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2btheanswertothequestion · 1 year

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Steddie rockstar x roadie AU, with Steve being Eddie's queer awakening

(in a not-fic-format because I cannot be arsed to actually write it)

So. Corroded Coffin isn't huge by any means, but they're big enough. Successful and respected within their genre. Has a loyal fanbase, constantly sells out smaller venues, gets to go on tour every so often. They're rockstars who've made it while still getting to live like they're not rockstars when off the clock (and stage). The best of both worlds, really.

They're gearing up for another tour and have a couple of new faces on their crew. One of them got the job by being a friend of a friend. He doesn't at all look like he'd be a roadie for CC, and he doesn't actually listen to them – he's more into classic rock (respectable) and occasionally new wave (not respectable), but it's whatever. He's strong and hard-working and gets the job done. He also withstands the initial hazing like a champ, even biting back a few times. Yeah, Steve Harrington carves a place for himself in the crew and is soon one of them.

Eddie is especially fond of the new guy. Partly because it's clear Steve is as enamored with Dustin as Eddie is, and mutual interests bring people together. But also because Steve is simply a fun dude to be around? He's nice. Except for when he's mean; then he's funny instead. He's honestly funny a lot of times, even when he doesn't mean to be. Like, sometimes someone will make an exceptionally nerdy reference that he doesn't get, so he'll tilt his head and scrunch his eyebrows as it's explained to him. And, all right, maybe that's not funny, per se. More like cute. Endearing. Eddie often finds himself endeared and wanting to pat Steve on the head like the sweet little puppy he so strongly resembles.

The others mock him for it. Tease him about his man-crush on Harrington. Eddie laughs along with them, because yeah! Were he into men, Steve absolutely would've been his type. Look at him! Guy's ripped and has great hair (almost better than Eddie's. Just imagine the mane it'd be if he let it grow past his shoulders...) and Eddie has great taste. He'd for sure be head over heels for Steve if he were gay, and he is man enough to admit it.

That's how the flirting starts – as an extension of the joke. It's not out of character for Eddie, who flirts with everyone. With reporters, interviewers, photographers, TSA officers, venue security, other bands, anyone! Gender, age, or appearance don't matter because flirting is fun. And it's especially fun to flirt with Steve, because he flirts back! No matter how much Eddie does it, Steve will flirt back and help make everyone laugh. It's a great part of their dynamic and actually brings them closer as friends. Dustin would be proud of them.

So, while on tour, they have this thing where one member of the crew gets to decide where they'll go after shows or on their days off. Participation is optional but encouraged, because it's an 'organic bonding experience' or whatever their manager called it. Occasionally it'll be a movie or a museum, but usually the destination is a bar or club. What's there to say, they're a bunch of male, red-blooded twenty to thirty-somethings – what better pasttime is there than to get drunk after a hard day's work? Yeah, every so often someone will pick up a girl, but it's a rare occurrence. A bunch of the guys has special ladies waiting at home, and for the single ones it's much easier to just book a date with their own hand.

There's one guy on the crew, Peter, who always takes them to a gay bar when it's his turn. This because he is gay. Duh. No one minds it, and if they do they don't come back next tour. Corroded Coffin prides themselves on their allyship. They're freaks of nature welcoming all other freaks of nature. Seriously, what does it matter if a dude likes cock instead of tits? Why is it wrong if he wants it up the ass? It's actually not that bad! See, Eddie used to date this woman who was puh-retty kinky. Pegging was just one of the many, many, maaaaaaany things she enjoyed. And Eddie loved her, so, well. It wasn't as good as she claimed it'd be, but it was fine. Enjoyable enough to do again. The point is that CC doesn't dance with homophobia, and Eddie will scream it from the top of every table.

Anyway. When it's Peter's turn, Steve (who hasn't gotten to pick yet because he's the newbie and they pick last) comments upon it. Nothing big. Nothing bad. Still, Gareth is on him, puffing himself up like a chihuahua and asking if Steve has a problem with it.

Eddie’s hands turn clammy with nerves in the split second it takes for Steve to roll his eyes and scoff "of course not".

Look, he'd really like for Steve to be back next tour, okay? They're buddies now and he doesn't want to lose him to bigotry. Also, it'd suck to have to tell Dustin that the guy he hero-worships is actually a douchebag. Nothing to fear, however – Steve continues to prove himself to be a good dude. He doesn't even blink when propositioned at the club! Simply tells them "thanks, but no thanks". Unsurprising, since he's cool with Eddie's nonsense, but there's a difference between a straight guy hitting on you as a joke and a gay guy doing it for real. At least, for some it is. But not for Steve. Fuck, Eddie hopes he'll be back next tour. He's on his way to being Eddie's new best friend and he'd miss him.

Then, it's time – they're in Chicago and it's Steve's turn to pick. Some of the others grumble over the newbie getting such a big city at his disposal. Eddie doesn't blame them for suspecting favoritism – it's happened before – but not this time! It just became like this and Eddie has nothing to do with it! Ask the other band members.

(When he breaks the news to Steve, his hazel eyes light up. He asks, "Can a friend of mine come with?"

"Sure, man," Eddie says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Steve buzzes with excitement, giddier than a kid on Christmas morning. Fuck, he's so cute.)

That night after the show, as they're leaving for the 'organic bonding experience' (seriously, Chrissy? Of all the things you could call it...), they're met by a young woman outside the venue.

She's tall and skinny, like a giraffe, and that's all Eddie can tell at first glance because she rushes up and flings herself into Steve's embrace. They hug, they laugh, they might cry a little, and he even spins around with her in his arms.

(Girlfriend? She's certainly pretty enough for it.)

Once the heartwarming reunion is over, Steve introduces her as Robin, and tells her that it's his turn to pick a place for them to decompress but he's making it her choice. Robin spits out options with a speed none of them keep up with; Steve stops her, saying, "No, Robs. I'm making it your choice."

They share a look.

She gasps.

They grin, mischievously, and then...

She takes them to a lesbian club.

It's open to gay guys too, obviously, but clearly caters to lesbians. It's a smaller thing, the kind that entertains a steady line of regulars. Apparently, Robin and Steve are among these regulars, because the bartender greets them by name the moment they step inside.

They order their drinks and claim a booth. Robin is quick to instigate a discussion about what dorky things Steve has done while away from her. Eddie is happy to share while Steve laments he should've known better than to introduce them.

An hour or so in, Robin skitters off to catch up with a group of women, all varying degrees of butch. Not ten seconds later, someone new claims her seat (which is also Steve's lap). Eddie mistakes them for a girl at first, because they're small with a high-pitched voice, but no, it's just the twinkiest twink. He makes himself at home on Steve's thigh, pressing a kiss to Steve's cheek and squealing, "Stevie! I didn't know you were back!"

Steve laughs. "Hey, babe. Just for tonight. I'm here with my coworkers."

The twink twists around in Steve's lap. He really is girly-looking: soft jawline, slender build, shoulder-length blond waves, and huge eyes enhanced with makeup. He even smells like a woman, strawberry and jasmine.

"Oh! The rock band!" He extends a dainty hand. "Hi, I'm Brendan!"

Brendan sticks around for a while. Like Robin, he wants to know what Steve's been up to. Unlike Robin, he's more interested in awe-inspiring stories than embarrassing ones (unfortunate, for the latter kind heavily outweighs the former). He doesn't move from Steve's lap. Kind of weird, actually. Like, there are available seats. Yes, Robin also sat exclusively in Steve's lap, but that's different. They're best friends and it was chaste and cute. Brendan is... honestly, Eddie doesn't know who Brendan is. Some dude who's shameless enough to rub his ass on Steve's dick in full view of everyone. Yeah, you're not as subtle as you think, babe.

He doesn't even move when they get up to let another crew member go to the bathroom! No, Steve slides out of the booth still holding him, Brendan perched on his forearm. His muscles flex, a vein straining underneath the skin, but Steve's face is relaxed. As if the – small, sure, but still grown – man in his arms weighs nothing. More likely, Steve is just that used to carrying things.

For some reason, Eddie's mouth dries a little at the thought of it.

At last, Brendan leaves, but not before sweetly kissing Steve on the lips and telling him to "let me know when you're back for real, stud".

Steve promises with a laugh, then turns back to the table and rejoins the conversation as if it was nothing strange. As if making dates with other men happens to him all the time.

Shit.

The entire thing leaves something gnawing on Eddie. He holds it in while in the club. He holds it in when they escort Robin to her cab. He holds it in as they walk back to the tour buses.

Then the others are gone. It's just him and Steve left, lingering to smoke in the parking lot, and he can't hold it any longer.

"I didn't know you're gay!"

Smoothness, thy name is Eddie Munson.

Steve shrugs. "I'm not; I'm bisexual."

"Right, right."

Eddie takes a deep drag, putting some of the smoke in the wrong pipe and coughing it up. Steve thumps his back.

"Woah, man, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Eddie rasps, tears prickling his eyes. "So, um, is it okay? What we've been... The flirting?"

"Uh, yeah?" Steve tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching and, Jesus Christ, how can he be so adorable? "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because!" Eddie gestures between the two of them. "You're bi, and I'm not, and is it offensive for me to...?"

Steve blinks at him, before bursting into laughter. Eddie feels the blush warming his neck.

"Don't be stupid," Steve says in between peals of giggles. "It's just a fun thing. S'not that deep. You don't have to lose sleep over it."

"Alright, man. Then I won't."

But he does.

That very night he finds himself tossing and turning. And thinking. Thinking about Steve. About Steve's strong arms and broad chest. About his square jaw and plush lips. About his thick hair and hooded eyes. About how the ugly polo shirts the techs wear look genuinely good on Steve, and about how his tight jeans leave little to the imagination. That particular line of thought has Eddie whimper and roll his hips against the mattress. Rachael's strap-on always felt kind of so-so. Was it because it was too rubbery or because it was too small?

He also thinks about what makes Steve Steve. Like Steve's selflessness, always the first to volunteer to do the tedious work so no one else has to. And Steve's barbed tongue, sharp enough to give even Eddie a run for his money. Eddie thinks about their easy banter, and how Dustin sings his praises, and how Steve let Robin pick a club when it was his turn.

After three consecutive nights of tossing, turning, thinking, and no sleep, Eddie comes to a horrifying conclusion.

It's not simply a question of 'want'. He's not just horny and curious. No, he likes Steve.

It makes things so fucking awkward. He has no idea how to act around Steve afterward. Falling for a crew member is bad enough (so unprofessional; Chrissy would definitely be on his case if she knew), but this is worse because he's a guy. Eddie's never been into guys before! Sure, there are men out there who are objectively hot. Eddie can admit that. But it's not the same. There are feelings involved here.

And the worst is that people notice. Steve notices. How can he not? When Eddie stops responding to their usual flirting, turning into a skittish bunny whenever Steve is close.

At first, it makes Steve pause. Tilt his head, scrunch his eyebrows, and pout in confusion (Eddie's heartbeat turns irregular every time he does). Then Steve pulls away, and Eddie's heart fucking breaks. The atmosphere among the crew turns tense; Peter starts sending him dirty looks that Eddie shrinks away from.

A few days into it, he's cornered by a pissed off Jeff.

"Dude, what's your problem?" he snaps; Eddie wants to sink into the ground. "I thought you were better than this. Who cares that Harrington is also into dudes? It's still Harrington! It won't kill you to treat him like you used to. No one is going to think you're gay for standing next to him."

Eddie croaks, "What if I am?"

"You- What?"

"What if... I like Steve?"

Jeff's jaw hits the floor. "What."

Eddie inhales deeply, staring at his wringing hands. "I like Steve. I've been thinking... After Chicago, I started to think about... And I realized I like him." A sob tears from his throat. "I don't know what I should-"

Jeff's arms wrap around him; Eddie buries his face in the crook of his neck.

"Jesus Christ," Jeff mutters, stroking Eddie's back. "Um, it's okay? We support you. No one will judge you! We love you all the same."

Eddie nods, Jeff's leather jacket squeaking with the movement. He's been wearing it since high school and it smells like home.

"I don't know how to act around him anymore," he sniffles.

"Why don't you tell him?"

Eddie recoils from the embrace to give Jeff his mightiest 'are you stupid for real' look. Jeff sighs at him.

"Oh, come on. You're his friend and a good-looking guy. Why not?" Jeff says, as if it's that easy. But...

"I'm not his type!"

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do! Didn't you see that Brendan guy?"

Jeff falters. He realizes Eddie is right. Because, yes, Eddie is pretty hot. He has the long hair and a pretty face, he's been told. But he's still a masculine guy. A blue-collar type with calluses on his hands and dirt under his nails. He's not a svelte, dainty, little twink – he's as tall as Steve is, with more tattoos than bare skin and who smells like sweat and tobacco badly masked with cheap cologne, not strawberries and jasmine. He doesn't wear makeup or do his hair and some days he just fucking picks a used shirt from his pile and maybe sniffs it before putting it on. He talks too much and too loud. His limbs flail when he's excited. He's not going to sweetly ask for flattering stories about Steve – his instinct is to tease him for calling one of the guys from Nip/Tuck 'Dr. McDreamy'. He's closer to Robin than he is to Brendan. Jesus Christ, he's in the same category as Steve's lesbian best friend! Or at least he was, before he shot their friendship to hell.

There's no hope.

The tour ends on a sourer note than previous ones. It's all Eddie's fault. He doesn't even stick around for the last 'organic bonding experience' – he gets into his car at the first opportunity and drives home.

And then comes the wallowing. Several tubs of ice cream are consumed as High Fidelity plays on loop on Eddie's TV. He writes dozens of miserable, yearning songs and screens his calls, not even picking up for Chrissy or Wayne. It's not until Dustin's cheerful lisp rings out from his answering machine that there's a change. He's inviting Eddie to come visit him and Suzie and the cats in Massachusetts, like he always does after a tour.

Eddie can't turn that down. Besides, he probably needs to get out of the house.

So he goes, and it's nice. Dustin is still a little shit, Suzie is a pearl, the cats are cuddly, and Eddie is a good enough faker to mask his emotional state – his hosts notice nothing amiss.

Then, halfway through his visit, Eddie returns from his walk and who does he find unpacking their car in Dustin and Suzie's driveway?

Can you guess? I think you can.

It's Robin!

And Steve. They're a package deal, you know.

And Dustin's like, "Eddie! They're here! Oh, did I forget to tell you they were coming? Oops. Well, you already know them, so it's fine."

And Eddie is panicking, and Robin is trying to murder him with her mind, and Steve is just like,

"Hey."

Coldly polite.

Eddie hides in his guest room until dinner time. When he comes out, he expects Dustin to chew him out for being an asshole homophobe and kick him out of his life permanently.

But he doesn't. Dinner is as usual, if Steve Harrington ignoring you and Robin Buckley glaring at you is part of your usual dinner experience.

After cleaning up, Steve steps outside to smoke. Eddie, figuring he has to take some responsibility, follows him. Steve is standing on the deck, elbows resting on the wooden railing, his back to the house. He straightens up and turns when Eddie closes the screen door behind him. The sun has set, but the moon is out; Steve's profile is sharp in the pale moonlight, his posture sure. The cherry of his cigarette makes shadows and flames flicker dramatically over his features, highlighting the edges and the curves and he's so fucking gorgeous Eddie forgets how to breathe. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

He slinks over, Steve's gaze following him.

"Hi," Eddie says.

"Hi," Steve says.

"You didn't..." Eddie swallows. "You didn't tell Dustin?"

Steve frowns. "No. It's between us. For now, at least."

"Oh."

Shuddering, Eddie wraps his arms around himself. It's late summer and still warmish as long as there's no wind. Right now it's windless, the cold coming from within.

"I wanted to talk."

Steve hums, noncommittal.

"I wanted to apologize."

Another hum, more interested.

"I'm sorry. For how I acted. I've been an asshole and you don't deserve any of that."

Eddie glances up to gauge Steve's reaction, and oh. The whole evening, Steve's been aloof, cordially keeping Eddie at arm's length, but now...

Now he just looks sad.

A few weeks ago, they were close enough for Eddie to hug him when he looked like this. Eddie would crush his own heart with a sledgehammer if it meant they'll go back to that.

He says, "We haven't known each other for long, but you're already one of my best friends. Then it got weird at the end and-"

Steve's face hardens again, eyes tapering with anger.

"Things didn't 'get weird', Eddie. You made them weird. What the fuck?"

And Eddie takes a deep breath and says,

"I like you."

Shock colors Steve's expression; he takes a step back. It takes everything to stop Eddie from following in an attempt to reel him back in.

"I don't know when it started," he says, the confession tumbling out. "I always liked you? You're a good guy and fun to hang with and a great friend, and I guess you were hot, but a ton of guys are hot and it doesn't have to mean anything. I can be straight and still think guys are hot, you know? But then, in Chicago, you came out and I started seeing you differently. So, huh, turns out, in my case? Thinking guys are hot does mean something. And I freaked out because I didn't know what to do. Being close to you made me so nervous, and I couldn't tell you how I felt because just because you like guys doesn't mean you like me, and I already know your type is cute little blond twinks, and-"

"I actually prefer brunets," Steve says.

Eddie chokes on what else he had to say. He looks up at Steve, who's smiling. Kind of shy but mostly bright, eyes crinkling at the corners. His cigarette is almost down to the filter; Steve drops and snuffs it out without looking away from Eddie. His eyes are like gold, glittering.

"Y-you what?"

"I don't really have a type," Steve says, stepping closer. "I like who I like." Another step. "But, uh, most of my relationships have been with brunets." Another step, then stop – they're nose to nose. "Nerdy ones."

Eddie's head spins. He squeaks, "Oh?"

Steve nods. "I like smart, passionate people. And I..." He giggles. "I've had a crush on you since the beginning."

Eddie's head fucking explodes. It leaves a gash in his face that stretches from ear to ear. A breeze blows past, caressing his burning cheeks. It's his turn to giggle.

"You're fucking with me."

Steve tilts his head, but doesn't scrunch his brow this time. No, it remains smooth, but his eyelids droop as his eyes roam Eddie's body.

"So far, only in my head."

Eddie sputters. He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls it in front of his red face. Steve, the bastard, laughs at him. He reaches out, coaxing the locks out of Eddie's grip and tucks them behind his ear. There's an endlessness in his gaze; simultaneously looking through Eddie and at him. Seeing him from every angle, especially the ugly ones, but touching him just as tenderly anyway.

Eddie wets his lips. Since he caused the distance in the first place, it only seems fair he takes the last step. "Do you want to go out with me?" he asks. "A date?"

Steve leans in until they touch from forehead to nose tip.

"Yes," he says. "I do."

#Eddie: It's not that easy!#Narrator:It was in fact that easy #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie fanfic #eddie munson #steve harrington #my writing

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techtalksfics · 1 year

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Headcanons: First Kiss

Authors Note: this is for the anon who sent in this very sweet prompt. I've tried to keep it fluffy but, you know, Crosshair is always gonna linger closer to smut than fluff. All of these will be small headcanon ideas, with small snippets of prose & dialogue. Hope you enjoy!

Tech

How long does it take for it to happen?

Well, this is Tech we are talking about. It takes him a ridiculously long time to even realise you are interested in him. It takes him even longer to realise that you like him like that. When he realises it, he would consult his brothers about it at the first opportune moment.

You'd always tried to show Tech that you truly cared for him. You'd be overly attentive when he visited the medical wing, even if it was just for something as simple as a check-up. The first time you'd treated him, you'd been careful with his injuries, taking your time, talking with him, giggling at his silly comments. His brother's had noticed your gentle touches and twittery giggles at his comments long before Tech did. They just left it alone. Tech would figure it out eventually, right?

Well eventually was a long time coming. It was easily over thirty rotations of your attentive behaviour, of you trying to get to know him, to show him you shared interests. Of you trying to get him interested in you. What you didn't realise is that he had always been interested in you on some level. He just didn't realise what level that was. One evening, the clones were all in there shared quarters, relaxing after another successful mission. Tech had arrived later than the others as he came to say hello to you first.

When he arrived at their quarters, he simply sat for a moment, pondering over his desire to speak to you first. Suddenly he queried why you acted differently with him than you did with the others. Hunter sighed, stopping his expert ministrations with his knife in hand, looked his brother in the eye and tells him, "because she likes you." When Tech frowned deeper, somehow more confused. Surely she liked all you? "She has a crush on you, Tech." Tech stopped fiddling with his comm device to look up at Hunter for a moment. "Perhaps I should discuss this with her," he decided as he stood, speedily exiting the room.

Crosshair, had been lying on his bed, listening to the whole thing. He lolled his head towards Hunter, twirling the toothpick in his mouth from the right to the left side and and muttered, "that poor girl is going to need the Force on her side now."

Who Instigates the first kiss?

Tech. This is definitely going to be Tech. Most girls would probably fear starting something with him unless they were 100% sure he felt the same. As he isn't particularly great with affection, that may prove difficult. But our sweet boy also doesn't have a great filter for his words and sometimes his actions. So I have no doubt that he would be the first to make a move, clumsy thought it may be.

Tech had sought you out after Hunter's revelation or confirmation. He found at your station and the lab was eerily quiet. The perfect opportunity, he had realised. So he simply squeezed your arm gently. to get his attention. You smiled and turned the moment you realised it was him and he smashed his lips to yours with reckless abandon. It was sloppy and fast and not what you thought it would be. But your heart soared regardless.

When he moved away, he explained, "Hunter said that you may have a crush on me. He is rarely wrong on such matters. Perhaps this time he was?" As he searched your face for signs of disgust. There were none. He seemed a little perplexed by the flush on your cheeks. He decided it best that perhaps he leave that moment.

Gentle or Hot Heavy first kiss?

Our sweet boy is always going to be gentle, cautious. Savouring it, even. He had perhaps been a little overzealous to reach out and kiss you like that, it was felt oddly forced. Even for him. But when you finally decide to reciprocate, the main is definitely going to want to savour the experience slowly.

As he went to leave, you quickly grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back. “I didn’t think you even noticed me. I’m sorry, it took my mind a minute. You sort of appeared out of nowhere,” as he opened his mouth to protest, you placed your fingers over his lips, moving closer to him, “how about we try that one again?” You leaned in, holding your hands in the folds of his armour so that he couldn’t retreat. When he felt softness of your lips, the warmth of cheeks and body against his, Tech finally closes his eyes and simply enjoys the sensation. All too quickly for his liking, you pull away. He adjusts his goggles and asks, “would you be partial to doing that again?” That earns a little giggle from you. Of course you wanted to do that again. And again. And again.

Crosshair

How long does it take for it to happen?

On sheer stubbornness of two people trying not to admit to their feelings (or as @littlebluebatbratt and I like to call it, playing a game of emotional chicken™), it's going to take some time. I feel like Crosshair would pair well with someone who could withstand the game as well as he could. So this could go on for a long time. I like to think the right girl would make him drop his pride and give in to her and his feelings.

“You should just cave,” he whispered, as he came up behind you. His breath was hot on your neck. You jumped out of your skin at the sudden contact. His approach had been so silent. You couldn’t help but lean back, flush into his body. He was simply so warm. Your mouth hung open at the contact, a huff of wind escaping you as you rest your head back against his shoulder. Then in a sudden realisation of what you were doing, you lurched away from him. As you began to walk away, you turned to face him, walking backwards and say, “if you want it, you know exactly how to come and get it” A smirk plastered on your lips as you sauntered away from him.

Who Instigates the first kiss?

Honestly, this would depend on the woman. As I mentioned above, I think, for Crosshair to truly fall for someone, she would also have to be a stubborn, pain in the ass with just a tad too much physical confidence. They would try desperately to get him to cave first, as much as they wanted to themselves. Eventually, the man would not be able to stop himself. One day, the endless flirting would turn into something more.

“You’re maddening, you know that?” He would say with a groan, he muffled behind his hand, as you softly rubbed your leg up and down his as you sat opposite each other in the mess hall.

“I know,” you said, popping a small bite of food into your mouth, with a smug grin. Suddenly, you would remove your leg and he immediately misses the contact. You move to leave the hall, knowing exactly what you were doing, but you could feel his shadow following you out. Perhaps it was finally time?

Pulling you into the nearest alcove, by your elbow with just enough force, he would simply stare into your eyes, desperate for you. You could see it. You could feel it. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but he knew in that moment, as you stared at him with those big innocent eyes, that he had lost. He had fully lost himself in you.

Gentle/Hot Heavy first kiss?

It’s Crosshair. It’s hot and heavy. Of course. Particularly if they’ve been playing this game for a long time. All of this pent-up frustration would be unleashed into one extremely searing, deep, long kiss.

You would wrap your hands around his neck, the moment you realised he’d caved. You’d pull him in as close as you could, onlookers be damned. He’d have your body pinned against the wall, one knee between your thighs holding you in place as he leans in to kiss you. You place two fingers over his lips, looking deep into his eyes.

“I’m gonna need you to say it first,” you said with a smirk. He sighs looking away from you. Deciding it was time, he looked deep into your eyes, his own were hooded with a deep lust.

“Fine,” he grumbled, not breaking eye contact, “you win. I want you. I want you more than I want to win this.” That was all you needed. So, you yanked his head towards you and your lips met in a sudden and heated dance. It was everything you had been waiting for. His tongue quickly delves into your mouth exploring everything he had been imagining for months. His hands would wind their way into your hair, lifting your lips closer to his. His knee pushing further up into you, until you’re almost rutting on him.

Wrecker

How long does it take for it to happen?

Wrecker is extremely vocal and does not necessarily think a lot of things through. That being said, he’s also our super soft gentle giant. He would probably spend more time trying to kiss than actually successfully doing it. I think he’d be one of the fastest to go in for a first kiss with someone, particularly if they paid him lots of attention. Which obviously, all of us would.

“I just wanna kiss ‘em,” Wrecker moaned to his brothers, his head in his hands at the bar, “but every time I get close, I back out.” He all but slammed his head on the bar. “I’m a coward.”

“You’re not a coward, Wrecker,” Hunter said dumbly, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “you’re just worried that she won’t return it. But she will.”

Wrecker lifted his head toward Hunter, “how could you possibly know tha’?” It was almost a whine as Wrecker spoke.

“Because she’s not blind,” Hunter said, holding back a chuckle, “she’s spoken to me about it. She wants to know what’s holding you back.” Wrecker sat upright all of sudden.

“You mean, she knows?” Wrecker felt positively sick with the nerves. “Well, no what am I supposed to do.” This time, Tech was the one to respond as he looked up from the schematics in his hand, “well, you could just try actually kissing her.” Tech’s head immediately dropped back down to continue reading. He made it sound so simple.

Who Instigates the first kiss?

Wrecker wants to. Boy, does he want to. He wants to whisk you into his arms and kiss you so soundly that you never want to leave his side. But he’s just a bundle of nerves and insecurities under all that muscle. Knowing that you know he’s been trying, only made it worse. In the end, it would all be on you.

“Hi Wrecker,” you said, hopping off the counter of the store you worked at, “how are you?” Wrecker scratched at his neck, almost immediately, mumbling out something about being fine.

“Wrecker,” you said as a plea, when you realised that he couldn’t look at you, “you don’t need to be afraid, Wrecker. Whatever it is you want, you can just tell me.” You placed your hand softly on his cheek, encouraging him to look at you. You knew what it was that was bothering him. It bothered you that he thought you'd even consider rejecting him. His eyes finally pierced into yours, fear covering all of his features. “I – uh – I been trying to kiss you for a while now,” Wrecker stumbled over his words as he rushed to get them out, “but – uh – didn’t know if you’d want tha’.”

“Of course, I want that, you silly man.” His eyebrows shot up high as you smiled at him softly. And yet, he still couldn’t do it.

Gentle/Hot Heavy first kiss?

It’s going to be gentle, as gentle as he can make it. You wouldn’t want to push him too far, too fast. Hot and heavy could wait. You just needed to get him over the first hurdle that seemed to be plaguing him so fully. You’d gone from friendly banter, maybe some gentle flirtation and some outright cheesy phrases on his part and regressed back to the awkwardness of when you first met.

You hopped back onto the counter, making yourself more level with him. The store was empty, now was your chance. You reached your hand out for him to take and he did so very willingly, you pulled him in between your legs. Cupping his chin, you forced him to look at your smile. “Wrecker,” you whispered so softly, “I want you to do it.” He seemed to debate things in his mind, as best he could. He bit at his lip, wanting to reach in but he still hesitated.

With a small, barely audible sigh, you placed a hand on his gentle and brought his face into yours. The moment he felt your lips on his, his heart soared, and his arms cradled you naturally. You were much smaller than him, so you became enveloped in him. You kiss became firmer, occasionally pulling your lips away to tilt your head a different way. You found his lips followed you whenever you moved. If you leaned back, he leaned forward. If you tilted one way, he tilted the other and held you tighter. Truthfully, it was perfect.

Echo

How long does it take for it to happen?

I think that post-Skako Minor, Echo’s mind will forever have self-doubt and his duty at the forefront. We see both when he is described as more machine than man, percentage wise. So, I think the build-up to the kiss would simply take a long time because he does let himself believe you’d want to.

“You know you’re wrong about her, right?” Rex said to his brother as they sat together post-mission. Everything had been successful. “She likes you.”

“She doesn’t like me,” Echo retorted, taking a sip of the steaming drink in his hands. He couldn’t help but let his eyes fall across the room towards where you were chatting with Gregor animatedly. Both laughing. He couldn’t help but smile at the idea of you liking him at all. God, he loved the way you laughed. The way you made his brothers feel happy whenever you were around.

“Oh, she definitely does,” Rex spoke with a smirk as he watched his brother falling in love from a distance, "and I think you like her too." Echo's head whipped back around to look at Rex, a crimson blush on his cheeks. He took another sip of his drink.

Who Instigates the first kiss?

I fear that it would have to be you. You are the only one that can convince him that you want him in a romantic way. Sure, Rex could try and convince him. As could any of his clone brothers, but they would never convince him enough for him to dare making a move. There were many, many others you could choose. So why would you choose him? Well, you'd have to convince him that your heart had chosen him long ago.

Rex had casually mentioned to you that Echo was leaving to find the Bad Batch, knowing full well what you would do. Honestly, he was a little fed up with the mutual pining.

“Echo,” you called out as you watched him walk away from Riyo Chuchi, it looks like you were catching him just in time. You knew there was nothing you could do or say to make sure he'd keep out of harms way. You now needed their help to save others. So this was your last chance to pluck up the courage you'd cowered away from for so long,“you weren’t planning on leaving without saying goodbye, were you?”

“I – uh – no, well, yes…perhaps?” Each of the words stumbled from his mouth as if chasing one another, pain masking over his features. You placed your hands on hips at that.

“Well how am I supposed to wish you luck if you keep running away before I have a chance?” You questioned him, allowing a flirtatious grin to creep onto your features. He blushed at that, you had such an effect on him, all from two very simple words. Good luck?

“L-luck?” He repeated back. As you stepped closer to him, he tried to steady himself, tried to remain steadfast and strong in your presence. You reached your hands up to his broad shoulders, running them across the coolness of the armour covering his broad shoulder.

“Yes, and luck that is truly good should be sealed with a kiss,” you said as you watched him through your lashes.

Gentle/Hot Heavy first kiss?

This would definitely be dependent on the circumstances, I’d say it would be a little bit of both. Particularly if it plays out as it does above. Or if it's any sort of goodbye or a hello after a long time. It'll definitely end up hot and heavy if he isn’t certain of his return. If he isn’t certain of your safety. He is going kiss you as if it is both the first and last time, he will ever kiss you.

With your hands on his shoulders, you’d reached up on toes and placed your lips to his softly. Your lips had ghosted over his so gently that he was convinced it had been a dream. And yet, it lasted just long enough for his eyes to flutter closed.

When they reopened, you stood there looking at him doe-eyed, expectantly and with a big grin on your face. With a soft, playful growl, he reached around your waist with one arm and span you around, you giggle all the while. Once he placed you back down, he reconnects his lips with yours with a sense of urgency and fire that shocked you. But you loved it. You loved the way he instantly delves deeper into your mouth. The way he moans into you. The way he kisses you like it was the last chance he would ever have to do so.

Hunter

How long does it take for it to happen?

I feel like the affection would develop quickly. Particularly if it were on Pabu. He feels safe and knows Omega is safe. It’s a community. Everyone is simply getting on with their lives. So, kissing you became one of the forefront thoughts in his mind. When Echo had arrived for support, everything goes a bit awry and his internal timeline for kissing you is made far more urgent.

“She’s something special, Echo,” Hunter said, staring at you with a smile. You were playing around with Wrecker and Omega in the distance. He could hear the melody of your laughter as he leaned into the wall watching you. “If we don’t come back from this, it’s going to hurt her.”

“We don’t have a choice, Hunter,” Echo reminded him, placing a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, “she’ll understand.”

“Will she?” Hunter grumbled, entirely unconvinced. But he knew if he were to die on this mission, then he wanted to know what it was like to kiss you before he went. He had settled on that.

Who Instigates the first kiss?

Hunter. He'd already come close to kissing you more than once but he didn't want to rush it and it’s not that you don’t want but you knew he was withdrawn, stoic and more often than not, very serious. You were patient. You could do this on his timeline. So, when he was ready, he’d kiss you. You were certain of that. He often searched your eyes with a hand on your cheek and each time you prepared yourself for the kiss. But the kiss never came. At least, not until Echo had shown up and they were dragged back into the war they’d fled from.

“Hey,” he whispered as he approached you from behind. You were looking out over the balcony into the night sky, simply lost in thought. You knew he was leaving again.

“Hey yourself,” you murmured quietly, without facing him. You felt his presence at your side, though you could not feel his warmth. There was a safe distance between you. His hip dug into the wall as he simply watched you and waited. Waited until you could bear to look at him. He would wait. After a moment, you simply stated, “you are going again.”

“Yes.”

“I may never see you again.” You affirmed, knuckles whitening from your tight grasp on the wall in front of you. You still couldn’t look him at him.

“Yes.”

“But, if you can come back,” this time you turned to look at him, searching the depths of his eyes, “will you?” He reached his close fist to brush against your cheek softly, letting his hand settled at the hair tucked behind your ear. With a smile, he reached in close and whispered, “yes.” Your lips parted with a prickly shudder down your spine as his free hand traced the curve of your spine.

Gentle/Hot Heavy first kiss?

I think the first time would be gentle but sensuous. He would anticipate your needs and would want the depth of his feelings to be felt as he melded his lips with yours. He wanted to convince you of your future. That there could be a future, even though he could never be certain of that.

As he pulled back from his whisper, he did as he often did and placed his hand firmly on your cheek. You knew he wouldn’t pull away this time. This was the last chance either of you would have until they returned. If they returned.

“Don’t kiss me,” you murmured, “if the only reason is that you aren’t sure you’re going to return to me.” Tears began to prick at your eyes as you looked at him.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, raising his other hand, to your other cheek, “because I have to know what kissing you feels like, in case I never return.” He leaned in and brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss, full of longing and passion. You couldn’t help but moan as his strong hands pulled you in as close as he could have you. Your hands wove into his hair, pulling softly at the silky strands. He pulls back, but only to tilt his head from one side to the other before delving in to kiss you again. It seemed to last both an eternity and no more than a fleeting moment.

“If I don’t come back,” he whispered as he pulls away, “just know that you have made me a happy man.” He dropped his forehead to yours, allowing his eyes to close with the affection that coursed between you.

#tbb tech x reader #tech bad batch x reader #tech x reader #wrecker x reader #wrecker bb x reader #crosshair x reader #crosshair bb x reader #echo bb x reader #echo x reader #hunter x reader #hunter bb x reader #wrecker #hunter #echo #tech #crosshair #first kiss #headcanons

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woncon · 9 months

Text

➳ the case of the missing cookie

➶ stray kids ot8 x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ where one of your boyfriends ate your cookie and you need to find out who was the thief, so you kiss everyone.

➴ genre: fluff, poly, slice of life, non-idol au

: ̗̀➛ warnings: mxm interactions (ofc), one punch, a lil' bit suggestive if you squint, a few pet names, a lots of kissing (꜆ ˃ ³ ˂)꜆

⌨ :: 2.8k words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this fic into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

➳ stray kids masterlist | main masterlist

You've been keeping your cookie in store for a while now. You're searching for the glorious ocassion to eat it, and finally the time has come: your university assigment is all done, checked and sent, and you're ready to celebrate your success with having the tasty chocolate chip cookie.

The box is surpisingly light. You rip off the plastic cover, and your heart skips a beat. Your cookie isn't there, just a few little, orphan crumbs. You stare at them in disbelief, as if they would be able to point at the offender with their fingers. Half an hour ago you took a dreamy look at the cookie, because you were reassured by the knowledge that you can have it soon.

But one of your boyfriends was faster than you. Someone meanly ate your small treasure, your favourite sweet, which you guarded like how a mother would her tiny, innocent baby.

You throw the empty box on the kitchen counter, and you decide, you'll find and unveil the perpetrator. The crime happened less than thirty minutes, you just need to find the lips that taste like cookie, and then... There will be consequences, for sure. No one can eat your cookie without punishment. With that definite thought, you furrow your brows, nod and already on your way to investigate.

Minho wanted to take a look, if there's enough canned fish for the cats. That's why he goes to the kitchen. Where an unexpected you grabs him firmly and kisses him angrily and intensely. His tongue cannot resist, it's a miracle that your nor his hip doesn't hit the kitchen counter or one another. He grabs you by the hips and when he could truly have a taste of you, and take the lead, you pull away to take a breath.

You breathe onto each other's mouth after the kiss ends. Minho gives the now less furious you a questioning look. Usually, you're not the passionate one and you feel a little embarrassed in his arms, so you quickly get out from his lightsome hug.

"I'll explain later," you mumble the promise.

So, Minho can check the cat food with the memory of your lips on his mouth and heart, and you your other partners.

Your next target, who you find is Felix, sweet Felix, who wouldn't touch your cookie, 'cause he wouldn't want to hurt you this way. But it's possible that he accidentally ate it, and he didn't know the cookie was yours, so you definitely need to kiss him. It's a must.

You sit down on the sofa next to him in the living room. He's playing video games. You're still blunt from the kiss in the kitchen, so you shyly and gently pull his shirt to get his attention. Felix pauses his game, turning to you with interest on what you would want. But before he could ask you, you lean into him, crashing his lips with yours in a slow, sensual way. He tastes sweet, but not from the cookie, rather the raspberry flavored gummy bears laying next to his thigh. You're happy that you have no reason to be angry at him, and in addition you can kiss his perfect lips.

You leave his warm lips with a smile. You feel more calm and self-conscious.

"You can continue playing. That's all I wanted."

Even if you want to leave, the boy with the glittery, loving look and with galaxies shining on his face won't let you.

After a few more kisses and a giggly freckle pampering session later, with lips a little numb, but oh so loved, you go to the studio, 'cause Chan is surely there. You're ready for the next kisses to find the cookie flavor on someone's lips.

As with Felix, you wouldn't assume that Chan ate your cookie with malicious intent. Although when he's doing hard work and he gets hungry, Chan doesn't pay too much attention to what he's eating at the moment. He could eat it without knowing it was your cookie.

Before you open the door, you knock properly, and after his tired voice invites you in, you step into the room. Chan turns to you in his chair. He flashes a gentle smile, but his dull eyes show you that he is exhausted.

"You need a break."

"Yeah, yeah." Chan sighs while drumming on his thighs, sinking into his chair.

"If you continue like this, you will fall asleep on the keyboard." You step closer, running your fingers through his soft hair, massaging his scalp which he accepts with a relieved groan. Suddenly Chan pulls you into his lap and you cling to his shoulder with a surprised squeal.

"No, if I use you as a pillow."

Chan's smile widens and grows into a lovely grin as he cuddle you like a joyful yet sleepy koala, hiding his handsome face in the crook of your neck, imitating snoring sounds. You giggle at his playfulness, fishing his face out.

For a few silent moments you just watch him in deep awe. Chan caresses your back in slow circles and you give in and kiss him. He didn't eat any cookies, but he drinked one or two mango flavored energy drinks.

"Was this my goodnight kiss?"

"Not necessarily. You can get more, if you go to sleep in the bed."

"Im gonna save, then go. I promise." He press a light eskimo kiss on you and smiles widely. "Okay?"

"Uh-uh. You have ten minutes. If you're not with Seungmin by then, no more kisses for you."

After you threaten him, you leave his comfy, warm body and the room to search for your next boyfriend and potential cookie thief. Typical workout music emanates from one of the rooms: you enter there.

Changbin is on the rug, doing sit-ups in a loose athletic shirt. The TV shows the actual task and the remaining time. The music rumbles from the speakers. The boy is sweaty, his biceps streching perfectly. You're just in luck: he has a half minute long break right now. He just lays there like a starfish, panting heavily until you sit down on his stomach, pulling him up to your lips by grabbing the front of his cloth. His sigh is muted by your roaming mouth. It doesn't bother Changbin, he really enjoys how you randomly yet lovingly kiss him, how close you are. You don't mind that your chest is pressed againt his and your shirt getting a bit sweaty from the thight contact.

Changbin is very sexy, such a biscutie and a talented kisser, but he didn't eat any cookies recently, instead he had fruit flavored ice cream. The coldness is gone, but the taste is still fresh-like on his tongue.

"What's up?" He asks in a raspy voice which sends shivers down your spine. He strokes your sides lazily as the timer won't run out soon, as he can offer himself to you as long as you need him. You wanted to keep your mission as a secret, however you didn't know that Changbin would look at you like that, interested in whatever you want to say.

"Somebody ate my cookie, therefore I taste everyone. Lucky for you, you aren't the one." Your hand strokes his chest, touching every muscle beneath the sweated cloth, slightly lingering a bit on his abs.

Changbin smirks.

"Jisung was really suspicious when I went out on break."

"Thanks for the hint!" You kiss his puffy face, then get up.

The last time you were with Jisung, he was clinging to you, and he was demanding not just hugs, but attention. You were trying hard to calm him down. You reassured that when you finish your task, you will give all your hugs to him. Is it possible that Jisung ate your cookie out of revenge? Hopefully not.

But where could Jisung be? He was probably seeking hugs from somebody else. There's no better place for this than the big bedroom, where Seungmin sleeps. You approach the room on your tiptoes, quietly opening the door into the semi-darkness.

On the bed, under the big blanket hill, you can hear peaceful snoring. Smiling, you get closer, climbing on the bed. Paying attention not to kneel on anybody, and when you sucessfully make your way behind your closer boyfriend, you nest yourself to his back. You immediately recognize Seungmin from his scent, his messy hair and the soft way he snores. You lean over his shoulder to place a light kiss on his cheek. He couldn't eat your cookie unless he's a sleepwalker, which is completely out of the question.

However, the boy who sleeps next to Seungmin, maybe. Jisung maybe. You need to find out, that's why you're here. You can't cuddle up with the lovely duo and just rest, you need to know whose fault it is that you can't enjoy your celebration cookie.

You approach from the other side of the bed. Jisung's head is fully in Seungmin's chest. He got as close to him as possible.

"Hanie... Jisungie... Baby..."

You kiss his shoulder, fondling his back, softly calling his name.

"Huh?" Jisung turns your way, his tone is dripping from deep sleep. You kiss his lips. The kiss is slow, dripping with honey like his dreams. Sweet, but not from the cookie, more like the hazelnut chocolate that Changbin probably saw him eat earlier.

"Y/n..."

"Just sleep, baby." You rub your nose on his neck, when his head slumps back on the pillow.

As you climb backwards on the bed, wondering where you should search for your remaining two boyfriends, an unexpected loud noise comes from the bathroom followed by muffled swearing. Something hit the ground with a loud thud.

You become scared that something bad happened, for example the hair dryer fell on the unlucky Jeongin's or Hyunjin's feet, but that's not the case. You can see that when you open the door hurriedly. It was just the comb on the ground and Hyunjin's feet look fine - as fine as feet can be. He bends down for the fallen thing.

"Is everything alright?"

You ask in a whisper, the door clicks behind you. You let go of the doorknob, and grab the towel. You want to help dry his locks, they don't look ready for combing yet.

"Yeah."

Hyunjin is a strong-minded guy, besides his overwhelming charm helps him reach what he desires. For example, you on the top of the washing machine rubbing his hair, while he is between your thighs.

Or even the last cookie...

Hyunjin hums from the pleasant feeling as you try to dry his hair. He puts his hands on your waist, drawing you a bit closer. Then he sees your shirt.

"You're wet? Did I make you wet?"

"No. Changbin did. I mean, this is his sweat."

"What did you do?" Hyunjin mouth turns upwards into a smile, his left eyebrow frows in a teasing manner. Devilishly angelic.

"Nothing bad." You feel the heat beneath your cheeks as you poke his nose and stop the hair drying.

"Nothing bad, huh?"

Hyunjin's eyes gets smug and excitedly dark. His gaze is on your lips, touching you with his look first only, then dulcetly devouring your lips by savouring them.

Hyunjin's kisses are magical. He also magically diverts your attention from your cookie-finding quest. He didn't eat your cookie, you don't taste it, however you can't make yourself move from his embrace. He's a born talent: with his kisses, he easily distracts you from his nimble fingers working their way beneath your shirt, then with proficient and successful movements he takes it off you.

When you lean back to protest, Hyunjin lifts the material over your head, then throws it into the laundry, so he can hug your bare waist smirking pleasantly. The air feels heavier in your lungs as his fingers draw circles and unrecognizable shapes on your side.

"Hyunjin..."

Your sigh bursts into laughter as he tickles your sides and your naked belly.

"Stop, stop! Hey! Hyunjin!"

When your vehement protest bears it's fruit, Hyunjin cheekily yet lovingly smiles at you.

The door opens, both of you look at the arriving Chan. He isn't surprised, just looks at the two of you with a dreamy smile. Hyunjin and you are one of his favourite people, and seeing you together always makes his heart beat faster, while he smiles like a teenager experiencing his first love.

"I came for my promised goodnight kiss."

"Can I have your hoodie in exchange?" You want his black hoodie so bad. Though the air was hot a minute ago, it's still cold for your uncovered skin. "You won't need it anyway. The boys warmed up the bed so much, it feels like it's burning. You won't be cold."

Chan doesn't nod, just pulls his hoodie off his head. While he does it just for you, you can catch a piece of his brawny stomach, 'cause his shirt slides up a bit too. The view is satisfying indeed.

You happily pull on the relic which smells like Chan and feels like his hug around your whole torso. You still smile when you give him your goodnight kiss. Chan hums gratefully, caresses your cheek, then he gets a kiss from Hyunjin too, gently grabbing his not dried locks.

The conclusion hits you like a train: there is only one boy left who could eat your cookie.

Jeongin. The sassy, naughty Innie.

"Do you know where Innie is?"

You get down from the washing machine with the intention to track down the thief. No longer his identity, but his location.

"He went to the market."

Hyunjin finally uses the hairbrush.

"He should enjoy it while he can."

Your eyes become dark and threatening.

"What happened?"

"He ate my cookie. The last cookie."

Chan hisses. "Woe to him. Come, hug out your anger from me and Sungie, while he isn't here. Maybe it will help."

"Okay."

Chan gets behind Jisung, and sensing the big, comfortable body's heat, the boy turns around and clings onto the older with a content whine. You settle down on Chan's other side, cuddling up to him, listening to his heartbeat. As his heart calms down, he began to snore quietly as he sinks into sleep. You smoothly pat Jisung's hand, trying to focus on that and not imagine how you'll chase Jeongin with your slippers when he comes back.

Your cookie is holy and invulnerable.

You can't stay idle for long, you get up, tuck your boyfriends, then you leave the bedroom and you don't stop until you're in the living room where the freshly showered Changbin, Felix and the cats are. They're chilling on the sofa, watching one of the many Bruce Willis movies.

You sit down next to Changbin. The frustration is too much, you huff and your head land in his shoulder, the tip of your nose softly touching his neck. Maybe the stress wouldn't follow you there. Changbin's hand softly strokes your thigh as his other hand lays on the top of Felix's knee.

"Have you found Jisung?"

"Yes. But it wasn't him. It was Jeongin. He isn't home yet."

"What are you whispering about?" Felix curiously leans closer, rubbing the purring cat's head.

"I found out that Jeongin ate my cookie."

"What will you do to him when he arrives?"

"I'll kill him. I just don't know how yet."

Changbin tries to hide his smile. You are really cute when you curdle like that, 'cuz it's clear that you won't fulfill those threats.

As if somebody told him to come in, the thief arrives. You, your two boyfriends and the cats can hear the front door's opening, the key clinks, the coat swishes, the shoes tap on the floor, and there is one more person in the house.

"YANG JEONGIN!"

You're very fast, getting to him by seconds. Your mouth is a strict line, and in your eyes, the betrayal and the wrath swirls when you punch his chest, offended.

"You ate my cookie!"

"Ouch!" That's his reaction. He doesn't protect his body from you, you can easily use him as a pounching bag if you want to. But even if you're grumpy, you get interested in the thing he is holding behind his back. It's rattling. In turn, as hard you try to see, as committed he is to hide it from you.

"Please, don't kill me. I didn't know that cookie was yours, 'm sorry that I ate it. But I brought a whole pack just for you. Can you forgive me?"

Jeongin shows you the box of cookies, while he looks at you with the most precious puppy eyes and makes a little pout which melts your heart instantly. That's the guilty Innie's speciality.

You accept your gift, then you softly sigh. You're reconciled, you don't resent anymore. You can be easily reassured. You even press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, so he knows that you forgave him. Jeongin smirks widely, his eyes turn into mischievous half moons.

You're pleased and proud too, 'cuz in the end you found your missing cookie and solved the case.

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ossifer-bones · 11 months

Text

The question of Cassiopeia

Cassiopeia was the founder of the Sixth House, the Fourth Saint to serve the King Undying, and seemingly not perfectly loyal to him: it was on her instructions—created prior to her death—that the House she founded withdrew from the Empire, transporting its facility away with the aid of five hundred and thirty two obelisks. Why?

What is her current status?

Cassiopeia is dead, according to Mercy. She was torn apart by ghosts whilst luring the physical portions of a Resurrection Beast into the current of the River—specifically Resurrection Beast Number Seven, Varun the Eater.

Mercy is not averse to lying. Mercy witnessed this happen from the bank of the river, as she was nowhere near as immersed as Cassiopeia was, and thus we also don't know if her recollection of events is accurate. We don't know how long ago this happened, either. Pyrrha also asserts that Cassiopeia is dead, but we don't know how accurate this is, because she was compartmentalised within G1deon most of the time, and may have received this information from an unreliable source.

The characters, besides Camilla, also thought that Palamedes was dead. Harrow could not believe his survival. As for how he survived? He made a bubble in the River:

This bubble, created with a single thereom, relied on the use of spirit magic:

Ninth, this place is powered by one single theorem, held together with the fragility of spirit magic.

What was Cassiopeia's specialty, again? Spirit magic. And she was no ordinary spirit magician, she was Augustine's superior!

And she could use theorems while in the River. This feat was only replicated by Harrowhark, whose parents harnessed the power of the thanergy bloom resulting from the killing of two hundred to guarantee she would be born necromantically capable, resulting in her being a staggeringly powerful adept. Cassiopeia is possibly the most powerful spirit magician we know of.

If there was anyone who would be able to replicate Palamedes' creation of a bubble in the River, achieveable with a single theorem? it's Cassiopeia. Who's to say she isn't alive in some regard? Cassy played long games.

What is Cassiopeia's long game?

Now, we don't know the context in which this exchange took place, but the entire Dios Apate plot was only made possible because of Cassiopeia's sharing a tidbit about blood wards to Mercymorn:

Dios Apate Major was the direct result of Cassiopeia's action of sharing this knowledge. Why did she share it? Did she intend for it to be weaponised?

We know that Mercymorn's anatomist specialty is only relevant to someone who intends to kill Lyctors, or God, something Augustine points out, so perhaps Cassiopeia was banking on Mercymorn using it in this way. Or perhaps she was a co-conspirator. We don't know. But you know what we do know?

Cassiopeia worked with Anastasia in the hopes of achieving a perfected form of Lyctorhood.

An avenue of research that John said ended in disaster.

(An avenue of research that was successful enough that John knew she had cracked it, and interfered by killing Samuel.)

Anastasia and Cassiopeia carried out this research together, closely. Anatasia, who later helped John design the tomb, guarded with a blood ward, or more accurately a cell ward. Anatasia, whose remains lie in the tomb.

Cassiopeia's long game is unfolding and the Sixth House's emancipation is merely part of it. And maybe, just maybe, Cassy herself is one of the pieces in play.

Bonus: Finger food

Harrowhark attempts to assassinate G1deon by sectioning her own tibia and animating the bone into a construct inside him, an attempt that is nearly successful. This attempt catches God off guard at first, because not even Mercymorn would be able to perceive foreign bone within a Lyctor, until Harrow reveals it's her own bone.

When else do we see a Lyctor introduce their own bodily material into another Lyctor? The incident with Cassiopeia's cooking that Augustine recounts in the very same scene.

Why would Cassiopeia do this intentionally? To me, two distinct possibilities exist.

She intended it as a contingency of sorts, aiming to use the introduced bodily material to kill one or more of her fellow Lyctors in the event she needed to. They presumably can't perceive it within themselves.

She intended to track the movement of her fellow Lyctors by using her introduced bodily material to circumvent the fact Lyctors are perceptive blank spots: Harrowhark can manipulate her own bone within G1deon from a distance, so presumably Cassiopeia would be able to sense the movement of her own bodily material within her fellow Lyctors as it is digested

Or maybe, just maybe, the finger incident was for irony's sake, considering what Harrow was about to do. Who knows?

#the locked tomb #cassiopeia the first #nona the ninth #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth spoilers #harrow the ninth spoilers #alecto speculation abounds here folks #tlt

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phoenixyfriend · 1 year

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Time for some tracts:

"How do we create jobs?" You raise the minimum wage, because if people don't need to work three jobs to make rent, those other two jobs will mysteriously open up.

"How do we support small businesses?" You raise the minimum wage, staggered to the biggest corporations first.

"How do we reduce homelessness?" You raise the minimum wage.

"How do we make sure raising the minimum wage doesn't negatively impact prices or--?"

Prices are already rising faster than wages are, this is playing catch up.

Put a cap on CEO salaries and bonuses, they can't earn more than 100 times more than their lowest paid workers. Current US ratio is 342, which is insane. (This list is mostly about the US.)

Hit corporations first, give small businesses time to adjust. McDonald's and Walmart can afford to raise wages to $20/hr before anyone else does, they have that income.

Drop the weekly hours required for insurance from thirty to fifteen. This will disincentivize employers having everyone work 29hrs a week, partly because working only 14hrs a week is a great way to have undertrained, underpracticed staff. Full time employment becomes the new rule.

Legalize salary transparency for all positions; NYC's new law is a good start.

Legislation that prevents companies from selling at American prices while paying American wages abroad. Did you know that McDonald's costs as much or more in Serbia, where the minimum wage is about $2/hr? Did you know that a lot of foreign products, like makeup, are a solid 20% more expensive? Did you know that Starbucks prices are equivalent? Did you know that these companies charge American prices while paying their employees local wages? At a more extreme example, luxury goods made in sweatshops are something we all know are a problem, from Apple iPhones to Forever 21 blouses, often involving child labor too. So a requirement to match the cost-to-wage ratio (either drop your prices or raise your wages when producing or selling abroad) would be great.

Not directly a minimum wage thing but still important:

Enact fees and caps on rent and housing. A good plan would probably be to have it in direct ratio to mortgage (or estimated building value, if it's already paid off), property tax, and estimated fees. This isn't going to work everywhere, since housing prices themselves are insanely high, but hey--people will be able to afford those difficult rent costs if they're earning more.

Trustbusting monopolies and megacorps like Amazon, Disney, Walmart, Google, Verizon, etc.

Tax the rich. I know this is incredibly basic but tax the fucking rich, please.

Fund the IRS to full power again. They are a skeleton crew that cannot audit the megarich due to lack of manpower, and that's where most of the taxes are being evaded.

Universal healthcare. This is so basic but oh my god we need universal healthcare. You can still have private practitioners and individual insurance! But a national healthcare system means people aren't going to die for a weird mole.

More government-funded college grants. One of the great issues in the US is the lack of healthcare workers. This has many elements, and while burnout is a big one, the massive financial costs of medical school and training are a major barrier to entry. While there are many industries where this is true, the medical field is one of the most impacted, and one of the most necessary to the success of a society. Lowering those financial barriers can only help the healthcare crisis by providing more medical professionals who are less prone to burnout because they don't need to work as many hours.

And even if those grants aren't total, guess what! That higher minimum wage we were talking about is a great way to ensure students have less debt coming out the other side if they're working their way through college.

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

Linda P requested something either really interesting or really silly and this is... definitely more of a tract on a topic of interest (the minimum wage and other ways business and government are both being impeded by corporate greed) than on a topic of Silly. Hope it's still good!

#economics #politics #personal #ko fi prompts #ko fi

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tsumuhours · 8 months

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AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you.

#suna rintarou #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu suna #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #suna rintarou x reader #suna smut #suna rintarou x you #suna rintaro x reader #suna x reader #suna rintarō #suna rintarou smut #suna rintaro haikyuu #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro fic #✰ workie works

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ystrike1 · 5 months

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Muse on Fame - By Soojin (9/10)

I'd say this one is pretty controversial. The yandere is a real snake, who doesn't value himself. He does awful things to give his muse a successful acting career. It all happens behind closed doors, where she can't see what he's doing. If you don't like him after *that* plot twist I don't blame you, but he is devoted. She would never be able to succeed without him. It's the harsh truth.

Myeong is a maid. She was a promising actress at the age of twenty, but now she's almost thirty. Most of her old friends got famous, so it hurts every day. She was basically the only actress in her tight group that failed. Her ex is famous. Her "friend" (rival) is famous. Her boyfriend still works as a director, and it's putting a real strain on their relationship.

Hyeonjae is not a bad boyfriend. He didn’t break up with Myeong when her acting career fizzled out. He's not perfect though. He still expects her to support his dream....while she works as a maid cleaning toilets. The optics are pretty bad, but their relationship is presented very realistically. Hyeonjae isn't a successful director yet, and Myeong dedicated her youth to acting. So, she can't get an office job. On top of that her family refuses to help her. They never approved of her career choice, and after it failed she became the black sheep of the family. Her father expects her to give up and get married, while she still has her gorgeous looks.

Myeong kind of lives life in a daze. Her looks don't stand out very much anymore. She walks everywhere. She can't afford salon care to polish her looks for auditions that don't come anyway, and her mental health is going down. Her friend and rival, Yena, is extremely successful.

Trigger warning Yena used her body to get where she is, and she used her investor boyfriends to kick Myeong out of the industry.

This is not revealed until later.

Yena is also completely obsessed with Myeong. How obsessed? Well, Hyeonjae gets his big film debut. His big break. His only chance. Yena swoops in to take the main character role. Then she starts showing up at Hyeonjae's apartment. Hyeonjae and Myeong live together. It's cruel. She has to watch Hyeonjae and Yena talk about their amazing movie together constantly. Hyeonjae lets Yena do whatever she wants, because he's afraid. He will lose his chance at fame if Yena abandons the project. Yena THINKS she's in love with Hyeonjae, but she just wants what Myeong has. Myeong is the typical talented, rich, gorgeous girl. She ran away from her wealthy family because of her love for acting and Hyeonjae.....but she was born blessed. Yena hates and envies that more than anything, which is why she quietly ruined Myeong's reputation a decade ago.

《Male sexual assault is a serious issue》

Yena absolutely 100% is a predator that uses her power to coerce Hyeonjae into a relationship. If Yena was not a famous actress he wouldn't even associate with her, because he finds her creepy.

But.

She does kiss him.

Myeong sees, and she breaks up with an inconsolable and broken Hyeonjae. Their lifestyles just no longer match. Hyeonjae is surrounded by famous actresses, and Myeong is a depressed housemaid who didn’t make it. Staying with him would destroy her, so she leaves.

She leaves to get revenge, and the career she has always wanted. Gorgeous women like Myeong have plenty of admirers. A famous photographer named Enmil ended his own life. Photos of her were found in his house. She didn’t know Enmil, but the dead man saw her as his most precious muse. His mansion contained a secret vault room full of pictures of her.

Myeong lies.

It's not creepy.

Enmil wasn't a stalker.

She consented.

They were friends.

She lies to get interviews, and some small TV roles. She claws her way back to fame, far away from her pathetic life as a maid in Hyeonjae's small apartment.

Her manager, Eun, helps her do this. He has complete faith in her. He knows she's more special than anyone else. He will make her famous. He wants to see her face everywhere. He wants her to use him. He'll be her driver. Her lover. Her bank account. Her slave. He will do absolutely everything in his power to get her into the top of the vicious acting industry.

Enmil was his friend.

No, he isn't secretly Eunmil in disguise.

His yandere reveal is so much messier.

He has a tattoo of her name on his neck. Eun was depressed, just like Enmil. He tried to end his own life, but a miracle happened. The ceiling cracked. The chandelier that was about to take his life fell. Pictures of a beautiful woman rained down upon him. When he saw her happy face he felt too insignificant to die. He decided to serve the woman who radiated happiness that day.

He doesn't care if she's sad and alone now.

He will make her happy.

Myeong begins to shine, because she is incredibly talented. She struggles with the past. With the years she lost because of Yena. When she finds out about Yena's obsession it almost breaks her. Yena is too strong. Too famous. She has too many wealthy donors.....but then she channels that agony into an amazing performance.

She gets a role where Hyeonjae is the director. She uses that pain too, and she embraces becoming a broken woman for the camera.

Even Yena can't stop her.

Myeong left her cushy life as a rich girl behind, because of her love for acting. Her resolve is unstoppable now that Hyeonjae isn't holding her back.

Eun loves to watch her.

He becomes her lover to comfort her. To be her rock. To push her forward. To reassure her. He tells her to use him. He doesn't value himself. He is only alive because of her. He is an empty shell. He barely shows emotion. His looks get him attention too, but he's not like Myeong. He doesn't want fame. He wants to watch his only muse. His family has cash too, but he was even more depressed than Myeong. Depressed enough to end it all.

He will do anything for her.

He's kinda sorta in a relationship with his boss. The woman who originally hired Myeong when she broke into the acting scene again. I think you can see where this is going. Eun used this poor woman to kickstart Myeong's acting career. She seems emotionally attached to him, and it seems like they've been "together" for a long time.

That's what it takes to get a twenty nine year old washed up actress back into the business.

Myeong is not innocent, but she's not a demon like Yena or Eun. She's afraid of Yena, and after she finds out the whole truth she might lash out at Eun. She's a talented actress, but she's sheltered. That's her biggest character flaw. Talent isn't enough. Yena had to sell her body. Eun had to seduce a talent executive. That's how brutal the industry is.

I don't know if Myeong will survive.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #Muse on Fame

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fishofthewoods · 5 days

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Oh my god I woke up this morning and my Stardew Valley meta post had almost 150 notes????? Hello?????????? Anyways I started writing this last night because @moon-is-pretty-tonight left nice tags on the original so thank you so much!!

We know from the starting scenes of the game that the farmer's grandfather loved Stardew Valley. So why did he leave? Pelican Town is a good place to grow old; George and Evelyn are just fine. It's a fine place to raise a kid, but maybe he just wanted to raise his child closer to real schools and other children.

Or maybe, just maybe, he understood.

Was there a day when he was in his thirties where he looked at his friends and realized they weren't like him? That he could run faster than them, work longer, explore deeper into the hidden places of the valley?

Was there a day when he went to the wizard to ask him for help, for knowledge if nothing else? Did he learn then that his family was different? Special? Chosen? And how did he react? He couldn't possibly raise a child in the valley if they would be as strange and fey as him. He had to leave. There was no other way.

But years later, on his deathbed, did he regret that choice?

Is that why he gave the farmer the letter?

Is that why they went back home?

When the farmer steps off the bus that first day, the valley is still on the cusp of winter, just barely tipping over into spring. The flowers are starting to bloom, but a chill still hangs in the air. As soon as the farmer's boots touch the soil there's a change. The air gets warmer. The trees get greener. Not by too much, not all at once, but it changes.

The junimos watch the farmer as they do their work. They're new to farming, but take to it with frightening speed; their first batch of crops is perfect. None of the townsfolk tell them that parsnips don't normally grow in less than a week, that cauliflowers don't grow to be ten feet tall, that fairies don't visit when the sun goes down and grow potatoes and beans and tulips overnight. The junimos talk amongst themselves in their strange, wild language, and agree: this is the one. They're back. The valley recognizes its own, even when they've left for a generation. The farmers have come home.

Things change fast in the valley. The community center, empty and decrepit for so many years, is rejuvenated. (Lewis says it was abandoned only a few weeks after the farmer's grandfather left. Strange coincidence, he says, that it both came and went with the farmer's family.) The mines and the quarry, similarly abandoned, are explored for the first time in ages. The town becomes cleaner, brighter, more vibrant, happier.

And it is happier. Not just the environment, but the people. It's the talk of the town for weeks when Haley does her first closet purge. Leah's art show in the town square is a huge success. Shane's smiling for the first time since he moved to the valley. All of them, when asked, say it's all thanks to the farmer.

People love to ask why Lewis didn't fix the community center on his own. Why Willy never repaired the boat to ginger island. Why Abigail or Marlon never went down to fix the elevator in the mines, or why Clint didn't fix the minecarts.

But isn't it so much more interesting to ask how those things were there in the first place? How they got so broken down? If the stories the townspeople tell are true, the valley was once a beautiful place, flourishing and full of life; why did that change? When did it change?

Was it when the farmer's grandfather, the locus of the valley, its chosen representative, left town?

And if so, what happens when the farmer comes back?

#lich says shit #stardew valley #stardew farmer #sdv #my writing #Hope y'all enjoyed!#I'm thinking about developing this into. Like. An actual Fan Fiction. Still sort of short-form but like with more detail?#LMK if you'd be interested to see that! Also if you want to be tagged in future installations of this please just let me know :)#I'm super into this version of the farmer as like. Blessed and cryptic child of the valley with all the strange behavior that entails #If i DO write a more in-depth version of this it'll be from the perspective of someone in town #maybe Leah? She seems like she'd be the one to notice the farmer being Odd. Either that or I'll do it from the perspective of multiple--#--different people to get their unique insights and stuff #I'd also want to dig into like #The family history of the farmer. And what that's like.#Because like why did grandpa leave?#He clearly loved the valley #So why didn't he stay?#Why did he give the deed to his grandchild and not his literal child?#And is it a coincidence that everything in the valley went downhill when he left?#I don't think so.

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starstruckmoony · 2 years

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paper rings.

masterlist

pairing - sirius black x reader

summary - you make paper rings for yourself and sirius in potions class.

trope/tags - lots of fluff

word count - 1.3k

warnings - language

potions were never really your cup of tea. you could never wrap your head around anything you'd learn about them at all. the recepies, the effects, why people even made some of them knowing how awful the consequences could be- in other words, you loathed the class.

to top it all off, you were slughorn's least favourite student, or at least that what was what you managed to convince yourself. you had a feeling that the man was out to get you. you were pretty certain that he could sense your negative energy whenever you stepped through the door. sirius always tried his best to reassure you, but you were certain that your professor would get a thrill whenever you would ruin a potion or accidentally curse in the middle of his class because it meant that he could give you detention.

the class started off quite alright that day. slughorn was in a rather good mood and he settled for only having you all read a passage from your books, which was very conveniently about the most powerful love potion itself - amortentia.

you and sirius finished with reading the writing you were given by your professor a bit sooner than the other students, which meant you were left with nothing to kill the remaining time. the bloody thirty five minutes of it.

since you couldn't actually speak to your boyfriend, because that would result in the both of you getting detention (and having sirius get in trouble just because he happened to have some involvement with you was the last thing you needed), you were forced to look for a new form of entertainment - which somehow happened to be making rings out of paper. sirius was not as successful as you, though, he tried to find something interesting about the dirty classroom ceiling and he looked like all life had been drained out of him. nobody could blame him. remus wasn't doing any better either, the taller boy was absolutely exhausted and he had fallen asleep only a few minutes after the lesson started.

"fuck." you whispered, mostly to yourself, when the tiny piece of parchment in your hand refused to bend in the direction you wanted it to. sirius noticed your sudden change in attitude and got intrigued by what you were up to.

"what's that?" he shifted in his seat, curiously looking over your arm to get a better look at your doings.

"paper rings." you whispered in response, a happy smile making its way to your face when you finally finished with the second one. he took one of the rings into his hands and observed it for a moment before sliding it onto his finger, showing it off to you with the biggest grin. it fit perfectly.

"i wonder who was on your mind when you made this." he smirked in satisfaction and inched a little closer to you. you laughed quietly, glancing over at slughorn who was too busy with other things to notice that you weren't exactly doing what you were supposed to.

"your little brother. such a nice bloke, isn't he?" you teased, sliding the other ring onto your own finger. he snorted at your sarcastic reply to his stupid remark, but immediately composed himself once he heard slughorn clear throat. the man glared in his direction, and sirius quickly put his head down and pretended like he was still the reading the text from his book.

because of that, you had to spend the next few minutes sitting in complete silence. the only thing that could be heard was ticking of the old clock on the wall. twenty five sodding minutes.

you couldn't wait to finally leave the godforsaken class and head to your next one. you weren't even sure which lesson you needed to attend after potions, yet all you wanted to do was to get the hell out of there, even if your next class was going to be something just as frustrating. you would rather have sat through five hours of divination than whatever that was.

sirius seemed to have decided that he wanted to put his good reputation at risk, yet again. being one of the best students in the year and coming from a family that was known as noble had its perks, but sirius had always told himself that it had more disadvantages than anything else. he was supposed to be a model student, and set an example to others. that irked him the most, as it was pretty challenging for a marauder, considering he got detention at least ten times that year and november had barely started. he thought about it for a while, but after he realised he was probably no longer in professor slughorn's good graces after receiving that glare anyway, he moved dangerously close to you. you felt his breath fanning over your ear, his lips were almost pressing against it.

"i think i might ask you to marry me with one of these in a few years." he broke the silence between the two of you, whispering those words only for you to hear. that simple sentence turned your face crimson red. you inhaled sharply in attempt to hold back the surprised giggle that was threatening to escape.

"you're mental." you guffawed, hiding your blushing face in your arms that were rested on the table. he smiled in satisfaction, that was the very reaction he wanted to get from you and he'd never felt so proud of himself. that shit-eating grin of his only left his face when you pressed your own lips against his ear.

"wanna know a secret? i'd say yes." you said the words with a smirk and knew all too well that they sent him into a frenzy. one could say he was malfunctioning. you bit your lip harshly, struggling to keep yourself together. sirius turned his head look at you, and neither of you could hold back your laughter for any longer after seeing each other's rose red faces.

"miss l/n! mister black!" slughorn looked at the two of you in shock. he did not miss the mess that you created on the table, or the rings that you and sirius had on your fingers either. his surprised reaction and the sheer terror you saw in him only made the giggles more difficult to stifle, so you accidentally laughed in his face.

"miss l/n!" the poor man could barely keep himself together, so he glanced over at sirius as if he was the last possible resort (which he was), searching for some form of explanation, "mister black, what's the meaning of this?"

"well, if you must know, we were just about to start planning our wedding." he cleared his throat as he spoke, trying to come off as formal as he possibly could. his serious facial expression and the blaringly obvious mocking tone of his voice made you snort, which sent the rest of the students into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. james was having a hard time breathing, and the whole commotion had woken poor remus up.

"very well. i will see you both after class. you are free to leave now." professor slughorn said blankly, walking back to his table and putting his glasses on as he returned to grading a pile of essays.

"yes, professor." sirius choked out, tugging at the sleeve of your jumper. you left the classroom snickering, and not without almost falling over because of your clumsy sprint.

"planning our wedding?" you questioned in amusement as you walked with him in the hallway, and he intertwined your fingers with his.

"yes, i'd like to think we just got engaged. " he pointed out what he thought was obvious, that smug smile never leaving his face.

"oh-" he kissed your cheek before you could put your thoughts into words, and you realised that getting in trouble this time may have indeed been worth it.

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willowser · 4 months

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regarding ex husband bag, i have an hc that might not be popular but: i think bakugo retires from prohero work kind of early, like late thirties/early forties. Hes done more in two years than most heroes do in their whole lives, he's gone all out, almost lost an eye or a limb more times than he can count. He's gone through that whole league if villains ordeal, it changes his perspective on his juvenile ambition. He has a son, and while that used to spur him to work more and protect him, now he realizes that's the very thing that split his world in two. So, he cuts down on the patrol hours, maybe starts teaching the next gen of heroes to feel less guilty, he finds purchase in combing down rowdy boys' hair as best jeanist did before him. But that doesn't quell his guilt, his sense of impotence and ptsd and maybe that's when you start slipping together again. He works more but still looks tired, cause he stays up all night, awake. He has more time to think, about you and your son and his perceived failure as an husband and a hero. And you, well you love him still, so you help him. He falls asleep easier in your arms, thinks less when he's with you, feels less guilty when he sees why he left in the first place, his wife and his son. And I think that's how you get back together, you slowly fall in love all over again (the love was always there) and give him solace and meaning, and he can finally protect his wittle family the way it deserves. 🥺🥺

this is so heartbreaking and mending all in one omg !! but no, no, i absolutely agree with you !! i really think about this a lot, like. how long do we think bakugou really does this hero business ??

i tend to have this personal hc that he does retire a little early, like maybe late 30's. idk, i think after everything that's happening now in the manga, i think his perception of 'victory' and 'success' will change a bit. i also think with all this coming out about endeavor, and then literally being at the forefront of it all in the worst way, i almost think he would be a little disillusioned ?? obviously he still loves his heroes, 100%, but i think he finally is able to see through the smoke and mirrors and realize this life isn't as grand as he thought it was. that it's a lie. so i definitely see him retiring early.

but oh boy !! that totally does take its toll on him mentally !! you are so right !!! because he may know what he was striving for doesn't really exist, but that doesn't change that it was his lifelong goal, and that has to be so hard !! he probably goes back and forth for a while and maybe even loses his sense of identity and aklhfakhfgka it's probably so conflicting for him 🥺

and then fitting that into the plot about his lil son 🥺 you put it together with such heartache !! such comfort !! you are so so right. i don't even want to add more because it's perfect !!

#changes his perspective on juvenile ambition — YES #he sees his lil son and remembers all that he wanted to be at that age and his heart STOPS #can't even THINK about his baby boy in ANY situation he was ever thrown into #oh man. maybe he's even like lowkey terrified of what his quirk will be if it manifests #i really think after everything in his life he would look at hero-ing differently #and i dont think he'd want his boy to get caught up in it 🥺#✿ ask willow #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: ex husband bakugou #cw children

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kingsmoot · 8 months

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i see theon's arc in acok as a very strong parallel to ned's arc in agot and i've said before that theon digging his heels in at winterfell is a wolfbrained greenlander thing to do but it specifically mirrors ned's own strategy when he's in king's landing

the parallel is in their decision making style and in their total refusal of outside help

in agot, ned is offered an "out" from his position as hand in king's landing that would keep him and his daughters safe by like, everyone. varys, littlefinger, and renly tell him to get out before robert dies because they know exactly how this is going to end for him and his young girls. but it's not the honorable thing to do and he is duty bound to stay and reveal the truth of joffrey's parentage. so he stays and he does the "right" thing and he gets his head cut off.

in acok, theon captures a mostly-empty winterfell with thirty men and understands very quickly that there is no way he can hold this castle. with bran and rickon "dead" he doesn't even have anything that can guarantee his safety when ser rodrik returns (he ends up using beth but he knows this isn't a strong play, it's a desperate one). asha tells him this (after he already knows it to be true) and tells him to come back with her to deepwood motte, but he refuses. ser rodrik tells him to face the noose with honor and spare his men, maester luwin tells him multiple times that he cannot hold the castle and must surrender before he suggests for him to take the black, and he turns every offer down.

ned's decision to follow the same mystery that jon arryn was investigating and then his commitment to reveal joffrey's parentage is a course that everyone around him (who already knows the secret and has known the whole time) know will lead to his death. and they all try to get him to leave but he won't, because that's not the honorable thing to do. theon decides that the only way he can prove himself to balon and get his own justice for his ten years of captivity is to take and hold winterfell and be its rightful prince. that's the only thing that's fair and if he gives up after taking the castle that'll ruin what he's conceived of as justice.

in both cases, their death lurks at their elbow for the whole of the journey. for theon this is very literal, with "reek" tailing him around waiting to pounce, and for ned the danger is all around him and he refuses to see it. the "open secret" of joff's parentage among the castle's intelligence, the reality of robert baratheon and his horrible regime/inability + lack of desire to rule, etc. ned ignores far more omens (dead direwolf with a stag's antler through its neck) and red flags (being ordered to kill your daughter's puppydog) than theon does on his journey to the place of his demise (theon has a pretty successful run up until he takes winterfell) but it's a very. it's a very "that's his father's son" situation. to me.

#ned tag #theon tag #my meta tag

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groenendaelfic · 1 month

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Faroe Gone Final Chapter Sneak Peak

So there's still lots of editing I need to do before I can post the whole thing, but with tomorrow looming I thought I'd share something "happy" and "cheerful" to distract y'all.

Have fun reading the beginning of the final chapter and hope you enjoy! 😇

Simon doesn't know if it's the sudden fog, his tears, or the fact that all he wants to do is be a fool and turn back around again—the first one, definitely the first one—but he drives back to Tórshavn at almost a snail's pace.

It doesn't matter. He has well over a day until the ferry makes its return journey to Denmark and nothing else to do except go over his time with Wilhelm again and again, replaying the good times and the pleasurable times and wondering if he could have said or done anything to change the outcome of his journey—other than realizing that all of his feelings were mere nostalgic illusion and fantasy, which of course turned out to not be the case.

Quite the opposite. Real Wilhelm was so much more than what Simon made him out to be in his head. There's so much he's missed. So much he doesn't know yet and which he desperately wants to find out.

It hurts, and yet there's nothing else Simon can do, no other choice which wouldn't hurt more sooner or later.

No. Simon tried. He did the best he could and that is enough. It has to be enough.

Simon had to leave while he still could.

The road ahead of him is empty, no one else in sight. No people, no cars, no sheep. Nothing except the wet, cold fog swallowing up everything and a rushing noise in his ears which might be the wind or the ocean or Simon himself.

Simon blinks away another tear and keeps driving, turning up the heat and hoping it will help.

It doesn't.

On the next island he passes a camper van. It's parked, and Simon thinks he can make out a brave tourist trying to take a picture, but he isn't sure. It's not as if there's much to see except an endless wall of grayish white.

Maybe that's the fascination.

Wilhelm told him that there are thirty-seven words for fog in the Faroese language, and while Simon laughed and told him to stop kidding, he's sure he's already experienced half of them, and it's only been two days.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but contemplating the uselessness of taking pictures of fog is a lot more bearable than lingering on the fact that he'll never get to be with Wilhelm again, never feel that satisfied ache in his muscles, not like this, and really how long can a grown man cry before he's all out of tears?

Pretty long he guesses.

Simon once stopped Ayub's baby daughter from attempting a daring escape on all fours, and Simon swears she was crying forever. Not that he blames her.

Crying is cathartic if it's anything, but if she could produce that many tears because of nothing more than a foiled plan to explore the stairway, then how many will Simon be able to shed before he's all wrung out? He’s a lot taller than her after all and guaranteed to not forget the reason for his tears even after being presented with some candy.

Simon doesn't want to know.

Simon wants to keep driving through this fog forever, because all that's waiting for him at its end is the mundanity of his never-changing life and a scandal revealing the Crown Prince to have been the victim of underage revenge porn thanks to his second cousin and presumed successor, and that is guaranteed to make it worse, to drag Simon’s name back into public awareness.

He should probably call home and warn his mom, warn Sara, but facing them will be torture of an entirely different kind, and also the investigative journalist they chose is a good one, one bound to build a case and not blindly believe her sources before going public, so there is still time.

Not too much though, as there is an impending deadline if the Royal Court and the Prime Minister are to be believed, or at least Simon would really prefer news of August’s deeds to overshadow him being taken into the line of succession.

Not that he’s so naive as to think a mere article can do more than delay the proceedings at best—although one can always hope—and ideally the journalist and whoever else gets a say in choosing the right time will see it the same way, but all of that is still more than half a week away, so why burden his family before he absolutely has to?

No, he's not going to call home yet, but maybe he should reserve a room before he gets back to the capital.

He decides to do it the old fashioned way and pulls over at the next opportunity. A viewpoint, or so he presumes the sign a few meters away from him would tell him if only it was clear enough to see.

He wipes at his cheeks and opens his phone. There are plenty of options for him to stay at. Small, privately owned places, holiday homes with kitchens and living rooms, quaint little hotels doing their best to sell their Nordic, rustic charm to tourists wealthy enough to make it there, and of course a camping ground, because unlike Sweden, the Faroe Islands don't allow one to set up camp anywhere else.

Simon doesn't choose any of them. He wants a warm but bland room, boring and inoffensive and as likely to be in Tórshavn as on the other side of the world.

Something as far from Wilhelm's colorful and most definitely handmade and expensive wooden furniture as he can get, and so he books himself a room at the first—and only—international hotel chain he can find, something he'd never do otherwise, and pretends that he's looking forward to it. The hotel has a fitness center after all and well over a hundred rooms. Simon is almost going to feel like back home in Uppsala.

Not.

He sighs and makes sure he received a confirmation for his booking, before he throws his phone onto the passenger seat and sighs again.

Somehow, magically, or rather because he's on a windy archipelago in the middle of nowhere, the fog is starting to clear. He can see a few meters of grass now, and then a cliff, and below it the cold, dark ocean pretending at being calm.

Simon wants the fog back, but when has he ever gotten what he wanted, and by the time he's back on the road he swears he can see a tiny patch of blue sky up ahead.

The hotel is on the outskirts of town and exactly as impersonal as Simon hoped it would be. He isn't hungry, and so he goes straight to his room and falls face first into bed.

The sheets are white and the pillows are white and they smell bland and clean and inoffensive, nothing at all like Wilhelm, and why would they?

Simon hates them. Simon also hates the hotel, but it's not as if he's in the mood for sightseeing, and as he isn't willing to take a shower yet—what? He's alone, no one's going to smell him, and isn't that the entire problem?—all that's left to do is turn on the TV, because he's for sure not touching his phone again any time soon.

Not when that would mean having it confirmed with every passing minute that he was a fool to leave Wilhelm his number. Wilhelm isn't going to call, but Simon would rather live in denial for as long as he can.

The TV does not greet him with an info screen as Simon expected, but an English speaking news channel, the volume turned up way too loudly, and Simon turns it off again as fast as he can.

Wallowing in self pity it is then.

Unfortunately Simon's usual answer to bouts of self-pity—angrily jerking off to thoughts of Wilhelm—is not an option right now, because Wilhelm is the entire reason for his misery, and so he grudgingly reaches for his phone after all and starts up a game which would work much better on a computer screen.

He's just about to finish off the newest boss, when a text message pops up.

If I do it, it reads. Then can we

The sentence stops halfway through, and Simon almost has a heart attack.

The delay in his reaction is enough for him to be killed instead, but it's not as if Simon notices.

Wilhelm. It has to be Wilhelm.

He taps the message, and while that makes it larger, it doesn't change the words.

He almost calls Wilhelm back right away, because Wilhelm is swaying, is reconsidering, and Simon wants that, he wants it so bad, to have Wilhelm back in his arms and his life, but also Simon already told Wilhelm that he can't be the only reason Wilhelm returns, that this is a life changing decision if there was ever any, and that Wilhelm needs to make it for himself and not for a hope of them maybe working out, and so he doesn't.

Instead he waits an excruciating minute and then another, just in case Wilhelm wants to add something or pressed send too soon, but no further message follows.

Simon curses and swears and kicks up his feet, because now he has hope again and that is great, but also torture. He doesn't want Wilhelm to get the wrong impression, doesn't want him to think that Simon wouldn't be willing to pick right up where they left off if he could—in the bedroom that is, not when it comes to fighting—and maybe they could also go on a date which has been nineteen years in coming.

Simon wants that. Simon really wants that. How can he not, now that he's had a taste, has spent time with Wilhelm, just Wilhelm, has had breakfast with him and done chores with him and played with his dog. Simon wants Wilhelm back, now more so than ever.

Simon knows he's an idiot, thinking of romance and dating when he just left the love of his life behind, and even if he hadn't, a returning Wilhelm would have much different things on his mind. He'd have to. He'd have no other choice. Things like his dying mother and the throne and the public reacting to his return after ten years in exile.

Wilhelm wouldn't have time for Simon, no matter how much Wilhelm would want him. Not for weeks and not for months. Simon would have to sneak into an assortment of palaces with the eyes of the entire nation on nothing but them if he wanted any time with Wilhelm at all, and Simon wouldn't want that. Simon doesn't want secrecy and sneaking and lies. Not that'd even be an option, what with the press and curious bystanders everywhere.

There is another option of course. The only one Wilhelm would ever consider coming back for. The one which at first glance sounds perfect because it means being with Wilhelm and standing by his side. It would also mean giving up everything else in Simon's life though, but what has he really got to lose? Why stop being foolish now?

Wilhelm told Simon that he's it for him. Wilhelm loves him. Simon's already traveled across an ocean. What's one tiny text message compared to that? Why can't he be selfish just this once and fuck the risk and the idiocy and the fear of what will be in one year? In five? In ten?

It all might end in disaster, but it might also not, and why should he be miserable if there's even the slightest chance at some fleeting happiness. After all it's not as if the email Wilhelm sent isn't bound to upend Simon's life anyway, and it's not as if Wilhelm is actually going to come.

Simon wants to be happy.

Simon wants to be happy and now there's a chance for it and so why not take it? He's done stupider things before, like coming here in the first place, so he might as well go all the way.

He doesn't text Wilhelm a yes, doesn't make any promises. He texts one word and one word alone, followed by a number, the name of the hotel and his room number, and maybe that's the biggest promise of all.

He doesn't regret it. He couldn't stay, not without making his inevitable departure even worse, but now he's done his part and the ball is in Wilhelm's court, all the balls are, and Simon is here and waiting.

For a ferry. For Wilhelm. For the life they could have had.

Fuck.

#it was editing this #or throwing myself a pity party #because for the first time ever #I could attend all the Eurovision events live #with nothing stopping me except my own morals and conscious #so clearly I'm boycotting it all #and that's the easy choice #no pity party for me #hello editing #I'm not saying Simon is staying at the Hilton Garden Inn #but I'm also not not saying that #yes Faroe Gone will have a happy ending #faroe gone #young royals #young royals fic #fic snippet #wilmon #fic update

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