervous inquiry.

"I've got this, Paul. Taking your shorts off now," Gene announced with forced gravity, striving for calm even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He shifted lower. His palms were slick; he wiped them surreptitiously on the bedspread before finally gripping the waistband of Paul's briefs. He steadfastly avoided looking at the center.

Gene was regretting falling back on autopilot. Normally, he'd lift the girl onto the bed, slide down teasingly, dramatically, until he was between her legs, declaring he wanted a taste, letting his tongue flick against her belly and the edge of her panties before catching the elastic with his teeth to pull them down... Yeah. Gene did that. Except his mouth didn't find smooth, damp skin, a clit, a slit. It found something concrete, undeniable – the head of Paul's cock. Unfamiliar shape. Unfamiliar heat. Not as bad as he'd feared, but utterly without illusion.

"GENE!"

Paul's joyful murmur of Gene's name feeling almost unreal—until Gene felt his own cock stir against his thigh, a visceral confirmation of reality. The bassist was debating whether to move his tongue when Paul's hand slid up to cradle his head, gently pulling him away. Paul sounded breathless, stumbling over his words: "Listen… you don't, you don't have to do that, Gene... I appreciate you being good to me, but come on up here."

Gene didn't protest. The moment he processed the words, shame caught up with him. Worse, Paul was visibly hardening beneath him. Gene scrambled back on his knees, took two deep breaths, and climbed back onto the bed, acutely aware of Paul's eyes tracking his movements. Paul's hand drifted to the hem of Gene's T-shirt. "Maybe you didn't notice… you're still dressed…" Paul's large hands pushed the fabric upwards, grazing the soft curve of Gene's stomach. Gene's body betrayed him with a faint, shameful tremor.

Luckily, Paul didn't seem to notice the tremor; he was momentarily distracted by the newfound softness. "You really need to cut back, Gene," Paul grinned, no malice in it, his palm lingering and idly stroking the flesh.

"Don't judge me, Paul. Every bite fuels the riffs and the harmonies. You think I'd be this good without the sugar cookies?" Gene huffed, wrestling the shirt off over his head as he retorted.

"I don't think so."

Sugar cookies hadn't written Deuce, but Gene clung to the childish logic anyway. Shedding his pants, he lowered himself again, pressing kisses and murmuring lyrics into the skin of Paul's neck. "You know your man is workin' hard, He's worth a deuce…"

A smile touched Paul's lips. He tilted his chin back, offering more skin, fingers tightening in Gene's hair as small, breathy sighs escaped him.

Gene pressed on. The singing stopped. His hand drifted down to Paul's chest, fingers combing through the thick thatch of hair, accidentally brushing a nipple and drawing a soft groan. Gene bit his lower lip, discovering an unexpected fascination with the scene unfolding. He still wouldn't say he was interested in men, but this – with Paul – wasn't bad. Not at all. It felt strangely natural. His mind flashed back to their first meeting: a young guy in a striped jacket that looked thrift-store bargain, hunched over a classical guitar, long hair curly but not yet exploding into its full chaotic glory. Back when he was still Stanley Eisen. He'd looked up, and those big, soulful brown eyes had momentarily stolen Gene's words and tangled his tongue. Even as Gene, in the next five minutes, played an original tune and bragged – rather stupidly – about his songwriting prowess, he regretted every awkward second. What was he doing? His desperate desire to impress the young man only earned him a slight downturn of the lips and a cool gaze: "Yeah? I don't think so."

I don't think so. Just like Paul had said earlier, but a softer version now. The words were a quiet breath against Gene's lips, a low hum vibrating in Paul's throat. Secrets of life and nature seemed to shimmer in those eyes, framed by absurdly long lashes that brushed the air like they were meant just for him.

Nothing compared to this. It felt right. Utterly right.

Yet the spark igniting in Gene's mind remained unseen by Paul. Instinctively, Paul spread his legs wider, the persistent ache between them impossible to ignore. He shifted his hips subtly, seeking relief. He appreciated Gene's careful attention, the slow build… but sometimes slow tipped over into frustrating.

"Gene, are you… are you gonna…?" Are you going to continue? Paul was startled by the raw huskiness, the sheer want in his own voice.

It jolted Gene out of his reverie. He mentally apologized. His hand slid down, finally wrapping around Paul's straining length. His teeth found the singer's collarbone for a gentle, testing nip, satisfied to feel Paul's body stir restlessly beneath him.

"Gonna leave marks..." Paul managed, his hands pushing weakly against Gene, each fragmented word fighting through rapid swallows and ragged breaths.

Fuck the tour, Gene cursed silently. Paul's relentless professionalism was grating on him for the first time, made worse by the grudging admission that the singer was right. This band needs at least one clear head... That old refrain, usually aimed at Ace and Peter's antics, suddenly rang hollow. Gene finally understood something else – the allure of unchecked madness, the illicit thrill of breaking the rules surging hot in his veins.

"Fuck the tour." He snarled it aloud, sucking hard on the skin above Paul's collarbone. A bruise would bloom there, purple and unmistakable. Fine. Makeup can hide it, he rationalized. Paul's short nails dug into his back, a sharp cry escaping as pleasure coiled tight. Gene knew his partner understood the message. They both did. The strange, potent energy that existed solely between them crackled in the air.

So when Paul pushed against Gene's shoulders and sat up, Gene let him. Before Paul fully registered his own actions, his lips found Gene's, leaning into him, rolling them over. Palms pressed flat against the bassist's solid chest, feeling the strong, frantic heartbeat thrumming beneath. Gene wrapped an arm around Paul, pulling him close, letting his lips melt into the kiss, his body yielding to the embrace. Did demons have human hearts? Or was this unexpected gentleness reserved just for him? The thought sent blood rushing to Paul's face, feverish and bright. He squirmed urgently, shifting to straddle Gene's thighs, deliberately grinding his hips down against the hard length beneath him.

Two low groans tore from Gene's throat. He forced his eyes open, determined to watch Paul moving above him, hands gripping the singer's waist, thumbs occasionally brushing circles of affection. Even though he desperately wanted to shut his eyes, to lose himself completely on the sweet, agonizing rollercoaster ride. But nothing compared to the sight before him – the glowing face framed by wild curls, an expression mingling vulnerability and fierce resolve that felt almost sacred; lean muscle stretching like calm rivers under skin; and between them, the flushed, glistening head of Paul's cock. Christ, how could anyone be this beautiful? Gene could think of no explanation beyond a miracle, crafted by God's own hand.

Paul sat up a little straighter, looking down with satisfaction at the damp spot forming on Gene's briefs. He hooked his fingers into the final barrier separating them and tugged it down. Skin met skin, cock pressed against cock. Gene's head fell back hard onto the pillow, a string of breathless, blasphemous curses tumbling out. Paul arched his neck, gasping as the direct contact sent shivers through him.

The intensity doubled. Gene's erection slid hotly alongside his partner's, Paul's larger hand wrapping around them both, rubbing and stroking. Paul had gained a little weight on this tour; the hips grinding against Gene's thighs felt fuller, the muscles at his waist softer. Too many stolen candies, not enough excuses made, Gene noted silently. But the bassist wouldn't comment. He was reaping the rewards; he had no complaints.

Eventually, coherence fled Paul entirely. Exhaustion and weeks of frayed nerves sapped his stamina. His movements slowed. It was time for Gene to take charge. He sat up, wrapping an arm firmly around Paul's waist, pulling the singer flush against his chest. Gene's hips began to piston upwards, driving against Paul. The headboard slammed against the wall in a frantic, stuttering rhythm. Who was next door? To hell with it. Gene's hand slid down, gripping their cocks together, pressing them tight against his own abdomen. Paul whimpered loudly at the sudden friction, the new pressure.

"Gene… fuck…" Paul's chin dug into Gene's temple, arms locking around the bassist's head, his breathing ragged, verging on hyperventilation.

"I know, I know… Got you, Paul…" Gene murmured soothingly, his tongue flicking out to taste the bruise he'd left on Paul's collarbone. Salt sweat mingled with the lingering scent of Paul's Aramis cologne – a heady, masculine musk that made Gene's thoughts tangle, threatening to drown him in its strange, intoxicating sweetness.

As Gene thrust upwards, his hand worked faster over their joined lengths. Paul's hair tumbled between them, strands tickling Gene's face. A realization struck Gene, sharp and undeniable: no matter how he'd pretended otherwise with women, he'd never been here before. Never so utterly lost. His thoughts fractured, impossible to grasp. Past encounters were effortless transactions, a tally of conquests, necessary releases. He'd bring them in, watch long limbs sprawl like butter melting on bread, known exactly what they wanted, and given it. Confident amidst their sighs. That confidence was gone now. Gene felt utterly bewildered, unnervingly tense. Even as he moved, even as Paul raked desperate lines down his back, he felt flogged by some unnamed force.

Bewilderment, tension, and raw excitement twisted together, binding his thoughts. But Paul was clearly teetering on the edge. Gene forced his mind blank, attacking Paul's neck with renewed fervor, his own groans growing louder. Sweat trickled down Gene's temples. His wrist ached. Paul's constant, gasping cries of his name sent electric shocks across his scalp.

Then, as Paul slammed his hips down with near-frantic force, Gene roared – a low, guttural sound. He tightened his grip on Paul's cock, stroking hard and fast. So good… In this goddamn motel, amidst their desperate hunger for fame, with Paul crying out his name with such raw need – it suddenly felt immense, overwhelming. A silent scream locked in Paul's throat. His sweat-slicked body went rigid for one suspended second. Warmth spurted onto Gene's chest and stomach.

Something unfamiliar clenched in Gene's own chest. His fingers trembled, barely grazing the tip of his own cock. His lips quivered. Dazzling white light flooded his vision as his body convulsed, spilling over Paul's hand and stomach.

"Sorry… got some on you..." Paul mumbled, his nose brushing Gene's forehead, his voice thick with sleep and a touch of embarrassment.

Steamy dampness clung to both of them; neither felt like moving. Gene's eardrums still throbbed faintly from the intensity of his climax, making Paul's words take a moment to register. He became aware of the unmistakable mix of sweat and semen cooling on his skin. His hand slid to the back of Paul's neck, a faint smile touching his lips. "I decorated your stomach too. So we're even."

A nervous chuckle escaped Paul. Gene resolved to treasure this moment – a shy Paul Stanley post-coitus was a rare and priceless thing.

Gene wanted to kiss him. His control, already frayed, snapped. The hand on Paul's neck gently cupped the base of his skull. Surprise flickered through Gene as Paul's mouth parted in anticipation before he even leaned in. The bassist's agile tongue slipped past, sweeping the roof of Paul's mouth, finding the waiting tongue and tangling with it. Their stubble scraped cheeks, but it didn't matter anymore. More surprising still, Paul actively cradled Gene's face, taking the lead, sucking the bassist's lower lip and grazing it with a tiny bite. Little sparks crackled along Gene's nerves. When Paul finally pulled back, a dissatisfied grumble escaped Gene's lips. Paul smirked at the reaction.

An itch crawled under Gene's skin. Petulantly, he tugged Paul's arm, trying to pull him back for another kiss. That's when the knock came.

"Gene! You in there?" Sean's voice filtered through the door.

Both men froze. The lingering haze of desire evaporated instantly. Gene snapped back to full awareness, clearing his throat. "Yeah. What is it?"

"Can I come in?"

Gene glanced at Paul. The singer stared back, wide-eyed and panicked, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Not a good time, Sean. Sorry."

"Right," Sean drawled, the theatrical shift in tone practically carrying the eye-roll Gene knew was happening. "Anyway, just came to tell you we're rolling out first thing tomorrow. Better start packing... And if you see Paul, tell him? Can't find the guy anywhere."

"Thanks, Sean. Will do." Gene grinned shamelessly at the flush creeping up Paul's neck.

"Oh, and… my apologies to the lady inside for the interruption. I'll just… be going now. Adieu!"

Gene's grin threatened to split his face. Paul punched him hard on the shoulder.

"Ow—!"

"I'm going!" Paul raked his fingers roughly through his hair twice, scrambled off the bed, and snatched his long-abandoned robe from the floor.

Gene knew he couldn't stop Paul. Besides, the moment was broken. Paul didn't need to stay.

"Satisfied with the service?" Gene couldn't resist teasing anyway.

Paul shook the robe out sharply in the air, scoffing. "Depends. You charging me?"

"Friends and family rate-5 bucks."

Paul pulled the robe on, his eyes snapping back to Gene's face. He shook his head in disbelief. "You're a cheap hooker, Gene. A cheap hooker."

"And you slept with a hooker, Mr. Stanley," Gene retorted, his long tongue flicking deliberately over his lower lip as the familiar, arrogant smirk settled back into place. "Guess we both learned something new today."

[cheralith]

reo doesn’t like the sound of his last name.

he’s much too used to other people calling him by his first name because he insists on it. when they do address him as “mikage”, it feels like people are addressing him not as an actual person, but rather an extension of his father’s company, as their heir.

“good morning reo-kun!”

“see you tomorrow, reo!”

“reo, can you meet me after class please?”

it’s one of the first things that he breaks the ice with while meeting someone new—“oh you can just call me reo; no need for formalities.”

when nagi spots him glaring frustratingly at the back of a peculiar person’s head, he asks him what’s up.

reo doesn’t answer and shakes his head in dismissal, telling him he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. nagi blinks slowly and shrugs, returning to his neutral sleeping position as class dozes on. reo’s ears digest what the teacher is saying, but all he can fixate is the person one seat in front and to the right of him.

class wraps up eventually for lunch, and when reo rushes up to attempt to get whatever goods are prepared for today’s lunch, he accidentally bumps into a shoulder and a cluster of things fall from the person’s hands.

reo pauses briefly, the clutter of everything making a slight racket in the class. out of instinctual reaction, he opens his mouth to apologize…

“oh, gosh, i’m so sor—”

… until he closes it again tightly when he spots you in his field of vision.

his gaze hardens as you kneel down to pick your things up quietly. from the floor, you look up at him with a soft smile that doesn’t meet your eyes.

“no worries, mikage-san,” you say casually without a care in the world.

reo’s jaw grits at the sound of his last name falling from your lips. acidic, it gives a nasty tang on his tongue even though it was you that said it. he huffs lightly, stepping over you without a care and turning on his heel to leave the classroom, not caring about the whispers that run about behind him.

[kennahjune]

Teen Dad

Quite surprised there’s not a lot of these AUs considering how much Steve apparently sleeps around but anywho.

Teen Dad Steve who finds out one of the girls he’d slept with pre-Nancy is pregnant and he damn well intends on helping out however he can.

Turns out; helping means taking his son (his SON) and having full custody because the mom, no matter how much she wants to be involved, can’t take care of him.

Steve’s alright for the first 6 months of little Louie Harrington’s life.

But then his parents come home and shit hits the fan.

Which— fair enough. He was only 17 and already had a whole ass son, they were gonna freak out.

But kicking him AND aforementioned son out? With no where to go? No money? Barely a job?

That’s just fucked up.

But Steve makes do, and lives out of his car for no more than a month before finally landing his hands on a cheap trailer in Forest Hills.

He and Louie move in and sure, it’s rough. But he’s got a nice paying job at the Diner and yeah maybe he has to skip some classes to get extra money but it’s fine. It pays his bills and rent and that’s all that really matters.

It’s fine.

And then the second wave of Upside Down fuckery hits, and Steve’s suddenly in the hospital with a grade 4 concussion (whatever that means) and his top priority is to make sure someone is with Louie.

Enter Claudia Henderson, Dustin’s mom.

She takes care of Louie for as long as Steve is in the hospital and then some when Steve can’t be left unsupervised in case his head worsens.

And that’s how the Party is introduced to little Louie (as they all call him).

Steve’s stunned to find out that Mike and Lucas are so good with little kids, but the two of them love stopping by the Henderson’s (and later on the trailer) to see little Louie and offer to babysit for him whenever.

The other kids take a little bit of time to warm up to Louie (and the fact that Steve’s actually a parent) but when they do Steve never ceases to have at least one of them over.

And with all the racket brings in the attention of nosy neighbors.

Steve is well accustomed to nosy neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln next door to his parents were always looking to snitch on him for something or other.

But Miss Bottomette and her grandchildren Noah and Casey were sweethearts. Steve didn’t mind having them over for dinner or going over there. Miss Bottomette was the one to teach him how to actually put his cooking skills to work.

Linda and Tom, a newly married couple down the road, were quite eccentric but that’s what made them charming. Steve found their dog, Dasher, quite the sweetheart.

And even Mr. Knowles, the grouchy old man next door to Miss Bottomette, seemed to take a liking to Steve and Louie.

It wasn’t long before the story behind the new boy in 2718 New Bird Ave was revealed: Teen Dad Kicked Out.

Then the whole town knew. And while most people were nice about it, even supportive of how he had taken a step into his child’s life, there were always those people who sneered.

Steve ignored them, loving the life he was working on making for himself and Louie in the trailer park.

The only neighbors he never seemed to meet, despite the looming presence, were the Munsons, right across the street.

Steve knew about the Munsons. Well— he knew about Eddie Munson; drug dealer who was on his second run of senior year. Steve actually shared a few classes with him.

He’d yet to meet the mysterious Wayne Munson, but that was to be expected with work schedules.

And then Steve was graduating, and his parents didn’t show up.

But that was totally fine. Cause the kids, Claudia, Joyce— even Hopper with El— were there. They held up little baby Louie while Steve walked the stage.

He’d heard rumors of Eddie Munson having to retake senior year for a third time— but he didn’t dwell on it for too long. Because sure, he missed more than his fair share of classes and scraped by with a C+ average.

But he did it.

And then summer hit, Dustin left for camp, and the mall opened up.

Steve picked up a job at Scoops Ahoy, cutting back on his hours at the Diner but still staying there because the money was needed and the tips were lovely.

And he meets Robin Buckley, and actually talks to Eddie Munson every once in a while when he stops in with his band, and lets the kids sneak into the movies because he’ll be damned if he robs them of a normal summer.

And then Dustin comes back and their reunion is short-lived because Russians are hellbent on torching non-existent information out of Steve and he’s busy getting his third concussion and then there’s a fucking flesh monster and Billy and Hopper for protecting them and—

It’s not a good night.

But then he’s rushed to the hospital and he tries to call Miss Bottomette only for the call to refuse to go through and shitfuckgoddammit.

Because what about Louie?

Miss Bottomette said she’d be alright watching Louie until Steve got home, but Steve wasn’t able to go home until someone was able to make time to take him home.

Usually, he’d lean on Hopper for this stuff, since his parents were out of the question. But—

But Hoppers dead.

So he’s stuck at the hospital for another day or two until finally, Claudia comes to pick him up.

He’s with Dustin in the backseat of the car, anxiously bouncing his leg and biting at his fingers and nails until Dustin gives in and just holds his hand. Robin’s there to, having been able to leave after the first night but coming with Claudia to pick him up. Steve’s relieved to have them both close by, even if his hands reach for Erica subconsciously.

His trailer’s empty when he gets home, and Miss Bottomette isn’t answering the door.

Steve’s on the brink of a full blown breakdown before Mr. Knowles— bless his heart— points them across the street.

The Munsons apparently have his son and have for a bit now since Miss Bottomette had a minor seizure and couldn’t be left alone with Louie. Mr. Knowles assured Steve that she and the kids were fine and staying with him for the moment.

Steve wasted no time afterwards sprinting to the Munsons and knocking on the door. Dustin and Robin are close behind him, Claudia waiting patiently in the driveway.

The door is answered by a gruff looking old man that’s taller than Dustin but slightly shorter than both Robin and Steve.

“You Harrington?”

Steve nods so fast he faintly wonders if that’s how bobble heads feels.

They’re let in in no time and the old man— the infamous Wayne Munson— calls out of Eddie.

Eddie Munson emerges a moment later with little Louie in his arms, bouncing softly on his feet to keep the baby calm.

Steve is in front of him in a second, scooping Louie gently out of his arms and into his own.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Dustin’s rubbing his arms and Robin his back. Claudia is talking to Wayne, explaining what had happened (or the cover story version at least) and Eddie is hanging back a few feet from the three of them.

Robin takes little Louie in her arms and shoos Steve to the couch to calm down.

“Let him meet his auntie, Steve. You take a minute to breathe now, yeah?”

Steve was led to the couch with a soft hand on his shoulder from Eddie Munson, and they sat side by side while Steve worked on easing his breathing and to stop fucking crying.

Eddie’s shushing him and after a moment (and a clearly pointed cleared throat from Robin) Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s shaking figure.

They leave the Munsons’ trailer is promises of new babysitters and a new friendship.

And then the fuckery that’s 1986 happens.

.

First Part:

[suksatoru]

mis — ft: touya todoroki

rainy days with him were always a good day. but no matter how beautiful the rainbows were after a storm, nothing could compare to his soft smile after a day spent with you. ☁︎⋆₊˚

"Dabi."

He doesn't respond, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest as he remained absolutely still. His legs were spread out in front of him as he sat on the couch. With his head propped against the wall, you watch your boyfriend 'pretend sleep'.

You think he might actually be asleep for a moment, but when your fingers lightly graze his hand - the sharp intake of breath he takes lets you know that he is very much awake.

"Dabi! Look, it's raining." You giggle, letting yourself fall onto his legs as you let out a dreamy sigh - if there was one thing in the world that could compete with your love for Dabi - it was the rain.

"If you even think about going outside again than I'll kill you right where you stand, ya hear me?" He grumbles, eyes still closed as you let out a huff of breath - your head falls onto his chest in defeat.

The last time you'd gone out on a walk in the rain was a few weeks ago, where you had mistakingly gone out with no protection from the cold weather. And the next day, you had waken up with a terrible cold. Let's just say Dabi had become your new personal heater for the time being, and you clung to him like he was your only chance of overcoming the sickness.

"Can you hear it falling? I can." You whisper with a cheeky grin. And finally, his eyes pry open.

The blueness of his gaze never failed to amaze you.

His eyes narrow a fraction as he stares back at you, his face devoid of any emotion as you rock back and forth on his lap with anticipation

He sighs, and your squeal of excitement has a quiet huff leaving his lips as he picks himself off the couch

"Rain boots. Coat. Now."

"Uh huh. Go get my umbrella!"

He rolls his eyes. But nevertheless - the sound of his footsteps approaching after a few minutes has you grinning while you finish putting on your boots. He places the umbrella down, and you pick up his own coat off the racket before turning towards him

"Let me put it on you." You coo, and he scowls - trying to reach for the jacket himself as you click your tongue in dissaproval

"Give me that. I don't need your help." He grumbles, and you turn to him with a pout that has his hand slowly falling at his side

"Not needing my help is one thing, but do you want it?"

He glares at you, eyes shooting daggers before he wordlessly lifts his arms out. You grin, looping his hands through the arm hole as you work your way around his body - tying the jacket around his waist after buttoning all the buttons on his chest. He's watching you silently as you work, a small smile on his lips that he quickly wipes off his face the moment you turn to look at him, chirping a happy done!

"Come on then." He mumbles, opening your umbrella as the two of you step outside. The rain fell gently, pitter pattering on the grass around you - you drag Dabi alongside you. He quickly covers your own head instead of his when you try running ahead of him

"Slow down." He chuckles, and you pause quickly when you realize he was getting wet because of you

"Sorry" You mumble with a sheepish smile. He raises a brow before his eyes catch on something behind you. "Huh." He mumbles thoughtfully, a soft grin on his face before he gently nudges your chin-

"A rainbow!"

"Looks like it." He replies. The rain continued to fall freely around the two of you. You bend down onto the ground, watching every raindrop fall into a puddle and create small ripples - each drop disappeared in front of your eyes and into the mass of water, and the sight was beautiful.

Dabi held the umbrella over you, watching you stare at the ground with a fascination he didn't quite understand. People might think you were a little insane for your adamant interest in the rain, but Dabi thought you were perfect. And that was really all that mattered.

"Ok! I'm done. Let's go back inside now." You prompt right after standing up, grabbing his hand and leading him back inside as he lets out a scoff

"That's it? You woke me up to play in the rain for a couple of minutes?" He groans, and you shrug

"You were awake."

"No I wasn't." He bites back quickly

Your quiet giggles at his words immediately catch his ears, and he mumbles something about you being too needy as the two of you walk back inside

"Cuddles. Please." You request while sitting on the couch, pouting as you watch him take off his coat - he hangs it on the rack before turning to you with a smirk

"I don't really think you deserve any." He answers easily, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from you with a grin

"Dabi." You plead, and you approach him with a soft throw blanket in your arms as he closes his eyes

"Goodnight." He says firmly, smiling while he closes his eyes as a way to show you he was indeed going back to sleep. It's silent for a few moments - and his ears remain ever attentive as he waits to hear your next move

He didn't have to wait long. Only a few quiet seconds pass before he heard you trying to sneakily shuffle over to him, no doubt you were going to jump on him if you managed to get close.

He opens his eyes at the last second, and you freeze your actions with a frown

"Ok, ok. You win." You whine, trudging back to your side as you lay down with a pout, dramatically covering your eyes while your other arm dangles over the edge of the couch

He lets out an annoyed sigh, and you smile patiently as he walks over to you, laying himself beside you as your hands immediately reach out to hold his face. He presses a soft kiss onto the palm of your hand, cradling it to his lips before his other hand gently flicks your forehead

"Sleep." He mumbles with a throaty rasp, and you sink further against his body, smiling against his skin.

He had a single arm splayed over your back as you laid on top of him, and your face rested against his chest as you listened to the gentle drum of his heartbeat through his clothes. It was a reassuring sound, and his other hand was pressing you against his chest - almost like he wanted you to be inside, right where his heart was.

[chlmtsdoll]

LIKE A TRUE STAR

౨ৎ Summary: you just won your first challenger. Usually gift giving and showering you in their riches, Art & Tashi have a few more surprises for their special girl 🤍

౨ৎ Word count: 7k

౨ৎ Warnings: smut ! p in v (unprotected) sex, no use of y/n, oral (f) reviving, virgin/inexperienced reader, sugar baby!reader, age gap (reader in early 20’s), Art and Tashi dilf/milf age, innocence//corruption & size kinks, porn ? with a plot, voyeurism, brief spiritual/religious themes, Art and Tashi treat reader like their muse, Patrick is kind of (is) a dick

౨ৎ part one | three | four

Your racket hit the ground as you excitedly skipped off the tennis court, smile blaring and sweaty hair sticking to your face as you ran into Arts arms when he met you by the bleachers.

“You were amazing, baby !” he chucked, spinning you around as he held you tight in his arms, and you were too full of sensation to think anything about anything.

You’d just won your first challenger.

“I did it. I won, I won !” You expressed cheerfully as Art placed you to your feet, embracing you with a proud cheeky smile. You were a sweaty mess — tired and overwhelmed with the last few weeks of non stop training you’d been doing and your sleep schedule being all work and hardly any play (besides shopping) you could now finally rest for a moment. You’re one step even further to nationals this year.

You wanted to jump up and down, squeal even, but Arts soft hold of your hands kept you grounded and fully present. It was until Tashi had came alive in and her eyes had a rare spark in them you hadn’t seen since she first saw you play months ago.

Here it is. What did she think of your game ? Could she have been unimpressed even though you just whipped your opponents ass ? There was really never any telling with Tashi, till she spoke her mind.

You barely had time to wonder or build nerves to contemplate when Tashi had wrapped her touch gently around your face and she cupped your chin to look into your eyes dearly.

“You kicked ass out there. That’s my girl, well done.” Tashi spoke fondly and the corner of her perfect lips turned up into a smile. Your chest had loosened immediately and you couldn’t help but smile more. Her thumbs caressing your cheeks lightly as she leaned in and left a kiss there. Your eyes had closed for a moment and you didn’t want to be any place that wasn’t here with the two people you admired most, and to their enjoyment, their comfort and praise meant the whole world to you.

“I’m a finalist now. Officially.” You gripped the bottom of your skirt with a giggle. “I’m going to nationals.”

Art had smiled down at you, thinking your state was purely adorable really, “and you did it all on your own. You worked so hard, you never let up and that’s what’s important.”

“To have a clear mind.” Tashi nodded and adjusted her purse on her shoulder, a light but reassuring smile making it’s way back to her face as she peered at you. “Okay. We’ve got to freshen you up for the tournament dinner tonight and.. we have a small surprise for you.”

Your eyes lit up again almost immediately shifting between the couple with anticipation, a soft chuckle of shyness escaped your lips “it’s not another protein smoothie is it ?”

“No. It’s definitely, definitely not.” Art laughs and he shoots Tashi a look and she snickers lightly before leading you through the locker rooms.

You got all of your tennis equipment gathered while Art and Tashi had spoken to other sponsors and tried their very hardest to not run into any press. When you’d all gotten back to the hotel you’d been staying in for the time being upstate, a bath was already taken care for you by the maids. Steamy and sitting perfectly waiting for your arrival, ready with bubbles and the smell of rose water lingering through the air. There was even a warmer for your robe that you had gotten quite used to.

All your body lotions, creams and skin care were from luxury brands Tashi had unlimited access to and she would have the maids restock them for you whenever you needed. It really hadn’t even sunken in yet that you got the kind of treatment that only Tashi Duncan had gotten and well, by Tashi Duncan herself. It was like you were living in a dream.

Once you were done bathing and fresh faced, you’d entered your room to find a team of people waiting for you with makeup and hair products laid out neatly on tables. They’d gotten you all pretty and sitting with perfectly glossed pink lips in no time. Pinned curls flowed down your back. You looked ethereal. One of the makeup artists was finishing off your face when Tashi had trotted in with a garment bag hanging over her arm. You watched her place it on the bed and walk over to you, examining your face.

“Perfect.” She had told the makeup artist before dismissing the team and she gave you a likely smile, “surprise is ready.”

You noticed her eyes follow to the bed and you stood to meet her, trying not to bounce over too excitedly and ruin your curls, Art had peeked in not too soon after, he walked over to were his wife stood but his eyes had gone straight to the perfection that was you.

“I just hope she loves it,” he whispered to Tashi and you’d heard, a simper crept onto your lips and had you been a bit nervous now. You started to unzip the garment bag and what was revealed had you nearly speechless with a croaked gasp. Your mouth hung slightly agape, pulling out maybe the most exquisite dress you had ever laid eyes on.

Soft pink sequins glittering underneath the hazy light of the sunset coming through the grand windows, a cream colored top of the dress lined in diamond embroidery and a bow tied in the middle. Valentino.

You could ultimately cry, it was your dream dress.

“Oh my god. It’s my dream dress.. it’s-it’s so lovely, It’s been on runways in Paris.” You tried not to stutter as flustered as you were,

“And now it’s yours.” Art replied and a happy grin appeared across his lips as he watched your expression that held a million words you couldn’t say, excitement bubbling through you.

Sitting down on the bed in front of you as you held the stunning garment in awe, Tashi spoke tenderly, “I knew you’d win and make us proud but Art wanted to do something special… he went and bought it for you.”

You met eyes with the gorgeously fit man, and you had only put your dress down to run over and hug him. “Thank you ! Thank you ! Thank you !”

Art laughed and held you to him gently but with all the bliss intended. You weren’t gonna let up as you wrapped your arms around his neck and your girlish giggle was something that turned his heart to liquid as it felt. Pulling back to look into his eyes again with bashful lashes and a hint of your real blush behind the perfect tint that had been added to your face. Art examined your doe eyes and it took everything in him not to carry you into the other room.

“You deserve it, pretty girl.” He uttered softly, so close and so quick to taking your lips, your breathe hitched a little as you felt Tashi come up behind you as well. Too close but too far.

“We’ll give you anything… and everything.” Her voice was sultry and low. You’d known everything in this moment couldn’t had been more perfect. Tashi couldn’t have been more open to you and that was everything you needed to know. Her lips hovering against your exposed neck and lips readying your skin.

Your eyes could have closed in elation. Art was still holding you up to him and you could say you were sharing breaths from how close your mouths had been to each other, to getting that release. Having both of them at once, finally. Here now. Your mind would go on overdrive as Tashi played with the neck line of your robe, pushing it down harshly slow to expose your shoulder, she had kissed it gently to which led you to let out a satisfied sigh before her presence had been taken back to linger by your ear.

“Get dressed baby, we can’t be late.” She coaxed and you had bitten your lip with want to pout.

Art lowered you slowly and he let Tashi help you slip into the dress once your robe was fully off. Only taking half a look at your perfectly perked breast that we’re exposed to the air, To him, and you watched him watch you. You could nearly see the longing hunger in his to kiss you, dig into you.

You felt like their muse and prize. You felt like a masterpiece they’d put together.

Tashi slipped the straps over your shoulders and let art zip up the back, he took his time as eyes wondered your delicate skin till you were secured in the dazzling piece. You giggled.

“How do I look ?” You spun a bit in front of the mirror and the couple looked at you as if you were some orb shinning just for them. Art stepped back some to examine you as he pushed his hands into his pockets not to touch even as badly as he wanted to. Every second you weren’t underneath him with those wide eyes and ethreal waist was all the more painful..

“Gorgeous. I don’t even want dinner, I just want you.” He complimented honestly and you had blushed terribly.

But he really did, only holding back from the knowledge that Tashi was admit about making it to dinner on time. Their team and friends all waiting for them, but wouldn’t the gratifying feeling of just taking you right now in front of Tashi be worth it ?

He knew seeing you like this, right now, pretty and perfectly put together by him and Tashi, looking at the two of them like some gratifying figures of your worth, would be the last time he looked at you so pure. Saw the innocence and liveliness in your eyes all before they had touched you and brought you to the other end of it all.

It was like his wife could practically read his mind as he watched you.

Her own hands fidgeting with one another in a squeeze and she sighed out briefly before standing. “You look heavenly, everyone is going to adore you, now come.”

Tashi fluffed your hair as you smiled at yourself once more in the mirror facing the ideal, perfect you back to your glance. Art helped you buckle your heels before you all made way to the lobby area where a car was waiting for you just to go to another swoon worthy superb hotel.

When you’d gotten into the dinning hall there was a chandelier hanging above the grand area that had quiet literally been bigger than your old apartment.

You more-less stared at it in awe for a moment before you felt a hand grace the small of your back as Art led you to where the tennis sponsorships and all of Art and Tashi’s wealthy “friends” had been. Even Patrick was there — which was not to your surprise since he had been around quite a lot, but you’d hardly spoken more than three actual conversations with him these past couple months.

It wasn’t that you were afraid of him, but more than he just wasn’t the nicest to you. You didn’t quite understand why at first but overtime you learned that he meant a lot to Tashi and Art, they had a different kind of bond. Something otherworldly. So you’d grown accustomed to his presence around often, and you just stayed quiet really when they’d all been together — Unless he was picking on you for gods knows why. Then, because you just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make fun of him, you’d pull the ‘aren’t you like forty ?’ card against his backhanded comments.

It probably led to him disliking you more, if it even was dislike, because he also would hit on you like a pervert and it made you knowledgeably uncomfortable.

The way his eyes would scan you from his height, being an entire foot taller than you, even taller than Art. And his lips would curl into a maddening grin that made you feel all sorts of frustration… or lust ?

You couldn’t quite figure out which it had been still, or if it were both, but you’d never admit to it regardless.

He’d thought the whole get up between you, Art and Tashi was a joke. Like you’d just been their arm candy for press and Arts torments.

Sometimes you’d thought if it had been internal jealousy hindering his motives towards you.

You had basically taken his closer than close “best friends” attention fully, and they spent as much time with you as they did with their own daughter Lily these days. Leaving an even smaller share of their attention for his own — and oh, how you knew that just pissed him straight off.

Not to mention you were young, had tons of pretty privilege and a bright future ahead of you that he didn’t. It would only make sense when all the facts added up that he wouldn’t take too kindly to you.

and you were honestly content with that.

Dinner had been going for a time and as everyone really fought to talk to Art and Tashi mostly, there were a few times when you were questioned as well. About your tennis training, or what it was like being coached by Tashi, along side Art. How you’d come accustomed to your new lifestyle — to which you’d propose in small, softly spoken answers that made great for your charisma check because they honestly all just adored you.

No one could stop staring at your perfectly put state at the edge of the table with Tashi at the head, and Art directly across from you. You felt like you had the universe and the stars at your hands, a taste of what it was like to be a true star. Like them.

All night you couldn’t keep your eyes off of Art for the life of you, sitting in front of you all honorable and stature.

His perfect blonde waves, glittering eyes when he smiled or laughed, cheek bones lifting and revealing his pearly white teeth, maybe the straightest you’d ever seen. The way he spoke, with so much surety of his successes and how he played with strands of his hair in a nervously cute way after he made a joke that obviously everyone laughed at because not only it was funny, but he is the Art Donaldson.

You tried not to sigh like a swooning school girl, but you really could. Playing with your fork absentmindedly as you took in all that he was.

You really hadn’t been paying attention to any of the conversation that was happening around you, because every time Art had made eye contact with you wistfully he’d given you a soft but reassuring smile. Rolling his eyes playfully when he dodged another question about what it was like to be ad campaigning for Adidas, a question he’d answered countless times that you and him had now made up an inside joke about.

You giggled quietly from across the table at his gesture and you looked around you at the others surrounding before you brought the tip of your heel to Arts ankle.

You inched it up his leg slowly, but enough to get him tripping on words and laughing nervously so his attention would go to you. His eyes made sync with yours as he swallowed. You bit your lip softly to hold back a grin.

“Yeah, I um- I thought it would be a good way to start the season-“ Art cleared his throat slightly as he tried to catch to the conversation as your foot had now been embarking his thigh.

You only took a sip of your champagne as you watched his breathing hitch a little as he struggled. He looked at you with pleading eyes and a slight breath escaping his lips with want. You tried not to break a giggle with how satisfied you were of your small act to get an arousal out of the man, and just make him take you into the nearest bathroom and fuck all of the play out of you. But that was getting more and more difficult as time went on, so you kept teasing him.

That was until you suddenly felt a firm hand grasp your thigh from your left side. Your eyes had darted away from Art to land on Tashi gripping you from under the table. She’d laughed off a conversation with a nearby friend before leaning into you,

“Don’t be a tease.” She affirmed in a soft but demanding plea. You’d sink into your chair and tried your best to hide a mischievous smile.

You couldn’t quite explain it — but something about making the two of them feel like they’d been out of their control of you, purely coaxing out their sexual desires inch by inch turned you on greatly. What else could you do to get a reaction out of them ? And what would they do ?

Taunt you ? Punish you ?

It was all your mind could focus on the rest of the night.

When dinner had been finished off and everyone was mingling now, you’d asked to explore the hotel while Tashi and Art got away with Patrick for more drinks. When you returned, they were all in the lounge area where not to many people were at all, just a few bartenders aside them and it was quite enough to overhear their conversation.

“God, she’s fucking pretty.” You over heard Patrick sputter over a glass of whiskey you we’re assuming.

Which one of his “girlfriends” that he had been prostituting himself to was he talking about now ?

“You two have truly out done yourselves. She has a face of an angel. Literally.”

“Mmm, that’s why we wanted her.” Tashi had added with a chuckle. “Additional to her being talented and well disciplined of course.”

Oh… they had been talking about you.

“I just will never understand. If you two wanted a sugar baby so bad, why couldn’t you have asked me ?” He laughed.

“You patronized us for years, why would we give you money ?” Tashi said so casually as she took a sip of her martini and you’d have to cover your mouth not to let a chuckle escape.

“I like to call it constructive company. And I brought Art back to one of his greatest championship seasons of all time. All those people, all that press, I helped him.”

“By.. patronizing me ?” Art questioned with both sly and genuine curiosity to how high of ignorant heights Patrick would go to prove a point.

“You didn’t help him do shit unless it was up to me.” Tashi denounced, a look turned slightly cold in her eyes and Patrick had chortled, shaking his head after he took another swing of his glass.

“She’s wearing a twelve thousand dollar fucking dress.”

“That she earned.” Art defended and you’d felt your heart skip a beat briefly as you stood a little straighter to listen in, a smile on your lips now.

“By hitting a ball with a racket ?” Patrick couldn’t stop poking fun at your existence being near the couple, even starting off so sweetly — he just couldn’t help himself.

Art and Tashi were so used to his childishness they could handle conversations like this with him from the back of their hand. It amazed you how much they loved him when to outsiders it had seemed like he’d gotten on the very last spectacle of their nerves.

“Is it because I’m not cute enough ? Or wait, let me guess, not close enough in age to your daughter ?”

Tashi had shook her head as she looked away from him, standing next to their lounge chairs at the bar as she’d now been getting fed up.

“You mock and make fun of her age, yet you’re the one sitting over here complaining about not getting enough attention like a child.”

“What would she ever need to complain about ? You spoil the little shit to death!”

Both Art and Tashi had slipped up and shown the undeniable expression on both of their faces that they had been essentially over with the conversation by now, everything would go right through one of Patrick’s ears and out the other. Loving the place of confusion and frustration he had riled them into, Patrick’s lips had upturned into a smile. In his reality, he’d just won.

Half his teeth had shown as he watched Tashi’s state, already dissociative and glacial as she’d washed down another sip from her glass. “Just let me know when you’re ready to turn your little triangle with her into a square.”

Art laughed out loud, leaning onto the countertop of the bar, knowing all too well what hid in his childhood best friend, he’d really known as a shared lover’s heart.

“Envy truly rules you Patrick. Can’t stand to accept her lifestyle or what she has, yet you’d wanna fuck her.”

The brunette looked eloquently pleased as he nodded with smugness and a forced hidden smile. “Likely so.”

Tashi had rolled her eyes at the air, the conversation flowing through it, and the words of a man she’d looked at as simply an idiot she couldn’t help but be in love with in all reality. Leaving her empty glass on the counter and a tip, she had removed her chair to get in Patrick’s face.

Close and well personal. The look in her eye was dangerous but she held an uplifted expression overall,

“Mark my word when I say you will literally never touch her, Patrick. Ever.” The scolding woman left him with her daggers up and in her words.

You could feel your chest practically pound just from the way they’d all basically had a match within itself over you.

You’d gotten so wrapped in their lives in such little time, you were worth something to fight for. Literally their ball to throw and catch with ease. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself at the thought.

You’d made just as much a dent on Art and Tashi like they had certainly done on you.

♡

You’d both been changed into your pajamas after freshening up when it had been just you and Tashi in her and Arts shared hotel room together. Art had gone and decided to read Lily a bedtime story for the night.

Tashi was in the midst of applying lotion to her smooth defined skin, and you lie on their bed with a tennis magazine in hand as you flipped through pages of the latest issue that Art had been featured in of course.

“I’ve always wanted to model for Alo. You think they’d let me ? Or would I get rejected because I’m too short ? Most likely…“

Your voice had shifted from chipper to slight disappointment quickly as the realization settled into you, you’d always had such heightened dreams dispute your height or petite size, it had been why you’d directed your life to the ballet. Till that too was just another pipe dream.

Tashi made a quiet tiff sound when she’d recognized the heavy-heartedness in your voice, of course, she knew a thing or two when it came to the sunken feeling of failed dreams and living through if only’s.

“You can campaign for whatever and whoever you want… if you keep playing and stay on top.”

You took adjust of her words with a nod and you flipped another page, “Then so be it, I'm afraid I’d go great lengths to add model to my resume.”

Tashi had tittered softly, and it was a moment before you’d noticed a more sustainable silence and you felt like she’d had something pondering on her mind that she just had to get off the cuff, you’d known it would come — but it was just the countdown to when that kept you. You heard soft foot imprints on the hotel carpet as the woman made her way from the bath area to where you’d lay on the bedside.

“Baby, let’s talk for a second.” She ordered quietly and you’d made your way to the edge of the bed where she stood. You tried not to swallow too hard at the news she had to address.

You’re initial habit was to just pray it wasn’t a ‘get the fuck out, you’re no longer useful or wanted’ kind of talk.

“Art and I have been talking about how amazing you’ve been recently with practice, your matches and just staying on top of it all lately. We really are so proud of you.” Tashi began, and you showcased a coy smile, to which she reached out to stroke your cheek gently, her own cheek to shoulder as she ran glossy eyes over your softly faded lipstick and glowing skin in the dim light effortlessly.

She looked at you like some kind of jewel to her goddess ascension. Her touch was heaven. As gentle and rare as it was that you’d ever even got it, made it mean all the more.

It was everything.

“We think you’re ready. For that next step of pleasure,” her words washed over you briefly and your wide eyes blinked rapidly as you took in her softened face.

“I- really ?” You inquired. Tashi nodded slow,

“Really.”

You’d bitten your lip, and Tashi had brought her hand to grasp your chin as she stood above you now. Your eyes had followed her, never breaking for a second to lose her eye-line and she wanted to coo at the way you looked so open and invested in her next move, sentence, whatever she’d given you. She stared down at you,

“But you have to promise, if I let him fuck you, you’ll continue to be good. Better.”

You nodded almost too quickly. Your heart was beating a mile a minute and you had forgotten to answer.

“I promise. I’ll be perfect.”

You didn’t know how to tell her you’d been waiting to be theirs in a way that was more than in the game, but physically and within since the beginning. The moment you saw them greet you that day. You’d thought about it dozens of times, Art being inside you, one with you, and Tashi watching, coaching. Instructing you.

Just how you’d been when you played for them on the courts. Perfect with every move they’d asked of you and with each hit of your racket you’d let out another euphoric noise of gratification.

It had all symboled out in your head to lead you here.

Tashi gave you a warm expression, waves gone to curls that famed her face and your elated flush was all you could muster up aside feelings, you hadn’t known what was gonna happen next but all you could do was stay relaxed and prepared.

It wasn’t too long before Art had sauntered back into the hotel room, shutting the door softly he’d made sure,

“Baby, she asked if you could turn up her lullaby,” Art called to Tashi and you’d thought it was ultimately adorable Lily had requested a lullaby still to fall asleep to, and Tashi could easily adjust the volume on her phone.

Art had walked from the door to where he’d appear from behind a wall too see you.

Spotted you lying on the bed. Soft messy curls brushing your shoulders and a pretty bashful smile on your face as you awaited him was almost all too much. He practically pranced over to you as you stood on your knees to push the comforter back for the two of you to settle into.

Art had sunk into the pillows and blankets, you immediately coming to his side as you got comfortable. His arm around you, your head against his chest. Your favorite place to be.

There wasn’t a night that passed since you’d gotten accustomed with the two, that you didn’t spend like this. Cuddled with Art. Safe in the barrier of his arms, your chin had sat delicately on his peck and you’d look up at him as he traced your tender features, a light smile showcasing his lips.

“You were so radiant today.” He chimed sweetly and your eyes wondered his pretty face, looking as if he’d give you the moon right there. “Are you happy ?”

You sat up a bit to look at him fully, your eyes synced up with his, you nodded. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt better.”

Arts smile was hazy and it was smooth when he reached and towed you to him, brushing a thumb against your soft lips and he watched them, “Can I add on to that ?”

You nodded with a light grin, then quickly but with ease, your lips melted into one another.

You’d held a hand to his neck as you took the initiative to deepen the kiss forward, letting his perfectly plump ones take you over and move as one with yours. Breathes passing between the two of you as you both went back and forth to keep mouth over the other. Arts hands glided up your backside softly to slip up under your silk nightgown and you’d adjusted yourself so you had been sitting on his lap, he pulled you tighter in so you’d been flush with his chest and his body was snug between both your thighs.

If there was one thing Art loved so dearly, it was kissing.

His ultimate and favorite way to express admiration. You’d saw it in the way he kissed Tashi’s body tenderly after any small gesture of anything, her wrist, her hips, her chin.

He’d fought for dominance over your mouth even being underneath you, your throat vibrating at the sensation of your tongue meeting his and you let out a soft noise of satisfaction as he kissed you so diligently. He only stopped for a couple seconds in between kisses, “need- - to kiss.. your sweet cunt.” He protested as you’d held his face in your hands.

You didn’t want to pull away from kissing him till he gave you the word, you giggled softly and he’d melted back into the pillows that primed you both. You’d only leaned back so his big hands could inch your hips and pull on the sides of your panties. Soft pink and lace. He and Tashi had always kept you in that color because it was just Arts favorite — seeing it on you did wonders to him and ending up coaxing a tent in his jeans often.

He let his hands linger there before he had pulled them off of you finely, he looked up at you with a pleased grin at how you were so ready for him and receptive to his small but impactful touches. Your skin started to heat up at the shift in the way he’d looked at you. Now with hunger and a million ways running his mind on how to devour you.

You settled a blushing smile as you climbed past his chest and he watched you, with ease you could feel how he’d let his tender fingertips stroke the back of your thighs. He had to push your night gown slightly more over your hips to exposed your heat to him fully.

“Fuck..” he croaked, pressing a kiss to your aching clit already, you’d been wet the whole night practically, waiting for him to have you like this. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, watching him kiss you there made a whimper fall out of you. “Such a pretty pussy, my god.”

His kisses gathering your wetness before a stripe of his tongue had coaxed your folds, it made your head fall back as the sensitivity over came you. You looked back down to watch him maneuver you open because you just couldn’t allow yourself to miss a second of it.

Your eyebrows knitting together as he dipped his tongue into you, nose rubbing up against your clit just right and a deep moan had escaped you. Your hands clawing at his hair briefly and you couldn’t help but move your hips some accordingly to the movements of his jaw.

“Oh- -please.. yes.” You whine and you felt the vibrations sparse through your body as Art had groaned into your core.

You’d fallen out of reality for a second with how his tongue explored the tightness of you, sucking and flicking all over your most vulnerable spots in pleasure. Your hair had fallen into your face as you felt him bring you back to consciousness by grabbing your shuttering hips above him and moving you gracefully against his face, the sent of you overwhelming him in a way that he practically lived for.

Tashi had trudged into the room as she pulled her robe over her arms, she took a seat on the sofa chair that was directly in front of the bed. Her eyes going venal with lust almost immediately as she observed the two of you.

Arts grip on your thighs moved to squeeze your ass, you whined out as you held on to the headboard in front of you. Your savory hips moving in ravenous ways and Art had taken in the way you moaned and whined out for him to continue. Stomach going tight with need to release.

“mmh- Art, i’m coming.. I’m coming,”

You closed your eyes as you gasped out a choked moan. Your juices were meeting Arts tongue like sap, and he’d keep licking you clean till more just dripped down his chin.

Your thighs shook terribly when your orgasm ran though and Art gripped them to keep you still, he moaned out a soft satisfied noise after sucking you to overstimulation.

His hands lifted you up from him, and he moved to level you down on the bed sheets. You smiled in bliss as your head hit the comforter and Art followed your tiny body compared to his. He leaned in to kiss your neck to jaw as he half chuckled half sighed, “you’re so good for me”

You couldn’t help but get bashful at his praise and your eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he kissed up your jaw, hands coming in contact with your legs as he kept you spread for him, fingers rubbing up and down your drooling cunt to keep you aroused there. You looked up at him looking down at you, and your delicate hand moved from his shoulder to his sweats he still had on. Palming him through the fabric as your chest heaved.

He was so big. It nearly made you lightheaded from the grasps of his hardness in your hand.

Arts crystal blues followed your expression to where your hand had been active. Looking back to you, “you want it ?”

You nodded shyly, eager to just feel his length stretch you.

“Please,”

“You sure ?”

“I want it to be you.”

Art had looked up and his eyes made contact with Tashi, seeing her view right back. She’d only looked approving without having to say a word, and he was all knowing of that look. He focused back on you, “It’ll hurt first. Then you’ll feel good.. I swear I’ll take good care of you.”

“I know. You’re like ice.” You smiled while he grinned at you and began to lean up from your body to take off his shirt, exposing his bare chest to you along with his enchanting eight pack (you’d counted correctly multiple times)

Pushing his sweat pants aside, you could see the way his cock sprang out and you almost moaned at the sight. It had been everything you’d thought it would be and more truly. He was long and girthy. You struggled to picture how it would fit. But you’ve come to far to get all nervous now.

Tashi raised a brow, she’d noticed your apprehension even from across the room, “You’re thinking. Don’t over think it.”

Her voice came calming and she was right. It was the same thing she’d say to you before you would take your first serve on the court. You don’t think you just feel.

“I’m not overthinking, I’ve never done this before and he’s just- - wow.” Your breath hitched slightly and Art had chuckled at your state as flattered as he was.

“You’re fine.” He noted before pulling you by the thighs up to him again and your giggle filled the air as your locks had followed behind you. He’d been lined up against you and his fingers pushed a few strands of your hair from your face, taking in the sight of your pure beauty and vulnerability. “I’m gonna teach you so many things...”

That made you whimper softly and he hadn’t even been in yet. You bit your lip as his hands stroked your thigh softly and it relaxed you, leading up to your hips as he held you there. Your stomach had gone into knots when you felt the tip of him at your entrance, reaching out to a pillow nearby.

“If you want me to stop, you tell me, okay ?”

You nodded, Art had used the tip of his cock to push open your folds as he slipped through your heat before finding your opening and started slowly sinking into you, his eyes found yours before your face was contorted into pain and you let go of a choked out moan.

Art held you, hands keeping you in place and his eyes locked on you as he made sure to be gentle,

“Hey, look at me.. that’s my girl.” He praised as you relaxed and did so, keeping your focus on him as he pushed on your spread legs so he could bury into you easier. You could feel every vain of him as he filled you up and it was indescribable.

The lips of your pussy starting to go feral with pulse as you took him in till he bottomed out inside of you and you’d never felt so stretched in your life, you started whimpering and trembling at the feeling.

Arts hands had found their way to your most comforting spot, on your hips, as he guided you. The feeling of your tightness gripping him was like heaven on earth.

“I’m gonna move. Remember it’ll start feeling good, yeah ?”

“Uh huh,” you couldn’t really think of words to answer with at this point but you were so glad you had his guidance to talk you through it, through the new feeling you’d never experienced before.

Art started to thrust nice and with perfect pace till your back automatically arched off of the bed, moans and whines poured from your lips as your head fell in pleasure. He was holding you in place and it felt like all you had to do was lie and take him like you’d been fantasizing every night practically. Fully sinking into the feeling of rapture.

Your body began to move with his and you felt him palm one of your breasts as he fucked into you, “mmm, yes- - yeah, fuck” your melted whines sputtered out and Art let out a deep groan at the sight of you beneath him so tight, yet spread, wetness coaxing between the two of you and he slid you up and down his dick.

“That’s it. Good girl.” He murmured, your skin slapping against his and it did feel really, really good.

Your head had fallen fuzzy and you wanted something, anything to hold on to, Art noticed and offered you his hands which you took and held with appreciation. “More- - more !.. oh,” Art had felt your cunt clutching him like a perfect fit and he wished he could hold on to this feeling of having you for the first time, all sweet and spread out for him to take, kept somewhere for him to have forever. But he knew for a fact it would certainly stick with you forever.

The way your fingers intertwined with his as you closed your eyes in bliss he knew you meant it. More — so he picked up the pace and fell to pounding into you. You cried out his name and your chest heaved.

It felt so fucking good

Tashi had ordered room service and everything, a cup of tea. But either of you had been too fucked out to notice.

Pre cum pooled at the base of Art’s cock as he rutted into you and moaned at the sight that would never leave his mind he granted. He felt by the way your walls were fluttering around him that you’d be close soon,

“You gonna cum for me, sweet girl?”

“Yeah, I wanna cum for you, make me cum” your voice had gone weak as he rutted into you and panted, but he thought it was so adorable of your effort to respond even knowing all your senses were on overdrive in the moment.

Your body had began to tremble before Art had flipped and lifted you so your back was as flush with his chest as much as possible with your height difference, and he slipped himself right back within your core which made you let out a strangled cry. He continued fucking you as he held your petite body close to his, moving your hair aside so he could lick a spot on your neck to leave a deep kiss. And you were moaning his name over and over again,

“That’s right baby, I feel you.. you’re so close, let it out.”

You whimpered with each thrust as you took his dick and it was like you had a second heart beat, because when you finally reach your climax, you could of sworn you saw stars.

Ripples of fireworks spreading throughout your body as you came hard. “Oh ! Oh fuck..”

Art panted in your ear and rubbed you through it, feeling you cum around him and the pretty noises that escaped your throat he didn’t even know you had in there. “Shit you’re gonna make me cum..”

“Don’t- - cum inside her yet,” Tashi had began, but it was too late. Art had been pumping you full — you could feel his seed coating your walls as you stilled and let it take over you, mouth completely “o” shaped as you took it and a soft groan slipped out of the both of you.

“Shit, sorry. Is she not on the pill ?” Art breathed eyes meeting Tashi across the room,

“She will be first thing tomorrow morning.” she said nonchalantly and you and Art had practically melted into limbs.

You didn’t want him to, but he had pulled out of you and all you could see was his cum spilling out from your puffy cunt, Art licked his lips at the sight and watched you watch before getting up to get a towel to clean you up.

When he came back your chest had been caving up and down, a grin stuck to his lips as he wiped the cloth between your thighs. “You did so well princess, do you feel good ?” The blonde leaned in to shower you with kisses and you had a dazed smile with glossy eyes.

“Yes… let’s do it again please,” you breathed out and Art laughed before tossing the towel and laying back on the center of the bed with you.

“You can. I’m tired.” He leaned back and closed his eyes after placing you on top of him.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you shook your head, messy curls falling every which way and your arms had hooked around Arts body dearly. Ignoring the way your body had gone limp and you were pretty sore, but you decided that could wait till tomorrow. Just wanting to be there with him without a moment wasted — you lie your head back on his chest and you could feel Art bring his arms to wrap around you sweetly, just holding you there.

A/N: TY guys for all the support on prt one of this series !! I literally love u, and I love it here. This was sm fun to write. I’m like so back <3 also ! tittle of the chapter is inspired by ‘because of you’ unreleased by Lana Del Rey so go listen to it on yt bc it’s so fucking good xoxo

[miserymorgue]

BLIP | ft. P. ZWEIG

summary In the sweltering heat of a lost summer, Patrick Zweig, broke, bored, and clinging to the remnants of his past, finds a fleeting escape in a raw, messy fling with a younger college student.

wc 3.4k words

warnings sexual themes/language, mild age gap (mid-30s and early 20s), tiny power imbalance/older guy manipulating younger woman, casual sex, library and campus settings, use of the term ‘kid’, if that’s anything, angst?

pairing pre-2019!patrick zweig x college student fem!reader

Patrick felt like a fucking creep.

All he could do was watch.

You weren’t even doing anything—just sitting cross-legged in the library, headphones in, scribbling notes from a textbook bigger than his head.

Whatever the hell it was you were studying. Economics? Engineering? Fuck, for all he knew, it could’ve been interpretive dance theory. He never bothered asking. Didn’t care enough to.

All he could think about was how your skirt rode up every time you shifted, how your thighs pressed together under the table, the faint shadow between them. 

He shouldn’t even be here. Not like this. Not after losing, with sweat still dried salty on his skin, clothes clinging damp under his arms, hair sticking up in every direction from running his hand through it too many times. He’d walked straight off court, barely pausing to spit on the baseline in disgust, keys jingling in his pocket as he stormed off to find you.

He needed you – needed something soft to bury himself in, something sweet to erase the taste of failure burning hot and bitter in his chest. The taste of losing to some seventeen-year-old recruit with bright eyes and a perfect backhand.

Maybe there was something sad about a guy pushing his mid-thirties, unemployed and hanging around a campus library waiting for his college fling to finish studying.

But Patrick had lost worse things than dignity lately.

Like his last match, only hours ago – a brutal, humiliating defeat that left his body aching and his head throbbing with every thump of his pulse. He hadn’t even showered yet, just thrown on jeans and hoped for the best.

He’d left the court with his racket dragging on the ground, sweat soaking through his shirt, half-blinded by the sun and rage.

Now here he was, watching you, hoping you’d fix it. Hoping you’d scrape him off the concrete floor of his ego just long enough to feel like a man again.

He’d blown through most of his trust fund – dog racing bets, whiskey tabs, overpriced trainers he convinced himself would fix his footwork. His apartment was month-to-month now, his car insurance lapsed, and his last match ended with a towel over his head, forehead pressed to his knees in the locker room, listening to the sounds of his opponent celebrating two rooms over.

So.

What do you do when you’re broke, your dreams have turned to dust, your best friend is with your ex, and deep down, you know you’re one of the best to ever play the game? 

You hook up with a college student in the middle of Summer. Sticky, burning, California July.

Jesus Christ, if Art saw him now.

You were his early midlife crisis—not that scandalous of an age gap, he had, what? A decade at most? But the new scruffy beard he was trying out certainly didn’t help with the sideways looks from his neighbors when you showed up. Young, pretty, wide-eyed and curious—like you didn’t belong in his broken world, but maybe you did.

Patrick hummed under his breath as he walked over, planting his hands heavy on your shoulders. You gasped in surprise, hand flying to your mouth to stifle it, until you felt his lips press against your bare skin, dry and warm and scratchy with beard burn.

“Hey, kid,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly with sleep and old cigarettes. 

“Jesus, Patrick,” you panted, letting out a breathless laugh as you calmed down. A few people glanced over, frowning at the older guy hovering over your chair. “You scared me.”

You blinked, really looking at him now. Patrick. In a library. Eyes flicking over the sweat stains on his collar, the dark circles under his eyes. “What are you doing here?” 

Great question. What were you studying today? International Relations? Criminology? He really should ask.

“Just… was nearby,” he lied, voice light. “Thought I’d pop by. Maybe take you out to the food court. On me, huh?” He nudged your shoulder, as if he was really outdoing himself by paying for a $3.50 churro.

You scoffed softly, eyes narrowing with that knowing look that always made his chest twist uncomfortably. Like you could read him too well. Like you saw straight through to the rotting wood underneath all his charm.

“What?” he asked lightly, feigning innocence.

“Nothing. Nothing.” You paused, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure, I’d love to. Give me, like, five minutes? Just need to finish this chapter.”

Patrick slumped down into the chair beside you with a sigh, ignoring the two other students across the table giving him dirty looks.

He turned his body fully towards you, resting his chin in his palm, eyes locked on your face like he didn’t care about the awkward tension suffocating the little group. He never pursued this college life.

Never liked the lecture halls or cheap beer or pretending to care about someone’s major. But he liked watching you. That much was obvious.

You tried to push down your smile, but it bubbled up anyway, making it impossible to focus on your reading. He loved how easily girls like you got flustered by a bit staring.

“Patrick,” you mumbled without looking up.

“Mm?”

“Stop looking at me,”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, tapping the table lightly with his palms before slinking back in the chair, legs spread out carelessly. His eyes flicked up, meeting one of the other students’ glares, and he gave them a tight-lipped, dead-eyed smile until they quickly dropped their gaze back to their notes.

It wasn’t long after that you closed your textbook with a quiet thud, slipping your headphones around your neck as you packed your bag. He tried to catch the title on the spine as you packed it away, but you were too quick. His brain flitted to the next thought quickly, uncaring.

Patrick watched every movement like he was memorising it. Like he’d forget what you looked like if he blinked too long.

“Ready?” you asked softly, slinging your tote over your shoulder.

He didn’t answer. Just stood up with a grunt, hand pressing against his knee as he rose. Fuck, when did standing up start hurting?

He slung an arm lazily around your shoulders as you both walked out into the brutal heat of the California summer afternoon.

Outside, the air felt thick and humid, clinging to your skin like sweat. Patrick’s shirt was damp at the collar, sticking to the back of his neck. He smelled like sun-warmed cotton and stale deodorant, his beard scratchy against your temple as he pressed a lazy kiss there.

“You eat today?” he asked as you both crossed the cracked concrete quad towards the food court. The sun burned down, white-hot against the pavement, making him squint.

“Not really,” you replied, squinting up at him as the wind caught your hair. “Been here since like… eight.”

“AM? Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head as he guided you through the crowd. “What’re they feeding you, huh? Slave wages for education and all that.”

You snorted lightly, and he grinned down at you, his thumb brushing idly against the thin strap of your top where it sat against your shoulder. Then, without a word, he slipped the bag off your arm, slinging it over his own shoulder with exaggerated ease.

It was out of character for him. He never bothered with this gentleman act unless he wanted something. And you could feel it in the way his fingers lingered a moment too long on your skin – like he was trying to remind you how easy it would be to just give in.

Patrick had been around the block. Men, women – didn’t matter. They were all the same. They just wanted to feel wanted. Valuable. And he could give them that. At least, when he wanted something in return.

He carried your bag the rest of the way, glancing over at you every so often with that same sly little grin. Making sure you saw. Making sure you remembered he could be sweet when he wanted to be.

The food court was mostly empty at this hour, the lunch rush long gone and the dinner crowd not here yet. Patrick bought you both greasy churros with the last crumpled bills in his pocket, sitting across from you in the sticky plastic booth, legs spread wide like he owned the place, even though his hands were still shaking from the match. 

Even though all he could think about was how badly he needed to touch you – needed to feel your skin under his palms, warm and alive and his.

You bit into your churro as he watched you, tongue darting out to catch a fleck of sugar from your lip. His eyes followed the movement, hungry in a way that made your thighs clench together under the table. 

You both knew he wasn’t here to play the nice boyfriend, which he can play too well for your taste.

“What?” you asked, voice quiet, almost shy.

“Nothin',” he said, leaning back and stretching his arms out along the booth bench. The pose pulled his shirt tight across his chest, exposing a flash of pale belly and the dark trail of hair leading down. “It's hot, isn't it?”

Great. Now weather talk.

You watched him for a moment, chewing slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re acting weird,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Like… 'you're my boyfriend' weird.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he licked sugar off his thumb. “How's that weird? Is that a bad thing?” A beat, as he tilts his head a bit at you. "You change your hair?"

“Oh, come on,” you replied, leaning back against the cracked vinyl seat, moving your hand to touch your hair. You hadn't done anything different. “You show up out of nowhere, kiss me like you missed me, carry my bag, pay for my stupid churro… What's your angle?”

His smirk faltered just a fraction, his eyes flicking away to the food court windows before landing back on you. For a moment, he looked tired. Older than he usually let show.

But then he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No angle, kid.”

You frowned, studying the line of his jaw, the tired slump of his shoulders, the dried salt stain of sweat on his collar.

"Maybe I just missed you," He hums. "Hair looks good, you should do it like that more often."

You could accept a bit of that. You had missed him too, even if you wouldn't admit it to him. You knew he would use it against you in some way. And he knew you'd never use it against him.

You clear your throat, trying to hide the small smile he caused. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a while. You been alright?”

He furrowed his brows, scratching at his temple like the question physically itched. “What’re you talking about? Saw you…” He paused, thinking. “What? A week ago?”

“Two weeks,” you corrected softly. “Usually you text if you wanna see me. Just… did something happen?”

Patrick hummed low in his throat, his eyes flicking over your face before drifting away. He let out a sigh, shoulders sagging slightly.

“Nah. No. Just… felt like seeing you, s’all.” He lied easily, hand reaching out to yours where it rested across the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles. So soft, he thought distantly. Like butter left out too long in the summer heat.

You raised your brows, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, you let out a quiet scoff. “Okay…” 

He sensed the shift instantly—the way your hand stiffened under his, your back straightening against the vinyl seat. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, eyes darting away for a moment. 

“How’re exams?” he asked, the question sounding foreign in his mouth. Small talk. Fucking pointless. But wasn’t that what guys your age did? Asked about classes, essays, your future.

Be the good boyfriend, he told himself. Pretend you care.

You shrugged, fingers drifting to your necklace, twisting it idly. The chain dipped low between your collarbones, catching his eye for a long, unashamed moment. His gaze lingered there before dragging slowly back up to meet yours. You noticed, of course you did. But you didn’t call him out on it. You never did.

“Fine. Stressful,” you sighed, your voice softer now. “I’ve been needing a break. I’m… glad you’re here. I didn’t mean to be… accusatory, or anything.”

He let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off your words. “Don’t worry about it. Forgiven.”

You're aren't exactly sure what you're forgiven for.

He doesn't elaborate, just leans back in the booth. A silence settled between you, thick and pulsing, your unspoken wants buzzing just under the surface.

His patience was wearing thin. He didn’t care about your exams, your readings, your neat little colour-coded notes. That wasn’t what he was here for.

“C’mere,” he said after a moment, voice dropping lower.

You frowned, confused. Your eyes flicked around the deserted food court, noting the underpaid student workers had retreated to the back. “Patrick…” you warned softly.

“C’mere,” he repeated, firmer this time.

You slid out of your seat, slipping into his side of the booth. He angled his body towards you immediately, hand coming up to cup your cheek as he kissed you, slow and deep. You tasted cinnamon sugar on his tongue, felt the coarse scrape of his beard against your jaw as he tilted your head back to get better access.

His other hand slipped under the table, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh. You gasped softly against his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as heat coiled low in your belly.

“Lost today,” he rasped against your lips, voice thick with exhaustion and something desperate. His thumb brushed slow, heavy circles along your jaw, grounding himself. “Played like shit. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t… focus. Just wanted…” He trailed off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. You felt him tremble – just slightly – under your fingertips where they curled into his thigh.

You swallowed, your breath hitching as he tilted your chin up to look at him properly. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed pink with sun and sweat and something you couldn’t name. 

“Think you can… help me out, huh?” he rasped, the edge of a smirk playing at his lips as his fingers skimmed higher up your thigh. “Be good for me… make it all go away, yeah?”

You let out a shaky breath, pulse hammering so loud in your ears it drowned out the hum of the fluorescent lights above. He had you exactly where he wanted you. That was the thing about girls like you – and you knew it, god, you knew it too well – all it took was him saying he wanted you. Even if it wasn’t really you he was thinking about at all.

Because this was humiliating. Your friends were right when they called you stupid for hanging around him – some sweaty, unemployed, uneducated older guy with dark circles and dog-eaten sneakers. A man clinging to the last flicker of something he used to be. 

But for Patrick, you were just a blip.

An easy detour on the way back to Art and Tashi, a stop-gap to scratch whatever itch he refused to name. And for you… you weren’t sure what he was. A distraction. A secret. A sweaty summer sin that made you feel raw and alive and so, so ashamed. 

But when his thumb hooked under the thin cotton of your panties and he pressed closer, smelling like cheap soap and stale deodorant, all you could think about was how good it felt to be wanted like this.

Even by someone like him.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice cracking in the middle. “Yeah… okay.”

Patrick smiles at that, that shit-eating grin. “Yeah?”

You nod, maybe too quickly.

As you got up, he followed, his hand drifting down to your ass with a lazy confidence, like he couldn’t help himself, as he guided you to your dorm room.

You felt the sun on your back as he guided you across the quad, his palm splayed warm and rough across your ass like it belonged there. He didn't bother to carry your bag this time. He got what he wanted. The heat rose from the pavement in shimmering waves, making you dizzy. 

You could smell the sweat on him now – sharp and salty, cut with cheap soap and stale deodorant – and your thighs clenched involuntarily with each step. 

He walked half a step behind you, his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt every chance he got, the pads of them tracing circles on the tender skin there. People passed by. Students. Workers. 

Nobody looked twice. 

He bent down, lips brushing your ear as you reached your dorm steps. “Gonna let me fuck this loss outta my head, yeah?”

You swallowed hard, fumbling with your keys. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

You’d see him for the rest of August. He’d come by after games, after drinks, after whatever the hell else he filled his days with. Always sweaty, always tired, always pressing kisses to your neck before you could even ask how he was.

When he won, he didn’t really see you at all. He’d scroll through his phone endlessly, thumb flicking up and up and up, waiting for a text from Art. Or maybe a call from Tashi, just to hear her say “Good game.” Just to feel, for a second, like it still mattered. Like he still mattered.

He never got anything, of course. But that didn’t stop him from waiting for it, staring at the screen like it owed him something.

You were there for the losses. That’s what you were for.

Nobody got his wins. Those he kept close, selfish, private – like if he shared them, he’d lose whatever little power he still clung to.

But when he lost? When the rage roiled under his skin, bitter and hot and ugly?

That’s when he’d come to you. That’s when he’d push into your room without knocking, drop his bag on the floor, and pull you into his chest so hard it almost hurt.

That’s when he’d kiss you like he needed to feel anything at all.

And you let him. Every single time.

Because there was still that part of you – the lonely, hungry part – that liked being needed. Even if it was only for this.

If you tried to tell him about exams, he’d just hum distractedly, hands already sliding under your clothes, murmuring into your skin, “Yeah?… Smart girl. 'Ts why I like you.”

And for a moment – just a flicker – you almost believed it was enough.

You’d fall for it every time. Because what else were you supposed to do when he was looking at you like that, touching you like you were the only soft thing left in his rough, crumbling world?

Then one evening, as August wilted into September, he sat you down on your own bed – the bed he’d fucked you in a dozen times without ever really seeing you.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “Listen, kid… you know this wasn’t gonna be forever, right?”

Your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nodded instead. Because of course you knew. You’d known since the first time he kissed you like you were a secret he planned to bury.

“It’s not you,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek with practiced tenderness. “It’s me. I’m… I’m just in a real fucked-up place right now. You deserve… y’know. Someone better. Someone your own age.”

He smiled then – that crooked, pitying smile – like he was doing you a favour by leaving.

You tried to speak, but he was already standing up, grabbing his bag from where he’d dumped it by your door. He didn’t look back as he left, just raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, saying over his shoulder,

“Take care, yeah? Don’t work too hard on all that… whatever it is you’re studying.”

The door clicked shut behind him. You sat there, staring at your open textbook, the words swimming as tears pricked at your eyes.

(part 2)

notes: seconndd time posting. how vvv fun. i love writing i miss it so much. im tryna not overthinking everything and just post when i feel like it. . ALSO to me he def fucked around manipulated the fuck outta people and moved ON. pls let me know if i missed out on any particular tags/warnings! i never know how to end this things lol thx for reading:)

[artdonalldson]

In The Quiet Light

Art Donaldson x Reader

CONTENT: No use of pronouns, no physical descriptions, Stanford!Art, fluff, friends to lovers, mild language, falling asleep together by accident, quiet confessions, warm feelings, lots of softness and some Stanford tennis life sprinkled in.

SUMMARY: A night of studying turns into something more when you accidentally fall asleep in Art Donaldson’s dorm. In the quiet morning light, with sunlight filtering through the window and his voice soft with hesitation, everything comes to the surface.

A/N: I know this is short but I wanted something soft and just a little bit romantic in that slow, awkward college way I adore! Also I'm working on the requests, don't think I forgot!!! Hope you like it as much as I do! <3

WC: ~850

You didn’t mean to start spending this much time in Art Donaldson’s dorm.

At first, it was innocent: late-night cramming for midterms, borrowing his laptop when yours broke, crashing on his desk when the campus library got too cramped.

But somewhere between the third hoodie and the fifth “why don’t you just stay?”, it stopped feeling like borrowing and more like… belonging.

Tonight, he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, racket propped against the wall as he scribbles something on his notebook, hair still damp from his post practice shower.

You’re at the other end, writing on your laptop while sharing dry cereal from the box.

“D’you ever go back to your dorm?” he asks, not even looking up.

“Why would I? Yours has an air conditioner.”

He chuckles at that.

“Yeah, cause I’m on the tennis team.”

“And that’s why I’m here”

He huffs a laugh, then glances your way — lazy, fond, and far too soft for someone who’s just your friend.

“You know people are starting to talk, right?” he adds, voice teasing as he takes the cereal box from you.

“Half of the team says we’re basically living together.”

“Let them talk, you know I always leave before midnight” you murmur.

Silence settles. The kind of silence that knows something’s shifting.

You look up at the same time he does.

You notice he’s too close... Or maybe just close enough.

Art’s voice is quieter now, almost like a thought spoken out loud.

“Just… they say friends don’t stay over this much.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But I'm not planning on leaving you alone”

And then, very carefully, he sets the cereal box down, leans in, and says:

“Good, cause don’t want you to.”

---

You’re both still half-awake, you were supposed to watch a movie, maybe study a little, definitely go back to your dorm before midnight.

But the movie turned into talking, and talking turned into lying down, and somewhere between one in the morning and now… you just forgot to leave.

You hadn’t meant to get this comfortable, but it was warm here.

He was warm.

And you were tired.

The sun slips in hours later, soft and slow through the cracked blinds when you wake up.

For a second, it’s disorienting — the unfamiliar ceiling, the faint smell of eucalyptus from his soap, the steady warmth beside you.

Then you remember… Art.

His eyes are still closed, face turned toward yours, one of his hands is resting dangerously close to your hip, like it drifted there in sleep.

Your head is tucked against his shoulder, one of your legs is hooked over his.

It’s absurdly intimate for two people who’ve never even kissed.

He looks so relaxed, so open, like this version of him only exists in mornings like this — with the world still quiet and your heart too full.

Your throat is dry, your heart is doing something traitorous — quick, uneven — and for a second, you consider pretending to still be asleep.

But then you feel him stir.

“…You stayed,” Art mumbles, voice low and wrecked from sleep.

His hand tightens lightly on your hip, like he’s realizing it too.

“Yeah,” you say, not moving. “I did.”

His eyes open slowly, his hand moving away from your hip, but he doesn’t seem to mind the closeness at all.

“Did you sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Better than I have in weeks.”

He hums. Silence again.

But it’s not awkward — it’s heavy. Loaded.

“Do you… wanna talk about it?” he asks after a while, blue eyes scanning your face.

“About what?”

He lifts an eyebrow, gives you a soft smile that’s a little too fond.

“This. You. Me. The whole… falling-asleep-on-each-other part.”

You breathe out a laugh, small and tired.

“What do you want to say?”

Art sits up slightly on one elbow, still close, his voice soft but serious. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. I thought maybe you've noticed.”

“I like you too,” you admit. “I just wasn’t sure if you…”

“I do,” he says. No hesitation. “I just don't want to ruin things”

You watch him for a long second. And then you lean in, just enough to kiss him, to let him know he's not ruining anything.

It’s not dramatic or perfect — it’s a little sleepy, a little tentative — but it’s real. And when he kisses you back, it’s with this sort of quiet certainty that makes your chest ache.

When you pull back, Art’s smiling in that lopsided way of his.

“So,” he says, brushing his thumb over your wrist, “you think you might wanna fall asleep here again sometime?”

You grin. “Only if you invite breakfast.”

“Deal.”

---

Later, as you both walk across campus with your hands brushing, sleep still tugging at your eyes and the sun rising lazy over the rooftops, you realize there’s no going back to before.

Not after last night. Not after that kiss.

And honestly? You don’t want to.

You’re already looking forward to the next morning you’ll spend just like this.

Fun movies, whispered confessions, and the quiet comfort of knowing this might be the start of something beautiful.

---

THE END

[capricornlevi]

no surprises - toji x reader

wc 1.6k - hitman!toji x mobwife!reader, fem!reader, strangers to lovers -dark elements (but not really related to sex -- toji breaks into reader's house to assassinate mob husband), cheating (technically -- reader's husband is a piece of shit lol)

nsfw, mdni

Toji hates it when his hits have wives or girlfriends.

As cruel a bastard as he may be, the thought of unnecessary collateral makes him uneasy to say the least. It's messy, too, unnecessary and uncomfortable. When one of his targets has a wife there's a sure guarantee she'll be by his side more often than not. It increases the risk for all parties, whether they know of their involvement or not.

He wonders why these men never have the decency to get a divorce before involving themselves in shit like this.

And so, as he carefully picks the lock to your kitchen window, he hopes that tonight's job is clean. That you'll stay out of his way.

Kill the guy, clean up, and ideally, get out without even waking you.

So imagine his surprise when he makes his way inside as planned, turns down the hallway to get to the bedroom he's so carefully mapped this past week, only to find you standing pyjama-clad in the hallway with arms crossed, looking at him with an expression one could only describe as inconvenienced.

"He's not here," you mumble, the words laced with sleep but still pointed.

Toji prides himself on being quick on his feet, but in this rare instance, he's lost for words. He doesn't even draw his weapon.

"Uh ... hm ... what?" he finally decides, though the words leave him without much active decision-making on his part, spilling out into the cold night air.

"He's not here," you repeat, enunciating each word slowly. "Did you not hear me? Though that would explain why you made such a fucking racket breaking in."

"What the fuck-"

"And you're replacing that lock, by the way," you spit, eyes heated with frustration as you give him a once over. "I heard you give up and break it."

Toji's head could explode right here and now. How has this ... this cannot be happening ... he's carried out hits numbering in the three digits, and not one target has ever seen him coming, much less the wife of some low-ranking gangster who stole the wrong amount of money from the wrong people.

Still, you don't shy away from him, keeping your gaze fixed on his increasingly confused face.

"What do ya mean he isn't here?" Toji huffs then, finally realising the futility of this situation. Standing there stupidly isn't going to improve his image, he needs to cut to the chase. "Is he out?"

You huff a laugh. "You could say that."

He arches a scarred brow. "He's dead?"

"May as well be," you answer plainly, devoid of any sympathy or grief. "Kicked him out on Sunday. Tried to steal my engagement ring and then went after my parents, mumbling some shit about collecting their life insurance policy even though the idiot isn't even named on it. So I made a call and the name of his hotel is with your bosses now."

"Then why didn't they--"

You roll your eyes, exasperated. "How should I know? They probably sent some other guys to the hotel and kept you here in case that worm came wriggling back."

Toji's not sure why, but he believes you -- probably because of the unafraid, unemotional manner in which you're delivering this information. As though you're a teacher scolding him for a failed assignment.

He releases his grip on the weapon tucked at his hip -- he doesn't even remember at which point he went to grab it -- silently swearing at a wasted evening.

Sure, he'll still get the flat rate for a call-out like this one, but if he has proof of death he gets triple pay. He could really use that this month; he likes having his lights stay on for longer than forty-eight hours at a time, and figured tonight would've been an easy job, particularly with how stupidly your husband has been acting these last few months.

"Uh ... okay. Sorry for inconveniencin' ya," he mumbles, figuring it best to leave now without wasting either of your time any further.

He could stay here and argue more, but he's not in the mood. He needs to get back. Plus, he's already disrupted your night enough -- as curtly as you've addressed him these past few minutes, he can't say he doesn't see where your frustration is coming from.

In this short interaction, he's developed a sort of begrudging respect for this woman who views an assassination attempt in the same way most would view a parking ticket.

"Wait!" you call out just as he turns around. He hesitates -- though you don't seem like the type to call the police given your knowledge of your husband's business.

Maybe you're not finished giving him shit for this embarrassment of a botched assignment?

"Yeah?" he answers dutifully, brushing his hair from his eyes with a tired swipe of his hand, turning back to face you.

"Want to have a drink with me?" you ask straight-forwardly, arms still crossed and expression unmoving. "He left his 20-year whiskey behind, and I haven't had new company since he weaselled his way into my life."

"I-"

"If you've nothing better to do, anyway."

This woman ...

He has never had as difficult a time reading someone in his entire lie.

"Well?" you press, a hint of impatience growing in that beautiful voice. "What do you want to do?"

Surprise once against takes precedence over any other emotion in Toji's body.

Tonight couldn't get any weirder. He's sure of it.

Except it definitely can, as he discovers just thirty minutes later, with you sitting atop him as he's spread out on your bed, riding him so hard the bed rattles against the wall.

This is a little fucked up. You both know it. He came here to kill your husband, but it's so hard for him to care about minor details like that when he sees how your tits bounce with every thrust upwards, how your face looks when it's torn in pleasure.

Your husband is a bigger idiot than he thought.

You haven't been touched like this in a long time, haven't had someone's hands on you like you deserve, and that thought enrages him for some reason.

His focus for tonight has shifted entirely. He's no longer out to kill, to hurt, his one responsibility is to make you cry out on his cock, on his tongue, on his fingers, until both of your voices are worn out and hoarse.

You're so pretty like this, so responsive to every twirl of his thumb and jerk of his hips.

Though -- and he hates to admit it -- you're exerting some control over him as well. His well-worn self-discipline is being tested like never before. On your couch just a few minutes ago, with his mouth spread against you and your leg tossed over his shoulder, you had managed to then manoeuvre yourself until your fist was wrapped around his cock, your pretty fingers stroking him until his breaths sounded choked and desperate, until a flush spread up his chest to his neck and jawline.

He had to still your wrist to keep from coming all over his own chest. That would lose him any shred of credibility he had left.

He's obsessed with the way you kiss him, too, so hungry and desperate with no sign of that earlier unshakability you possessed. He's sure you still have yourself in some semblance of control -- though he barely knows you, he knows you wouldn't relent that quickly -- but you release yourself a little, sinking into it with a quiet moan that sends ripples up his spine.

And now, with your hips sitting flush against his own, it's hard to imagine caring about a single other thing than the sight of his cock disappearing inside you.

You take him so well, every inch of him, knowing exactly what to say to drive him insane. In turn, he learns what he can from your reactions, each microexpression showing him how you like to be touched.

You toss your head back, that beautiful throat gulping down gasps of air in between cries of Toji's name, shoulders tight with the tension of keeping yourself seated on him.

He gives you more when you ask for it, pumping up into you and relishing the answering groans and mewls of pleasure.

(Honestly, he'd give you anything you wanted from him. He'd give you the shirt off his back if you requested it with those pretty doe eyes and your lips curled into that sly little smile.)

A familiar heat curls in his stomach but in a way he's entirely unfamiliar with; usually, it builds slowly and reliably, bit by bit, but this time it rises erratically and without any sign of when he's approaching the edge.

This is dangerous. You're dangerous for him, you have him in the palm of your hand and hold the ability to crush him into tiny pieces if you so wish. It scares him while also sending pulses of pleasure straight to his cock, coupled with the feeling of your throbbing clit as he circles it with his thumb --

Thankfully, you fall apart at the same time, spasms of pleasure overtaking every single thought in either of your heads.

As you settle into the afterglow, Toji is in no rush to move you or shift himself. He runs a roughened hand over your thigh, the skin smooth as silk, marvelling at how you shiver under the touch.

He just looks up at you, that hint of confusion from earlier still present but accompanied by something else.

Strange, he thinks to himself. Not a wasted evening after all.

[insanely-lovely-and-random]

Ohhh boy wow. Just saw Challengers and my God my bisexual brain was firing all signals. Like within the first five minutes I realised 2 things about this movie. 1 it understands that tennis is a truly boring sport and instead makes it an incredibly sweaty, sexy, compelling game to watch. 2 this movie is bi as all hell and equally in love with all 3 of these people (as was I by the end of the movie).

SPOILERS:

God I was enraptured I think this films pretty subjective and can be seen in a few different ways but I just saw it as 3 people who think their playing the same game but none of them really are. Zendayas playing to win at Tennis, when she can't do it herself she plays through her husband. Art is playing to win the woman he thinks he loves and needs.

And Patrick is the most interesting of all, is he playing because unlike those two he actually needs to out of monetary needs? Maybe but doubt it. Is he playing to win Zendaya? And willing to be her champion unlike Art? Possibly but honestly I think it's the third option. He's playing to get back Art, Art is always a presense in their relationship and he puts him before himself. For sure the unusual sexual history between them is there. The strong friendship turned rivalry. The sheer sexual tension (Goddamn that churro!!) But oddly enough for the guy who may seem like the disloyal asshole type of the three he is both the most honest and oddly loyal. He may sleep with Zendaya but the second she asks him to throw the match? He's furious, he's insulted and refuses. But NOT for himself but for Art. His first words are "How could you do that to Art?" To cheapen his victory, if he were to know would crush Art. Art is always at the tip of his tounge and whats happening.

When they start making out in the dorm Zendaya won't stop talking about tennis but equally whats Patrick talking about? Art. When he finds out Arts not just interested in Zendaya but is acting snakey he's proud.

And god that sauna scene?? (I mean yeah its hot but I mean the dialouge!) He asks Art if he'd miss it and he completely doesn't understand what he's really asking. He once again is talking to somone who thinks their talking about tennis but he's talking about anything but.

I knew that bloody signal was gonna come back and when they had sex in the car I was like "okay this is it, he's gonna tell Art" but the question was.. will it be to hinder him? Make him lose his cool so he loses the game..? OR will he do it to truly spur Art into a game changing rage and unlock his fighting spirit? And as the scene unfolded I belived it was the latter. And it was NOT for Zendaya because he could've easily thrown the match like she said but NO he wanted Art to win fair and square. He wanted to help him do that.

That wordless communication they share? That Zendayas just sat on the outside of not undertanding but worried? Golden. The brutal match and then that gorgeous smile. When I think Art realises what his friend has done and really why he did it. And Patricks, the sheer joy of seeing Art smile at him again. That beautiful, fly through the air and that throw of his own racket down so he can catch Art as he gloriously wins the match. Because tennis was never really what mattered to Patrick, and neither was it really to Art. And despite it being Arts victory they've really both won.

And Zendayas roar of victory from the crowd to me was almost funny. Because she won too. Her husband, her extension of her own career and self won his match with his challenge. His/her past. She also sees it as a victory even though I really won't be suprised if it's lost her both her husband and her back up career/boyfriend. And maybe she won't mind that so much because she got what she wanted. Because she was playing a different game.

Also banging soundtrack, loved it. Also this is just my view of the film and it really can be read multiple ways I'm sure, would love to hear other peoples ideas on it! What can I say I just love some bi emotional drama!

Also Im seeing it again friday so any incorrect quotes, extra thoughts or such I'll probs fix then haha

[ghostgirl-22]

Not necessarily sexual, but what if Art takes care of Patrick for once?

Patrick is upset over something cruel his father told him and wakes Art up with his sniffling. Patrick never cries so Art is immediately alarmed and tries to get him to open up. Patrick tries to mask his feelings at first, but eventually breaks down and cries into Art’s chest. They fall asleep with Patrick being the little spoon for once, wrapped in Art’s arms.

I chopped this up a lot but I think I got to the core of your ask nonnie <3 Idk why in my head I could see Patrick just being the whacky charming youngest and favorite of his parents. Forgive my typos… happy Valentine’s Day maybe I’m gonna write a valentines fic tomorrow when Valentine’s Day is over. Anyway love y’all.

TW: period typical homophobia, use of a slur, internalized homophobia, otherwise SFW.

——

Patrick does this thing where he acts like nothing gets to him. Like nothing can hurt him. For a while Art was envious because he believed the act. Now he knows better. He sees it now… the way Patrick will smile even more when his eyes are sad. The way he’ll shrug and then fidget, fingertips tapping a fragile rhythm like the physical act of it can divert the pain away. The way he goes quiet. 

Still he never saw Patrick cry before this summer. It’s their last summer break before senior year. They’ve been spending at least a few weeks together every summer since they were 12, going back and forth between each other's houses. Patrick’s summer house in Connecticut, Art’s family home in Massachusetts. It was easy. Patrick had the bigger house of course, the bigger bedroom, all the latest game systems, a tennis court. So many places on his family's estate to hang out and explore. 

Patrick’s family is a little more complex than Arts though. 

It’s no secret Patrick doesn’t get along with his older brother, Levi. Art actually doesn’t like him either. He’s ten years older then them and he’s everything that Patrick isn’t, more smarmy than charming, flashy and pretentious, lording his daddy’s money around and reminding Patrick that it’s his birth right. He’s a lawyer now and already works for their dad’s company. But all it takes is five minutes talking to their tennis loving dad to understand why Levi hates Patrick. 

“Tennis is such a beautiful game. I played for years but never came close to what you and Patrick can do on that court.” Patrick’s dad says wistfully. He would often stand courtside to watch them play in the summers.

Levi is no athlete. He doesn’t even like sports and there’s Patrick, the apple of their fathers eye because he can hit a ball with a racket. 

If Levi were less of an asshole, Art might actually relate to him. But he’s a total dick. He loves to make it known that Patrick was a ’mistake’. “Mom and dad were perfectly happy with the three of us,” he says of himself and Patrick’s older sisters one Friday night in July. 

That clearly bothered Patrick at one point but he’s used to it now. “Yeah and imagine how boring that would’ve been. One lame ass son.” Patrick mutters and Art grins. They’re eating ice cream in the oversized kitchen while Levi lingers at the wine cooler, pouring himself a glass. He watches as Patrick takes some of Art’s ice cream, his gaze cool. 

“I’d be careful if I were you Art, you know he’s a fag right?”

Art raises his eyebrows. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick snaps. 

“Oh, he doesn’t know?” Levi’s eyes light up, gleefully. “Sarah caught him last weekend kissing the pool boy, the help of all people, moaning like a freak.” 

“I said shut up,” Patrick says, his voice cold. Art has never seen his cheeks turn so red before.    

Levi lets out a cruel little giggle. “Wait till dad finds out you're the fruity one. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you, Art. You never know, you seem like his type. He might try something.” 

“I’ll fucking kill you if you say another word, fucking asshole,” Patrick shouts. 

“Don’t worry little brother, I’m sure they love butt boys in pro tennis,” Levi smirks, self satisfied in Art’s direction and takes his glass of wine back to the office where he’s been working. 

Art is tongue tied, barely able to make his brain connect to his mouth. He’s feeling all kinds of things, not even sure what half of the things he’s feeling even mean but he knows he’s furious on Patrick’s behalf. He glances at Patrick and that’s all it takes for Art to know what Levi said was true. He’s still red faced, fists clenched, staring angrily at the bowl of ice cream like it was the one who said those horrible things to him. And then he gets up and leaves the kitchen abruptly.  

“Wait Patrick,” Art says but he doesn’t stop. Art sighs and gets up following him to the bedroom. He’s several paces behind and when he gets inside Patrick has fallen to the bedroom floor, actually sobbing. Head in his hands. Art can’t believe his eyes. In all the years he’s known him, he’s never seen more than the slight sparkle when his eyes well up tears. If he didn’t before, he really fucking hates Levi now.

He gets down on his knees next to Patrick. 

“Art can you go, I need to be alone,” he mutters, chest heaving. 

“No,” Art says, he’s not sure how to do this but he wants to be there for Patrick. “He’s a fucking loser. Do you want me to beat his dweeby ass?”

Patrick sniffles a laugh and shakes his head. 

“He’s just pissed because…” Art rubs Patrick’s shoulder, a gentle pattern. “Fuck him okay I mean…” He doesn’t know what to say… or why he keeps thinking about the pool boy, Armando, tall, athletic, brown eyes, and long dark blonde hair. He looks and sounds like a surfer, but not from California but whatever beach they have in Spain. Art can’t get him out of his head for some reason. 

“It’s true,” Patrick mutters after a while looking up at him. “I think I… I do like boys.” 

Art presses his lips together, nodding. “That’s um— that’s okay, man. Uh… remember um… Calvin from the team… Calvin said he uh he kissed a guy before.” He takes a breath. He has to do better than this, but he’s starting to fixate on the color of Patrick’s eyes. He never realized how colorful they were. Now that they’re wet it’s like they sparkle. 

”I dont… I would never do anything to you… like… like what my brother was saying okay?” Patrick sniffles. 

Art swallows. God now he’s fixating on Patrick’s lips. God damn it. He needs to be fucking normal. Patrick is his best friend for crying out loud. Art wraps his arms around Patrick and closes his eyes. “Fuck him, man. He’s a homophobic asshole. If you’re gay then—”

”I’m not gay…” Patrick says softly. Art can practically feel his voice vibrating in his ear. There’s a strange familiar feeling at the base of his stomach, his instinct is to pull away but he holds on. 

“You’re not?” He doesn’t mean to sound relieved, fuck. 

“I’m bisexual,” Patrick murmurs. He pulls out of the hug and gets to his feet, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’m just…” he laughs. “I’m a fucking mess. He’s hot and the way he was looking at me in the pool. I brought him to my room and well we just started exploring… I should’ve known we wouldn’t get any privacy here. Sarah just barged into my room and she can’t keep her fucking mouth shut. My dad is… well… I don’t fucking care.” He flops down onto his bed and takes a deep breath. 

Art crawls over on his knees. “Does he know?” 

“Not yet,” Patrick says, “but he’ll know as soon as he gets back from his business trip. Levi will make sure of that.” 

“Well,” Art crawls onto the bed and lies down next to him. “Not if we kill him first.” 

Patrick looks at him and then laughs. Art grins, happy to make him smile. He feels warm all of a sudden.  

Patrick sighs. “You want to play Mario kart?” 

“Yeah.”  

They lay down for an hour, only really chatting about the game. Patrick starts to get sleepy, it’s clear he’s still upset. He puts his controller down. Art turns off the game and settles next to him in the dark. His mind has been racing the whole time. Patrick’s never cried in front of him before so it feels like something has shifted.

“My dad isn’t gonna look at me the same,” he laughs but there’s a bitterness in it.

“You don’t… you don’t know that.” Art says gently.

“You think it’s weird, don’t you?” he rolls over to face Art.

“No,” Art says quickly. His parents had always taught him to be accepting of people’s differences. They always supported gay rights. But there was this part of Art that knew that their tolerance was only meant for other people. Unlike Patrick he was the only boy, he was expected to be traditional. 

“You’re a bad liar,” Patrick sighs. 

“I mean I think I’m just trying to process it. I had no idea and now it’s just…” Art takes a deep breath. 

“You really had no idea?”

“Well it’s not like you told me, and you…we always talk about girls.”

Patrick gazes at him. “Fair enough.”

“What’s it like?” The question just spills out of him, he can’t stop himself. 

”Hm?” 

Now it’s his turn to feel his skin heat up. Why is he so fixated on the stupid kiss? “Sorry it’s not important…never mind. I guess I just figured it’d be different then… uh never mind.”

”It’s a little different but the same in all the ways that matter,” Patrick says. He’s sniffling again. Art licks his lips and scoots closer to him. Patrick looks down, following the movement. 

“I could uh��� I could show you.” 

Art thinks he’s joking and smiles, Patrick holds his gaze a little longer and Art swallows, something all too familiar suddenly thrumming through his body. But it makes no fucking sense. He can’t really be turned on by this. “You’re um… you’re serious?” 

Patrick laughs, “God,” he says, shaking his head. 

“What?” Art says. 

“Nothing, I’m a fucking mess. Can you…hold me until I fall asleep?” It’s Patrick using Art’s own words. Spoken a number of times when they were kids and he’d asked Patrick to do it in his grandmother's place when he was having trouble adjusting to boarding school.  

Patrick never told anyone about it, never even made fun of him which was surprising, considering he ribs Art about almost everything. Art isn’t sure what he’s feeling but he nods, “of course,” and lets Patrick settle into his arms. They lie in bed, Art keeping Patrick safe from the world for just a little bit. Inseparable, like two colors bleeding into each other, until they both fall asleep.  

[frozenjokes]

cat fight

ao3 link

Grian and Cub were wrestling in the yard like cats, which, given the pitched yowling, wasn’t exactly a shock to Scar when he wheeled his way outside, but it was still a small surprise to see them hissing and rolling around in the grass.

Grian’s jaws were still clamped around Cub’s ankle, but with a remarkable flexibility for a man Cub’s age, he had a fistful of Grian’s hair while being bent over backward to also yank on Grian’s pointy tail. Neither of them seemed to be winning this fight, a writhing mess as they were, so there was no use letting it go on until they seriously hurt each other— if that was possible— Scar didn’t know, he’d only met angels before.

Regardless, they were making an awful racket while Mumbo was off to sleep, and as Mumbo’s back-from-the-dead never-really-dead-in-the-first-place imaginary friend, he had a duty to— he needed to— needed— Mumbo—

Something snapped.

Was it adrenaline that had kept Scar intact, breathing in normal, if not slightly elevated intervals? Maybe it was the floaty feeling of finally being home, seeing Mumbo come down those steps, their reunion, as chaotic as it had been. Mumbo had retreated, but that had been Scar’s fault the first time, Scar not paying attention to him in such an emotional moment, and Mumbo in turn had not heard when Scar called his name.

Mumbo could have been Cinderella as he picked his way back down the stairs just a short while later, short at least in comparison to how long Scar had been waiting for the chance to come home. Mumbo was not very talkative, but he had always been shy, and with all the new people around he was certainly overwhelmed; nothing Scar couldn’t facilitate. Scar was the old, the safe, and the familiar, he was Mumbo’s best friend, even all these years after they’d been torn away from each other, kicking and screaming, had Mumbo heard Scar’s screams from his lonely bedroom?

‘I need some space.’

Scar had tried not to look like he’d be cleaved through the chest. He might have been successful, because Mumbo moved on quickly, so quickly, like he didn’t care at all, like he had been relieved Scar was gone, because Scar had always just been in the way, a nuisance. 

Mumbo had forgotten how close they used to be all those years ago, even before the angels had decided that Scar needed to be destroyed. 

Scar had only wanted to remind him. Show him what their lives could be like, together, just them, that Scar was just as fun as Mumbo’s other friends, that Scar could be just as real. Isn’t that what Mumbo wanted? (No. It hadn’t been. It hadn’t been enough, because even when Scar proved to Mumbo that he could be real, Mumbo still wanted space. He still wanted his other friends, he still wanted Scar to make new ones, but how could Scar make new friends when all the people in his own world were angels. Angels didn’t like Scar, even before they decided he needed to die. If even the people in Scar’s own plane didn’t like him, how would he fare as an outsider in the real world? He was willing to try, for Mumbo, but he knew the truth.)

And now, Scar had just come home. How was it that Mumbo already needed space from him? What had he done? What had Skizz said about him?

“Hey buddy, can we talk? I don’t like how things played out earlier this evening, I want to make it up to you. I have a secret, one I haven’t told anyone in a long, long time.”

Scar had been so young. Part of him wanted to say he’d been stupid, but how was he supposed to know just how far things would escalate?

“Alright..” he’d said.

“Can we walk and talk? Mumbo’s asleep, I don’t want to disturb him.”

Scar never should have agreed. Never should have left that bedroom. He hadn’t even wanted to, but as they say, curiosity killed the cat. Or worse.

“What’s your secret?” He’d asked in the hall. He really had wanted to know; Skizz— rather, Friend, as Scar had known him— was so involved in his life, but Scar knew next to nothing about him in return. An angel. Mumbo’s angel. 

Friend had been quiet. Something was wrong, Scar should have known, but he could sense a vulnerability just beneath the surface of the angel’s skin that he craved to understand. Scar would have clawed it out and taken it for himself if he could’ve, but alas, even desperate for connection, taking domesticity by force never really worked out for him..

“Angels are a private people. Our purpose here on Earth is not to befriend our humans, but protect them. They aren’t ever supposed to know we’re here, but.. Well, obviously, Mumbo is a special case. I can’t help but be involved in his life, as much as I’m not supposed to be. I do my best to stay away. That distance is passed down to you as well, since you are a manifestation of him as well.”

“That’s not a secret.” Scar had crossed his arms, annoyed. Impatient.

Friend had smiled. It was not a happy smile. “I know.” He walked on, and Scar had been forced to follow. “But I.. I care about you, Scar. I love you in the same ways I love Mumbo, and I wanted you to know that, because I.. I really messed up tonight. I really messed up. I know you’d never hurt Mumbo, Scar, and I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression I thought otherwise.”

Scar eyed him warily, first at the mention of love (of which Scar did not entirely believe him), and then at the remorse, too heavy an admission for the crime. Unless.. Friend understood..? Understood what this meant, how important it was that Scar become real, captured Mumbo’s approval. Friend had always been determined to be an obstacle before, always pulling Scar aside, lecturing him on boundaries as if the pressing threat of Mumbo’s new friends didn’t even matter, but maybe Friend was changing his tune. Friend could help Scar, certainly, Mumbo loved Friend, Friend had influence and beyond that, raw power enough to maybe— Scar wasn’t sure! Could Friend speed up the process of Scar’s humanization? 

Delusion. If Scar had thought about it any longer, maybe he would have realized it made no sense. 

Friend must have mistaken Scar’s furrowed thought for doubt. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. Maybe you’re right for that.. I go out of my way to be distant, and I fear I’m not.. someone you can rely on. In the way I want to be. So I’m done with distance. For however much time we have left, I want.. I want you to be happy. So ask me anything, anything you’d like, and I’ll answer.”

Scar’s heart had soared, excitement bubbling in his feet so explosive he couldn’t stop from bouncing on his tiptoes. Friend could make Mumbo understand. Friend. Even if it was accurate, it was still a stupid thing to be called.

“What’s your real name?” Scar remembered laughing at the befuddled look on Friend’s face. “Do you even have one? If not, you should tell Mumbo to give you one, he comes up with great names.”

Skizz.

A name to the face that had taken everything away.

Scar had a lot of time to reflect when he was nothing— well, nearly nothing, ripped and dissolved fragment by fragment until only his will was left, a speck of life undetectable by even the most unconscionable evils that had destroyed him in the first place.

LIAR

So easy to survive when shock and betrayal and false hope culminated to one horrible cry, one last scream, before Scar was too nothing to even feel the pain, too nothing to think or feel anything for years.. so many years he’d missed, floating in empty consciousness, saved by retreating inside of himself before all of him could be truly destroyed.

Scar did not know how he did it. He stopped asking why. His will was always the answer.

When it was dark and quiet in his own exile, he wanted more, and then he had lights, music, visions of almost-people, and pink elephant parades. He watched silhouettes march by even when he had no eyes, no body, a speck of consciousness only alive enough to lucid dream.

He’d thought the angels had found him more than once, wherever he was. He couldn’t walk, see, or scream, and here they were, hunting, trying to tear the last pieces of him away.

He learned to destroy them. Take control, flip the script and set the world on fire. He knew exactly what he’d do when he returned.

It wasn’t easy to exist. Scar had no sense of time in the artificial dark and regenerating his life still felt agonizingly slow. By the time he had a body again, he’d forgotten how to use it, limp, eyes cemented shut. He wasn’t aware of the chair until he miraculously had one, like at the back of his mind he understood he needed more help, but that did not change the slump of his back, arms hanging uselessly at the wheels. 

He was consumed by panic, staring eyes closed at his knees, too vividly imagining angels swooping down like ravens, taking chunks out of the back he’d fought so hard to recreate. 

It started with his fingers. Fingers that wanted throats beneath them, enough to twitch to life, desperate to swat at the evil above.

He made a fist. Felt life in his elbows. He breathed, ragged with the effort of a single inhale. But there were still birds clawing and pecking, taking everything away, he felt them, heard their cackling laughter, he had to stop them, so with a Herculean effort, he wrenched himself upward and snatched at the air. 

He didn’t even catch feathers. Their raucous cawing tripled in intensity.

Scar opened his eyes. His lungs spasmed, and stopped working altogether.

Here he was, exactly where they’d left him. Above where Scar sat in the grass, was Skizz, suspended at the second story of the house outside Mumbo’s bedroom window, looking around like something had Changed.

Scar froze. Every dream of violent retaliation vanished, he was nothing, could do nothing but watch and wait for Skizz to see him.

Their eyes met. 

Skizz saw straight through him, and looked away.

Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened.

Scar had forgotten how to move, and even when he learned, he couldn’t get up the front step, but when Mumbo left the house for the first time, it took Scar a moment to even recognize him. Mumbo was.. older— so tall, he might have tripled in size, covered in acne, and the facial hair— was he about to drive a car!?

Scar spoke for the first time, called out despite his fear of Skizz, but no one heard him. Mumbo didn’t even look back.

No one ever saw him. Not Skizz. Not Mumbo. Not even other angels and ghosts.

It was as much as a relief as it was horrendous, the pit in Scar’s stomach bulbous and nauseating. A different kind of lonely, without the thorns of Scar’s past life, but more constricting with the heavy weight of what this meant.

A plane of existence of his very own. That’s how he’d escaped.

Could he leave?

Of course he could. He could do anything he wanted.

But he wouldn’t. Not with numb legs, lungs, and an unsteady heart, entirely shakable and petrified at the idea of being known again, no, Scar would not leave. He was too weak. Too afraid. He could not take anyone on in this state. Loneliness was a familiar beast, one he could cope with for just a little longer, he just had to hold out until he could catch Mumbo alone.

Scar had plenty of chances.

He did not leave for thirty years.

“Is he seriously still— hey! Can you shut the fuck up already?”

“Hey, man, chill out,” Cub mumbled, Scar blinking rapidly just in time to hear him speak. “It’s a little awkward, but..”

“It’s ruining the vibe.” Grian spoke remarkably clearly for someone who still had Cub’s ankle in its mouth. “We were here first. Shouldn’t have to abandon the prime wrestling location because someone couldn’t handle the heat.”

“I don’t think we caused this panic attack.”

“I—“ Scar croaked, cringing back into his chair, “I’m sorry, I’m—“ not used to being seen. Not used to being paid attention to, even when I’m visible. Exceptionally talented at dissociating.

“You should be sorry!” Grian huffed, biting harder for emphasis, then squeaking when Cub hit it over the head several times in quick succession. Grian caught his arm with a growl. “We shouldn’t have to run around the block just to escape you.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Cub hummed, smacking Grian with his other hand until it caught that one too. “It helps having a soul, to like, empathize with other people and stuff. I’m guessing you don’t have one of those. Well, I guess technically I—“

“Kill yourself.”

Cub shrugged. “Already dead.”

“Shit.”

Scar was getting sick of this. Whatever good graces Scar had for Grian after it’s favor to Mumbo was running dry. He raised a hand, letting his palm hang half-limply above his lap, examining the lines on his fingers. He was suddenly.. very tired.

“Enough of this. Mumbo doesn’t need you both yowling outside his window when he’s trying to nap. Cut it out.”

Cub mumbled something under his breath while Grian snorted, baring teeth over Cub’s ankle. “Mumbo’s fine, thanks to me. There’s no more problem here, I’ve taken care of it, so you can go on ahead and be grateful now.”

“I will not stop screaming,” Cub deadpanned.

Scar felt his patience wear. “Just let him go.”

“And what, let him whine his way right back to Mumbo’s room? I don’t think so.”

“I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“I haven’t learned shit! This is my house!” Cub threw up his arms, but the moment before Scar was about to throttle him, Grian opened its big mouth.

“Exactly! And what are you going to do about it, huh? Shed a few tears. Gawsh, what a pity you’ve been fucked over just like the rest of us, let it all out, why don’t you.” Grian made a brief, but viciously intentional glance at Scar’s chair. “Since that’s all you can do.”

Spirits on this plane did not need to breathe, exactly, but their existence was fueled by a circular flow of energy similar to pumping blood, necessary for existence. As almost-nothing, Scar was acutely aware of the slow cycle of his own life, fighting, constantly fighting for existence, regenerating the lost pieces that had been raptured.

Like holding your breath, you don’t instantly die if your life force halts. But there are cracks.

Grian was forced to let go when the cracks split its jaw, its face, its clawed, now-splintered hands flailing at its throat for that sensation to return. It did not scream. It physically couldn’t; though the soft choking wheezes were enough to feel its pain. Scar let it writhe. Let himself feel good. Let go. 

Grian gasped, fighting for breath it didn’t need as if that would fix the flow of life inside itself any faster, and with one last terrified look at Scar, scampered away down the block. Scar hadn’t raised a finger.

“I suddenly feel a deep remorse for all perceived wrongdoings.” Cub floated in place. Rubbed his ankle. Made zero eye contact. 

Scar closed his eyes. “You’re fine.” 

Cub was quiet. Stationary, yet almost frantically looking for some kind of escape. Scar had never been feared before. Well. Not.. like this.

(Is this what Skizz had worried he’d become?)

“You can go.” Scar spoke through gritted teeth. It did not feel empowering now, not against a human, someone like Mumbo, caught somehow in the crossfire of angelic agendas. Cub was old. Scar didn’t.. he rarely existed around the elderly, but from what he’d seen, they way people talked about them; they were frailer, as much in mind as they were in body. Cub wasn’t.. he was probably innocent. Confused. Just like Scar. Maybe this house was all he knew before it was stripped from him by Skizz. 

Cub did not go, expression dark and unreadable.

Desperation gripped Scar. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not— I’m not bad. Grian— Grian’s a demon! Those are bad, aren’t they? I was defending myself.” Scar had never fought for anyone else’s attention besides Mumbo, anyone else’s opinion. It felt horrible. How could humans manage so many connections? Why couldn’t they just foster one good one?

“I don’t think you’re bad. I’m just thinking.” Cub was so calm. Slightly, ever so slightly, Scar’s anxiety quelled.

Not even to keep him quiet though. “What are you thinking about?” He couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice.

“I probably shouldn’t say.”

“You can say.” Scar spoke too quickly. Even the following second of silence was unbearable. “Please say.” Cub did not grace him with a quick response. In fact, he took so long, Scar thought he wasn’t going to speak at all.

“I was just wondering. If you could do that. You could probably also do the stuff you were threatening Cleo about. And if you can hurt angels. How did Skizz..?”

Oh.

God. Scar’s chest felt inexplicably lighter. He almost laughed. Why did it feel so good?

Maybe he’d gone crazy after all these years. Better to realize it with a stranger rather than Mumbo. 

“I was just a kid. Mumbo’s imaginary friend. Once Skizz was done with me, he and Mumbo’s parents’ angels tricked me. Destroyed me. But it wasn’t enough. I didn’t die.”

“Ohhhhh. Okay, yeah, that makes sense.”

Scar snorted. “Does it?”

“I mean, if I was in your shoes and this was my first time coming back in that long, I’d cry too. I might still cry. Jury’s out. I just kinda.. feel nothing. I don’t know. Ten years passed, and I had no idea. I feel the same as I did before. I just wanted to protect my home.”

Scar bit his lip. “Does it mean a lot to you? Your house?”

Cub nodded, slight and solemn. “I didn’t get a say. Everything I owned is probably in a landfill somewhere, so.. I don’t know. It wasn’t anyone else’s to take.”

“That’s kinda how I feel about Mumbo.”

Cub gave him an odd look. Scar didn’t know why. Either way, Cub seemed to shrug it off.

“So what, are angels just like, okay with infanticide? I mean, I figured the moral compass wasn’t entirely strict given the imprisoning of any spirit that blinks at you wrong for potentially decades at a time, but that still seems pretty crazy.”

“I— I mean, I wasn’t an infant?”

Cub looked mildly surprised. “How old do kids have imaginary friends anyway? Are you all sentient? It’s a common thing, isn’t it, do you really all stick around forever?”

Scar’s face pinkened, overwhelmed by the questions he couldn’t answer. He waved Cub off. “You really are ancient, aren’t you? Don’t even remember having an imaginary friend..”

“I— Okay, I am not that old. Aren’t you Mumbo’s age, and he’s what, mid-forties? I’m at most twenty years older than you, that is not ancient. I guess— at the time of death at least. Last ten don’t count.”

“Why shouldn’t they count?”

Cub shrugged, like the answer was too obvious to say. “I never had an imaginary friend, that’s why I ask.”

“Well if you had a guardian angel, I’d count you lucky. Or them, rather— the ‘they’ that doesn’t exist.”

“Fair assessment.” Cub leaned back, reclining on nothing but air. “Well, I feel better knowing you’re around just in case that Skizz comes back. Or I guess in case the new angel decides to do their job.”

“Skizz isn’t coming back.”

Cub looked up. “No?”

“No.” Scar had to be certain. There was no other way.

Graciously, Cub didn’t push. “Well, that’s a relief. I hope the new angel isn’t evil. I kinda like her, just something about it, I dunno. Not everyone can pull off being a bitch and cool.”

Scar couldn’t stop himself from gaping, only shutting his mouth when Cub looked at him funny, like that reaction was completely off-kilter. Scar didn’t know why he cared what Cub thought all of a sudden, that was a new and unwelcome feeling, but he felt himself cringe under the social weight, scrambling to correct himself with a short squeak.

“Really?”

Cub’s deadpan expression could not have been any less reassuring. Then he shrugged. “I dunno, if she’s in jail for angel crimes, maybe she’s on our side. Well. Not on their side at least. And someone has to humble Mumbo, all high and mighty like he owns the place.”

“You know— Mumbo has had a really stressful day, Cub. You could stand to cut him some slack.”

“Mumbo’s been living his life for the last ten years while I’ve been in the dog house. If he didn’t want to get haunted when his guardian angel went kaput, he shouldn’t have set up in my room.”

“Mumbo didn’t even know you existed. He can’t help that he moved in here!”

“Don’t care.” Cub really looked the part, but that suddenly changed when Scar started bristling, the ghost’s eyes averting, shoulders pulling in, posture hunching. “I mean. He’ll get his day of peace. I’m gonna bother someone else instead. Cleo, by process of elimination.”

It took Scar a long moment to realize Cub was afraid of him. The second blow came as Scar finished processing what was said.

“You’d rather hang out with an angel than me?”

Cub scrunched his nose. “Are you a sensitive guy, Scar?”

Scar sensed that was a bad thing to be. “No.”

“Then don’t take it personally.” As much as Cub could ‘get up’ while being suspended in thin air, he was back on his feet, not giving Scar a chance to respond before he was walking away back to the house. Scar watched him phase through the wall.

Wow.

So that’s what making new friends was like. Scar never wanted to do that shit again.

[song-witch]

In The Dark

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Word Count: 2798

Warnings: Mafia AU. Alcohol. Pregnancy. Alluding to smut.

A/N: I've had this fic on the docket for so long, so here it is. lmk if i missed anything!

Wanda sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night, letting her eyes flutter open. Her hands limply dragged across the duvet, a gesture that had become second nature as her pregnancy progressed, as if it would soothe both hers and the baby’s restlessness. There was no point in trying to sleep if it wouldn’t come. She was unsure if it was due to her own anxiousness or the babies, though it did just about as much good to dwell on it as it did to try and sleep. The sound of the screen door banging shut followed by the heavy front door pulled her out of her reverie, her entire body freezing for a moment.

“Baby?” Wanda called out, reclining her head back so her voice hopefully reached the entryway; thickly swallowing. The house was quiet besides the sound of someone moving around. With a frown, she turned over her left shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing at the bright ‘3:46 am’ from the digital clock glowing back at her in a dreadful shade of neon red. Forgoing both the lamp on the nightstand and her slippers, Wanda made her way to the bedroom door, one hand on the knob and the other against the door as she pressed her ear to the wood. 

Her heart beat faster from the sound of silence, biting her lip. She had options here. She could open the door, confront whoever was in the kitchen, pray to something that it was Natasha or someone she sent, and happily go back to bed. She could go lay back down, ignore whoever was in the house, and stay in a puddle of fear until something happened. Her last option was sliding shoes on, opening the door, and bolting out the back door. That somehow felt like an overreaction – like how whoever was in their home would have heard her and come to collect collateral damage. Given her struggle with sleeping throughout the entire night, the second option would be dumb as well. Instead she was left with the first option, confronting the intruder. 

Despite the Nat in her head telling her to pick the third option, she opened the door, heart simultaneously dropping to a pit in her stomach, somersaulting, and jumping to her throat, before repeating in that order. The brunette carefully listened to the sound of a glass clinking against the kitchen table, followed by a cabinet door closing, its eerie thud echoing into the hall. 

This only served to confuse her further, prompting her to exit the bedroom and slowly walk down the hallway, sticking against the wall. She chose to keep the lights off, knowing that if something went wrong, she knew the layout of her home without the lights on which would give her an upper hand against a potentially dangerous intruder – yet another thing Nat taught her. 

The soft yellow light of the kitchen spilled out into the living room, not entirely unusual as Wanda always left the light above the sink on when Nat was working late. The sound of people talking, presumably two men based on the deep tones, ringing through the space. By the time she made it to the living room, she was beginning to question her choice of approaching whoever was in the kitchen having a drink, glancing around the shadowed part of the living room in something akin to despair. The best she could do was grab a throw pillow, knowing the lamps would cause too much racket and hung photo frames wouldn’t do much. She held the pillow in front of her, as if the steel blue pillow smaller than her pregnant stomach was as intimidating as an actual weapon. 

With a deep breath, the brunette turned the corner, raising the pillow in front of her head, cowering just slightly. She waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing happened. No sound, movement, nothing but stillness. Breath still held in her chest, she slowly lowered her weapon of choice, squinting over the seam of it. 

“Nat?” The brunette dropped the pillow in favor of pursuing the other woman, a shaking breath leaving her chest as tears filled her eyes. She paid no attention to the men sitting at the dining table, time seemingly moving in slow motion as she stepped over the pillow, arms already subconsciously reaching upwards to wrap around the redhead’s neck. Natasha stood silently with a look thrown at the men, her whiskey glass hitting the table with the same resounding ‘clunk’ it had earlier, meeting the younger woman in an embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around her waist.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The redhead mumbled against the brunette’s hair, pressing a kiss where her forehead met her hairline. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair down, more than aware of her men watching them. Wanda’s chin shook against where it was hidden in the junction of the older’s neck, sobs barely contained with deep breaths. 

“Where were you?” She just barely managed to keep her voice even and maybe even a little serious, her emotions running rampant. She wanted to yell at her wife, sob, ravish her, and yell some more. Instead, she pulled back, one hand swiping at her eyes while the other continued to twist the baby hairs at the top of the redhead’s neck between her fingers.

“Did Carol not call you?” Natasha looked down at her with a no-nonsense look, her arms still wrapped, albeit loosely, around her waist.

“N-no,” Wanda shook her head, wiping her sleeve under her nose, “N-no one did. I thought you we-were dead.” The word alone brought unwanted tears to her eyes, gasping in a breath. It was something she hated doing; worrying about Nat returning home any day of the week, especially after an exchange like today. She hated always being on the edge of her seat, waiting for the call that her wife was in critical condition or she was downright gone. And yet, she continued to love and in turn be loved by Nat, willing to live with that fear. Now that they had a baby on the way though, she was beginning to question that decision. 

“I can assure you I’m very much alive, love.” Natasha chuckled, the rasp that had Wanda swooning over her after their first-ever interaction thickly coating her words. Yet, Wanda didn’t laugh like she normally would, frowning even more. 

“It’s n-not funny, Nat!” Wanda watched as Nat winced slightly at the sheer shrillness of her voice, though she couldn’t care less. She crossed her arms on top of her stomach, resisting the urge to poke at Nat’s chest to further her point. 

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” With a sigh similar to Wanda’s earlier she pulled the woman back into her chest, softly rubbing her back. Natasha fully expected Wanda to pull away, to lecture her on how unfair it was to her, as if she didn’t understand. She did the opposite, though, melting into the embrace with a sob. 

“I d-don’t… I- we can’t lose you, Nat.” Wanda blubbered into her neck, grasping at the fabric of the redhead’s shirt with balled fists. She allowed herself to cry, beyond caring about what the men in the room would think, letting her wife rock them softly. 

At the questioning glances from Steve and Bucky, along with them softly murmuring to each other, Nat nodded. She momentarily stopped rubbing circles into the brunette’s back to raise a finger, circling it twice in the air as a silent command to secure the perimeter before they left before letting it drop to its original position. She let the younger cry, softly shushing her as her sobs grew into a volume that Natasha could only describe as painful. By the time Wanda had calmed down, both men had left, leaving the two alone for the first time in far too many days. “I’ve got you, Wanda. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” The redhead pulled back gently, forcing her wife to look her in the eyes. Wanda hiccuped as she searched Nat’s face, dropping her shirt to cup her cheeks, as if she needed to confirm the redhead was real. 

“I love you so much, Wanda. You of all people should know you won’t get rid of me that easily.” With a softness that was reserved for only Wanda, Nat swiped the woman’s tears away, pressing twin kisses beneath her eyes. 

“I love you too, Nat.” Wanda’s voice shook as she leaned up, softly pressing her lips against the chapped ones of her wife. She didn’t mind though, as it only further confirmed that she was in fact standing there with her, alive and healthy as can be. Natasha kissed back as, if not more, fervently than the brunette, sliding her hands under the fabric of a shirt Wanda must have pulled from somewhere deep in the closet. Even just the slightest touch had her melting and whimpering into her mouth, deepening the kiss with a swipe of her tongue against Nat’s lips. Nat all but easily obliged, trying to pull the brunette impossibly closer against her body. Wanda went easily, humming softly as they explored one another, as if they hadn’t numerous times before. Her hands smoothed everywhere on the redhead’s face, a sense of urgency taking control.

Before they could get any further, though, Wanda pulled away with a slight gasp, taking in deep breaths. “Is everything okay? Is the baby alright?” The redhead’s right hand curved around the woman’s waist to rest on her stomach, concern written across her features. Had she not been through a whirlwind of emotions, Wanda would have smiled at how concerned she was, instead the corners of her lips just barely raised. 

“We’re okay. I think he’s upset that his mama wasn’t going to come home for a bedtime story.” Wanda fixed her wife with a stern look, raising an eyebrow. She didn’t mean for it to be as snarky as it had been, but she felt the older deserved it after not contacting her for days on end. She would’ve been fine if one of the members had so much as texted her, yet nothing. Almost as if the baby was agreeing with her, it kicked where Nat’s hand was resting. If there was one thing that was certain about their child, they wouldn’t be afraid to speak their mind. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. She thinks it's bedtime.” Natasha rolled her eyes, though a smirk pulled at her features. She could hardly be upset with the brunette. It had been nearly a whole week since she had been home, let alone been in contact with the woman. Had it been two years ago, she wouldn’t have cared. Would have left the brunette to wallow in her own disdain and anger for far longer without a care in the world. Now though, she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t leave her wife for more than a week, even before she was pregnant. It almost made her emotional to see just how far they had come. Almost. 

“He, Nat. Our baby is a boy.” Wanda shook her head, a fond smile tugging at her lips. She’d be damned if their baby turned out to be a girl. Months of being wrong and the redhead would only become cockier. 

“And how do you know? For all it’s worth, sprout could be an actual sprout.” Nat shot back, raising an eyebrow as she moved away from the brunette. She downed the rest of her drink easily, swiping the back of her hand against her mouth with a satisfying sigh. Knowing how much it irked the younger to leave her dishes out, she deposited in the sink, with a silent promise of washing it the next day, moving towards the cabinet in the back corner to put the Whiskey back in its case. 

“Unless that turkey baster was filled with something else, I highly doubt there’s a plant inside of me.” Wanda crossed her arms over her belly, both eyebrows raised and her lips pushed slightly forward, as if willing the older to test her. Nat chortled at that, stopping in the middle of the kitchen to fully take in the joke. Her hands landed on her hips, smiling at the younger. 

“That was a good one, baby. I wouldn’t be so convinced though, based on how much watermelon I’ve bought in the last two weeks alone.” She fixed the woman with a cocky smile, padding towards her. Despite her joking tone, Wanda looked at her incredulously, nearly scoffing at her. 

“Keep talking, Nat. You won’t be laughing when you’re left high and dry until he’s born.” She merely shrugged, more than willing to stick to her words and deal with the consequences of them if it meant Nat listened. 

“You wouldn’t.” Natasha’s face set, her smile dropping, eyes squinting. Despite the fact that she herself was the one who managed their relationship for a good chunk of it, she knew how stubborn the brunette could be. She just hoped she was joking, for the sake of both of them. She was met with another shrug, neither confirming nor denying her claim. Natasha only sighed in response, dropping their teasing altogether and instead wrapping an arm around the brunette, turning the light off as they began towards their room.

The house was quiet as the two made their way to the bedroom, the darkness of the house still washing out the hallway. It was easy enough to fall in step next to one another, a move written into their muscle memory, if not their biology at that point. Tension pulled between the two of them, apparent as they each approached their own side of the bed. With the grace of something similar to a toddler, Wanda sat on the edge of the king mattress, quietly observing her wife. 

Natasha moved around the room silently, shedding her weapons in various drawers, her path methodical and obviously walked before. She paid no attention to the brunette’s eyes following her around the space, nor did she see how tight-strung she was, her back rigid and eyes glossed over. And yet, she could still feel it. Though she did nothing but carry out the little routine she had, changing into something far more suitable for pajamas than dress pants and a crisp, buttoned shirt, locking herself in the bathroom to finish up.

Wanda pursed her lips at the sound of the en suite locking, dragging her feet up and under the covers. Humming, she reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, sipping the beverage in the dim light of bathroom light spilling out from around the door. She took her time, listening to her spouse rummage around. It was funny just how domestic it all felt, how the boss of a mafia that spent her free time killing people could be so… soft. 

There was a time when she thought she would never leave what she had considered this godforsaken bedroom, tied to a bed that wasn’t hers and stripped of every joy she had ever known. Yet, here she was, free to roam wherever she wanted, with a wife who doted on her like there was no tomorrow, the shimmer of love in her eyes. It made her want to laugh at how ironic the whole thing was. How could she, a small-town girl with a bad attitude, end up with one of the wealthiest people in a whole nother country, pregnant with their child? Arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to reality, setting her glass down before looking at the redhead.

“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” Natasha’s raspy voice vibrated against her stomach, head perched on the topmost swell of it. Wanda allowed her hand to drop so she could hold the redhead’s face, tilting her head just slightly. 

“Just… thinking.” She smiled softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She met the woman’s eyes, holding them even as the urge to look away grew stronger. 

“Talk to me, Wanda.” Nat urged gently, a softness much like the one earlier shining through. Wanda lived for these moments, yearned for them. The moments in between, the ones no one bats an eye at, yet, everyone longs for. 

“You know I love you?” 

It was less of a question and more insecurity, uncertainty momentarily crossing her features. At this, Nat’s expression mirrored her earlier one, confusion on her face cocked to the side. 

“And I love you.” The redhead decided to play along, though she had no idea where the brunette was going. She watched as the younger blinked, her eyes clouded with skepticism and something else. 

“Show me. Show me how much you love me.”

[castiwls]

"your my sun, my moon, and all my stars"

having a baby with patrick zweig...

I feel Patrick is the type of guy to be absolutely terrified of pregnancy he kinda hates the idea but then the baby is actually born and he’s just smitten.

You’d barely been going out 3 months but you’d both been hooking up for just under a year when you randomly show up at his hotel with a pregnancy test.

His initial reaction is to slam the door in your face - he’s not ready for this. A baby would get in the way of his career.

After having the door slammed in your face you stood there for a moment, the hormones already seeming to affect you more than you’d known as a rush of anger runs through you so you do the only logical thing and bang on the door until he opens it.

“Patrick Zweig open this door right now or I swear to god.”

He opens the door and you have half a mind to slap him for getting you into this mess in the first place.

Neither of you was exactly ready to be parents.

You spend the first few months of your pregnancy trying to get used to your relationship and to the idea of being parents.

The idea terrified you but the fact that Patrick seemed to be slowly coming around to the idea left you feeling more relaxed.

You half expected him to run for the hills when you’d randomly shown up at his hotel yet he surprised you.

I feel he’s the type of guy to buy baby clothes based on his interests (like when they buy football kits for their team.)

He DEFFENTLY buys your baby a little tennis outfit with a toy racket and all.

“You did not buy our unborn child a tennis racket?” He shrugged placing the bag down. He looked at you with that lopsided grin which always made you melt. “I’m being prepared! My child will not be a football player.”

(He’s already looking into tennis lessons for when they're older but you don't have to know that)

He definitely cries the first time you see the baby on an ultrasound.

Also, I'm sorry but he gives girl dad energy - the idea of a mini version of him scares him more than he’d admit.

Secretly hope the baby takes after you more than him.

You both decide to do a really low-key gender reveal with only your close friends and family. When it’s revealed as a girl he completely freaks out.

This man is a MESS when you eventually do go into labour.

“Oh my god. Is…is that normal? You're not going to die right?? I can’t do this alone i don't know the first thing about babies never mind girls.”

You're considerably calmer than him for most of it. (You joke about him needing the gas and air more than you and he fully tries to grab it)

I saw this video on TikTok of a woman being like I wanted my boyfriend by my head the whole time I didn't want him to see anything but then the nurses asked if he wanted to catch the baby and he full-on sprinted to get gowned up - that Patrick.

This man full-on starts crying with the baby the minute she's out.

Holds your hand the entire time she’s being checked and cleaned. He just stands there whispering sweet nothings as you both watch.

Cries again when you get to hold her - you cry with him this time.

“She’s so tiny.” You sniffled slightly stroking a hand over her tiny head. “We made that.” He grins. You laugh quietly. “Yeah…I guess we didn’t do too bad.” He presses a kiss to your lips before running a hand idly up her tiny back. You're both quiet for a moment, watching her in pure disbelief before. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment you think that it's some sort of pain relief-induced dream. There is no way Patrick Zweig of all people just asked you to marry him. This is the same guy who not even a year ago happily lay in bed and planned his next hook-up.

Turns out to be the BEST dad!! This man is happily up at all times of the night to feed her or rock her back to sleep.

Whenever he can't soothe her he just ends up on the couch watching back old tennis games with her until she falls asleep.

Much to your chagrin, your daughter ends up sleeping best when a tennis game is playing in the background - truly her father-daughter,

“I told you she’d like tennis.” “She's 4 months old.”

You both wait a few months before going back to the marriage conversion.

This man was prepared. He had a ring and all much to your shock.

“I didn’t pit you for the marriage type.” “Well, it wasn’t high on my list but you’ve apparently changed that.”

You agree to marry him but you both wanna wait a little till your daughter is older. You make a one-off mention about how cute of a flower girl she would be and he is sold.

Overall he’s a surprisingly good dad and partner. He’s still trying to move up in the tennis world but manages to split his time so that he never misses anything big.

Though he did make you promise that when she’s older you’ll come to his games - you roll your eyes and begrudgingly agree but deep down you know that there is a good chance watching him play tennis may lead to your daughter getting a sibling or two.

[your-divine-ribs]

The Devil Next Door Part 14

Words: 2.1k

Finally got an update for this one! Can’t wait to write Van’s POV next ❤️‍🔥

The Devil Next Door Masterlist Main Masterlist

❤️‍🔥 Y/N's POV ❤️‍🔥

You've not been to a house party like this since your university days and you try not to wince as the harsh sound of a thumping bass-line assaults your ear drums as soon as you step over the threshold.

"Think I've just been transported back to Freshers' Week!" Tom shouts above the racket, echoing your thoughts as he takes your hand to lead you through the mass of heaving bodies in the corridor. You'd thought the party was going to be busy but you weren't expecting this many people. You're considering backing out and suggesting to Tom that you go to the local pub instead but then Johnny appears behind you, one arm draped over your shoulder and the other over Tom's.

"Alright you two, glad you could make it. It's good to actually see familiar faces!" He laughs as he steers you both in the direction of the kitchen, promising drinks as you go.

"What do you mean?" You ask, confused. "This is your party. Surely you know all these people?"

"Ahh, you know what it's like. You invite one person and they tell their mates, and they tell their mates, and before you know it you've got a houseful of people and you've no idea who any of them are!"

You laugh and nod in agreement but you don't know what it's like at all. The thought of dozens of strangers descending on your house, drinking and partying wildly sounds, quite frankly, horrific. Johnny doesn't seem to mind though, in fact the lopsided grin he's wearing suggests he's having the time of his life. He grabs two cans of lager off the cluttered countertop and thrusts them towards you both.

"Cheers mate," Tom says, surveying the packed kitchen as he pops open the tab on his can and takes a huge slurp. "And thanks for inviting me. Feels like all I seem to do is work and sleep at the moment so it's really good to get out. A good night out's just what I need I reckon."

"Well I hope you have a good 'un," he raises up his own can, grinning sloppily. "And you too Y/N, be good to let your hair down for once eh? Help yourselves to drinks both of you, there's plenty to go around."

He sweeps his hand around the kitchen and you follow with your eyes, taking in the various stacks of cans and bottles littering every available surface. Van and Johnny are quite obviously expecting a crazy night judging by the amount of alcohol on offer and you feel anxiety buzzing in your chest, a tightness which you try to ignore. It's really not your scene but you don't want to be a killjoy.

"Sounds great, thanks Johnny."

You force a smile which fades quickly when his attention gets diverted by another party guest. You're not expecting Tom to notice but when you glance in his direction he's eyeing you warily.

"Are you alright?" He asks carefully, a hand reaching out to brush your arm lightly. "You look a bit..."

"Out of place?" You finish his sentence for him, an awkward little laugh before you raise up your can to take a tentative sip. "I thought it was going to be a bit quieter than this. I wasn't expecting a houseful."

"Really?" Tom sounds surprised. "From what you've told me about your neighbours' wild parties this is exactly what I was expecting."

At that point a loud jeer goes up from across the kitchen and you both turn just in time to see a group of lads up-ending shot-glasses before slamming the empties down on to the counter. You groan under your breath.

"If you can't beat 'em join 'em eh?" Tom suggests, and you scan his face for a sign that he's joking but he looks scarily eager. "Ummm... I mean we can always start off slow if you want?" He quickly backtracks when he sees your less than enthusiastic expression and you offer him a small smile, fretting that the person you were hoping would be your calming anchor tonight might turn out to have hidden party-till-you-drop genes.

"You go ahead, I'm okay with this for now," you say, indicating your can as Tom takes another huge mouthful of his. You're just about to suggest you move out of the kitchen when you happen to notice Van enter the room out the corner of your eye.

Your stomach drops in a most unexpected fashion, that giddy kind of excitement when the person you've been looking forward to seeing suddenly appears. You push it away. It can't be that! You've not been eagerly anticipating seeing Van at all, it must be something else, some kind of dread-anxiety at seeing your arch-nemesis in a situation you already feel uncomfortable in.

He's guiding two girls into the kitchen, swaggering in with his usual air of confidence as he glances around the room. He spots you immediately and smirks, like he fully expects you to be standing there watching and waiting for him. You curse under your breath, quickly turning back to Tom but it's too late, Van's attention's already been diverted and he starts heading over, leaving his companions to help themselves to drinks.

"Alright?" His voice is cool but his smile's full of something playful. You tense as his eyes quickly rake down over your body but they don't linger, they come to rest on Tom instead. "Didn't expect to see you here mate, this is a pleasant surprise."

You detect a note of sarcasm but Tom beams back at Van, completely oblivious. "Bondy invited me, we exchanged numbers at the gig the other night. He said you lot know how to throw a good party!"

"Yeah well he's not wrong," Van nods in agreement, his eyes darting to you as he raises an eyebrow. "And look who you've brought along. This is even more of a surprise. Thought you wouldn't be seen dead at one of my parties Y/N? That's what you said before wasn't it?"

You shrug. "Maybe I just felt like doing something fun for once, and like Tom said, Johnny invited us. I'm not here for you."

He lets out a huff then angles his body towards Tom like you're not worthy of his attention anymore. "Help yourself to whatever drinks you like, there's some decent lager in the fridge right at the back. It's miles better than that piss-weak stuff Benji picked up."

He nods towards the can which to your shock Tom's already draining. You don't even get chance to suggest he slows down before he's thanking Van and heading straight for the fridge. Your face must say it all.

"Looks like your date's on one tonight," Van chuckles, evidently enjoying the dismay that you're trying to hide, obviously not well enough.

"He's not my..." you start, but then you check yourself, your petty desire to try and make Van jealous surfacing.  It wouldn't hurt for him to think things have shifted up a gear with Tom.

"He's not what?"

You hesitate just a beat too long. Van watches you, a maddening half-smirk simmering on his lips that makes your blood boil but also has your heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

"He's not boring if that's what you were going to say," you blurt, struck with sudden inspiration.

Van grins, clearly amused at your defensiveness. "Boring? No way, I wouldn't say that. Maybe a little on the keen side. Can't blame a guy for having a good time though eh?"

He looks pointedly towards the fridge where Tom's already ducking inside to reach for another can. Your heart sinks and you scramble for some kind of cutting comeback but Van disarms you as he steps even closer, invading your personal space as his eyes slip down over your body once again, more purposeful this time.

"When I said it was a surprise to see you here I meant a good one by the way." A sexy little smile tugs at his lips as his eyes linger momentarily on the short hem of your dress before he's meeting your eyes once again. "It's good to see you, and you look... different tonight."

You shift self-consciously, tugging on the hem of your dress, pulling it a little further down your thighs where it's ridden up. Damn, why did you wear this thing? You knew you should have gone casual. You cock your head at Van, fixing him with an even stare even though it's killing you to do so the way your heart's thrumming at his proximity.

"Well I don't wear hospital scrubs 24/7. Shock horror. I do have other stuff in my wardrobe."

Van nods slowly, starting to back away, still not breaking eye contact as he goes. "Well... you look... good... really good... anyway I'd better go. Got a party to host. See ya around I guess."

He raises up his bottle in a farewell gesture and some strange kind of tension simmers there momentarily before Van breaks it by turning away. You blow out a breath, not even realising you were holding it in, cursing yourself that he's already managed to get under your skin and you've only been here for five bloody minutes.

And what was that about you looking good? Really good? What... he's actually giving you compliments now?

You really need to keep away from him for the rest of the party. Avoid him, keep your distance, be aloof, don't let him draw you into one of those charged stand-offs you two always seem to find yourselves in that'll likely be even more volatile after a skinful of alcohol.

You watch as he walks away, one of the girls he was with earlier immediately grabbing his attention. She leans in to talk to him, laughs at whatever he replies with, places a hand a little too familiarly on his chest. You try not to react. You really try, but you're bristling automatically at the observation.

This is stupid. Really fucking stupid. You should just forget about Van and concentrate on Tom. He's the one you came here with tonight. Now where did he go?

"Van wasn't kidding, that lager is better! It's got a definite kick to it. You should try one."

Tom's back by your side, grasping his can like a prized possession, cheeks tinged a little pink. You offer a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. "Maybe later, I'm trying to pace myself. It’s still early.”

Tom nods, swaying in time with the music as you begin to push your way through the crowd to exit the kitchen. "Yeah, that's probably wise, if I'm being totally honest with you I'm a bit of a lightweight. I'm out of practice see."

"Well, at least you're a self-aware lightweight," you giggle, trying your best to push any negative thoughts away and loosen up, feed off his fun-loving energy instead. You raise up your can in a half-hearted toast. "Here's to being out of practice I guess."

Tom knocks his can against yours with a grin. "We'll warm up slowly, I promise. No jägerbombs or body shots just yet."

You let out a quiet laugh, your smile easier now, authentic for the most part, or at least determined to be. "C'mon, let's try and find somewhere quieter before I end up elbowing someone in the ribs."

But the living room's even more packed than the kitchen, the stuffy air thick with the smell of spilt lager and cheap cologne and something suspiciously herbal that you'd rather not try to identify. Lights pulse in time with the music and there's already a small group of people drunkenly dancing. You quickly steer Tom away as you notice him veering in their direction, making instead for a sofa that's been pushed up against the back wall.

You sit and sip your drinks, chatting easily, the little whirlpool that Van stirred up settled for now but not completely forgotten. Far from it. Try as you might to focus solely on Tom and your conversation your mind is still half tangled up in the scene from the kitchen. The playful glint in Van's eyes and the way he looked at you, his voice, that maddening smile of his... it shouldn't still be replaying in your head, but it is. Over and over on a loop. It’s exasperating but you can't shift it. He might have left your sights but he's refusing to leave your thoughts as per usual and you hate it.

You swallow down more of your lager, not hesitantly but with purpose this time, knocking your can against Tom's yet again, adamant that you're going to loosen up and enjoy the night… without Van’s interference. "What did you say earlier eh? If you can't beat 'em join 'em? You stay here, I’m just going to get another drink.”

[marysixnumbers]

Tickletober Day 11 - Squeal

Fandom: Arcane

Words: 1,074

"Can you stop that?"

How Vi could make such a noise with a bag that small, Caitlyn didn't know. Pretty much everything they'd brought down to Zaun with them was strewn haphazardly across the floor of their tiny room they'd rented for the night, as Vi reached into the deepest crevices of her travel pack to find something she swore she took with her from prison.

Vi turned around to see Caitlyn sigh and bury her face in the bed's lumpy pillow. "If you don't drive me insane with that racket, you'll definitely disturb our neighbours. Just quieten down for a second, OK?"

"Relax, Cupcake. The rooms here go for basically nothing. No-one comes to this part of Zaun for a good night's sleep." Having failed to locate her trinket, Vi dumped the bag on the floor and began picking up their scattered possessions. "Our "neighbours"" - she flashed air quotes at Caitlyn - "have heard far worse than someone stomping around a room over."

Muffled by the pillow, Vi could hear Caitlyn scoff. "Well, in my house, we were raised to be considerate of strangers. You'd never hear a thing from me when we were guests." She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket over her, her eyes half-shut as she tried to find a comfortable spot on the sagging mattress.

Vi rolled her eyes. It's likely she would've ignored the Piltoveran's bout of snootiness had she not looked over and saw Caitlyn's foot sticking out from under the blanket.

"I dunno, Cupcake. When people stayed at my place..." Vi's footsteps were nearly silent on the threadbare carpet, honed from years of sneaking around her childhood playmates. "...things usually got pretty rowdy." Reaching the foot of the bed, her knuckles brushed against Caitlyn's bare sole. She wasn't sure if her touch was firm enough to tickle, but she didn't have to worry, judging by the way Caitlyn's eyes instantly sprung open and her foot shot back under the covers.

She must have been grinning like a chem-baron in an alchemist's lab, because Caitlyn sat up and started slowly inching away from the Zaunite. "Vi, wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Vi didn't know exactly what to expect when she dived onto the bed and swept Caitlyn up into her patented Tickle Hug (good at dealing with squirmy lees, and she had a hunch Caitlyn was one of those), digging her fingers into her upper ribcage, right below her underarms. She did not think Caitlyn would jolt in her arms and squeal so loudly she swore she saw the window frames rattle. Vi didn't even know Caitlyn could make a noise like that, or any of the frankly amazing noises that were flowing out of her now - innumerable tiny squeaks and squeals as Vi poked her ribs, deeper chuckles and snorts as Vi's thumbs rubbed the spot just below her ribcage, messy giggles and hiccups as Vi circled the small of her back, followed by her breaking out into wild, uproarious laughter as Vi's fingers wriggled past her undershirt and scurried over her belly. One of her hands was grabbing at Vi's wrist and shoving at her shoulder, struggling to shove her away, while the other was tightly gripping the pillow in a vain attempt to make this feel any less unbearably ticklish. She was smiling wider and more freely than Vi had ever seen, the gap in her teeth showing unconscientiously, her slim body shaking against Vi's bulkier frame.

"Nahahah- Vihihi, get ohofff- Eeek! Stahahap it, I said I'm soreeEEE- No! Ahahaha, don't! Get off thehere- getofftherenotthereNOTTHERE- AAAAH!"

Vi's finger had slipped into her navel, getting a squeal just as loud as the first - and an equally loud banging on the wall behind them, followed by someone growling in a language Vi didn't understand. She got the gist, though, and reluctantly withdrew her hands from Caitlyn's stomach, now shivering as she took in deep breaths. Caitlyn's face was flushed a shade darker than Vi's hair and strands of her own hair were sticking to her forehead and neck. She blinked a few times, brows furrowing and blush deepening as she took in the gently grinning face of her assailant.

Caitlyn propped herself up on one elbow and gently punched Vi in the shoulder. "You're a monster."

"A tickle monster?" Vi couldn't help saying it, and grinned even more when Caitlyn averted her gaze and started fiddling with hair.

"Whatever. You're horrible." Caitlyn rolled onto her back, and though the light was dim, Vi was sure she could make out a small smile on her face. The thought that Caitlyn might not actually mind this, or even perhaps like it, popped unbidden into Vi's head, and she had to forcibly suppress images of poking Caitlyn's sides in public, or waking her up with gentle underarm tickles, or holding her in her arms and tickling her until all their worries melted away. Of getting to see that beautiful gap-toothed smile, or hear those adorable squeals and giggles, on a daily basis....

Vi smacked herself (on the side that Caitlyn couldn't see, of course). There was no way they could stay together for that long, no way they could reach that point. There was a reason she was down here and it had nothing to do with teasing the woman that lay beside her. She shuffled in place and looked over at the clockface next to her. Perhaps she could fit in a little more. Just while they were here.

"Cupcake?"

"What is it this time?" There was no malice or exasperation in Caitlyn's voice.

"No-one ever tried tickling you when you were staying somewhere?" Vi nudged Caitlyn in the ribs. "You were loud enough back there to keep anyone awake."

"Shut up." Caitlyn giggled, then paused for a moment, licking her lips. "We didn't have many sleepovers when I was young. And even then, I was never... tickled... during one of them."

"So you've never been tickled before?" Vi inched closer to Caitlyn. The other woman squirmed slightly but made no attempt to move away.

"Not since I was very young." Caitlyn turned around to face Vi, that same small smile playing across her lips. "Why do you ask- oh nohohahah!"

As Vi predicted, Caitlyn made enough noise that night to keep the whole building up. Not that either of them minded. After all, no-one comes to this part of Zaun for a good night's sleep.

[winterserra]

29 and Wintersberg? idk, Ethan saying that to Karl seems fucking funny to me lmao

Alright, I don't normally write these two together, but I couldn't decide which version of this prompt I liked better, so you get a two for one! Hope you like it 😁

“Son of a fucking bitch!” 

Ethan hears Karl scream from the garage. He chuckles, shaking his head as he rocks Rose in his arms. She hasn't been able to sleep very well for her naps, so Ethan has taken to walking around the house with her in his arms as he cleans up throughout the day. He tosses Karl's dirty clothes, stained with oil and smelling of the garage, into the laundry basket. 

“Fuck this piece of shit!” A tool clanging against the garage floor followed by more cussing and louder crashes radiates through the house. 

Ethan sets Rose in her crib, her eyes finally closing as he turns on the mobile and kisses her forehead. “I don't think you're the only one who needs a nap,” he says softly before turning on the baby monitor. 

He hums his way through the house, picking up odd and end things, putting them away before stops in the kitchen for a glass of wine. He pours himself a glass, sipping it and smiling, leaning back against the counter careful not to let the earthy red liquid stain his lips.

If someone had told him that after everything that happened in that village that he would be dating, or even living with, Karl Heisenberg, he would have called them a liar. Yet here they are, living happily under the same roof, enjoying each other's company.

He sets his glass of wine down on the counter as he hears more racket from the garage. He opens the door to the garage from the kitchen to find Karl slumped over the engine of Ethan's car, his tools spread wantonly throughout the garage as he uses his powers to pull whichever one he needs next.

Ethan ducks as a wrench flies by his head and into the hand of his resident mechanic. He approaches Karl quietly, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

“Come on, Karl. Take a break. You've been screaming at the car for an hour now,” Ethan whispers into his ear as Karl rights himself.

He groans in response, “The car isn't going to fix its fucking self, Ethan.” He turns around in Ethans arms, grease streaks across his face and his eyes bloodshot with sleep deprivation.

“You don't know the wonders a 30 minute power nap could do you right now,” he smiles with concern. He kisses Karl softly, the bitter taste of his sweat tickling his tongue as he pulls away. “Come back in the house; the car will still be there later.”

Karl smiles, a twisted smile, “You're tempting me.” He chuckles as Ethan removes his hat from his head, petting him. Karl relaxes into the touch. “Okay, just for a little bit.”

Ethan leads him inside, sitting down on the couch and turning on the TV with Karl's head in his lap. He pets his hair as he feels his breathing start to slow. Ethan glances down after a while to see Karl's sleeping form, resting after the long day of trying to fix the car that Ethan had driven over a curb the day before. 

He smiles down at Karl, brushing his hair out of his face before watching the TV again. Everything is as it should be. Rose is safe and will stay that way. Karl is free from Miranda and Ethan's heart is full of love for the two most important people in his life. He relaxes into the couch, drifting off to sleep with Karl. 

Yeah, everything is how it should be.

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Ethan takes a deep breath, the winter air cutting through his chest like knives as the mold walls fall around him. He shakes, the realization that it is over setting in. He can’t believe they did it. Miranda, lying dead on the ground, her body nothing but solidified ash in front of him. Using Rose as a weapon against her worked just as Heisenberg had said it would. 

Karl was also right about the immense power Rose is holding in her tiny body. Ethan picks her up, cradling her in his arms. He smiles down at her, his heart swelling with warmth as he realizes she's okay. 

“We did it, Rose. You’re finally safe,” he coos at her as Heisenberg’s hand clasps his shoulder. Rose smiles and giggles in response as Ethan turns back towards the village square, intent on getting them out of the former battlefield.

Heisenberg puts a hand out to stop him, his face painted with concern. He conjures up a metal wagon using his ferrokinesis, its rusty springs creaking as the wheels settle on the ground in front of Ethan. 

“You don't know the wonders a 30 minute power nap could do you right now. Get in,” his tone indicating refusal is not an option. 

Ethan huffs, climbing into the wagon. 

“Relax, I'll get you out of here, papa.” Heisenberg chuckles, walking towards the factory. He uses his powers to drag the wagon behind him, his hands in his pockets.

In the cool light of the morning, Ethan swears that Heisenberg almost looks younger. The stress of Miranda finally off of his shoulders; Rose isn't the only one free at last. His grey hair bouncing as he walks, the flit of happiness as he turns back to check on Ethan when he thinks he isn't looking. 

Maybe Ethan could let his guard down with him; maybe he actually could rest. He is tired… He clutches Rose to his chest, relaxing more into the wagon, the crunch of the snow and rocking of the wagon lulling him into the first sleep he's had in the past two days.