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tv-girllover07 · 6 months

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Something metal🥁

Kevin schlieb x fem!reader

Movie: metal lords

Part 8

Green italic= Kevin narrating

Blue italic= there thoughts

Scene skip ⏭️

I know Hunter’s going to be mad it’s all I thought about as I drive to his house, I felt bad for leaving Y/n after we just spent the last hour and a half together but she said it was okay and she understood an that we can talk later.

Walking downstairs into Hunter’s basement I hear him playing his solo, I spoke loudly over the music out of breathe “I know, I know” Hunter stops playing “We said 6:15. It is now 8:00.” Hunter said clearly pissed “Well, something came up” I said a little cheekily and smiled “What? What came up?” I look at him breathing heavily, I didn’t really want to tell him that Y/n and I slept together cause I knew that if I didn’t he would be even more pissed “Nothing” I told him “I thought it was something. You said it was something” he started o question me, I look at him

“Well, I was wrong. It was nothing” “I can imagine something being more important than a band practice. Actually, I can’t. But I definitely can’t see how nothing could be more important, Kevin.” Y/n is, I pick up my drum sticks and I think he getting sceptical so I hesitate “Well, nothing is more important. Or nothing isn’t more important. What I mean--“ “I don’t need Abbott and Costello from you, okay? I need a drummer. A real drummer. Metal is commitment, Kevin. It’s dedication, sacrifice, mortification of the flesh and all that shit. It’s serious. And if you’re not gonna be, if you’ll be all “girls with cello, showing up whatever I feel like it,” then this isn’t gonna work. And we won’t win the Battle of the Bands, and then you’re gonna be a loser for the rest of your life.” I stare blankly at him after what he just said I clench my jaw, I stares back at me before turning around and continues playing his guitar, I give him a sarcastic smile and grab my stuff and head up the stairs.

Scene skip ⏭️

I’m in the practice room at the school the next day with Y/n as has her headphones working on practicing her cello. As I have my headphones in playing counting one, two, three, four over and over again, I start playing aggressively think about what happened last night with Hunter. I don’t see Clay walk in

“Hey. Hey! Hey!” I stopped playing as I finally hear Clay shouting after playing aggressively I start panting “Oh. Hey” moving my hair out of my face “Hi.” Y/n stops playing, looking up as well, then looking at me too then Clay wondering what he was doing here “Where did you guys learn how to play?” He asked the both of us “Uh…I don’t know” “Since I was little” Y/n and I said at the same time then we chuckle

“My friend gave me these songs, and I practiced them. I not, you know, a real drummer or anything.” I said still out of breath, Clay and Y/n both turn their heads at me “Are you fucking high? That was intense.” he said with enthusiasm “Yeah, Kev that was awesome” Y/n said in the same tone “Yeah?” I asked

“Have you two got a minute?” Clay looked back and forth between the two of us Y/n and I look at each other then we nod our heads going into the cafeteria, Y/n and I sharing the headphones listening to Shape Of You, tapping my fingers against my leg to the beat of the song with the rest of Clay’s band standing around us. We take out the headphones, look at Clay and his friends “Are they all like this? Just pretty much the same beat all the way through?” I asked

“Yeah” “Pretty much” they agreed “Please Kevin, Y/n, I promised my sister, and she’s so psyched to have us play. But Ray’s not getting out of rehab for another month, and weee tired of playing with a waste drummer.” “Yeah, man” “Fuck that dummy” Clay’s friends added “We would like to, but it’s like I said, I’m in this band with Hunter, and Battle of the Bands is really important to him. And Y/n kinda does her does own thing” I stated

“Lots of guys are in two bands” one of the guys said “Eric Clapton was in, like, 60 bands.” The other one said “And I heard you two play, man. You could learn our songs in ten minutes” Y/n and I smile slightly “Don’t even worry about the Battle of the Bands for now, just my sisters wedding.” I sighed “Let us think about it.” And nod my head “I feel you. But the weddings this weekend, so don’t think too long.”

Scene skip ⏭️

Y/n’s POV

Kevin and I want back to my house, Kevin told me about last night with Hunter. Kevin walks around my room looking at all my little knickknacks before we sit on my bed, I take Kevin’s glasses off starting a starring contest after a couple of minutes of starring in Kevin hazel eyes I smile and tilt my head Kevin’s eyes start to water and he blinks, “Fuck” he whispered “You blinked” I laugh at him

“I blunk” “You blunk” I said with my accent we start laughing “Three out of five?” I asked him still looking him in the eyes “I’m pretty sure you’re better at staring than me” Kevin’s puts his glasses back on “Mm-hmm” i hummed and pecked his cheek, I see Kevin looking behind me and I turn to look as well, I see him looking at my meds on my nightstand “Those your meds?” He asked lowly

“Mm-hmm. My happy pills.” I flick them over not wanting to see them anymore they clatter to the ground and chuckle “Don’t you need more?” He asked me seriously “Mm-mm” i shake my head no and a idea comes to mind, I lay down on my bed

“Lay on top of me” he looks at me, rises his eyebrows before chuckling, I adjust my legs so he can lay in between them, I have my arm close to my chest. He lays on top of me face to face, careful not to crush me, he leans in trying to kiss me but I squeak “Not yet.” He nods his head ever so slightly I hold his hand close to mine “Let’s just, um, lie like this. I like it. Makes me feel…smooshed” I play with the collar of his shirt “On the field when I saw you…“

“Yeah.” I whispered “Did it feel…good to throw stuff and yell at people?” I look up at the ceiling embarrassed then back at him “No. Feels good to not want to throw stuff and yell at people” I look at him, he looks at my lips then my eyes “Your my happy pill” I look into his eyes. I kiss him and he smiles and then I wrap my legs around his waist and arms around his neck pulling him in a big bear hug resting his head in my chest and then he pulls his head up and starts kissing all over my face.

#jaeden martell x reader #kevin schlieb #kevin schlieb smut #kevin schlieb x reader #smut #jaeden martell #jaeden martell smut #metal lords

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idy-ll-ique · 3 years

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Beach Day.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Mutual Pining

Warnings: none

Requested: nope

Summary: White clothing gets transparent in water... poor Y/N doesn't know that.

Author's Note: Hiya peeps! This is kinda crack fic + fluff lmao ok enjoy!

---

Ah, what a perfect day to be on a beach.

Bucky smiled softly as he sipped on his beer, the sunshine and the sound of flowing water doing wonders for his mood. The Avengers had taken a mini-vacation of sorts, opting to spend a weekend by the seaside. A trip sponsored by Tony Stark. It was a shame Natasha and Wanda couldn't join in, they had a mission to go to. Y/N was the most upset.

"Don't leave me with so much testosterone, I will die," she had whined at the time which made everyone laugh. Currently, he was sitting on a beach lounge chair alongside Steve, Sam, Tony, Thor, Loki and Clint. Y/N was inside still, changing, he guessed. "Guys!" At the feminine voice, he turned and nearly choked on his drink. "Whoa."

"Looking good, Y/L/N," Tony whistled shamelessly and Y/N blushed, the colour spreading down her body. She was dressed in a white bikini that she had purchased for the trip; it looked really good on her. "Thank you, Stark," she quipped back before heading towards the waters. Bucky blinked. Surely she wasn't going into the water wearing that…

"Y/N?"

She turned. "What?" Sam and Clint shared looks. "You going for a swim?" Sam asked and she nodded, a bright smile lifting her face. "It's been ages since I last swam!" Tony sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Are you sure you want to swim wearing that?" he groaned tiredly, causing Y/N to blink. "It's… a bikini, Tony, that's the whole point," she spoke slowly.

The 7 men glanced at each other. "Okay, then, you do you," Tony spoke and she left, stepping into the water. "If you don't date her I will, Barnes, consider this a warning," Clint breathed out once she was out of earshot. "You are married, Barton," Bucky rolled his eyes. "That's why I said it is a warning," Clint snapped back.

"I— I don't know how to ask her," Bucky admitted, playing with the bottle of beer in his hands. "Just ask her! What's the worst that could happen? Knowing Y/N— what a sweet little angel— she'll probably lay you down gently." Bucky groaned as Steve clamped a hand over Tony's mouth, shutting him. "Stop making it worse!" Tony pushed the hand away.

"Do you really think she's going to reject me?" All of them turned to Y/N, who hadn't strayed far from the group. She was alone, flinging the water here and there, laughing to herself. That warmed their hearts, Y/N was really sunshine in a bottle. "Any girl would be a fool," Sam hyped him, raising a bottle in mock toast. Bucky gave him a half-smile.

All of a sudden, they heard a squeal coming from Y/N. Their heads whipped towards her and saw her talking to some guy. Well, more like him trying to ask her out while she said no. Apparently, he wasn't listening. "Hey, asshole! Away from her!" Tony yelled obnoxiously and Bucky winced when the two people looked over. Great, she's gonna be mad at us for creating a scene.

The guy, recognizing the Avengers, fled. Y/N turned to Tony. "Thanks!" she called out before continuing her shenanigans. "The nerve of some people," Steve huffed, Loki and Thor nodding in agreement. Bucky, meanwhile, continued staring at her, shocked. She wasn't mad? Oh well, that's… nice. Suddenly, she looked up, right at him.

Freezing for a second, he managed an awkward smile and waved at her. She waved back before waving her arm, asking him to join her in the water. He gently shook his head and pointed to his arm, smiling sheepishly. Understanding his shyness, Y/N nodded and grinned at him before she started with her first lap of swimming.

"You should've gone."

"Shut up."

As Y/N swam around in the cool waters, she thought back to her conversation with the guys. Why were they so reluctant to let her swim? And whatever did Tony mean by wearing that? It was a nice bikini; a bit skimpy, sure, but it looked nice on her. So what was his problem? Shaking her head, she instead thought about Bucky. Bucky Barnes, the White Wolf, the man she wanted to go on a date with…

He had many names. Y/N had had a crush on Bucky ever since she joined the Avengers, not knowing that Bucky reflected her feelings. After a few laps, Y/N decided the water was getting too cold and she needed to step out. So she started walking towards the beach again, the water level going from her chest, to her stomach, to her hips and eventually her ankles as her feet hit dry sand.

"Y/N!"

At the loud and sharp yell she froze, her eyes darting to where her friends were seated, paralyzed. They were all staring at her with mostly the same expressions; eyes wide with mortification, jaws dropped. Then she saw Steve running towards her. She blinked at him as he wrapped a towel around her, easily picking up the Y/N burrito and walking towards the others.

"Y/N, what the fuck was that?"

Steve set her down on her feet. "What did I do?" she asked meekly, moving to drop the towel but 7 voices shouted out in unison, "No!" She pulled the towel on tighter and shook her head, going inside her room. Bucky breathed out a sigh, quickly moving to hide his boner with the bottle of beer he was holding. "She is literally so—"

"Does she not know that—"

"She probably doesn't—"

That white clothes get transparent in water.

When she had stepped out of the water, her bikini was clinging to her body but what caught his, or rather everyone's attention was that her nipples were completely on display, the perked buds clear as day through the top. No wonder all of them reacted the way they did. They stared at each other, the silence getting uncomfortable.

"Oh, man…" Tony whistled finally, running a hand through his hair. "Think about something else," Steve suggested but try as he might, he couldn't get the image of her body out of his mind. Soon, conversation started floating between them again but Bucky kept quiet, staring at the sea, lost in thoughts. "Hey guys, have you seen my fanny pack anywhere?"

Bucky looked up and saw her standing there with her hands on her hips, looking at them with an innocent expression on her face. Her towel was long gone, she was still in the bikini and God, it's still wet, look away Bucky, look away— "Y/N, what the hell, go inside! We'll find it later, just— just go inside," Clint chided and she frowned but stormed off.

Bucky, not being able to bear the look on her face, followed her. The rest of them shrugged and decided not to disturb the two for a few hours. Bucky knocked on the door to her room and, finding out it was open, nudged it apart. He peeked into the room to make sure she was not changing and found her sitting on the bed. "Y/N?" She sniffled and he walked inside, closing the door behind him.

"Y/N, don't cry, come on…"

She was still in that stupid bikini. Noticing the towel from earlier draped over the back of a chair, he picked it up and walked to her, putting it around her. "Why are they being rude?" she whispered and Bucky sighed, putting an arm around her. He gently squeezed. "They were not being rude, they were being overprotective." She didn't look convinced.

"Do I not look good?" He sighed again. "You do look good, it's just… Y/N, you really don't know, do you?" She blinked at him, confused. "What do I not know?" He went pink. "White— white clothing becomes transparent in water and, uh— uh… your, um… nipples were… uhm… very visible through the top," he stammered and a look of understanding crossed her face.

Then she blushed furiously. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't know—" He shook his head. "It's fine. Maybe just wear a t-shirt before coming out again, okay?" She nodded before grabbing a random t-shirt off the bed; all the guys, before going out to the beach, had left a t-shirt each in Y/N's room, hoping for a quick change since her room was the closest.

Thinking it was her t-shirt, she stood up and dropped the towel. The t-shirt went down to her knees and her head tilted to the side; when did her shirt become so long? When she glanced at Bucky, he was smiling at her, amusement shining in his eyes. "What?" she asked as one of the sleeves dropped to her elbow, the neckline plunging in that direction.

One bikini strap showed on the shoulder. "You look good in my t-shirt, doll." A deep blush spread across her face. She moved to take it off but he stopped her. "Keep it on, it looks good on you. Hell, keep it forever." His words… "Buck, you need this—" "Trust me, I don't. How about this, when we go home, you raid my wardrobe because holy hell, my stuff looks good on you."

Y/N flushed deeper. Why was he acting all flirtatious all of a sudden? "I'm not raiding your whole wardrobe, Bucky." He frowned momentarily. "I thought girlfriends raided their boyfriends' wardrobes all the time." Her eyes snapped up and met his; he held a confident smirk on his face this time. "Wait… Barnes, are you asking me out?" He nodded and she squealed.

"Yes!" She rushed forward and jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. He did not hesitate to kiss her, his hands landing on her butt as he caressed the soft flesh. Y/N's hands ended up in his hair, combing through the long locks. "I do have some rules, baby," he whispered as he led her to the bed, setting her down. He climbed on top of her and smirked again.

"What?"

"Number one: I'm throwing that fucking bikini away."

"Buck, why?!"

"No white bikinis allowed because I don't want people staring at what's mine."

"Ugh, deal."

"Good. Now, where was I? Oh yes… you and I are gonna have some fun before we go out now, okay? Be quiet for me…"

---

A/N: Thanks for reading, leave a like if you enjoyed!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fluff #winter soldier #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x female reader #sebastian stan characters #disney #mcu #marvel #avengers #fanfic #writing #writeblr

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mypersonmyg · 3 years

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stream simulator | jjk

pairing: gamer/streamer!jeongguk x reader

genre: fluff, gamer au

rating: g

wc: 1k

warnings: n/a

summary: you want to sit in the comfy gamer chair OR jeongguk’s subs love you more than they love him

a/n: i’m honestly so proud of myself for keeping up with this, even if maybe they’re not great drabbles; anyways...how perfect that it’s the 7th day, the prompt is games and the only boy i haven’t written for is my love mr.jeon? i hope you enjoy :-))

also...i kinda like the concept of this so mayhaps i’ll do more drabbles with these 2, come back and flesh it out more???

prompt 7. G - Game. The otp+ play a game together.

november drabbles masterlist

main masterlist

The hum of a droning program does little to distract from the desire for company, Jeongguk long since locked away in his office. You’re privy to the occasional raise of a voice, laughter piercing peaked ears, enticed by the unrelenting joy. Time just meets the mark of an hour when you’re rising in sweats, sights set on the kitchen for a roundup of snacks curated for an occasion such as this.

You lose resolve as you tread, feet silent with socks against vinyl, towards Jeongguk’s closed door. You debate a knock though you’re reminded of headphone covered ears, the sound of unrelenting alerts and the deliverance of messages dripping with adoration and the occasional well intended dig.

The door is pushed with exerted effort, the will to maintain grip on the items in your grasp. You’re stilled at the immediate whip of Jeongguk’s head, your entrance not as stealthy as planned. It’s with embarrassment that you realize the image of you fits to frame on the sizable monitor.

“Well hello there, come on in,” Jeongguk is less than surprised at your sudden appearance, already working on the plugging of spare headphones, his backup mic slotted into the stand. “The chat is already going crazy with donos because they like you better than me.”

“They haven’t even met me,” You deposit your haul to the desk, face scrunched in mortification. You readily accept the placement of headphones, Jeongguk then rising to fetch a near chair. You take his absence as a chance to swoop in, bottom firmly planting in the gaming chair you’d gifted him. “Hi guys, I’m y/n if you don’t know! Guk never lets me sit in his chair, now I see why.”

You’re able to just catch the flash of comments that flood the screen. Viewers poking fun at your boyfriend and his love for the cushioned seats. Your chuckle is interrupted by his reappearance, a chair significantly less pleasing in his grip.

“Your chat says that you love your chair more than me,” You regard with arms folded, Jeongguk quickly depositing the chair, arms framing you whilst he peruses the screen.

“You guys are traders,” He points to the lens, feigned disappointment painting his otherwise innocent features. “She’s been on for two minutes and you’re already putting me on blast.”

“You’re not even gonna deny it!?”

“Babe, this chair feels like it was crafted by the gods. Tell me it doesn’t.” He fixes a stare, daring a fib. You shrug without the pretense to move, Jeongguk shifting you ever so slightly with encouragement. “Besides, you don’t need me, the chat has already collectively decided that this is your stream.”

True to word, you glance at the screen, the first words to catch your gaze being jeongguk who? I only see y/n <3.

“You guys are so sweet! Why don’t you invite me to your streams?” You ask Jeongguk, his hands already reaching for a half eaten bag, as he settles into the spare chair, all but given up on regaining his spot.

“You can come whenever you want,” He speaks as if it’s obvious past the crunch of a filled mouth. “I just didn’t think you were interested.”

“Not interested in spending time with you and this sexy crowd?” Jeongguk is quick to swallow, eyes widening at blatant flirtation. You feel yourself heat at your own words, unsure of sudden confidence.

“Oh no, you’re giving them ideas. She’s mine, no one else look at her,” You muffle bursts of laughter at the attempt to shield you from the screen. As if to further prove the territorial gag you feel the press of lips to your cheeks. “Maybe this is why I never invited you, I’ve got competition now.”

“But hey look, so many people are subbing!” This catches attention, your headphones half askew, a reminder of the alerts sounding in your ear. Jeongguk turns back to the streamer side, your eyes taking him in as he calls out thanks to the rise in sub counts and donations aplenty.

“Y/n?” You blink, Jeongguk’s attention once more on you, a half smirk on his face. “They said that they want you to come on stream more.”

“Really?” You double check, sure that it’s something Jeongguk would say to boost a shy ego. Sure enough it’s the truth, chorus of agreement sounding off in every direction. You nearly shy into Jeongguk’s hoodie, but simply smile into the lens. “You guys are really sweet.”

“Careful, I’m not trying to let you steal my job.”

“Don’t worry, I love you too much to do that.” Now you’re the one dropping a kiss, thumb swiping along his dimpled cheek. “Let’s play a game!”

“Excuse me? You wanna play a game?” A valid response, your competitive streak not entirely present in this respect. Your explanation lies in the desire to gain the full experience.

“Yeah, we can play something simple like the game with the little round guys with all of the costumes!” You throw your arms out in vague movements, your words not seeming explanation enough.

“Is-is my girlfriend turning into a gamer?” Jeongguk glances from you to the camera, expression undergoing a range of emotion, all over dramatic in right. “I don’t know guys, I might have to end the stream early if you know what I mean.”

“You’re so gross!” You counter with a gentle shove, both of you laughing at the declaration. He begins typing away at the screen, pulling up the game in question your vocals emitting to a rather pleased squeal. “Yes, this!”

“When have you seen anyone play this?”

“I watch you sometimes,” You admit sheepish, the topic never coming up. It’s not surprising you would support his streams, but the thought of being outside when you could’ve been a part of the action dawns.

“Aw, you guys she watches my streams,” Jeongguk coos. “You wanna go first?”

��Oh no, I’m scared.” You respond in tiny, watching as the chat explodes with words of affirmation, still stunned at their ready acceptance. “So many people are watching.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. They won’t bully you like they do to me.”

“What?” You’re given no chance to thrust the controller away as it’s placed in your palms. Jeongguk leading you blind. You turn to him with wide eyes of betrayal, his hands already offering the raise of thumbs.

“Good luck, you’ll do great!”

#bangtanhq #bangtanidx #bangtanwriterscollective #bangtanuniversity #bangtanarmynet #jeongguk x reader #jungkook x reader #jjk x reader #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #jungkook drabble #bts drabble #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #bts november drabbles 2020

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some-cookie-crumbz · 3 years

Note

Huwumi betting kiss in a bar?

I had way more fun writing this than I should have! Flirty Fuyumi is something I’ll have to indulge in more often!

Gonna say this is rated T/ PG 13 so behave yourselves!

Also, Minor Trigger Warning: Aggressive Swearing, References to Sexual Content (Non-Explicit), Cheating (Don’t worry; neither Hawks nor Fuyumi are involved in this one!), Of Age Binge Drinking

Every time Misa had a rough break up, Fuyumi knew that their whole group was going to end up spending a night in a bar making questionable life choices. For as much as she loved Misa, the girl did not handle her heartaches well. Fuyumi was willing to wager that it was most likely because Misa wasn’t exactly the best judge of character. Many a time, she ended up letting partners slip into her life without focusing on the glaring red flags. She’d fuss and accuse and scream at everyone else in the group that they were being unfair, that her newest sweetheart had just been mistreated and needed love to guide them back on to the proper path. Every single time, the rest of them would agree that this was the last time they were going to deal with this from Misa. If she couldn’t be bothered to listen to their concerns and cool her heels just a little, then why should they constantly dab her eyes and pat her back when her ignorance got her hurt?

Because everyone has their weak moments, just like Misa, Fuyumi thought wistfully. She sipped at the sparkling water in her hand while Taigen slipped into their booth. “Well if it isn’t my most favorite people in the world,” he said with a tired huff, slumping down beside her.

“Hey, Tai,” Akiko, sitting to Misa’s left and rubbing her back, said with a quick wave of her other hand.

“Howdy hey Tai-Kins,” Nagisa sang, her tone only the slightest bit less chipper than usual. She was on Misa’s right, gently patting her head.

Misa herself had thrown her whole upper body against the table, hiding her face in her arms, and was wailing shamelessly. A part of Fuyumi was almost jealous at how unbridled her friend was in her grief. There had only been one or two instances in her own life where she’d ever dared to make such a spectacle of herself over anything. And she learned quite quickly to never do it again.

“So what was it this time?” Taigen asked, leaning over to flag down one of the servers, and then leaning back in his seat. “What caliber of douchebag are we labeling this guy as?”

Misa let out a particularly loud, hysterical wail at the prodding, making the other’s at the table wince. Fuyumi motioned Taigen closer to whisper, “Misa-Chan caught him and Akane-Chan touching each other in places where they really shouldn’t be.” He balked and stared at her, expression jumping between horror, anger and then settling comfortably to mortification. Fuyumi couldn’t blame him, though; she had probably made very similar expressions. And she couldn’t really blame Misa for being particularly upset, either, since she didn’t think she’d feel much better if she caught her significant other getting down and dirty with one of her younger siblings.

“Okay. Wow. That’s… certainly something,” Taigen trailed uneasily.

“That filthy motherfucker!” Misa outright shrieked, causing a few patrons at the bar proper to give them a sideways glance.

“That’s right, get it all out,” Nagisa encouraged quietly.

“They’re all motherfuckers, hun,” Akiko agreed, her own tone taking on a soothing note.

Taigen made quick work of ordering their first round of drinks – excluding Fuyumi, who insisted she really couldn’t tonight – and some appetizers to get started. When the food and drinks arrived, they managed to coax Misa up enough to eat and down her first two drinks, which seemed to put her in higher spirits. They let her vent what she felt comfortable venting and took her lead on when to sidetrack to a new subject.

The distractions were clearly having a good impact on Misa as she moved on to her third, fourth, fifth and sixth drinks.

“You bastards,” Misa slurred with a small hiccup, waving her glass about in a semi-circle to indicate them all, “make it seem so easy to just meet someone! Like I can just pluck any ole’ person off the street and BAM! SOULMATE FOUND!”

“Don’t you already just pick the saddest looking sack o’ flesh outta the gutter? At least if you pick someone off the sidewalk instead they might have their shit more stitched together,” Taigen scoffed, a sly smirking taking over his face as he sipped his own drink. “Well, that or if you just gathered your courage to actually make the first move instead of waiting for these parasites to catch a whiff of your desperation.”

Akiko started to outright cackle while Misa’s face turned a much darker shade that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Fuyumi was quick to set her drink down and lift her hands, ready to step in between any ensuing fight. Nagisa took everyone else being distracted as a chance to stuff another pot sticker in her mouth. “Say that again, you angsty twink!” Misa squeaked angrily.

Taigen’s eyes narrowed, the dark blue tint of them gleaming dangerous. “What did you just call me?”

“Ya heard me!”

“Okay, Misa-Chan, Tai-Chan, how about we settle down and take a breath? We don’t ended things to esca-!”

“Sorry for giving you some practical advice, damn! Maybe if you actually listened you wouldn’t constantly be getting pumped and dumped!”

“Oh, no! Tai-Chan, that is incred-!”

“Well not all of us can hook up with some dimwit from work! Besides, a truly worthy suitor prefers a lady who waits to be chased!”

“Misa, I don-!”

“Masaki is an absolute angel and you fucking know it, you jealous little asshole! And you know what? I’m gonna prove my fucking point that your fucking point is stupid!” he snapped back, slamming a hand on the table. There was a beat of silence before he whirled his head around to face Fuyumi. “Yumi! Go over to the bar and get you a smooch!”

“What?” she squawked indignantly.

Akiko started giddily giggling into her hand. “Oh, yes, yes! It has to you, Yumi, babe!”

“But why me?” she argued. “I wasn’t even involved in their little wager!”

“But you’re the only one that’s single, aside from Misasasasauce,” Nagisa slurred, swaying a bit in her seat. “You’re the only one that can really prove Taikadaikado’s point.” She shifted the glass in her hand to take another sip but then stared at in horror as she realized it was empty.

“‘Sides, it’s good for ya!” Akiko chimed in, swaying to lean heavily on the table. She looked about to topple over at a moment’s notice.

“There’s no way for me to get out of this, is there?” Fuyumi sighed.

“Nope!” Taigen said, making a popping noise with the word as he shimmied out of his seat. He gestured grandly towards the bar across from them. “Now go, dearest Fuyumi, and find yourself a hottie to mack on! Make me proud!”

“No, make me proud, Fumi!” Misa shot back.

With a resigned sigh, she carefully slipped out of her seat and made her way towards the bar. She loved her friends, but they were ridiculous, honestly. She slid into one of the many empty seats at the bar a few spots away from a cute young woman in a halter dress, but opted against making the pass when she noticed the ring on the woman’s finger. There were mostly just groups there, all settled up together in proper booths. The only other two people that were at the bar proper were all the way at the other end from her and seemed much more focused on some hushed debate they were having. She flagged down the bartender, instead, to request a fresh water and a small bowl of cherries.

“My, what an odd order to place at a bar,” A deep voice chimed from beside her, dripping in amusement. She jumped and glanced at the young man making his way into the stool beside her. He seemed to be about her age with just the right amount of scruff gracing his jawline, baggy clothes that screamed workout attire to her, and a hat tugged down low over his head, hiding most of his hair. What caught her attention most, though, with the blazing gold eyes fixed on her like a predator on prey.

He didn’t strike her as being her usual type, but she kind of liked the way he was watching her. She admittedly did like the ones that seemed confident. Nine times out of ten they weren’t nearly as self-assured as they played at, so it was always cute watching them get flustered when she called a bluff. A smile flitted across her lips as her water and dish were set in front of her. “It’s called the Responsible Friend drink. Not for the faint of heart or low of impulse control,” she purred teasingly, plucking a cherry from the dish.

He hummed quietly beside her as he watched her split the cherry open and drip the cherry juice on top of the ice inside, being careful not to drip too much on herself. “That seems like an insult,” he hummed back.

“If you take offense,” she hummed, stirring the juice in, “that seems more like your problem than mine.”

He seemed taken aback by that, tilting his head at her curiously. “Do you… Not know who I am?”

She cocked her head and gave him a look at that. She tilted her head to try and get a better look at him, letting out a thoughtful hum. Now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it. Perhaps a model or something? Or maybe he’d had a short guest role on one of her television dramas? She shrugged instead and began dripping another cherry into her drink. “Kinda but… Not particularly. Why? Should I?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “Actually, you know what? I like this better,” he mused, leaning one elbow on the counter and cupping his head in his hand. “So, you’re the friend staying sober? Or just keeping your wits so no creeps try to take advantage?”

Fuyumi nodded her head back towards her friends, who had seemingly forgotten their beef and were now aggressively singing some anime opening at each other, just barely keeping their volume manageable. “Those are my wards for the night,” she said.

He snorted. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger than cherry water? Which, by the way, is still incredibly unusual. I mean, lemon water I expect, or even lime water, but cherry? Not so much,”

“But you’ve never tried it,” she retorted, taking a sip and resisting the urge to sigh contentedly. He made a small noise of agreement as a thought occurred to her, her smile turning mischievous. “I could give you a little taste if you want.”

“Oh?” he mused, perking up. He shifted a bit closer, clearly intending to swipe her glass, but instead she moved closer to him herself. He seemed a bit stunned as she leaned forward to press her lips to his, one of her hands cupping the side of his neck. The spark of surprise left his eyes quickly enough as he melted into the kiss with a throaty groan, instead sliding shut to bask in it. She tilted her head to give a playful nip to his lower lip. Getting the hint, he opened his mouth and allowed her tongue to slip inside, prodding his to press along her own. The taste of spearmint from his mouth mingled with the cherry juice on her tongue, making for an odd but not entirely unpleasant combination.

It was the scandalized squeals of her friends that pushed her to pull away from the stranger, making a show of smirking and licking her lips at him. There was a blush dusting up along his cheeks and, if she was honest, she couldn’t help but think about how good he looked like that. “There, I gave you a little taste. Maybe we’ll see each other again, sometime,” she hummed, grabbing her drink and cherries to head back to her table. She would blame her behavior, uncouth as it was, on the energy her friends had been pumping out all night. Plus, she reminded herself, she was likely never going to see the guy again. Despite what he’d said, she doubted that he was anyone that noteworthy.

Three days later, Fuyumi’s heart leapt into her throat when, grinning up at her from glitzy headlines about Number Three Pro Hero Hawks, was her bar stool beau.

#crumbles grumbles #Huwumi #my fics #I hope this was a fun one!#I actually struggled a little to get this to work #But man am I really happy with how it turned out!

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alphacrone · 7 years

Text

i found this post in my drafts and have ZERO memory of writing it (thank u alcohol) so im gonna put it in my queue lol

ok but imagine

Bitty comes out to his parents but he doesn't tell them about Jack, thinks it's for the best, maybe to ease his parents into things or maybe to keep the pool of People Who Know as small as possible

and like yeah Ransom and Holster are super oblivious but Suzanne Bittle is not, not when it comes to her son, because she is a certified Nosy Southern Mother and she can see he's been acting differently, happier but quieter, always on his phone and blushing when she asks about boys

and he talks about the team a LOT

Jack's one of his best friends and he's just started his NHL career, so of course Bitty’s never gonna shut up about Jack

(Same goes for Shitty and law school. And eventually Ransom and med school. Dicky is proud of his friends and wants everyone to know. He gets that trait from Suzanne, she understands)

but he keeps talking about this one Boy, how sweet he is and how his smile is like a sack of puppies and how bitty's always making this boy do things with him like baking and getting froyo and going shopping and Suzanne is like. Yes. This must be Dicky's secret boyfriend.

the next family weekend or whatever, Suzanne demands to meet this Chowder boy who's stolen Bitty's heart

Bitty is both confused and mortified

“No, Mother,” he says. “Chowder is my friend, I mean look at him, that sweet precious baby fawn of a goalie-”

Suzanne is Not Convinced

“Mhmm,” she replies. “Sure, baby. Sure.”

but bitty can’t disobey his mother, so he drags the Frogs into the kitchen and introduces them all at once

so dex is like “um ok nice to meet you ma’am” and nursey’s all “sup mrs. b” and then Chowder - sweet Chowder - goes over and hugs her and starts rambling on a mile a minute about how much the team loves bitty and gosh it’s so nice to meet you, mrs. bitty’s mom, thank you for the care packages and oh do you watch hockey what team do you root for my team’s the sharks they’re ‘swawesome hey are you coming to our game tonight i think the coaches are gonna start bitty which is So Great because bitty is So Great of course the entire team is So Great but you know we all just love bitty So Much-!

Suzanne is Very Much Convinced

bitty’s gone bright red and none of the Frogs can figure out why

so i think by this point Ransom & Holster have a running joke about Bitty’s Secret Boyfriend bc, even tho they know, they’re Major Shitheads

(”Who’re you texting, Bits?” “Oh, uh, Jack.” “Pshyeah right, look at that blush. Who are you really texting?” “Oh, my God, I swear I’m just texting Jack.” “Bro, it’s gotta be your secret boyfriend.” “Adam Birkholtz, I swear to Jesus-”)

so R&H are messing around in the kitchen as bitty and his mom make a pre-game pie or something and bitty’s texting with jack about how mortifying his day has been when, of course, it gets worse

“Dude, stop texting your Secret Boyfriend,” Ransom says, giving Bitty a shit-eating grin.

bitty goes super pale.

normally the joke is just kind of annoying but His Mother is Right Here And

Suzanne perks up.

“What was that?” She asks in that slow, sweet, unassuming way that all middle aged southern ladies use when they smell blood in the water

Bitty knows he’s Fucked

“Oh, hahahaha, just an inside joke, Mama, I’m just texting Jack, these boys and their silly little jokes, tell her it’s a joke, Justin”

so now Suzanne is almost certain Bitty’s hiding a boyfriend from her. she gets it, her mama never knew about half the guys she dated and she never had to Come Out to her mama. but Suzanne is not a saint and privacy doesn’t really exist when it’s your flesh and blood

“So, Adam. Justin. Tell me more about that sweet, little Christopher,” she says. “He’s real cute. Don’t you think so, Dicky?”

to bitty’s delight, though, R&H go straight into Captains mode

“Oh, yeah, Chow’s a great asset to the team.” “One of the best goalies I’ve ever known.” “Real go-getter attitude.” “Hard worker. Weird fear of pucks, though.” “Still. What a guy.”

Bullet dodged, crisis averted. Bitty breathes easy for a moment.

so in this time he’s managed to text Chowder and has asked him to AVOID MAMA BITTLE AT ALL COSTS WHICH

chowder is clearly unable to do

“why????!?? did she not like me?!??? did i say something???!!”

so bitty is trying to calm chowder down and suzanne’s all Sugar Bear Sweetpea Fruit of my Loins WHO ARE YOU TEXTING

and chowder barges into the haus, apologizes a mile a minute for literally Anything he can think of

“I’m sorry for not asking you if you wanted a drink! And I’m sorry for not offering you a tour of the Haus- though I guess Bitty’s already done that- oh! Did I not say it’s nice to meet you?! It’s so nice to meet you!!!”

and r&h have No Idea what’s happening but they love to Stir the Pot so they’re kinda egging chowder on and Mama B is very, very confused but so happy to see Dicky’s boyfriend is so thoughtful, if not a little...excitable...

So of course this is when the Frogs and Lardo wander in, drawn to sounds of a panicked Chowder

now bitty is on the edge of hysterics, trying to calm chowder down, trying to tell his mother that he’s Not dating chowder without saying those exact words, trying to text jack because who Else would be text while losing his shit??

and then she says it

suzanne just fucking says it

“oh, gosh, honey, i don’t know what you’re apologizin for, but it’s nice to know how polite my dicky’s boyfriend is.”

the silence in the kitchen is heavy with pent-up shock and laughter.

now. chowder can be naive, but he’s a smart cookie. it takes him those few, awkward moments, but he manages to put a couple things together - why bitty wanted him away from Mrs. B, why bitty was acting so weird, why suzanne was being so friendly

so chowder, bless his tender lil heart, plays along

“oh! uh!! well, i just want! to impress my...boyfriend?! my boyfriend’s mom!!”

dex and nursey are beyond confused; lardo has to leave the room so she can laugh

this is Not What Bitty Wanted, however

and then

enter Jack Zimmermann

bitty is just about ready to curl up in a corner and die of Shame

so Suzanne does her whole heart-eyes Jack Zimmermann routine, asking after his father and yadda yadda

but jack definitely heard everything with chowder. and as jealous as he is, it was also hilarious.

and we all know jack l zimmermann is kind of a little shit

“so I see you’ve met bitty’s boyfriend” he says in his best monotone

(now ransom has to leave because he’s about to wet himself holding back laughter)

“oh, yes, jack, i’ve finally gotten dicky to introduce me, you’d think he didn’t want me to meet sweet christopher”

bitty’s done. he’s leaving samwell immediately. already has a new name picked out for himself, is gonna hitchhike west and dye his hair brown and never speak to anyone east of albuquerque again

“oh, i can’t believe he’s being shy about chowder,” jack says, knowing that he’s probably getting himself into Trouble but plowing forward regardless. “they’ve been together almost a year now”

“WHAT.” is the reaction that comes from three different people in three very different inflections

(now dex and nursey are taking bets; holster is recording the whole thing to send to shitty; ransom and lardo are watching from the hallway)

“oh, yeah,” jack continues on, with what is probably his Funniest and Most Terrible joke ever. “after they both got dumped by their dates at Winter Screw. right, Bittle?”

bitty has his face buried in his hands. chowder is Beyond Confused as to why jack’s taking it this far.

suzanne is THRILLED

so Jack is weaving this long, ridiculous story of the Epic BittyChowder romance that never was and chowder’s starting to feel uncomfortable about the way suzanne is staring at him and bitty is going to Murder his boyfriend if the mortification doesn’t kill him first

“...which is why I’m here today. to fight for bitty’s hand.”

yup. jack 110% zimmermann Goes There.

“you’re in love with my dicky too??” “do i....do i really have to fight jack??!”

and bitty sees the look in jack’s eyes, the imperceptible nod, and the dam finally bursts: “mother, i’m not dating chowder. and i never wanted you to think i was, but chris was just trying to help me out.”

and suzanne’s face falls and chowder sort of awkwardly...runs away...to stand in the hall with lardo and ransom

“but then why is jack here?” suzanne asks,

and jack wraps his arm around bitty’s shoulder, smiling down at bitty, and bitty finally gets to say to his mama, “because he’s my boyfriend, mother.”

suzanne Freaks Out and cries a little and calls bob. in that order.

but before all of that she hugs them both tight and refuses to let go.

(years down the road, they play holster’s camera-phone video of the whole Ordeal at the zimmermann-bittle wedding. chowder literally never lives down the chirps, but hey -- that’s what best men are for.)

#when i originally wrote this i think it was before the last round of upates #so i didn't exactly know when or how bitty and jack would come out to the team #ANYWAY just pretend family weekend was....a lot later this year #this has been in my drafts forever #check please!#bittychowder #(kinda sorta not really)#fake dating #zimbits

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canaliculi · 7 years

Text

Take me somewhere nice (5/?)

Gravity Falls

Bill/Ford

M: slow loving romance between two best buds

Bill edges Ford towards the creation of the portal.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

The good thing that I have found

Devotion.

Ford isn’t a religious man. He isn’t one to believe in superstition, in fables or the power of stories. But-

Some kind of god.

-for some reason, those words have become lodged in his mind. Stuck to the insides of his skull like a chewed wad of gum. The kind Stan used to cram up against the underside of his desk with his thumb, winking when Ford’s unimpressed stare caught his eye. He remembers the thin shine of slick saliva on Stan’s finger, and with an unpleasant shudder, the way Stan would wipe his hand on the side of his jeans and grin at him.

Now Bill grins at him, and nigh-indescribable blue prints are written across the sky. Unraveling in bright glowing script, numbers that shuffle themselves into endless equations and lines that connect and combine in alien, unnatural angles. Ford is slaw-jacked, eyes darting back and forth over his mindscape. It’s like trying to read another language, or a cipher – he can pick out some patterns, instances of repetition that hint at something, but without a key it remains a stubborn, jumbled mess.

“Well, Fordsy? What do you THINK? Ready to BUILD IT?”

His wonderment drops through the bottom of his stomach, heavy as a black hole.

“HA! Just kidding! That’s kinda putting the CORPSE before the CARRIAGE, huh?” Bill appears at his side and elbows him. “Gotta learn to crawl out of the PROVERBIAL MUD SOUP before you can GROW LUNGS and SPROUT FUR, am I right?”

“I-” What? Bill, or more precisely, another Bill, pops up before his face, and squishes his cheeks together. The flickering-lightbulb flashing of his body as he speaks is almost blinding this close.

“I’m saying, let’s start with the BASICS!” This Bill lets go of him and swings like a door to the side, to clear his view. Ford’s eye is caught by the slim glint of his profile. Bill’s not quite two-dimensional, but the descriptor’s not far off. His arms and bowtie and hat are all a flat, matching black, and could they be made out of the same material? It doesn’t make sense, but concerning Bill, when has anything?

Bill flips back to him without warning and Ford actually recoils a fraction of an inch, feeling acutely like he has been caught. It carries with it the edge of his adolescence, freezing motionless at the creak of footsteps beyond his door, heart pounding and eyes fixed through the dark on the battered door of his room, hardly even able to breathe. Bill’s eye curves. His muse splits down the center, and like a cell, two Bills are there where there had been one. This newest copy is wearing a graduation cap in place of his top hat, and carries a pointing stick instead of a cane.

“The basics!” New Bill repeats, and floats away from him. The other two hover by his sides, both watching their copy as though they, too, are ready for a lecture. Ford finds himself smiling.

“You are the expert, Bill,” Ford says, and the sprawling, almost labyrinthine blueprints vanish in hazy wisps of blue tinted smoke.

“That’s RIGHT, I AM! But YOU’RE my, what’s the word?” Bill smacks the stick down in the palm of his free hand, the sharp, cracking sound of wood against flesh that sends a rolling wave of something down his center, branching out along his limbs. “Student, mentee, protégé, take your PICK!”

Each choice fills his mind with a different imagining - Bill before him, Bill at his side, Ford on his knees - and Ford isn’t sure which he prefers. He isn’t forced to decide. The smoke coalesces into a long and meandering equation, that nonetheless feels familiar in some distant way. His eyes run across it again and again.

“Now, smart guy, what can you tell me about-”

“Gravity!” Bill drops his stick, and the two at his sides turn to stare at him. All their small, thin limbs are drooping gracelessly from the bottom of their forms. The tips of his ears turn hot, and Ford fingers along the hem of his shirt. “Uh-” clears his throat “-that is what this equation, or at least part of it, refers to, correct?”

“…You got it in ONE! Man, am I IMPRESSED! They didn’t call you Poindexter for nothing, huh?”

Ford can feel himself beaming and he tries to reel his reaction back in. Bill has never shown any inclination to control his own emotes, but Ford’s old habits die hard and his heart is beating almost painfully in his chest. It’s even harder when a small hand shifts through his hair, scratching over his scalp in a way that sends pleasing, tingling chills shivering down his spine.

He turns his head to the left, staring up at Bill – or the copy of his muse – still dragging his black hand up and down, back and forth, and whatever expression Ford has on his face causes his muse’s eye to crinkle upward in a smirk. Bill’s hand goes to the back of his head, and his fingers tighten around the fluffy locks of Ford’s hair, tugs gently and insistently to face him forward again. Ford swallows, hyperaware of Bill withdrawing as he turns his attention back to the equation. The other Bill is tapping his foot midair, impatient.

“SO, now that I have your ATTENTION… GRAVITY! HOW it WORKS – which I’m SURE, a SHUT-IN NERD like YOURSELF already KNOWS ALL ABOUT – and more IMPORTANTLY, how to make it NOT WORK!”

Ford learns what he can at night, and spends his days penning out page after page of mathematic theorems and crude, prototypical models of the machine he and Bill will build together. He writes until his hand cramps and the neat lines of his usual script become sloppy and smudged from the side of his palm. More than once he puts the wrong end of his pen up to his lips, resulting in a splattering of black ink across his mouth.

When he closes his eyes, numbers swim incorporeally across his vision, and when he tries to go to sleep he tosses and turns while his mind runs over his work without end. Bill comes more often, both in his dreams and as the semi-hallucinatory, intangible projection that pops up in the middle of his days without warning.

One such occurrence comes as Ford is mulling over his journal, plagued with the nagging, skittering sensation that he is forgetting something. With his thoughts occupied he doodles in the margins of his notes. A few cipher symbols, some pieces of as-yet theoretical machinery, and perhaps a scattering of triangle shapes here and there (and everywhere). Something isn’t fitting together quite right, but Ford can’t put his finger on it. He draws three lines. Did Bill say something that has managed to escape him?

“How’s it GOING?” With his usual subtlety, Bill is floating above his desk, occupying what had been previously stuffy and empty air. Ford jumps and slams his hand down flat, trying to cover up his idle sketches. It’s not very successful, as they are littered about the page, and if he looks down, heart hammering in his throat, he can see bits of them peaking between his fingers.

“Bill! Fine! It’s uh, fine,” Ford says.

“Let’s see what you got!” Ford can’t help but to grimace. Still, he angles his journal to let Bill get a better look. He fidgets in his seat and watches Bill’s pupil ticking back and forth across his work like a metronome. “Not BAD!” He lets out a held breath. “But you MISSED a step!”

All the thoughts fly out of Ford’s head and he pulls his journal closer, barely aware of the way his actions drag the physical object through his muse’s projection (and the subsequent indignant yelp of said muse). He… he did. He missed a step. He can see it now, and it’s a mix of pleasure and mortification to find that his problem is so simply solved.

Bill stays for a while and coos in his ears. How many humans could do what you’re doing here, Fordsy? I’ve been around a long time and I know the answer – none! His fingers are shaking by the time he is done. And after that, he doesn’t bother to hide away his doodles. Bill never comments on them, and Ford is certain it must be his own fancies, that he imagines Bill grins a little more after he sees them.

The dreams that fill the void between Bill’s visits are just as frustrating as ever, but now something looms constant in the periphery of his mind. Ford will dream of Bill speaking in numbers and watch the large struts and braces of some monolithic machine coming together cinch by cinch. Hands made from living darkness, their surfaces shifting and crawling as though swarms of parasites reside just below, they grab him and cradle him and aim his head towards a sky that spins in jerking, nauseating spirals.

“What is this supposed to be, anyway?” Bill – not Bill – asks him. Ford’s arms are tied behind his back, long curls of thick rope wrapped around and around each limb. When he shifts, they burn against his skin like he’s been wearing them for hours. “Student-Teacher? Muse-uh, whoever muses work with?”

Bill places one hand on Ford’s cheek, so that the claw of his middle finger rests over the thin flesh of Ford’s lower eyelid, and tap-tap-taps against the bulging curve of his eye through it. Ford shivers, his body going tense, but he doesn’t move away. He wants to answer but a hand closes his mouth, his teeth clacking together.

“No no, I wanna guess,” Bill says. The hand on his chin moves upward, and a cool palm rests over his lips. Bill’s finger taps against his eye. “Master-servant? Nah, not yet. Oh, I got it! Charming CON ARTIST and his lovable, DUPABLE MARK!”

Bill shoves his claw harder against his eyelid, harder, until Ford can feel a hot bead of blood welling up. When his muse takes his hand away, it dribbles down his cheek in an unbroken stream.

“Talk about foreshadowing, am I right? Ah, what would you know anyway. Actually Fordsy, you really should count yourself lucky – ALL SEEING isn’t ALL it’s cracked up to be!” Bill laughs. Ford’s head feels stuffed full of cotton, and he thinks he must not get the joke. “Well go ahead, open up! Let’s hear those innermost thoughts and FEELINGS!”

The hand across his mouth doesn’t move but cracks, fissures, and splits cleanly down its midline, strings of sticky black stuff stretching between the straight white bones of each half before reaching their limit and breaking. Its fingers seize and shake, and it’s only then that Ford realizes it’s got one finger too many.

“You are…” he begins, but stops. Words can’t encapsulate it. Bill narrows his eye, and Ford thinks of the statue in his den, the statues and tapestries slowly accumulating around it. Ford thinks of Bill offering him a sealed scroll, a gem, an all-seeing eye on a chain. Bill watches him, and then sprouts his extra arms, and they trail ghosting touches down his arms, across his chest, bury fingers into his hair and yank.

“Go on, Fordsy.” Ford is dragged upwards, lifted docile into the air, and he can hear the great, groaning sound of some engine rumbling to life. The edges of his vision quake. “Go on. GO ON.” The last words are preternaturally deep and resonate, and then like a laugh track spliced over itself again and again, Bill laughs and laughs and laughs.

Ford wakes up with a pounding – splitting – headache. He can only remember snatches of his dream, but he can still hear Bill whispering go on. His sheets stick to the sweat on his body and his pulse throbs through his veins. There is buzzing pressure inside him, building behind some dam. He clenches his fingers in the sheets and grinds his molars and wonders how long it will hold.

Nothing has challenged him like this. It makes sense, he supposes – this is the culmination of his life’s work. It doesn’t make it any less bitter of a pill to swallow. Everything has come almost naturally to him – 12 PhDs can attest to this – and what hasn’t, has been surmounted by hard work and indomitable will. And yet, no matter how he metaphorically bashes his brains against his journals, sometimes the things Bill tells him just don’t click.

It’s hard to say how many hours straight he has been sitting at his desk. His knees ache and the column of his spine that comes up between his shoulder blades flares rhythmically with heat. Muscles tight in broad, rock hard slabs, or bundled up like knots of tied cables. Eventually time doesn’t matter – and Ford realizes this after he sets his pen down to hunch over and rake both hands through his hair. When he looks back up, the pen is floating in midair, as are his desk and chair, and his lamp most of all, its shade titling crookedly upwards and its cord dangling behind it.

It’s not hard to guess he’s in the mindscape. There’s a warm weight on his head, and Ford doesn’t even have to catch the edge of a golden glow across the top of his line of sight to know that Bill has settled on him. Small hands fluff up his hair and then smoosh it to the sides, so Bill can lean forward and meet his eye. Ford knows what is coming.

“Fordsy,” Bill says.

“No.”

“What?” Is this really the first time he’s caught his muse off guard?

“I’m fine.” Ford stares straight ahead, at the constellations that have become a base, primal comfort. Bill laughs.

“It’s nothing to be-”

“I can do it!” he doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but he does, and his cheeks burn. The backs of his eyes prickle and he marvels at how pathetic he must be to his muse. His muse who has lived longer than human history itself, and has seen every manner of genius his species has taken. Ford shuts his eyes tight and chews on the fleshy inside of his cheek, and he feels Bill lift off his skull, and can feel the welcoming warmth that radiates from his form hovering before him.

“I know you can, IQ – I’m not doubting you here,” Bill says. Ford can’t open his eyes. “I was just thinking, maybe some ON-CALL tutoring wouldn’t be out of the question.”

“I-I don’t need-”

“No, no, no one is saying NEED, Fordsy! But I have to ADMIT, this POPPING in and out of your DIMENSION thing isn’t working for me!” It twists around like a knife in his chest but Ford opens his eyes to look at his muse. “Not to say I don’t LOVE bursting in unexpected, but let’s face facts here, about HALF the time I come around you’re IN THE SHOWER!”

“…What?” Oh god, has Bill seen him? Naked? Ford can feel his jaw hanging slack.

“Yeah! I usually just LEAVE, but not BEFORE-”

“Tutoring!” Ford interrupts, face and neck and ears all hot. “What are you proposing?”

Bill looks upward, and taps his finger along his surface, like he’s thinking. Ford’s gaze gets caught on his claw, each time it clicks against the gold plating of his form, and his right eye aches.

“Have you ever dabbled in MEDITATING?”

It’s like a direct line to him, Bill promises, and the first time Ford crosses one leg over the other, he feels ridiculous. But he tries to concentrate. On the slow, deep, even in and out of his breath. His thoughts drift, but he snaps them back. Concentrates on concentrating on nothingness, at first. And then concentrates on his muse. It feels strange to allow his thoughts to linger on Bill, after he’s spent so long trying to do the exact opposite.

Soon enough, Bill is in front of him.

“See? I’m at your BECK and CALL!”

And so it goes. Ford will get stuck, and Bill will come whenever he beckons. He works to keep it from going to his head. From wondering what it means, how he could even begin to express it - Bill, for all intents and purposes, making himself available for any question or whimsy Ford may stumble upon. He works himself ragged, until he looks in a mirror and doesn’t see himself, hollow, dark eyes and scruffy face. It’s worth it, he tells himself, and splashes water on his face. Goes to the kitchen and makes another pot of coffee, and neglects the dishes that have sat collecting in the bottom of the sink for the better part of a week that has turned into a month.

It’s worth it.

Devotion, he thinks to himself, and then thinks of the colleges that rejected him. Those faceless judges who will droop and sag to see his definitive triumph.

But there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Sleep is simultaneously a waste and respite, and Ford feels sick to his stomach every time the telltale creep of exhaustion bleeds into his bones. He remembers feeling this way when he was young, watching the sun set on the beach with Stanley, a long summer’s day ended in equally long shades. They used to sit so close that their shadows would blur together, and Stan would talk about where they would go one day, and Ford would drift and dreamily contemplate far off shores and untold wonders.

Far off shores – the farthest he’s ever known – are now one final mystery away. Untold wonders have already been dropped heavy into his lap, and so many more await him. He doesn’t need Stanley – he never did. This thought has blossomed, intrusively, into his mind more than once, and he doesn’t know why, but he works harder than ever.

Ford is getting used to finding himself in the mindscape, with no recollection of going to sleep.

“You’re burning the candle at both ends,” Bill says, right before he makes his latest offer, and his hand becomes wreathed in cerulean flames.

You pick the time – and the place; though I guess the place is always gonna be your fleshy meat sack, huh!

Just let me into your MIND, Stanford! And he has shaken his hand.

No matter how he has endeavored to disguise it, there is some raw and fragile part of Ford. Delicate, beefy red strings of emotion that regrow over and over. That leave him vulnerable and exposed, whenever he slips up. As he reaches his hand out, Ford is reminded of this piece of himself. Let me in, Bill says, let me in. The blue, shivering flame feels like ice over his skin, sharp pins that dig down to his bones and make his every nerve ending tingle to life.

Ford says, until the end of time.

The time and the place, and what better time than now? His choice for the place is his study. Not the one where he spends his days writing, that Bill is already intimately familiar with. He chooses the one he has sequestered away, has been careful not to work in lest his muse come calling. The one that he has filled with various forgotten treasures and weavings. An altar of sorts, that he has done his best to keep obscured from its object of worship.

The room shifts back and forth, timed with the flickering of candles strewn across its various surfaces. Ford drops to his knees and is acutely aware of the scratchy itch of his jeans. Of the force his body exerts on his knees and feet, just by resting on them. It makes him think of pressure ulcers, how they can form in just two hours of immobility, of soft, damaged, pink flesh. He lights the last two candles before him, and shifts his weight from one knee to the other and back and sighs.

He closes his eyes, and the tiny flames of the candles morph into orange-yellow blobs across the backs of his eyelids. A deep breath in, on the count of one, two, three, four, five, and a slow breath out on the count of six, seven, eight, nine. And again. Paying attention to the swell of his ribcage like the rising of a tide. And out. Paying attention to the ebb of his lungs, the receding waves.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

And everything goes black.

Until he comes to again, and hears himself laughing. Ford can see, he can feel, but he can’t move, and panic thrashes wild in his stomach. His hands are moving. His right crouches like an insect around his neck, and he can feel the force of each fingertip along the column of his throat. And the left strokes up and down his stomach, beneath the bunched up layers of his shirt and vest.

“Stanford Pines,” he hears himself say. A shudder rolls along his spine, and something clicks in his mind. Bill. “That’s right. And I gotta say, this is not what I was expecting!”

Ford wishes he could swallow, he could fidget, he could pick at the fine fibers of his clothing, but there is no outlet for his nerves. His body – Bill – breathes in deep, without him.

“I’m flattered, Fordsy.” Bill looks around the room, his eyes stopping on each and every item, and Ford feels his body reacting. His only instinct is to hide, to curl into himself, but Bill arches his back and spreads his leg, and his hand drips down like honey to caress along the length straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Ford is a mess. He wants to hyperventilate, but Bill breathes evenly, huskily, and the thumb of his left hand flicks open his jeans. The fingers of his right hand tighten, pressing with expert precision against both carotid arteries, so he feels sick and lightheaded. Bill’s – his – left hand moves, slow at first, building to a frantic pace, and Ford finds himself unable to worry for the future.

When it’s over, Ford is thrust back in control, pearly white droplets hanging sticky from his fingers and stomach. He stares at his hand and wonders if he imagined it all. And then he’s watching himself again, unable to even grimace as he wipes his hand off on his good sweater.

“If you wanted to take this partnership to the next level,” he hears himself say, and his head is still swimming. “You could have just said something.”

The world collapses back in on itself like a dying star, Bill’s – his – voice a slim, glowing tether in the middle of pitch black that, without sound or fanfare, blips out of existence.

The thing about the world – or at very least, Ford’s perception of the world – blinking in and out again, is that it gives him no time to contemplate or compartmentalize anything that has happened. He jolts awake in his body, his mind still expecting the study, the candles, Bill’s hand-

Bill.

None of it is there. Lost time isn’t a concept he’s familiar with. Even if he may lose track of it, he doesn’t lose it. Studying, reading, sketching – all activities that have kept up him well into the small hours of the morning and sometimes beyond. But that time isn’t gone. He knows exactly where it went, what he was doing, even if he had, perhaps, gone a little overboard in the moment.

This is nothing like that. Fords wakes up in his living room, and the first thing that registers is a hot, painful tightness across his chest. He’s in his lounge chair, in just boxers and a thin undershirt. He looks down, hand already raised, fingers running over the white cloth, seeking out the strange irritant. His fingertips hit something damp and sticky and he frowns, wincing at the spark of pain his own touch inspires. There are random splotches where some liquid has seeped through the material of his shirt, yellowish and red tinged in some areas, all across his chest.

Ford lunges to his feet, and a book topples off his lap, landing with a soft thunk on the floor. Bewildered, he kneels down and carefully picks up the slim tome. It’s one of his journals, one of the few he hasn’t found occasion to use yet. But he turns it in his hand, and its spine is broken with tiny white hairline fractures that run up and down its length. He cracks it open, halfway expecting something to jump out at him, though he isn’t quite sure why.

This isn’t a cheesy horror movie, so of course, nothing emerges from its pages. Instead, he just sees page after page after page of equations and diagrams, all written in a singularly precise and unknown style. Bill, he thinks; this is his muse’s handwriting. It only takes four or five pages for the material to become unfamiliar, but he can already begin to see how everything slots together. He’s grinning heavily, too eager with the novelty to pay close attention to the information at the moment. His flipping through is put on pause when he catches sight of a very crudely drawn stick figure in one of the corners, with the succinct note thought I’d return the favor! scribbled next to it.

He laughs, which causes the, whatever-it-is on his chest to stretch and send fresh radiating waves of irritation scrambling along his nerve roots. It spurs him to set the book on the squat coffee table and proceed towards the bathroom. Ford looks around his house like he’s never been in it before. Bill has left all the lights on, and Ford notices with a frown, the refrigerator door open. He clicks them off, one by one, and closes the door, feeling almost as though he is cleaning up after an uninvited guest.

An unexpected breeze stirs his hair, its cool bite inspiring goosebumps to prickle out across his bare arms and legs. The chill makes a sharp contrast to the burning ache across his chest, and Ford’s not sure if it’s making things better or worse as he slams the window closed. It’s still dark outside, but he can see the faint purple and gold streaks of a sunrise on its way.

In the bathroom, Ford leans down and splashes water across his face, and then stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t… look any different. But he feels different. Misplaced, somehow. His hands rest on the porcelain edge of the sink and he leans his weight forward, shoulders hunching up. He sighs and drops his hands, and then lifts his shirt off. Lets off small hisses of breath as the fabric clings to damp spots on his chest, so that he has to peel it off of himself in agonizing slow motion.

Ford frowns as he exams the marks. Raw, bright pink splotches against his skin – some blistered, some just wet and open. Small puffs of white threads from his shirt stick like burs to their edges. They’re all shallow, superficial wounds, in strange globular patterns, and it isn’t until he spots a minutely raised oval of wax that he finally puts it all together. Bill poured candle wax on him.

He swings the mirror open, snatching some antiseptic out and beginning to liberally dab it over the burns. Now that he’s able to look closer, he can see that some of them are surrounded or scoured through with thick scratches – probably Bill trying to scrap the congealed wax off his skin. Ford isn’t at all sure what to make of this.

Curiosity is the simplest explanation. And according to someone or other’s razor, it is therefore the most likely. Ford, however, isn’t naïve; certain pictures come to mind when he thinks of hot wax dribbling down on skin, that send fresh waves of goosebumps cropping up over his body. It isn’t something he’s really given much thought to before, but apparently anything at all that involves Bill is capable of driving him to distraction.

Instinctively by this point, Ford redirects his thought process. He chides himself as inappropriate, just before he remembers what he woke into. His body kneeling in a candlelit room – a shrine – Bill speaking through his mouth, with his voice. And his hands, just the two of them, roaming over a scant section of his skin, each touch his own, familiar and yet newly electrifying. It’s still difficult to describe, even think about describing – the feeling of his body moving without his input, not quite an out of body experience. Not quite alone in his head.

Ford is quite alone now. A drop of water has been pooling quietly along the lip of the faucet, and it drips, a single syllable plop that disturbs him from his thoughts. He flicks off the light when he leaves but he leaves the door hanging open. Grabs the discarded journal from the living room and clicks the lamp once and twice and off. Descends to his study, where all the candles have burned low, become thick layered puddles with an ashy swipe of soot in their middle.

He sits at his desk. His fingers drum, uneasy, against the book’s smooth cover. For the first time in months (he tells himself), he wonders where Stanley is. And then he opens the journal, at the beginning, and starts to read.

#f!tag: GF #status!tag: WIP

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