#the entire fic is just about the couple working around the fact that ones ace

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Hey everyone.

Maybe some of you have noticed that my writing's been super sporadic since like June (if you haven't that's very okay) but I just wanted to write a little bit about what's been happening in my life because it's had a pretty big impact on my writing.

It turns out that I'm actually ace.

So, if you happen to notice an uptick in me writing fics with ace characters who still get to be loved, I'm just trying to process a thing.

Please feel free to skip the rest of this post if you're not interested in the harrowing journey of self discovery. I am absolutely giving too much information about my life, I'm just really working at processing everything and I'm hoping writing it out will help. And honestly, there have been some beautiful souls in the Tumblr community who have given me some beautiful encouragement (including but not limited to @basicallyahedgehog who answered an anon ask I sent them the other day with so much kindness and encouragement because I'd bawled my eyes out about one of their fics featuring ace Harry/Draco.).

(Anyway. If you want to read a ramble about all of the things I'm struggling with at the present moment, I'm gladly accepting advice and kindness at this time. Please read below the cut and chime in if you have anything hopeful to add.)

For most of my life I've pretty comfortably called myself a "picky bi" and in the past couple of years have labeled myself "demisexual" because I'm not sex repulsed; I've had sex, it was fine/good when it's with someone who I'm in love with. I moved on from the labeling, content with the label I'd given myself and whatnot.

It's been a minute (read: 8+ years) since I've been in a relationship that got to the point where I've considered having sex but I didn't really think all that much of it. In retrospect, I think this is largely because I've grown a lot in terms of self respect and honoring my own autonomy. Somewhere around 25, I started saying no when I didn't want something and if the other person didn't respect that decision they were not worth my time.

Anyway, it didn't really occur to me that perhaps going nearly a decade without thinking about/wanting to have sex with anyone (and without experiencing even vague aesthetic attraction to someone with only the odd exception here and there- some of you saw that post a couple of months ago, apparently just having the thought that someone is pretty isn't the same as attraction that allo people experience- so that panic now seems pretty unnecessary. It literally boggles my mind that people can just see a person they've never met and want to have sex with them. Anyway, I'm digressing.) Apparently, it's not a common occurrence even among demisexuals to go that long without thinking about sex if you have emotional intimacy with people (which I do). So fast forward to June when I went to a conference for lgbtqia christians and started listening to people talk about attraction.

To say that my experience of attraction and desire for sex is profoundly different than that of nearly all of the people that I talked to at that conference would be an understatement.

After that conference, I started talking to a lot of friends about their experience of attraction and their desire for sex (eventually this also included some new friends who are demi/ace) and have been a little flabbergasted by their responses. Suddenly, in light of the fact that my body doesn't interpret a lot of things the way that other peoples' seem to, a lot of things started to make sense.

I've been called a flirt (at best, and a [cock]tease in more unpleasant moments) my entire life because I always want to give people gentle physical affection; I love holding hands, touching people on the arm while we're having a conversation, playing with peoples' hair, hugging, leaning, the list is long- none of those things have ever felt like flirting to me. Every one of those actions was the end in itself, there was no artifice in my touches, no desire or even thought for more, but APPARENTLY that is not the thing that happens in a lot of peoples' bodies. It is incomprehensible to me that simple, affectionate touches are not something that everyone just wants to do to anyone that they harbor platonic affection for. This also applies to the way that I communicate with people. Again, I've been called a flirt, been told that I'm intense, been told that I'm trying to 'steal' peoples' boy/girl friends simply by being friends with them. APPARENTLY, showing "too much" interest in other peoples' lives and hobbies is flirting. APPARENTLY, getting really excited for people who are excited and doing cool things is flirting. Because (or so I have been told) the emotional energy I expend is too much to just be friends; surely, I have another angle.

Next, in terms of attraction, I experience attraction to beautiful things in nature in the same way that I experience it to people. If I'm being honest, nature makes my heart sing in a way that people usually don't. I can get caught up in the beauty of the world; the vastness of the ocean for literal hours, in the majesty of the mountains, the strength of trees, the way water carves a path through the rocks in glens and waterfalls. The world takes my breath away, it makes me weep just to exist in nature. Apparently, this in not everyone's experience of nature and apparently, many people who want to have sex don't think that trees, or bodies of water, or mountains have as much (or more, in my humble opinion) appeal than humans.

It's come to my attention that even the way that I have experienced heart break from relationships where I was "in love" and having sex is not the way that people typically experience heartbreak. All heart break feels the same to me; grieving leaving a job, grieving the death of a loved one, grieving horrible things that happen to my students, grieving the loss of friendships, and grieving the loss of a relationship feel like the same heart break. (Like some of those things hurt worse than others but the heart break over the loss of a relationship isn't worse.) One of my friends mentioned that I grieve the passing of summer into autumn (I fucking hate the winter) like the loss of a relationship and I wish I could say that she is wrong. I've been told my whole life that I experience my emotions too big and I just can't help but wonder if there is some sort of correlation there, but I digress.

The literal dream for my life is to have someone who wants to get in the car or on a plane and travel with me. Someone who I can make coffee for in the mornings and who wants to cook me dinner at night. Someone who wants to sit on the couch after a long day at work and talk about nothing, or watch a show, or just exist together. Someone who wants to dance with me in the kitchen, and hold my hand while we walk, who wants to smile at me while I ramble about nature. I want someone who wants to hold me when I cry, who wants to listen to me when I'm mad, someone who will remind me to take a break when I'm working too hard. The only thing that I actually want from a partner is just someone to do life with. It's not that I'm opposed to sex, it's just that it literally doesn't matter.

(So many things in past relationships, so many fights, so many of the reasons that I was left, so many things that I JUST DIDN'T UNDERSTAND make sense now. Or at least they're starting to.)

So. In the process of understanding this complete fuckery, of trying to put all of the pieces that haven't quite made sense in my life into order, in the end of July my best friend told me that she's in love with me.

And on the one hand, I'm fucking over the moon, delighted, honored, speechless, crazy-happy. She's literally the best person I have ever known, she's the kindest, sweetest, most loyal, loving, amazing human being to ever exist. She loves me so well, so completely, like all of the things that I said above that are my dream; that is her. We road trip together, and she lets me braid her hair, and we snuggle on the couch and watch movies, and we talk for hours (literally hours, when we road trip we go for 7-10 days at a time and I like do not shut the fuck up for more than like 5 minutes total the entire day and she loves me; loves listening to me talk about whatever is in my brain), and when I'm going on and on about how pretty things are in nature she looks at me like I'm the pretty thing (when I say, 'oh my gosh. that mountain, tree, lake, ocean, etc. is so beautiful.' she literally says 'you're so beautiful' and I am deceased, my heart can't take it, I can't fucking stop smiling- I don't even want to), and she lets me info dump about whatever I'm learning, and she loves my brain and my stupid adhd, and she plays me sappy love songs and sings them to me (and she sings in my car, sings to me even though she doesn't sing in front of people) and and and... she makes me feel like I'm good. She makes me feel like I'm all of the things that other people have said I'm not.

And I am constantly terrified of hurting her.

There are a variety of reasons we're not planning on having sex (partially because it's not really something that I want) that I'm not going to get into but I'm afraid of being what I've been to other people. I'm afraid of her feeling like I'm pushing her buttons because I just always want to be touching her (very platonically) like just having our shoulders bumping while we walk, or putting my head on her shoulder when we're on the couch, or letting our elbows press against one another while we're in the car. BUT what happens in our bodies when we're touching like that is really different. Like I described above, for me any type of touch is really the end goal in and of itself (if I'm braiding her hair, it's safe to assume that that is all I want to be doing. If I'm leaning against her on the couch, that too is what I'm wanting.) But that's not always how her body wants to interpret touch, even if she logically knows that I'm not intentionally teasing (she would never say that she feels like I'm trying to tease her, for the record, it's just the easiest way for me to articulate what it feels like could be happening).

And I love her so much, like so much; I'd do anything for her but it's not the same kind of love that she feels for me. By which I mean that she is just really gay and actively attracted to me emotionally/physically but for me if she started dating someone else, I'd be actually fine with that. If she was dating/having sex with someone I wouldn't be jealous, as long as we still get to be friends. (And maybe her dating would necessarily change the dynamic of our friendship and that would be really hard but that's a different mental exercise.) This isn't the way that she feels.

She is so special and important to me but even the way that we are aware of the other person's presence is different. For me, if I'm in a group of people and she's there, I'm aware of that on some level but it's not at the forefront of my mind. My brain is always sort of 'triaging' the people around me when they're my friends; who's being too quiet? who has been going through a rough patch with work/family, etc? who has an exciting new thing they need someone to squeal about with them? who hasn't been included in the conversation in too long? (see the paragraph above about flirting. haha.) She's there but she often isn't the first person I'm thinking about because I talk to her almost every day, I get to love her every day, and odds are good that we either drove together or will talk on the phone our way home from the event- I see the other people there less, so my brain just prioritizes them since I have less time to love them. (This is actually really good, healthy progress for me in terms of healthy attachment and not forming a codependent relationship. My therapist and I are really proud of the work I'm doing, but I'm digressing again.) For her, though, she always knows exactly where I am. It is work for her to pay attention to other conversations, work to be in a different room. In most situations, I am the person she defaults to thinking about and wanting to be near and she has to actively choose other things if she wants to. (And I don't mean to sound like an absolute asshole, it's not like I ignore her or anything, and I'm delighted for us to be in the same conversations, it's just a different way that we engage with the world.)

I love her so much. And I'm afraid of messing everything up. Of hurting her. Of asking too much of her without asking for anything at all. I try to let her be the one to initiate physical touch (or I ask first) because sometimes it's too hard on her body and that's fair. I feel frustrated with the different ways that we experience love for each other because the way that she loves me feels so good and safe to me and it makes me feel so happy. I'm afraid that the way that I love her doesn't feel as nice for her, that it feels less than, that the way I express my love and devotion isn't as good. I'm afraid that the way she loves me is going to wear her out. She always says she knows I love her just as much as she loves me, it's just different. She says she's okay, she says that the way I love her is good for her and she's happy. But it's hard to believe.

I'm afraid that she'll fall in love with someone else who can love her the way she loves and I won't matter to her anymore (partially because that's been my experience of people who have said they're in love with me). I'm afraid.

Is it even fair to entertain the idea of maybe having a whole life together? (we're already entertaining the ideas, already daydreaming about 'what if we lived together', where we're going on our next road trip, etc. And I'm terrified.) Is it asking her to give up too much? I would spend the rest of my life with her. I'd be good and kind to her, I would love her with so much tenderness. But is it enough? Am I enough with just the things that I have to give? Is it actually possible for someone to love me for just me and not for the ways that I could contort myself to be something I'm not?

I recognize the irony in what I'm asking. I know that that's what all of these hundreds of stories I've written here say, it's what I want to believe. But is it even possible when it's reality?

I don't know. Does anyone have any good advice? Any ace people out there living with a person who's in love with them? Does anyone have something that's lasted?

#please send help #c rambles #i'm ace and i'm having a hard time with it #genuinely- I do know this is way too much information #I won't blame anyone if no one reads all of this #but i'll love you forever if you reply with something that makes me feel a little less lost and terrified #ace

[twstbookclub]

Until I Met You

Summary: Trey didn’t think about White Day much. It was the day where he could give back to everyone who gave him something for Valentine’s Day. Well, that was until you came into the picture. POV: 2nd person Admin/Writer: Cressa 🦋 Pronouns: Gender Neutral Tags: Fluff, Romance, Slight Angst, Trey Clover my beloved, Holiday Romance (but how did it come to this), Mentions of Food (i.e. chocolate and pastries)

Word count: 1,782

Thank you for all of your love and support for the Idia fic I wrote 💕

Trey could smell the heavenly fragrance of chocolates and sweets in his family bakery when March rolled around.

His five-year-old self peered through the glass display case and looked at the couples and singles crowding the pâtisserie. One pair enjoyed a plate of strawberry shortcake together while a single person looked through all of the pastries before deciding on buying chocolate cupcakes. The rest milled about the area as they scrutinized the baked goods and savored the tart sweetness that came with them. His golden gaze drifted to his parents, who passed each other candied rose petals and a brief kiss before continuing with work.

He always wondered what was so special about March when February had Valentine’s Day.

Ten-year-old Trey watched one of the popular boys in his school give chocolates and gifts to anyone who gave him presents during Valentine’s Day. March has come again, and Trey has a small bag of goodies from the bakery himself. It took five years for Trey to understand why the pâtisserie was always crowded during the third month of the year: White Day. A day dedicated to giving back gifts, whether with romantic or platonic intention.

Surprisingly (to him at least), he received some chocolates from his class. Growing up as the oldest brother in the family, Trey felt it would be irresponsible to ignore White Day and return their kindness with nothing. So, the green-haired child went on his way to celebrate White Day only a child like him would know how.

Eighteen-year-old Trey Clover stared at the handcrafted chocolates in the mold. The smell of freshly made chocolate permeated the air of the Heartslabyul kitchen that no one could mistake it for anything else. All he could see and smell were the chocolates he baked for the Ramshackle Prefect.

Trey’s eyes darted towards the chilled, gift-wrapped chocolates he made for his friends yesterday. He made sure to make dark chocolate for Cater since he disliked sweets. Riddle’s strawberry tarts were stashed away in Trey’s room, just in case another incident of tart thievery would happen. Now that would ruin White Day for everyone.

Trey didn’t know when his crush for the magicless prefect began and where it ended. Would he take the plunge of asking you on a date? Would he take a step back and continue admiring you from afar? Considering how you were surrounded by other people who Trey was certain held affection for you, he felt like it would be a one-in-a-million chance that you would say yes to him. Much less return his feelings.

There’s also the fact that you’re from a world entirely different from his reality. The moment Crowley finds a way home for you, Trey knew you’d take the chance in a heartbeat. With how much you talked about your friends and family from where you came, the same way he told stories about his own family, Trey would have no choice but to say goodbye to you.

“Easy there, tiger,” Trey sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Give the chocolates, then think about asking them out before you have a midlife crisis.”

“Huh? That’s what you’re going for?” Ace’s voice echoed in Trey’s mind as he put the finishing touches and arranged the chocolates in a white box wrapped with a ribbon in your favorite color.

He could imagine Ace sneering at the cheesy gesture, Deuce asking him who the chocolates are for, and Cater wanting to know about the juicy details of the lucky individual who caught Trey’s attention. Knowing Riddle, he wouldn’t pry, but he would offer some advice if Trey wanted it. The Heartslabyul vice housewarden doubts that Riddle knew anything about romance, even if the latter read all of the books in the world.

Tucking away the chocolates in the fridge, Trey hoped that he could give you his gift without a problem. White Day had always been uneventful for him. If things went well tomorrow, then Trey could ask you out on a date without any worries. The thought gave him some confidence before he called it a night.

Come White Day, and Trey Clover—Riddle's reliable and responsible right-hand man, big brother to all Heartslabyul students, who’s composed under any circumstance—willed himself not to run around like a headless chicken in search of you.

It’s as if some higher power prevented him from running into you and vice versa. The Heartslabyul third year hasn’t seen you all day, and his courage began to fade bit by bit. He fidgeted with his glasses in the guise of fixing them. His palms are sweaty. His eyes scanned the courtyard as if you’d pop up at random. He struggled to breathe due to the lump in his throat.

Trey couldn’t remember a time he had been this nervous before. Maybe because Trey couldn’t stop thinking about you whose smile could rival the intensity and beauty of the sun, whose determination in helping anyone captivated him, whose kindness could be seen in the gentle way you pet one of the hedgehogs in the rose garden before an Unbirthday party. Maybe because this is the first time he wanted to be by someone’s side—yours—every single day.

Even if it meant that same person would leave him to return home one day.

“Where are you…?” Trey sighed, sitting down on one of the stone benches with a groan. “Classes are done, so they might be studying in the library or they went back to Ramshackle Dorm.”

An image of Grim, Ace, and Deuce flashed in his mind which made Trey chuckle. “On second thought, those three would drag them around anywhere. It’s not easy looking after those troublemakers.”

“I came by to say hi, but now I’m afraid to ask what you’re talking about, Trey.”

If Trey had been any other man, he’d have been a flustered mess and doubled over at the coincidence. You stood in front of him with a nervous smile and a hand half-heartedly raised in a wave. Your hair stuck out every which way. Your tie was loose, fighting for its life to stay on your collar. Creases littered your uniform coat as if you had worn it in a rush. In short, you looked like you've been struck by a tornado and barely made it out alive.

Trey couldn't help but think you were still gorgeous like this.

He felt his lips curve into a smile. He called your name in a soft and gentle tone, with an underlying passion even Trey didn't know he was capable of.

"Hey there. Why don't you take a seat? You could use the rest from whatever you're up to."

"You have no idea," you grinned, plopping yourself next to him. You're so close that Trey could feel your warmth radiate through his own coat. Your knee brushed with his, and you still faintly smelled like roses despite looking dead on your feet. Trey recognized that it was the expensive perfume Riddle and the others bought for you in the last Unbirthday party.

"Sam had a special White Day sale, and it got really crowded around the shop. I lost Ace and Deuce and Grim, so… here I am."

Trey took back whatever he said about the higher power. They literally gave him a chance to confess without anyone ruining it right now.

"Then I'm lucky I was around the area," Trey hummed. The smile you shot him afterwards said more than any words could. Without even thinking, he took out your chocolates from his book bag and handed it over to you.

If the situation wasn't so serious, Trey would've laughed at how cute you looked. Your eyes grew wide and your lips slightly parted. He swore there was a hint of a blush on your cheeks, but with the setting sun casting an ethereal light on you, Trey couldn't tell. All he could focus on was how adorable you are.

"It's for White Day. As thanks for the chocolate you gave me on Valentine's."

"Oh w-wow, um, I—" Oh Seven, you're so cute. "—I didn't think you'd remember that after a month, Trey."

How could I? I've been waiting for yours since the sun was up and I couldn't sleep after, Trey thought. Although, he'll bring this secret to the grave.

You cleared your throat and gingerly took the box from Trey after a bit of nudging from him. He watched you hold the box as if it was a diamond. Your fingers ghosted the fabric of the ribbon before untying it to unveil the chocolate within.

"... You remembered."

"You said you missed having them from your home before," Trey fiddled with his glasses again. "So I tried to recreate them based on your description."

Anyone who'd look at your favorite chocolates in your hands would just see the chocolate. For you, though? You see your family and friends in them. Back home, you'd buy this type of chocolate whenever you had the chance and share them with loved ones on occasion. He heard you sniffle, but kept quiet when you faked a cough.

"This means a lot to me. I…" Your lips quivered a little as you tied the ribbon around the box again. "I love them. Thanks, Trey."

The third year student couldn't help himself. Everything just felt right.

"I like you," Trey blurted out. He didn't give you—stunned and speechless—a chance to reply as he continued, "I don't know when and how. I don't think I ever gave it much thought. I just know I've never felt like this for anyone else."

The sun has long since kissed the earth. Twilight dawned on the pair underneath a tree, hiding the intimate moment from any onlookers and passersby. Stray leaves danced in the air as a spring breeze rustled your hair, making it more of a mess than earlier. You kept looking at him with wide eyes and your hands clutching the box.

At this point, Trey could care less if anyone else passed by. All he cared about was you.

"I could be with you for just one day, and I won't regret it."

You didn't say anything, but the moment he caught you in his arms when you hugged him, Trey knew he'd cherish every day with you. He wrapped his arms around you tighter. He tucked your head in the crook of his neck as he buried a hand in your hair. Stray strands tickled his cheek when he leaned on your head. Trey felt your smile the more you snuggled into his shoulder.

The uncertainty of the future be damned. He just wanted to be with you.

#twst #twst x reader #trey x reader #trey clover x reader #trey x you #trey x yuu #heartslabyul x reader #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst wonderland #twst fluff #twst trey #trey clover #fluff #romance #slight angst #it was supposed to be a holiday romance #trey clover my beloved #mischievous trey takes a backseat #if trey was real i'd pick him any day #ace trappola #deuce spade #cater diamond #riddle rosehearts #twst ace #twst deuce #twst cater #twst riddle #CressaWrites🦋

[space-blue]

20 questions for fic writers

I was tagged by @pinkytoothlesso11 Thank you! This is a long one, but very interesting well rounded questions for fic writers. I'll tag: @spicedrobot @skierunner @ashcroft-writes @kitepiper @calyxgold @ceruleanphoenix7 -- Not obligated to do this, just thought it may be fun!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

165

2. What's your total A03 word count?

664,619 words

3. What fandom's do you write for?

Star Wars (75+), Arcane (46), Original works (13), Avatar (12), Elden Ring (5), a couple "fairytale" fandoms (red riding hood retellings), and then a bunch of single works. I'm kinda spicy over the fact I have a single work in Hannibal, when it was me uploading a story a day for my first Nano. Ended up doing it all in one work to not have 30 stories, but I should have made a series. Many readers never made it to the end of that fic due to the absence of structure and--- I'm rambling.... (It should really say Hannibal (30))

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Fathers and Daughters

Never Too Late

Then the dreadful night shall break

Five is an awful number

While the world turns around

2 star wars fics, 2 arcane and 1 avatar? It's a good representation of my work!

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always, unless they're turbo dumb and I'm at a loss for words... Or they somehow slip past me.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Eeeh, tough one! I like angst... There's an entire series I completed over the course of a month. The idea came from a redditor who made a collection for it : we had to kill the same character in a different manner every month. 12 death fics... For Obi-Wan Kenobi. I think the more gruesome one is Unhappy Landing. Mind the tags.

But I think it's on equal footing with the Arcane fic Whatever I Do, This Is Where We End which focused on a Silco/Vander timeloop, where Silco was the one in the loop, but Vander was the POV character the entire time. No happy ending and many, many deaths which grow increasingly meaningless.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I have a lot of those so not sure... But narrative wise, I think it's Never Too Late, which is reflected in its stats. It's about Obi-Wan reaching out to Dooku after QGJ's death. It's emotional and basically guarantees Anakin will have a bright future in better care. I have sooo many comments asking for more on it, almost as many as on my fallen Kenobi fic.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not really.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Sometimes... When some disease breaks down my immune defenses... It's not very good though. I'm the wrong kind of ace for it.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I have, as a gimmick, like Arcane characters in a Star Wars setting... But I never think of it, and I basically never read crossovers. They're not my thing.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of. It has happened to my art though.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, though nobody ever rode the length of the work with me ahah!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, multiple times! That's stuff I really enjoy! I've done a Thrawn/Cad Bane with Spicedrobot, and an infamously hated Codywan fic with CollisionTheory... both featuring smut! I also did projects like 3 writers doing different entries within an overarching story (when i tried to wrangle friends into the kill your darlings all year scheme). Collabs are very fun, I especially like working with artists. If you want to work on something hit me up!

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Vander/Silco, maybe, but Hannigram is breathing down my neck...

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Oh no... too many to count. I guess my first fic ever, The Tactician. I went on a never ending 'this is just a side thing because I'm in a rut' spiral, and now I have 165 fics. IIRC I have about 24 WIPs on AO3.

PLEASE DON'T HURT ME I'M TRYIN OKK??

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and banter.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Smut and romance, and also sometimes killing my darlings (not characters, but pieces of heavy lore my betas are trying to rip from my sticky fingers because they don't care).

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I have done it only in fake alien languages, never received any praise for it, don't plan on doing it again. Real life language... eeeh not unless I have a really good reason for it somehow.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. Thrawn... the Original blue daddy!

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

It would have to be my magnum opus, Fathers and Daughters. Not just because I think it's the pinnacle of my worst brainrot ever, but also because I'm forever impressed with myself for holding on that long. Sometimes I re-read it and can't remember writing half of it. I've made myself snicker at my own jokes, so I think I've done a good job of it!

But in my heart of hearts, there's one chapter of that long series of Hannibal ficlet which somehow is one of the pieces of writing I'm smugest about. I just think it's so neat... It's called To Visit Her, it's 222 words, and depicts Hannibal's mind palace, and its innermost chamber. I genuinely think I peaked years ago with some of those ficlets x'D

#fanfic #ao3 #tag game #fanfic tag game #writer #star wars #arcane #hannibal #avatar #long post #text post

[spookberry]

Why is it whenever i see a fanfic where one of the characters is tagged as asexual (but not like a Side Character, like the fic has to be about the one with the tag) the fic is unquestionably gonna be about fucking. I've only seen the ace tag on a good ship fic without any fuckin in it like.... once (it was a mermaid au klance fic)

#this is specifically in regards to fics about ships #like i get my hopes up cuz wow this character i love in a relationship and also asexual thats so cool i love that! #and then bam #the entire fic is just about the couple working around the fact that ones ace #like cool glad yall having fun but i would like to see not that #i want the pure pleasant surprise of fishy business again #where they kiss and thats it #and they spend the whole god damn fic NOT kissing on top of that like hell yeah

[t-o-m-hollands]

Summary: It’s the late summer of 2004. You are set to travel across the country for university and your best friend Tom is staying behind. You spend your last night together before you leave. 

Themes: Friends to lovers, love confessions, first love. 

Warnings: Drinking beer. One mention of smoking weed. Mentions of parents fighting and also implied neglectful parents. Smut (+18), two spanks?? otherwise pretty tame.  

Word count: 3,4 k

Notes: I don’t know, this might be a bit different? Or it might just feel that way to me. It’s very reminiscent of teenage years and first love and nostalgia. Please let me know your thoughts, I’m genuinely not sure what to think about this one. 

Massive thank you to @augustholland​ who read through it and very kindly reassured me that it wasn’t bad 💖

Also, this fic was inspired by the Phoebe Bridgers song. I’ve never actually listened to it but it keeps showing up in my recommendation and i like the title of it so this is what i imagine that song is about. Mostly I listened to Harry Styles - Fine Line while writing this.

You finish up early that afternoon. Wayne, your old boss, tries not to cry as he hugs you goodbye. He tells you to take care in a gravelly voice close to breaking, as he avoids looking at you. It’s your last shift in the greasy bar, where for the last two years you’ve been selling cheap beer and watered down whiskey to weary old men and rowdy students who come in for a game of pool. It hasn’t paid much, just a few pounds an hour; just enough so that on each thursday you and Tom have enough money for movie tickets at the local cinema. It’s your tradition. Like a religious man goes to church each sunday; you spend your thursday nights with Tom’s arm slung around your shoulders, watching whatever new film they have on, sharing a bowl of popcorn between you. Afterwards you'll have burgers at the fast food joint across the street; talking about the movie long into the night, sharing a bag of fries. 

When you were younger and hadn’t been able to afford to pay Tom had sneaked you both into the cinema anyway.  Your hand in his, he had led the way into the movie theatre when no one was looking. Sitting in the back row he’d sneak you Fruit Polos to snack on, his arm slung around your shoulders, as you watched movies you were way too young for.

Last week was your final movie screening; some light-hearted American comedy, and the entire way through it you fought the lump in your throat, forcing yourself not to cry. Tom hadn’t laughed either; had just held you closer than usual. 

Tomorrow you are set to leave the small seaside town behind you, the place where you have spent most of your life, for a drive all across the country; to start university in a city you’ve only visited once before. You’re not sure when you’ll return.

Thus lately everything has been laced with goodbyes; childhood having reached its end.

Just two days ago there had been the last bonfire where you had watched the Holland boys fight each other while playing football as his parents looked on and laughed, grilling sausages over the open fire. 

It was on the same rocky beach where you have spent many summer days; grilling food on the open fire and throwing back cheap beer with your friends from school. You have scraped your knees on these rocks, burned your skin from both the bonfire and the sun there; have had your heart broken over and over and over again during your school years as you watched Tom kiss whatever girl he was dating at the time by the fire during summer night parties.

Maybe you had broken his heart a few times as well. 

As the afternoon light turns everything golden you drive through the main street in the small town where  everyone knows everybody, and has done for generations. You watch the people as you drive them by. You know everyone’s name, know each crack in the pavement; can find your way home in the dark. 

God knows how many shoes you’ve worn out over the years walking down these streets. 

The radio plays a blink-182 song you know by heart as you follow the road out of the city, through the woods and up to the coast. At the end of a muddy track, on the border to the forest, stands a shabby old caravan. It faces the beach and above the door christmas lights are lit up all year round. 

The Holland family legend says that Tom’s great uncle had won the small patch of land in a bet. Unable to build a large house he had bought a caravan and put it on the lot. The old man had lived in the Shed for the rest of his lifetime, before passing it on to Tom; the youngster of the family, his younger brothers having yet to be born. When he had turned seventeen he moved out of his parents larger, more comfortable house, and into the Shed. His mother had agreed on it on the condition he took on the apprenticeship to become a carpenter that he had been offered. 

You remember when he had told you of his decided future, one late evening as you sat on the driftwood by the beach, smoking weed and watching the sun set over the horizon. It had felt right somehow, you had been able to  imagine him working with his hands, skillfully forming and bending wood to his will; his long and slender fingers knowing just how to fix things. Tom has always been good at mending things. It had been three years now and he was a full time employee at the JBT Carpentry Services. He says it doesn’t pay much, but he’s happy; and that's all that matters.

As you park the car outside the Shed Tom comes out. Standing under the colorful christmas lights he grins widely as he sees you, his eyes crinkling at the sides. The most genuine smile you know. He’s tanned from a summer spent on the beach, his hair a wavy mess; as if he’d just woken up from sleep. It’s a warm august day and the world seems sunbleached somehow; but in the afternoon light Tom looks golden. 

You are painfully aware that it is the last time you’ll see him like this for many months to come.

Walking up to him and he gives you a bear-hug; his warm, hard body pressed against yours, holding onto you tightly. With your face in the crook of his neck you breathe him in and discover that a faint trace of bonfire smoke still lingers on his skin. It all feels achingly familiar and safe. So heartrendingly unlike the uncertain life at university that lies in front of you.

Tom is your safe place.

Your parents had always fought like cat and dog and sometimes when you were younger and  they’d argue you’d climb through your window and walk all the way over to the Holland household. You were always welcomed there and his parents didn’t ask any questions, no matter how late the hour; instead they fed you, treating you like a member of the family around the dining table with gentle teasing and reminders of homework that needed to be done, letting you sleep over when needed. No questions asked. 

With the years the fighting at home got worse. When Tom fixed himself a beat-up old Land Rover and moved out to the Shed you’d call him from the payphone down the road. He’d always answer, telling you to pack up; and that he was on his way. He’d pick you up by the end of the street, a duffle bag with schoolbooks and a change of clothes slung over your shoulder. He’d take you back to his place to sleep. His caravan only had one bed, so you used to curl up next to each other in bed. On the nights when you were crying he’d hold you, and in the morning he’d make you breakfast before you both went off to school. 

Your parents never noticed your temporary absence. 

Tom lets go of the hug, but with an arm around your waist he leads you into his home. There’s a lingering scent of fried food in the air and the boombox is playing the 3 Doors down CD he’s been obsessed with since you bought it for his birthday. You tread the cherry wood veneered flooring with your battered tennis shoes, feeling more at home here than anywhere else on earth.

 “Fancy a beer?” Tom asks, leading the way to the kitchen area. “Warn you though, it's warm. Just got back from the store so they haven’t had time to cool”.

Everything is warm today, and the caravan is no exception. The ancient AC had given in years ago and Tom could never afford having it fixed. You heave yourself up on the countertop, replying a simple “sure” to his question. 

He opens a Stella and hands it to you. He isn’t wrong, the beer is tepid. Yet you drown half the bottle in one big swig; happy just to have something to do with your hands when he’s standing so close to you. Gulping down on the liquid and you cannot help but notice Tom’s eyes on your throat as you swallow. He opens a bottle for himself and takes a swig. 

You smile at the ancient gray t-shirt he’s wearing. At one point there had been a band logo on it, but it has long since been washed out. He notices you smiling at him and as if it's infectious a smile broadens on his face as well. “What?” he asks, leaning against the small counter across from you.

“Nothing” you say, smiling wider. “Just wondered how many times I’ve seen you in that shirt. I mean, it has to be near a couple of thousand times by now”.

“You don't exactly love buying new clothes either” he says, a teasing smile playing at his lips as he looks at your washed out jeans shorts. “I know for a fact that those aren’t new, darling”. His eyes linger on your legs for a moment too long before he looks away, taking a swig from his beer. 

“So, when are you leaving?” He asks, and you can tell that he’s trying to sound relaxed, but leaned against the countertop, his arms crossed in front of him, head bowed; holding onto the bottle of Stella he’s nursing with a tight grip. He looks tense and on edge. 

“Tomorrow morning”

He takes a swig from his beer. There’s nothing more to say, not really. Everything that happens now is just aftermath; you might as well have already left. 

“I’m nervous” you admit, biting your lip, trying hard not to et out the tears you’ve been holding in for days now; embarrassed that your voice trembles on the last word. 

His head snaps up to look at you. Pushing off the counter he takes a step forward, placing himself in between your legs. 

“Hey” he says, with a voice a low and gentle as a whisper, his hand cupping your cheek. You look up at him; long dark eyelashes framing his beautiful brown eyes, his thin lips slightly parted and across his nose freckles are spread out, the result from a summer spent in the sun. His calloused hand strokes your cheek. “You’re going to take them by storm, Pebbles”.

You smile, despite your fluttering heart. He hasn’t called you Pebbles for a long time. It had been his nickname for you when you first became friends, the reason behind it long forgotten. He was the only one to ever call you it, and the name had lingered long into your late teenage years. 

“You took me by storm,” he admits. 

You blink up at him through wet eyelashes. Your family had moved to the town when you were ten years old. This was the kind of small town that strangers seldom came to and inhabitants rarely left; and so the new addition to the small local school had everyone talking. You had felt like an astronaut shuffled into space on your first day, trying to find gravity in the unfamiliar school corridors. You had felt the pull of gravity in form of the brown-eyed boy sitting next to you in english class. He had given you a warm smile as you sat down next to him. He had made you his friend, listened to you and confided in you; had made you laugh until your stomach ached. You found further gravity in his home; surrounded by his family and their endless squabbles and laughter, sitting next to Tom at the dinner table.

It hadn’t taken long before you and Tom were an inseparable item; your names always linked to one another in the mouths of others. 

“You’ve worked so hard for this scholarship” he says, and the corners of his mouth tugs up into a smile, “I mean, I’m pretty certain you’re the only reason I even finished school”.

You had helped him write most of his essays at school. He’d struggled with reading a lot and found the assigned novels difficult. There were evenings where you’d spend hours laying on the bed; twisting the phone cord between your fingers, as you read the books out loud for him. 

Sometimes, in order to be left alone from his parents and younger brothers, he’d walk down to the end of the street and to the payphone there, where he’d spend all his pennies listening to you reading. You had talked and talked until your voice got hoarse; until he ran out of pennies. Yet when he hung up you always felt a tug of longing in your chest, knowing you wouldn’t be able to see him until the next day in school. 

“Well,  I heard you’re doing pretty good as a carpenter” you say, smiling up at him. “I always knew you’d be good with your hands”. 

As soon as you’ve said it you can feel your face heat up. You had heard the rumours at school; Tom Holland is a stellar fuck. Once, while you were in the bathroom stall, you had heard a gang of girls discuss it as they reapplied their lipgloss in the mirror. One of them told the story of her one night stand with Tom, how he had made her come several times over with his hands and mouth; how he’d fucked her so long and so good. You had stood in the stall, your heart in your throat; feeling sick to your stomach, but unable to stop listening.

There were girls that reached out to you in school, knowing you were Tom’s closest friend, and asked you in hushed but awed voices if it was true. If he really that good in bed.

He looks you dead in the eye, an unusual seriousness to his warm eyes. He knows what you’re thinking, knows what thoughts have made your cheeks flush with colour. Letting go of your cheek he places his arms on either side of you on the counter; caging you in. 

“There’s never been anyone but you, Pebbles. Not really.” His tone is heavy with meaning and you feel light-headed; both oddly detached from your own body and painfully aware of the closeness of his. Your heart is beating hard in your chest. 

This is a line you’ve never crossed before. 

“I know I’m ruining everything by saying this, but you’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve been walking around with this secret lodged in my chest like a bullet since i was ten years old; I love you, Pebbles. I’ve always have”.

You should speak. You should tell him that you’ve known for a long time how he’s felt. That it’s been evident in the way his eyes keep lingering on your legs, in the way his arm usually finds its way to rest around your waist. In the way he’s always been there for you. You should tell him that you understand why he hasn’t been able to voice his feelings for you; because you haven’t done it either. Too scared of losing him. But your breath has caught in your throat and all you can focus on is those caramel eyes on you, and how hard your heart is beating in your chest.

“I love you too” you say, voice hardly louder than a whisper. You swear there was music coming from the boom box but all you can hear is the blood rushing through your body. 

He kisses you.

He takes your mouth slowly, kissing you thoroughly until you can’t think straight; can’t remember any other kiss than his. Then his lips move over yours with more fervour; more urgency, one hand around your throat and the other tangled in your hair. He kisses you until you're both moaning and gasping for more. 

This is it. You’ve crossed the invisible line between friends and lovers; and there is no return, no going back from here. When you leave tomorrow you will leave knowing what his mouth feels like pressed against your.

You dig your hands into his soft hair, runs them both up his chest, realising that this is what your hands were made for. He lifts you off the counter and you wrap your legs around his waist. He moves you both across the caravan and into the bedroom. It’s baking hot in there and you can already feel sweat forming at the low end of your back. The room, just big enough for a bed to fit, is lit up with sunlight. His bed is a mess of rumpled white sheets and the walls are the same cherry wood colour as the rest of the caravan. 

You kiss and lick his jaw, his neck, his throat; anywhere you can reach you stroke him. You tug at his hair, kiss his soft lips, and nib at his ear. It’s like the gates have been opened, because even though his arm has always been a comforting presence around your waist; and even though you’ve slept in the same bed more times than you can count, his body curled up next to yours, forming himself like a question mark around your body; he’s never been yours to touch before. Not like this.

His breathing is accelerated, his chest rising and falling in rapid speed, and so is yours. There’s a heat to his eyes that tells you he’s just as turned on as you are. You pull at his shirt before he’s even laid you down on the bed; impatiently craving all his warm, suntanned skin pressed against yours. It’s an almost feverish frenzy, and in the back of your mind you know that you should take this slow. You don’t want this to end too soon, because this might be all you get. But the sun hasn’t even set yet and through the old white-washed curtains you helped put up and light shines through, bathing you both sunshine. 

Outside the waves keep crashing against the shore and in the kitchen his boombox keeps playing songs you’ve heard a million times before. It is like it always has been at Tom’s, except that for laying on his sofa and talking he’s removing your clothes; kissing his way down your body. Wet, opened mouth kisses that leave a trail of heat in its wake that have you bucking your hips up for more. His hands are everywhere, exploring your legs. He’s looking at your skin with wide-eyes adoration. With his body in between your wide spread legs he kisses the soft inside of your thighs. 

“So soft” he groans against your skin, “and so sweet”.

You feel overheated and breathless; aching all over from wanting him. Perched up on your elbows you observe him; his dark hair brushing against the low of your stomach as he kisses the tender skin of your hip bone. He bares his teeth and bites the sensitive flesh. 

His hand cups your cunt. You’re wet and aching and as you presses his thumb to your clit, gently but steadily moving up and down, you feel like you’re going to combust. His strokes are soft at first, before speeding up, making you moan wantonly, spreading your legs wider for him.

“Glad you like that,” he says, a satisfied smile spreading on his face. “Do my fingers feel good on you, darling?”

All you can do is moan in response, arching and moving your hips up to meet his hand. His movements are fast and slippery and it doesn’t take long until your close, so close, so close; on the brink of tipping over and then - 

A sharp slap on your pussy, leaving a stinging bite, and it is like the world splits into two. 

“God” you moan, voice hoarse. You’re shuddering all over; moanes falling freely from your lips. 

He looks up at you from his position in between your legs, his dark eyes sparkling. He kisses the soft inside of your thighs again. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you here?” he asks. “I bet you do, torturing me for fun in those short jeans shorts”. He spanks your pussy again and you couldn’t have stopped the moan falling from your lips even if you tried. “How long I’ve wanted to taste you here?”. And he places a hot kiss on your wet slit. You can feel his soft hair pressed against your thighs; his warm breath against your skin.

His lips part and he covers you with his mouth, his tongue moving over your opening; touching you, stroking you, tasting you. A guttural moan leaves him. He looks up at you through tassels of hair, caramel eyes glued to your face.

You fall back against the mattress, “more” you demand, in a voice that sounds a lot like begging. “Please, more”.

It is as if he’s been unleashed. You have never felt anything like it, but he laps you up, tastes you; his fingers moving inside you; pressing against the place that has you seeing stars. You can’t even look at him now, you’re eyes shut; too overwhelmed by the stimulation. Both aching for more but not sure if your body can handle that kind of pleasure. Your thighs are shaking, and something in your stomach grows tighter and tighter by each flick of his tongue against your clit.

“I’m coming” you cry out breathlessly “fuck I’m coming”

And you do. Hard. He keeps kissing and touching you through it; both grounding you and dragging out the intense sensation. 

His hands, now familiar with your thighs, make their way up to the soft swell of your breasts, as you struggle to regain your breath. He’s cupping them in his hands, pinching your nipples in between his fingers, kissing them with ferveor. Hungry hands move over your breasts, your stomach, your face; cupping it so that he can kiss you with the sort of yearning that comes from years of unanswered desire. 

Your hands move over his body as well, moving over his abdomen chest and arms, defined from long hours of hard work. You kiss his throat and collarbones, kissing at the skin; licking, sucking and biting until you hear guttural moans coming from his throat. His lips are slightly parted, and his glossy dark eyes are fixed on your face; his fingers loosely tangled in your hair. 

He presses you down onto the mattress again, until he’s face to face; his arms on each side of your face, holding himself over you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse, panting slightly. 

“I want this” you answer him, voice low but clear, “I really, really want this Tom”

He smiles, breathing out the breath he’d been holding and moves away from you, reaching for the side of his bed and to take out a condom from the drawer. 

He places a quick kiss to your lips, your cheek, your belly button, before he sits up. He removes his underwear and you can feel your face heat up again. Because this is Tom, your Tom, whom you’ve been in love with for half your life. But being with him, both naked as the day you were born, feels right. You know everything about this man, all his preferences and secrets; his favourite movie and how he likes his food and why he skipped class every day for a month in year nine. And he knows everything about you. It feels right that he should know this as well; know each curve of your body and the way you like to be kissed and what has you moaning and begging for more. 

He unwraps the foil package and puts the condom on with firm fingers. Leaning over you again he lines up against your opening. His eyes glossy with lust, damp hair falling over his face; his mouth swollen and wet from kissing you.

Then with a sharp thrust and a groan he’s inside you. 

All coherent thoughts go out the window as he starts moving in and out of you. The only thing that exists is his strong, sweaty body above you, moving in and out of you with slow, deep thrusts. He’s so hard where you are soft and you can’t stop touching him, dragging your fingers over his back, pulling at his hair, kissing his arms. It’s like the wires in your brain have crossed, sending out sparks of pure pleasure in your body. 

He hits a particularly tender spot inside you and the groan that leaves you is almost animalistic.

Tom nearly halters in his pace, before collecting himself again. “Fuck” he moans out, kissing your neck. His movements become more frenzied and you roll your hips under him, meeting his movements; trying to get him deeper inside you. 

He pushes himself up onto his hands, pulls back slightly; and pushes in. Starting to really fuck you. 

You can’t stop looking up at him; naked body damp with sweat, muscles moving as he works; arms flexed and cheeks flushed. His eyes are closed pleasure now. Your hands are on his hips helping him set the pace as he fucks into you with fast, hard thrusts. Without warning you clutch around him in pleasure and he groans loudly.

“How the fuck does your cunt feel better than it tastes?” he asks, panting for air. “

He presses a hand over your heart, letting it rest there. You wonder if he can feel it pounding for him. You feel like you’re dissolving into a thousand tiny pieces as you come around him with a choked scream. 

He’s so close and you can practically feel it; aching for him to have it. You want him to come; in you, on you, over you. 

And then he does, his brows furrows; like the pleasure is so intense it hurts him. The sounds he makes when he comes are guttural; almost whimpering. 

As he falls down on the bed beside you he pulls you close, has you pressed against his body, an arm firmly wrapped around you. The sun has set now, but the ocean waves still crash onto the shore, the sound of it the only thing to fill the silence part from your laboured breathing; the music having gone quiet in the other room. 

Neither one of you say anything. You knew the end to this when he kissed you. You’ve regretted nothing that has happened here, and you know that he doesn’t either; but tomorrow you are leaving to drive all the way across the country and he cannot follow. You don’t know what will happen now, and he doesn't have the answer to that either. And so you just let him hold you; wishing with all your might that you could stop the morning from coming.

***

Please let me know your thoughts, genuinely don’t know what to make of this one. 

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfic

[adorethedistance]

Party Hard - Owen Joyner x Reader

JATP masterlist

Warnings: drinking, partying, intoxication, non sexual stripping, swearing probably, 

Words: 6343 (which, if you know me, is a FUCK ton)

Summary: Going from tipsy to full on drunk is a terrible idea, but especially when you’ve got a secret to hide that could mean the difference between preserving and ruining your relationship with your best friend.

A/N: A couple items before we get started: I think I’m back on my bullshit? I mean I wrote this fic and it’s three times the length of my normal fics. Also I wrote this headassery as a literal self insert me(ace) x someone and so there are a couple flaws here and there that make this something I’m not 100% proud of. Owen picks the reader up a few times and I’m aware this kind of thing can really effect someone’s experience with this fic so I do apologize for the lack of inclusivity in regards to body type/ableism. I’m falling really behind on school work because I just can’t find the motivation which either means y’all will be seeing a lot more of me soon or absolutely nothing at all. Not sure which yet.

“You’ve got it so bad.” Charlie rests his left arm on his best friend’s shoulder, tipping back the half-full angry orchard bottle he’d been nursing for the better half of an hour. Owen’s stare is immediately broken and he crosses his arms defensively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Turning to meet his friend’s smug stare, Owen shoots Charlie a glare of annoyance before returning his attention to the girl on the dance floor. Surrounded by a gaggle of her closest friends, Y/n is dancing and singing her heart out to Fergalicious with Chelsea, Leila, Savannah, and Carolynn. The bunch of them share in sporadic laughs as they exchange ridiculous dance moves just to add to the fleeting moment’s laughter. An assortment of screeches and squawks blend together as they all prepare to sing the rap section of the song. Observing the level of excitement the girls have over the verse, Owen can’t help but laugh at the spectacle.

“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Charlie inquires between sips of his cold drink.

“What?”

“Y/n. Why have you not asked her out.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Yeah. Because you haven’t asked her out.” Owen rolls his eyes before turning 90 degrees to fully face the smug guitarist. He turns about-face to prove a point, but another symphony of squeals at the next song choice drags his attention back to his other best friend on the dance floor. “You’re so whipped.”

“Am not.”

“Are too! Look, if you don’t ask her out tonight, I will.”

“You’re not even into her,” Owen protests unceremoniously. Setting the molasses colored bottle on the counter next to Owen, Charlie steps back and copies his position of crossed arms and a relaxed stance.

“You’re right, I’m not. But you are, and if that’s what it takes to light the fire under your ass then I’ll do it.”

“She wouldn’t say yes.”

“Are you sure? I mean, the only way to know for sure is to ask.” And with that, Charlie is off, speeding toward Y/n at a pace that launches Owen into an impulsive chase. To prevent his friend from doing something stupid, Owen shoves him in the opposite direction from the group of girls on the dance floor. What he hadn’t anticipated was Charlie moving so far so fast. Owen has longer legs, he’s supposed to be the faster one, not Charlie. That’s why he hadn’t anticipated turning away from his musical friend to come face to face with a very flushed Y/n. Her lip-gloss coated lips are parted as she catches her breath from all the dancing. They look so soft and inviting that Owen can’t help but stare, and doesn’t realize the several looks of confusion among the girls around him.

“Everything okay, Owen?” Snapping out of his hyper focused stare, Owen blinks a few times, trying to generate a reason for coming over.

“You’ve been dancing for a while.”

“...Yeah?”

“Let me fix you a drink?” His statement comes out as more of a question but the breathless girl agrees nonetheless. Owen extends his hand to her which she gladly accepts but not without a quick word to her friends.

“I’ll be right back, I’m getting a drink.”

Her friends aren’t stupid, quite the opposite actually. And they see right through Owen’s facade of fixing her a drink because she’d been ‘dancing a while’. Please. As if they didn’t know a desperate attempt at flirting when they saw it.

The pounding music from the backyard begins to fade and muffle once the pair step into the Shada’s beautiful kitchen space. Owen leads her to the kitchen island where he has her take a seat on one of the barstools in front of the high countertop. Stepping around the fixture, Owen busies himself with whipping up a drink for Y/n at the makeshift bar on the island. He doesn’t even have to ask what it is she wants. Ice, pink whitney, club soda, and a splash of lime juice mixed together in a red solo cup Owen had considerately written her name on before going all mixologist-mode.

“Your usual.”

“Thank you, sir. You know, I’ve only had a handful of barbecue chips since I got here, and I’m already tipsy, so this actually might get me completely drunk.” Taking a sip, Y/n hums out of pleasure, “Why do you make my favorite drink better than I make my favorite drink?”

“So you have a reason to keep me around.” At the sound of Y/n’s laugh, Owen cracks a smile in time with his favorite sound in the world. The blonde haired man leans forward to rest his weight on his left forearm. He stares at her with adoration seeping from his gaze, before lifting his own cup to drink with her.

“What is that?” she asks, sitting up taller to try and see into Owen’s cup over the island.

“Jack Daniels.”

“I want some.”

“No,” Owen answers swiftly albeit softly. Y/n, however, is not feeling as conciliatory.

“No?”

“Have you ever tried whiskey before?”

“Well, no-”

“You’re drinking a fruit flavored cocktail that’s like 30% nonalcoholic. A sip of this would knock you off your little ass.” Y/n frowns at his words and employs a fake pout of anger to guilt her now laughing friend. Despite her smile, she whines,

“You suck.” Owen merely shrugs unapologetically before sipping and wincing at his drink of choice. “So… how did your date go- with Amy?” And there it is. The question that’s been at the forefront of Y/n’s mind for the last 24 hours.

Owen met this girl Amy at a more professional house party type of event and they hit it off right away. They spent the night invested in conversation, sharing in a cacophony of laughter. Y/n had no right to be upset, but she was. Amy was drop dead gorgeous in that Mini length red, velvet dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her figure was snatched to the gods, and she was about 5’3”; a seemingly irrelevant thing to notice, but Y/n knew that was the height Owen loved in a partner. At least, based on all his previous flings. And not to mention, her beautiful golden blonde hair that extended all the way down her toned back. Amy was perfect to all standards including that of any straight man with eyes and undoubtedly Owen’s. They spent the entire night together, Y/n long forgotten despite having been Owen’s plus one.

Y/n on the other hand didn’t exactly view herself as the drop-dead gorgeous supermodel type. Seeing how Owen took an interest in her at that event, it was no wonder Y/n was jealous. In fact, she had been so jealous that she allowed their flirting to ruin her entire evening.

She had been invited platonically as Owen’s guest, but Owen didn’t feel guilty about leaving her alone once he saw Charlie was by her side the whole night. Little did he know Charlie was only there for her because Owen wasn’t. It was pity company. Pity company that she was grateful to have as she cried into a few gin and tonics. Y/n avoided telling Charlie about her feelings for the adorable drummer, but with the way events transpired, he had figured out what it was that had upset her.

Charlie so badly wanted to give Owen the guilt trip of a lifetime. And he did once he and Owen were alone, heading home in Charlie’s orange hatchback car. He did so by telling Owen about how his best friend had spent the entire evening crying into gin and tonics. ‘Y/n doesn’t even like gin and tonic’ was all Owen could come up with.

When he inquired about why his best friend was crying, Charlie said he didn’t know, but it may have had something to do with the fact that the person who invited her spent the whole night ignoring her; he left it at that, leaving Owen to connect the dots, sort of. Owen had come to the realization that Y/n must have been crying over him, but why? Unable to comprehend a reason, he pushed the situation to the back of his mind. So far back that when Amy texted him that same night, he immediately responded and eventually set up a date for them to get dinner alone Friday evening.

The date was fine. Objectively there was nothing wrong with it. But every time Amy took a sip of the gin and tonic she had ordered, he couldn’t help being reminded of Y/n that night. It took Owen a solid thirty minutes to finally conclude that maybe Y/n was... jealous? Of what? Of Amy? Quickly reviewing a long list of qualities, identical to the one that Y/n had thoroughly checked through when she first saw the blonde, Owen realized she was indeed jealous of Amy. But why? What did Amy have that Y/n didn’t?

Oh.

His initial conclusion in the car with Charlie had to be right. Y/n was crying over him, and seemingly jealous of Amy, all because Amy had his attention. Why was that a problem?

Oh… no. No, Y/n does not have feelings for him. Y/n is... well, Y/n. His best friend, his partner in crime, his confidant, there’s no way she’s in love with him. There’s a different reason as to why she’d been crying into drinks she didn’t like. And that different reason is why her text replies have been short and cold when he had asked for date night conversation pointers. And that different reason is why her smile kept faltering on FaceTime when he was asking for fashion advice for his date.

Y/n is not in love with her best friend.

Owen had spent the past year pushing down his feelings for the girl that threatened to bubble over the top. If Y/n was truly into him, he would’ve acted on them. But she isn’t, so he didn’t. At least, that’s what Owen told himself…

“It was alright,” he offers lamely as a reply to her inquiry. Y/n simply nods and takes another swig of her drink to dull the ache in the center of her chest.

“Just alright?”

“Okay, it was better than alright. She was great.” There’s a hole burning in the center of her heart, and against her better judgment, she expands the deficit by asking for more information.

“What does that mean- that she was ‘great’?”

“You know…” Owen trails off in search of the right words, some words, any words, but nothing comes to him. To sell her nonchalant demeanor, the hopelessly devoted girl is staring down into her cup as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. She didn’t expect Owen’s eyes to be boring into hers when she looked back up, so she quickly musters a polite smile. Maybe the average onlooker couldn’t tell it was fake, but Owen knows something is off. He just knows. Because he knows her.

“How did those conversation pointers pan out?” She’s deflecting, he thinks.

“One of them worked.” I’m just feeding into it, he thinks.

“Only one of them?” He’s holding back something, she thinks.

“Well, yeah. We didn’t really do much talking if you get what I mean.” I don’t think I can handle this, she thinks.

“I see…” The pair stands together in a silence so tense they felt like strangers. It’s awful. Y/n and Owen hate every second of it, but what could they do? In a moment blinded by upset, Y/n reaches across the island to grab the newly opened bottle of grey goose and pours what must’ve been no less than three shots of liquid into her cup. No club soda or lemonade this time, she chugs down the rest of her drink in a flash; Owen stares at her in disbelief and shock.

Y/n hates being drunk, she likes being the designated driver, she’s never had straight up liquor in her life, and she’s a lightweight, that’s for damn sure. Owen knows all of these things and is even more surprised to see her reaching for an almost empty bottle of gin.

“Hey. Maybe you should take it easy, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a lightweight and you know it. Put the cup down.” When Y/n shakes her head no, something in Owen snaps and his desire to be gentle is long forgotten. “Y/n. Put the drink down.”

“Why do you care, Owen?” In taking time to respond, Owen sees the opportunity and goes for it, taking the cup from her loose grasp and splashing it down the drain of the vegetable sink. “What the fuck?!”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Come on.” It’s only a matter of time until Y/n becomes an incoherent human being that’s impossible to wrangle, so Owen is very aware he’s on the clock. Snagging two Arrowhead water bottles in one hand, he takes Y/n’s hand in the other and brings her into the Shada’s den. There are only a few other people in the room, one is a couple and the other a pair of pining idiots, to which Owen becomes slightly wary. Not that the dynamic would change much. He and Y/n are practically a couple according to everyone around them.

Chelsea and Charlie are sitting fairly close together for just friends, on the chocolate brown loveseat facing the couch that Owen has plopped his increasingly intoxicated friend onto; Leila is sitting in a single armchair that a very tipsy Taylor is hanging over the back of to hug her shoulders. Upon seeing Y/n’s pouting expression Chelsea seeks more information,

“You good, fam?”

“He threw it down the sink!” She’s fading faster than Owen had hoped.

“I did. I poured what would’ve been her fifth and sixth shots down the sink.”

“Jesus, Y/n, are you trying to kill yourself?”

“What are you, a cop?” Even tipsy she’s still sharp as a tack. If Owen wasn’t frustrated with her at the moment, he would’ve probably laughed. But he is, so he didn’t. Slipping back into caretaker mode, he hands her one of the water bottles he snagged from the cooler on the way out. In her typical stubborn and petulant fashion, Y/n weakly throws the unopened bottle onto the couch cushion next to her. All their friends laugh but Owen isn’t having it.

“Y/n.” And it only takes a firm call of her name for the slumped over lightweight to glare at him but oblige. She retrieves the bottle and sticks her arm out straight toward Owen’s still standing figure.

“I can’t open it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this fucked up,” Leila comments.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you fucked up period,” Chelsea adds on. Charlie laughs lightly before resuming whatever conversation the four of them had going pre-Owen and Y/n’s entrance.

Satisfied with the small sips she’s taking of her water, Owen relaxes and takes a seat next to her on the couch. The temporary break in her temper tantrum allows Owen to save his breath; he opens his own water bottle, taking a few drinks which ended up being half the bottle. He’s given her a good bit of room on the couch but it isn’t good enough for Y/n. It takes her a few failed attempts to screw on the cap of her water but once it’s properly sealed, she moves closer to her best friend. The water has acted like some magical temperament cure as Y/n’s previously permanent pout has disappeared.

Owen knows he and Y/n are close enough to where cuddling wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But the way she’s burrowed into his side, picking up his seemingly ‘heavy’ arm to place it around her own inebriated frame, laying her head high up on his chest, and unintentionally resting her hand on his lower abdomen, something feels off. Her hand isn’t dangerously low, but low enough that the side of her limp palm has met the waistband of his jeans. Owen can’t help but feel his skin tingle and burn under her touch. Why is he so affected by her touch all of a sudden?

Owen is pulled from his snowballing thoughts by the sound of Y/n’s muffled voice against his chest. He leans down as far as he can which places his head on top of hers gently.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry,” he whispers just loud enough for her to hear. A tiny drop of warmth on his shirt under her head triggers Owen’s memory: Y/n’s an emotional drunk. She doesn’t get drunk often but when she does, she goes all in and becomes somewhat manic as a result. That accounts for her previous anger. Now it’s sadness, so in about ten minutes, she’ll be easily excitable and bouncing off the walls.

Y/n had carpooled with Leila and Chelsea to the party, and though Owen was upset about her not picking him up like they’d briefly talked about at first, he’s suddenly thankful for the arrangement.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“Unhhh.” The lack of a coherent response is enough for Owen, and after finishing the rest of his water, he sits up on the couch.

“Where’s your house key? Hm?” The prospect of losing her key is absolutely devastating to Y/n as she begins to weep. Her imminent distress in response to Owen’s question has all their friends laughing once more; Leila speaks up,

“Check the left chest pocket of her jacket.”

Owen nods, noting the directions, and gently rolls his friend over on her back. Deciding against using her strength, Y/n flops over onto her other side which still allows Owen access to her pocket. His long fingers dwarf the button fastener on her jacket that she often struggles to open, and sure enough her sky blue house key is in her pocket just as Leila said.

“Thanks,” he acknowledges Leila before taking Y/n’s cold hands in his own larger ones to help her stand. It’s a bit of a struggle to stand and as a result, the fading girl leans a bit of her weight into Owen’s side. “You gonna say bye to our friends?”

Y/n nods a goodbye to each person in the room, moving from left to right naming Leila, Taylor, Chelsea, and then Charlie. Upon saying bye to Charlie the small girl starts to cry again, harder this time, much to everyone’s confusion.

“What’s wrong?”

“Charlie looked a-at me like he didn’t l-like me.” The entire room bursts out laughing, Owen included this time, but she’s still crying. “It’s no-not funny.”

“I know. You’re right, it’s not funny.” Owen’s exaggerated sympathy goes undetected by the very emotional Y/n as she presses her face into his grey long sleeve shirt. She reaches up to hug her arms around Owen’s neck for stability as she adds more tears to the tiny spot from before. “Can you walk?” He asks genuinely as more of her weight leans into him. The only response Owen gets is a few soft sobs, and in reaction to her messy state, lets out a subtle eye roll. He shakes his head before bending down to place one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulder blades, sweeping her off the ground before she can protest.

“Would you guys tell Jer thanks and that I had to take her home?” A symphony of affirmations and goodbyes usher him out of the house, and once outside Y/n’s crying diminuendos into short sniffles and the occasional sigh.

“Here, be careful,” Owen panics as his friend nearly bangs the front of her head against the roof of his car. Once he cautiously places all her limbs in the passenger side, Owen shuts the door and hurries over to the driver’s side as if Y/n could hurt herself in the next five seconds. He places the key in the ignition but before he even touches the gear shift, he turns and looks quizzically at his best friend. The sniffling and sighs coming from her puffy face have lulled her into an almost unconscious state; Owen puffs out a frustrated sigh as he reaches across the entire car to grab Y/n’s seatbelt for her.

Another thing about drunk Y/n is that her emotional state makes her more likely to give in to physical impulses. So after she registers Owen leaning across her lap for the seatbelt, she grabs his shoulder so he doesn’t move away. The action surprises Owen and he turns his face to look into her half-lidded eyes. He’s trying to make sense of the action but his trailing thoughts are interrupted when the girl in the passenger’s seat leans forward slightly to put her face against Owen’s neck.

“I like your smell.” Owen tries so hard not to laugh in fear of upsetting her again, but he can’t conceal the smile growing on his face. He then gently pulls away from her grasp in order to actually start driving,

“Okay. Thank you.”

The car ride is composed of mostly comfortable silence with the occasional inebriated comment or nonsensical sound from the girl in the passenger seat; Owen had been so captivated by Y/n’s uncharacteristically relaxed state, he’d been driving on autopilot and instead of turning left to get on the highway that runs south to where her apartment is, he’d gone north to go to his own place. No big deal, Owen didn’t plan on leaving her intoxicated and alone, and she’s stayed the night plenty of times before now. What’s one more night? It isn’t until he puts the car in park and helps her out of the vehicle that Y/n clocks her surroundings.

“I don’t live here.”

“You don’t, no, but I do,” Owen replies simply before he slides out of the car. Y/n stays in the car as if Owen told her not to move, and looks up at him confusedly when he opens her door. In her tipsy state, she is able to recognize what Owen is doing and smugly places her hand over the buckle of her seatbelt. With her tiny palm over the red button, she begins giggling maniacally.

“What are you doing?” Owen asks with a frustrated sigh although he can’t help the small smile overtaking his features at the sound of her growing laughter. He doesn’t get a response, just more giggling which lets him know he’s going to have to do things the hard way now that she’s in a lifted mood. “Kid, you have to get out of the car.”

“You can’t make me.”

Owen takes a step back from the open door to reevaluate. Y/n always tells him to work smarter, not harder. Another one of her many bouts of wisdom is that you can keep the attention of children and adults alike with a vastly dynamic change in volume. The question is will she notice Owen using this tactic on her in her drunken state?

“Hey, Y/n/n,” his speech drops to a low whisper. “I’m sad, can you hold my hand?” The change in volume works exactly as described; completely convinced by the sincerity of his whispering, Y/n gives him her right hand. “Can I have the other one?”

When she nods a small ‘yes’ and gives him both of her hands, Owen finds himself fighting the urge to laugh at how easy that was. He takes both of her cool hands in his larger left one to reach across her body and release her seatbelt with a swift CLICK.

Luckily Y/n didn’t tangle herself up in the seatbelt, but she had other ideas for causing trouble. Owen helped her out of the car but once she was standing on her own two feet, she began running away from him. With a slam of the car door and a string of breathy curses later, he chases after his best friend before she can hurt herself on literally anything in the parking garage. The sound of Y/n’s laughter carries through the vacant space, and despite all her best efforts, Owen quickly catches up to her. Her giddy intoxication allowed for the suspension of disbelief that she could outrun the much taller Owen Joyner, but she’s sorely mistaken when his strong arms wrap around her waist and lift her feet off the ground. Y/n’s bouts of laughter are contagious; Owen finds himself laughing alongside his best friend. Setting her feet back on the ground he asks,

“Are you going to run away again if I let go of you?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out through the tail end of her laughing fit. The candidness of her reply prompts Owen to throw his head back, shaking it as if in disagreement with the universe itself,

“I appreciate your honesty.” And with that, Y/n screeches in glee as her best friend maneuvers her body in his grip to lift her over his right shoulder.

“Owen!”

“You did this to yourself, kid.”

The silent elevator ride up to his flat is comfortable relative to the current position they’re in. Y/n’s no longer fighting being carried but instead entertains herself by tapping out an intricate beat on the surface of Owen’s back.

“Guess what song this is.”

The beat she’s playing is close to incoherent and Owen tries to stifle his full laugh in fear of making her cry again. He’s been successful so far, but now having Y/n over his shoulder, she can feel the movement of his abdomen that was unintelligible by sight alone.

“Your favorite song,” he guesses insincerely.

“No, my favorite song doesn’t sound like that. It was sicko mode.”

“That was not sicko mode.”

“Owen, how come you don’t wear a badge?”

“What?”

“Because you’re the song police?” Owen can’t help but snort out a laugh even though the comment was made at his expense. Still sharp as a tack.

Once the pair reach the front door of Owen’s ‘bachelorette pad’ as Y/n liked to call it, he sets her back on the ground albeit reluctantly as he recalls why he was carrying her in the first place. Thinking quickly on his feet, Owen forms a plan that’s more likely than not foolproof.

“Hey, Y/n/n?”

“Yeah?” Her voice is still right behind him thankfully.

“Can I have a hug?” After a few seconds of silence in the hall, Owen begins to doubt his plan until he feels the weight of his best friend leaning on his toned back. With her cheek pressed against the middle of his spine, Y/n brings her arms around his waist, clasping her hands tightly together. Her semi-public display of affection allows Owen some time to unlock his front door. Once he props the door open, Owen realizes that Y/n probably isn’t going to let go any time soon and opts to waddle through the threshold with her still attached to him. He’s able to turn around and lock them back in for the night which makes the girl begin to laugh.

“Was this your plan all along? To get me drunk so you could lock me in your apartment and hold me prisoner for the rest of my life?”

“And I would’ve gotten away with it, too...”

“If it weren’t for those meddling kids and their dog.”

True to his imagination that Y/n wasn’t letting go any time soon, Owen swivels her around his torso so that he could hold her to his side rather than support her with his back. He now has his right arm over both of her shoulders as she continues to hug her best friend. The way she leans her head onto his chest makes Owen’s heartbeat the tiniest bit faster. ‘She’s drunk, she doesn’t know what this does to you’ is the mantra blaring through Owen’s subconscious. Shaking any and all sort of romantic thoughts out of his head, he begins to lead her back to his bedroom.

Flicking the lights on proves to be a mistake once Y/n starts groaning miserably, and Owen decides the floor lamp is a better option than the overheads. Much to Owen’s surprise and relief, Y/n moves to sit on the edge of his bed on her own volition. She’s not upright for long as she collapses into the sheets of his unmade bed that contemplated neatening before leaving the house; hindsight is 20/20.

“Hmm. I like your smell,” Y/n parrots despite already bringing up the topic on the ride home.

“This is the same cologne I always use.”

“No. I like your natural smell.”

“What?”

“I was reading up about pheromones the other day. And there was this thing that said when couples like each others’ scent, it’s like a primal way of seeing if you’re immuno-compatible with someone so your offspring have the best chance for survival. It’s an evolutionary thing for the survival of our species. Ants have pheromones, too.”

Sometimes she has trouble remembering to feed herself, but leave it to Y/n to remember extensive information about pheromones whilst intoxicated. The concept is intriguing to Owen, so he proceeds to ask questions, ignoring the tug on his heart he felt after hearing her say the word ‘couples’.

“So, if I like your scent, we’re immuno-?”

“Compatible, yeah. But it’s mostly me because you can sniff out my period.”

“I can what?”

“I read that men can tell when a woman is at her most fertile because that’s when they like her smell the best. They did a study where a bunch of men were introduced to a few different scents, and without fail, the one they liked the most or would describe as ‘sexy’ or ‘attractive’ was the scent they took from the woman who was ovulating.”

Y/n continues talking about what she learned about pheromones as Owen picks up a bit of the mess around his room. She returns to the topic of ant pheromones as he digs through his surprisingly large closet for something for his friend to sleep in. His temporarily bubbly best friend also notes that he should ‘sniff her now because she’s ovulating and he would like that’ which makes him laugh into the drawers of his waist-height dresser. Returning to find her still slumped over on the bed, he pats her leg and beckons her to sit up. After Y/n’s upright again, Owen hands her his classic black ‘BEANS’ t-shirt and a pair of briefs that won’t properly fit her but will fit better than a pair of his actual pants.

“Can you put these on for me?”

“Yeah.” Owen’s conflicted with both wanting to respect Y/n’s privacy by leaving the room, and prioritizing her safety, and not leaving her unattended at any moment. He comes to a compromise which is staying by her side but turning a full 180 to face the wall of his bedroom. A couple of moments pass until Y/n begins whining frustratedly.

“Owen.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t ubns-” her words become incomprehensible as she begins to cry again and Owen turns around to find her struggling with the buttons on her shirt, her jacket long discarded on the bedroom floor. This shirt: her white, cap-sleeve crop top with a peter pan collar that she wore for anything mildly significant, this was her favorite. Owen remembers her fussing about how she ruined it only to find that she just forgot to steam it one day. So with a little heat and water, Owen had fixed the shirt like nothing ever happened, and he’d do it a million times over again if it meant he got to relive seeing the smile that graced her face for the first time again.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do the buttons.” She runs the back of her right hand against her tired eyes to wipe away her tears and Owen internally curses himself for the way the small action makes his heart flutter.

“Do you need help?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen to me, you are okay,” he sinks to kneel in front of Y/n as she sits tiredly on the edge of the bed. Owen doesn’t miss the slight tremble of his hands as he reaches up to unbutton her shirt, but he prays that she will. Through tiny sniffles and teary eyes, she watches his hands effortlessly work down the length of her shirt, each button modestly dancing between his fingertips. Once the short top is fully unbuttoned, Owen returns to his normal standing height and Y/n attempts to shrug the fabric off her body. She struggles lightly and knowing her frustration is imminent, Owen reaches down to gingerly push the sleeves off her shoulders. The light graze of his rough, calloused skin against her own skin sends electric-like shocks through the both of them; yet neither of them believed the other felt it too.

Owen hastily withdraws his hands and, without warning, Y/n quickly removes the bralette she was wearing. Owen’s eyes widen slightly at her lack of inhibition. He does his best to be a gentleman and swiftly redirects his gaze to the white ceiling fan that has all of a sudden become the most intriguing object in the universe. His lower peripheral vision indicates that she’s finally slipped the black tee over her head, but she begins sniffling more fiercely as she struggles with taking off her jeans. Owen sighs and drops to his knees once more in spite of himself, and aids his best friend in slipping the material over the length of her calves and off the tips of her toes. Hoping to speed up the process, he grabs the briefs he had brought her and unfolds them in preparation for helping her into them. His efforts are all for naught as Y/n forgoes the need for any more clothing and slides under the covers of his unmade bed. Owen then turns to leave the bedroom, opting to set up on the couch for the night before Y/n’s small voice is cutting through the comfortable silence.

“Where are you going?” He sighs,

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll get you some water and Advil for when you wake up tomorrow.” Y/n then nods acceptingly and allows her eyes to flutter closed as he leaves the room. Despite how tired she feels, Y/n won’t quite yet let herself sleep--not ‘til Owen is beside her. When he returns he sets the ibuprofen bottle on the nightstand before uncapping the Kirkland brand water bottle he had in the fridge. He coaxes her into sitting up just one more time so she can drink some of the water before falling asleep. She sits and rubs her tired eyes as she drinks and Owen has to physically force himself to look away from the adorable sight. He just wants to take care of her forever but things have always been strictly platonic between them.

The risk of making their friendship weird or awkward was just too great.

“Goodnight kid, I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Owen leaves without awaiting a response and lets out an annoyed sigh before setting himself up on the couch in his living room. He was so focused on getting Y/n to bed safely that he forgot to grab clothes for himself. Not a big deal. He simply strips down to just his underwear and climbs underneath the thick Pottery Barn throw blanket Y/n had gifted him as a housewarming gift. That and a fire extinguisher because ‘you don’t notice its absence until you need it’ she claimed. The memory makes Owen smile and he allows his eyes to close after a long day.

A long day that was about to get longer. Owen finds himself sinking further and further into sleep until he hears the padding of footsteps that are now in his living room. He’s too tired to open his eyes, and it’s not like he doesn’t already know who it is. What does surprise him, however, is the feeling of the familiar weight squeezing between the couch and his turned back.

“What are you doing?” He half mumbles into the night.

“You’re warm.”

“That was not the question, Y/n/n.” After not receiving a reply, Owen turns as best as he can to look at his friend who’s nestling her way into his sleeping arrangement for the night. “Kid-”

“I just wanna be with you.”

“Alright,” Owen sighs out of irritation, exhaustion, and a sliver of adoration before sitting up on the couch, “Come on.”

He stands up, fully expecting to have to drag her back to the bedroom, but finds relief in seeing her struggle her way off the couch. Slipping her tired hand into his unexpecting, larger one, Y/n allows her friend to lead her into the bedroom for the second time that night.

Owen considerately lifts the covers for her to climb back into before getting into the other side of the bed.

“Owen.”

“Hm?”

“Guess what.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too, kid.”

“No,” Y/n speaks in a casual tone as if she’s not divulging into her biggest emotional trepidation to date. “I love you, Owen.”

Owen can’t help the way his heart seemingly stops. The way the butterflies in his stomach are going wild. The way he wants to smile like he’s the biggest lovestruck idiot on planet Earth.

She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She won’t remember this tomorrow.

“I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

She won’t remember that tomorrow.

***

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Smoke Break - A Nace Fic

I’ve had about a million different Nace fanfic ideas rolling around inside my head lately, so last night I wrote one of them. I’m pretty sure this has been done before, but this is my take on the smoke break conversation Nancy mentions having with Ace in 1x01. Inspired by the fact I’m about to start rewatching the show for the third time before season 3 starts in the fall. Enjoy?

Smoke Break

The lunch rush almost did her in.

It was Nancy’s fourth day on the job at The Claw—and her fourth day of work ever—and she already wanted to quit.

Coastal Maine towns in the summer were a bitch, and Horseshoe Bay was no exception. The entire town was a tourist trap, and The Claw was the best (not to mention only) seafood restaurant for miles. Anyone visiting from outside the state just had to stop in for a lobster roll—which was mostly what Nancy served to people all day, every day. She had lost track of how many of her customers had excitedly informed her that eating a Maine lobster roll was on their bucket list.

What kind of person put eating a ridiculously overpriced lobster roll on their bucket list?

It was halfway through the exceptionally busy shift that George tapped her on the shoulder, hard—so hard, she wouldn’t be surprised if it left a bruise. “Drew,” she said, unsmiling. “Go take your fifteen.”

Nancy breathed a sigh of relief. The entire dining room was full, and there were at least five large groups of people waiting patiently outside for a table. This was the busiest she had seen it yet.

And the busiest she ever wanted to see it.

“Thanks, George,” Nancy said gratefully, earning nothing but a glare from her former classmate.

“Don’t thank me. It’s company policy. Now get your ass out of here. Your fifteen is now a fourteen.” Turning on her heel, she stormed off in the direction of Bess, one of the other newer waitresses, who appeared to be struggling with a large table of ten people that was half adults, half kids, and all chaos. It was probably going to result in a huge tip, but Nancy was glad she hadn’t been assigned to that party. She didn’t have the patience for that.

She headed for the back room and retrieved her phone from her locker before exiting out the back door. She was instantly hit with a blast of hot, humid air, and she almost contemplated going right back inside where it was nice and air conditioned. But despite it being almost intolerably hot, it was quiet outside—unlike the madhouse inside. All she could hear were the crashing waves in the water and the squawking of seagulls in the parking lot looking for dropped food, and she welcomed it.

Staring down at her phone, Nancy slowly made her way over to the lone employees-only picnic table that was inconsiderately located right next to the dumpster. She was about to sit down when a voice spoke behind her, startling her.

“Having fun yet?”

Nancy nearly dropped her phone before spinning around to see who had spoken to her.

Leaning up against the side of the building was one of The Claw’s dishwashers—Ace. She’d met him on her first day—another hectic, busy day—but hadn’t really gotten to know him yet. She hadn’t really gotten to know anyone yet. Just the way she liked it.

She’d been aware of Ace’s existence before meeting him at The Claw. They’d gone to the same high school together, although he’d been a senior when she was a freshman, so their paths never crossed. He looked different now than he had back then. He looked taller. His hair was longer. He’d filled out a little—like he spent at least a couple days a week at the gym. He was cute. No, wait. He was hot. Not really her type—he seemed like a bit of a stoner—but he was certainly easy on the eyes.

“Sorry,” he continued before she could answer his question. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Nancy said with a dismissive wave. “I was just a little startled. I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

Ace nodded. “Yeah. George yelled at me two minutes ago to take my break.”

Nancy smirked. “You too?”

“Yup.”

“Does she yell at employees a lot?”

“All the time,” Ace said with a furrowed brow. He lifted his fingers up to his lips and it wasn’t until then that Nancy noticed he was holding onto a cigarette.

“You’re a smoker, huh?” she asked, wanting to immediately facepalm. He was holding onto a lit cigarette. Of course he was a smoker.

Ace took a long drag and shook his head as he slowly let the smoke back out of his lungs. “Nah. I only smoke when I’m feeling stressed.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ve had this same pack for two months now, and it’s still mostly full.”

Nancy arched an eyebrow. “I take it you don’t get stressed too often, then?”

“Not really,” he replied. “For the most part, I like to keep things chill.”

“So, then, what are you stressed about right now?” Nancy asked, hoping she wasn’t coming across as being too nosy.

“George yelling at me,” he deadpanned.

Nancy chuckled. “Well, with the way things are going for me with George right now, I might have to bum one of those off you sometime.”

“Anytime,” he said, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it to put it out. “Sharing is caring is my motto.”

Nancy smiled. “That’s a great motto to have. But I was mostly joking. I don’t do cigarettes.” She motioned to her chest. “Virgin lungs.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

Something about the way he said it—his voice soft and almost flirty—made Nancy pause. Although, there was no way Ace could be flirting with her. In the only four days she’d been working with him, she’d already been made very aware of his crush on Bess. George had grumbled about it under her breath when she didn’t know anyone was listening, but even if Nancy hadn’t overheard that piece of information, she would have quickly figured it out herself. The guy wasn’t exactly subtle about it.

“I probably won’t be here long enough to share too many smoke breaks with you, anyway,” Nancy said, turning her attention to her phone.

“Why is that?” he asked.

Nancy shrugged. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for this line of work.”

“What kind of work do you think you’re cut out for, then? Sleuthing?”

Nancy’s eyes snapped back up to him, narrowing suspiciously. “Why would you say that?”

“Uh, because you’re the Hero of Horseshoe Bay,” he said with a grin. “The famous Nancy Drew, girl detective.”

Nancy could feel a humiliated blush spread across her cheeks. He knew about that? Oh, right, of course he did. He’d lived in Horseshoe Bay his whole life, just like she had. And she’d made the news quite frequently growing up. She would have been shocked if he hadn’t known about that.

“You’re a pretty big celebrity around this town, you know,” Ace continued. “I’ve just been waiting for the right time to ask for your autograph.”

“Oh, is that right?” Nancy chuckled again. “I’d hold off on that request for now if I were you. Maybe I was famous as a ‘girl detective’, but I’m nothing as the girl who tanked her grades her senior year and might never get into her dream school.”

All traces of amusement left Ace’s face as he frowned. “What are you talking about?”

What was she talking about? This was the first time she had admitted it out loud to anyone. She couldn’t tell her father the truth. She couldn’t tell her friends either because those friends had already decided to move on with their lives without her. Apparently, staying behind in Horseshoe Bay to wait tables for a living instead of heading straight off to college was not sophisticated enough for them.

“I…” Nancy began but then stopped, clamping her mouth shut. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to tell that story.

Slowly, Ace made his way over to the picnic table and sat down beside her, although leaving plenty of empty space between them. He turned his head to look at her, waiting silently for her to continue.

She appreciated the fact he wasn’t trying to pressure her to elaborate. She could tell from the look on his face that he was very interested in hearing what she had to say, but he wasn’t going to force her to say it if she didn’t want to.

And, surprisingly, that made her want to.

“I…tanked my grades my senior year,” she repeated finally. “After she…after my mom died.” She lowered her gaze to her lap.

“Kate Drew,” Ace said softly. “Our guidance counselor.”

Nancy nodded.

“I liked her. I was sorry to hear about her passing.”

Inhaling a shaky breath, Nancy said, “Yeah, me too.” She paused for a moment before continuing. The death of her mother was still very raw. She still cried herself to sleep every night, hoping to wake up the next morning to find out it was all just a bad dream. “Losing her was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just…I couldn’t deal. So, I gave up on all my schoolwork and I let my grades plummet. I suddenly didn’t care about trying to get into Columbia anymore or becoming an investigative journalist—which is, by the way, what I think I’m actually cut out for. I just gave up. And honestly? I don’t regret it. Even if it means I’m stuck in this town for at least the next year, getting constantly bitched out at work by the girl who hated my guts in high school.”

She paused for a beat, before sneaking a glance over at Ace. “You must think I’m pretty stupid, huh?”

Ace shook his head. “No. Not at all. Although, I’m not exactly in any position to judge, anyway. I mean, look at me. I’m three years out of high school, and I’ve been working here as a dishwasher the entire time.”

“Well, what about you?” Nancy asked. “Have you ever thought about going to college? Is there anything you want to be when you grow up?”

A small smile played at his lips as he stared down at the ground. “As a matter of fact—” he began, but then stopped and immediately wiped the smile off his face. Clearing his throat, he shrugged and said, “Not really.”

Nancy eyed him curiously. He was about to say something. But what? “Not really, huh?”

“Yeah.” The smile returned. “I don’t really care to have any life plans or aspirations right now. I’m sort of a…free spirit, I guess you could say. I just want to take things as they come.”

“A free spirit,” Nancy echoed before adding with a slight smirk, “And a deep soul.”

She wasn’t sure what exactly had inspired her to add that last part, but there was something about this guy that made her think there was a lot more to him than he was letting on.

He was a bit of a mystery.

Maybe if she stuck around long enough at this job and got to know him a little better, she could solve that mystery someday. As Nancy Drew, girl detective.

Ace turned to look at her and when his eyes met hers, she couldn’t help but notice how pretty they were, matching the color of the ocean that bordered their town. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get a word out the back door flew open, and George poked her head out.

“Break’s over, you two,” she barked. She didn’t wait for them to respond before retreating inside the restaurant and slamming the door shut behind her.

Both amused, Nancy and Ace simultaneously stood from the bench.

“Ready for round two?” he asked her. “If you think the lunch rush is bad, just wait until the dinner rush.”

Nancy groaned. “Can’t wait.”

“Here.” Ace reached back into his pocket, retrieved the pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and handed it to her. “Take this.”

Hesitantly, Nancy reached up to take it from him. “I’m not going to smoke this, you know.”

“You don’t have to. Sometimes it helps just knowing it’s there if you need it.”

They began their short trek to the back door, where Ace proceeded to open it and motion for her to go in first.

“And hey,” he added, “if you do ever decide you’re ready to try it and you need a light, you know where to find me. I’ll be where the dirty dishes are.”

Another smile—this one almost too big to fit on her face—graced Nancy’s lips. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled this many times in one day. It had been a long time.

“Thanks, Ace,” she said, brushing past him through the open door. “I really appreciate that.”

Ace was right—the dinner rush did turn out to be way worse than the lunch rush. George yelled at her at least three more times before her shift was over, Bess broke at least three plates and two glasses, and one kid threw up all over the floor right in front of her. And she hated to admit it, but more than once, that lone, unlit cigarette in her locker called out to her, and she was tempted to see if it would help to cut down on her own stress levels. But Ace had already left for the day, so there’d be no one there to light it for her.

But she knew he’d be there tomorrow if she needed him. And for now, anyway, that was enough.

#nace #nancy x ace #ace x nancy #nace fanfic

[cellard0ors]

Fic: Movement (2/?)

Still dedicated to the wonderful @peachworthy. you read part one than you know - GMM Rhink AU - College Student Link/Pornstar Rhett AU

“Got it right again, man! You’re going to ace this test!” Rhett crows as he tosses down another notecard and Link pumps his arms in triumph. The two of them are settled in the kitchen, piles of books and notecards spread around as well as few bottles of beers and some bowls of chips.

Link picks up one chip and pops it into his mouth, grinning at his roommate fondly, “Well, couldn’t’ve done it without you, pal. You are, without a doubt, the best study buddy I’ve ever had.”

“Aw shucks, gonna make me blush,” Rhett laughs even though it’s Link who feels his cheeks actually grow warm, his friend’s laughter a common cause of the occurrence.

They’ve been living together for over a month now and it’s been beyond amazing. Link would’ve never guessed a guy like Rhett and a guy like him would work so well together.

It’s like they’re the world’s weirdest, most convoluted puzzle yet all the pieces click together to form a full picture that is nothing short of a masterpiece. True, there’s a lot about Rhett Link doesn’t know yet (and gosh is there a lot he wants to know) but their friendship is running smoothly.

Well, smoothly save for the massive crush Link has on the guy, albeit he’s doing his damned best to squash it. Yes, Rhett’s attractive and yes, he’s the first guy Link’s ever met that he’s felt a real zing for, but the fact of the matter is – Link would much rather have him as a friend and roommate than lose him as a…well, Link’s not sure if he’d lose him, but the mere possibility keeps Link’s lips sealed.

Besides, it’s okay to crush on someone and never act on it. People do it all the time. Not to mention that it’s a bit…odd to crush on someone in Rhett’s line of work. Isn’t it?

Link can’t think of too many people who will admit to crushing on an adult film star. Regular, mainstream film stars, sure – but adult film stars?

Yeah…

Although, to be frank, Link’s sure there are some that do. And, hopefully, some of them are not the creepy internet troll-y kind of people, but genuine salt of the earth folks like himself. Because, okay, he is crushing on one so…

Rhett is toying with the cards, maybe looking for the next question to quiz Link on when he asks idly, “Y’know, Link – I gotta say, I admire your stamina.”

That remarks makes Link choke on the drink he’s just been consuming, a cough clearing it up some as he croaks, “I’m-I’m sorry?”

Rhett hums noncommittally, as if not noticing the gaffe, “You’ve had yet to grill me about my job. Normally, once folks hear about it, that’s all they want to talk about.”

“Oh,” Link breathes out loosely, “Well, ah-? It-? It just…seemed rude to-to ask…”

“Been over a month living with me now. You telling me you ain’t interested?”

“I didn’t say that!” Link quips back much quicker than he would like, but Rhett just gives him the most perfect smile. All sincere and warm beneath his beard and remember, Link, you’re doing you’re best not to crush on him!

Rhett is still toying with the cards, eyelashes downcast, the very visual definition of shy as he murmurs, “Just sayin’…I don’t mind if you wanna ask some stuff.”

Link’s eyebrows rise in such a way as to damn near bump his glasses off, “Y-You sure?”

Rhett draws in a deep inhale and then sits the cards down. He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, looking quite serious even despite the casual red flannel and jeans, as if this was more of an interview (or perhaps an interrogation?) than anything else, “Shoot.”

The a million and one questions that Link has kept at bay about Rhett’s job and more personal life threaten to cave his skull in as they crash about in his mind. However, he has to go with the obvious, “Know this’ll be predictable, but…why?”

Rhett just bobs his head in an understanding nod even as Link pushes on, “Why and how?”

Rhett sucks on his teeth before picking up his own beer and taking a fortifying sip before continuing, “The two are kinda interconnected to be honest. Had a fallin’ out with my family. Think I mentioned it in passin’ to you once. But, to clarify; they weren’t too happy with my chosen living destination nor with the fact that I’d come to terms with the notion that I’m attracted to both the ladies and the gents.”

Link’s mind immediately (and joyously) clings to ‘the gents’ remark, bookmarking it for future reference, even as Rhett continues his tale, “You grew up where we did. So you get it.”

Link does. And then, to nail the point home, Rhett adds, “Probably get it a lot more than others. If my…instincts are to be believed.”

Shit.

SHIT.

Link’s whole body immediately bursts into flame, the tips of his ears so hot he’s sure they’re glowing bright red.

Rhett knows I’m gay. He knows. I thought having a radar for that kind of thing was bullhonkey, but he knows and oh, lord, oh lord – do I give off some sorta vibe? I know that girl in my screenwriting class, Stevie, she teased me about being an A-Level twink or something, but I didn’t think-!

Rhett’s laughter carves right through Link’s insecurities, “Take a breath, brother! Look like you’re about to pop!”

Link does and Rhett just shakes his head, still grinning, “Point being – I was pretty much a babe in the woods when I came to LA. Not two nickels to my name, so I took whatever gigs I could get. Managed to snag a few commercials and things of that nature, but you know the drill. Jobs are hard to come by. And a guy of my height?”

He blows out a big breath and tosses all of those luxurious curls about with a rueful head shake, “Yeah, most people fingered me for a baller, so – again – jobs were hard to come by. But then, wouldn’t you know it? A friend of a friend of a contact told me about this part they thought I’d be perfect for.”

Another deep barrel chested chuckle emerges as he reminiscences, “Mighta been nice of ‘em to let me know it was actually a part of me they thought would be perfect.”

Do not zero in on his crotch! Do NOT zero in on his crotch! Charles Lincoln Neal the Third DO NOT-!

Link keeps his eyes so steadfastly forward he probably looks like some bug eyed zombie. If Rhett notices, he doesn't comment, “Anyway, when I found out what the role was, I had planned to politely decline but, y’know, the money they offered…”

There’s an easy shrug and this Link can look at. He looks at Rhett, who looks a bit sheepish as he scratches at one side of his beard, “I mean, again, you grew up where I did. So, you know how the whole ‘wait until marriage’ thing was drilled into your head, but I figured it wasn’t like anybody would know. My family’d cut me off, my friends were few and far in between, and the people on set…”

Now he looks a bit happier and Link can’t help but smile along with him, “The people on set were all right. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard the kind of stories people tend to spin – the exploitation, the drug abuse, other questionable stuff…place I was at wasn’t like that. I mean, maybe I just lucked out or something, but it was…”

Another shrug and he goes for his beer again. Link figures this is as good a time as any to get in another question, “So, you did that and then you…? Just kept going?”

Rhett nods as he drinks, the bottle leaving his mouth with an obscene pop that Link is going to do his best to forget all about right now and certainly not recall at any point in the future (and most certainly NOT when he’s jacking off later), “Yeah, I did the one and the director really liked me. He pull me aside and told me about this company he was trying to set up with a couple of buddies of his. They wanted to go in a classier direction – know how funny that sounds, but he was serious.”

“So, what? No, like, blockbuster porno knock offs? Like ‘Sex in The City and ON the City’ or ‘Arma-get-it-on’?”

“Think you stole that last one from an episode of CSI.”

“I did, doesn’t change the question.”

They’re both smiling like a couple of fools, but the mood is good and the atmosphere light as Rhett sighs, “Yeah, nothing like that. I’ve actually worked with a few female directors, shot some things with great budgets, nice lighting, good costumes…”

“Oooo, costumes,” Link teases in the silliest voice and Rhett swats out at him. Link avoids the hit even as Rhett rolls his eyes, “I’m serious, dude. Some of the things that department pumps out looks better than anything you’d see in Hollywood.”

“Hmm, some kinda wood,” Link snickers and this time Rhett’s swat makes impact, brushing Link’s shoulder and Link would be embarrassed by the giggle he lets out, if it weren’t for the way Rhett’s nose is all scrunched up, making him look beyond adorable, “You’re sucha brat!”

Link sticks out his tongue and Rhett just laughs. They turn their attention to the drinks and chips for awhile before Link circles around to another question, “You like it then?”

“It’s a living,” Rhett confirms, not really answering one way or another, “Like I said – make great money, work with some really nice people.”

“Uh,” Link scratches behind one ear, “Hate to ask, but, um…clean people?”

Rhett doesn’t seem offended, “You bet. Have to be. Another reason I’ve done this as long as I have. Money's great, but the safety is even better. I’m currently under contract with that same company I told you about – the one that director brought me under. On top of wanting to,” he air quotes his next words, “be classier’-”

He drops the quotes, “They wanted to provide an excellent work environment. Heck, me and the other actors and actresses probably have a cleaner bill of health than the entire state. Can’t shoot scene one until you’ve got the A-Okay.”

“Huh,” Link absorbs that with some surprise, but then, he supposes it really shouldn’t be. The adult film industry is a big lumbering beast right alongside it’s more recognized counterpart. No reason one shouldn’t be as cautious as the other. If anything, one has more right to be cautious.

Thinking on this, Link suddenly feels an odd pang. It’s a shame in one way that’s one viewed as more reckless than the other, more questionable. But, when viewed through a mostly puritan lens…

Not wanting to get too philosophical, Link switches gears, “You been in a lot of films?”

“My fair share.”

Another dodge, but Link will let him have it. However, he can practically feel devil horns rise as he asks with a naughty gleam to his eye, “Win any awards?”

Rhett’s practically preening, “Several.”

“Really?” Link asks with some surprise, but Rhett suddenly looks quite naughty himself. Naughty and…a bit too hot for Link’s liking as the heat that always seems to surround him when he’s near Rhett rises and woo boy, he’s really failing at this squashing-the-crush thing.

“If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll show you one of my trophies some time…”

Everything in Link melts into a puddle and he’s not sure what expression he’s wearing, but it’s one that makes Rhett’s whole face light up, “…or maybe, just maybe, I’ll show you a little somethin’ else…”

If it’s possible for a melted puddle to also explode, then Link’s just done it. Rhett bursts into guffaws as he reaches forward and, very smoothly, pushes Link’s jaw up because Link’s jaw? It dropped. He didn’t even feel it drop.

And then, to just add more fuel to the fire, Rhett rubs the pad of his thumb along the bottom of Link’s chin, right below his lip, “Damn, son…you’re just too much for words.”

“I…”

That’s it.

That’s all that Link can offer.

Just one sound, one vowel.

Silent and stunned and Rhett draws back, looking like the cat that ate the canary as he lets him go and rises up from his seat, “Think you need a moment. I’ll be back in a bit.”

And – just like that – Rhett saunters out of the room.

#rhink #randl #my writing #peachworthy #oh my sweet peach

[theladyofdeath]

The Perfect Gift {Rowaelin}

Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous.

This has been a hard Christmas for everyone, @snelbz​ and I included, so I apologize for my lack of posts. In years past, Christmas fics have been my favorite to write and post, but this year...I lacked any Christmas spirit, whatsoever. However, as that has been the case for many of us, hopefully these last few holiday fics will give you a little boost of holiday spirit. (;

Written with Shelb, of course.

Rowan got the same gift for Christmas every year: working overtime from the week before Christmas until after the New Year. 

It left him exhausted, hardly able to keep his eyes open as he pulled onto his street. He longed for his apartment, even if he wasn’t sure if he was going to the fridge for a beer or heading straight to bed.

It had been one of those days.

It didn’t help that he had to drive slower, being extra cautious, because of the heavy snowfall. 

He parked in the lot, thankful that there was a spot near the staircase and as he brought the car to a stop, he dragged a hand down his face.

Thankfully, he’d be off tomorrow and would celebrate the holiday with his friends. Before turning right back around to be at work the day after Christmas.

With a yawn, Rowan pulled himself from the car and trudged up the stairs towards his apartment. As he approached, however, he realized he could hear festive music playing from within and he looked up to find a large, and very glittery, wreath hanging on his front door.

He reached for the knob and found it unlocked, which it certainly hadn’t been when he’d left for work this morning.

He slowly pushed it open, and froze.

Aelin Galathynius was up on a stepstool, reaching up high to place a star on the top of a Christmas tree.

It wasn’t his Christmas tree.

Rowan didn’t have a Christmas tree. 

Rowan had zero Christmas decorations, had nothing that resembled the holiday whatsoever. 

Aelin, as she shook her Christmas-pajama-ed ass to the obnoxiously loud Christmas music streaming through his bluetooth speaker, apparently disapproved of that fact.

Rowan cleared his throat, and loudly shut the front door behind him.

She yelped and nearly dropped the sparkling tree topper, but righted herself and turned around to look at him. “Oh. Hey.”

Rowan had to fight off another yawn threatening to take over, but he felt a small delight in unexpectedly seeing his best friend. “What are you doing, Ace?”

“You’re off early,” she said, ignoring his way question and hopping off the stool. She carefully placed the star on the coffee table, which looked like a tiny snowman village. “You don’t usually get off work until, like, ten on Christmas Eve.”

“Lorcan sent me home, said I’d been working too many hours,” he said, leaning against the back of his door.

“Great,” she said, grinning. “Here, go put these on.” She held out a pair of pajama pants, that were identical to the pair she wore.

He blinked at the red and green Christmas trees displayed across the gray, fleece fabric. “Are we really doing this?”

Her mischievous grin deepened. “Oh, most definitely.”

He shook his head, slowly. “You know, I planned on coming home, taking it easy, going to bed early…” He trailed off, taking the pajama bottoms from Aelin, once she shoved them into his chest.

“On Christmas Eve?” Aelin asked, one golden brow raised. She grabbed her phone off the side table and turned the volume down, just a little bit, as some classic, cheesy song played in the background. “You can take it easy, but we’re going to be festive, damn it.”

He sighed, knowing there was no way he was going to win the current argument, and made his way back towards his bedroom. Decorations lined all of the walls and there was some sort of lit up knickknack or garland sitting on every surface of the apartment. He paused and turned back to look at her. “How long have you been here?”

Glancing down at her watch, she said, “I got off work at two-thirty today, like a normal person, so…” She shrugged.

“So two-thirty, then?” He asked, starting his walk back to his room again.

Aelin laughed. “Pretty much.”

Rowan just shook his head as he stumbled into his bedroom. The moment he closed his bedroom door, he stared lovingly at his bed.

His perfect bed.

So comfy, so warm.

With another wide yawn, he kicked off his boots, then his jeans, and slipped on the pajama pants.

He hated to admit just how soft and cozy they really were.

And it didn’t make him want to not climb into bed any less. 

By the time he made it back into the living room, Aelin had forgotten about putting the star on top of the tree and was pulling a tray of gingerbread man cookies out of the oven.

“You need a life,” Rowan announced. “This is…”

“Amazing?” Aelin supplied.

Rowan chuckled. “A bit much.”

She smiled, setting the tray down on the stovetop. “We only get one Christmas a year. Why not make it count?”

He rolled his eyes and turned, finding a festive movie menu on his television, with a pile of blankets on his couch, two mugs of hot chocolate and decorated cookies on the coffee table. He looked back into his room and wondered how he hadn’t noticed his comforter missing from his bed.

“Oh no,” he said, letting his head fall into his hand.

“Oh, yes,” Aelin said, smirking as she moved past him and flopped onto the couch.

“Christmas movies are cheesy,” Rowan muttered.

“Not all of them,” Aelin protested, crossing her arms.

“Yes, all of them, every single one,” he argued.

“You're such a Scrooge,” she teased, picking up her mug of hot chocolate. When she pulled the mug away, she had a thick, whipped cream mustache. 

Rowan couldn’t help his laugh as Aelin’s eyes narrowed. She quickly sucked in her top lip and licked it off, a gesture that made Rowan’s laughter quickly fade.

Rowan and Aelin had been best friends their entire lives. They'd been there for each other through every high and low of their lives, whether that was Aelin graduating top of her class from the University of Terrasen or Rowan’s father leaving just shy of his fourteenth birthday.

Rowan had been in love with her for years.

She had no idea.

“Stop looking at me, asshole,” Aelin muttered, taking another sip from her mug.

Rowan cleared his throat and shook off the moment with a sneaky grin. “If only I had my camera. That would’ve made good future blackmail.”

Aelin rolled. “No need to save blackmail, you already scare every guy I meet away with your looming height and endless broodiness.”

Rowan chuckled. If only she knew. “Alright, Ace. What horrid movie are you forcing me to sit through?”

“A childhood classic,” she said, and pressed play, letting the sound of The Grinch fill the room.

Rowan narrowed his eyes and sat next to her on the couch. “You better be happy Jim Carrey is my favorite actor.”

“Is he?” She asked, with mock surprise. “I had no idea.”

Rowan grabbed a cookie from the plate and bit Santa’s head off. It seemed the best response to Aelin’s sarcasm.

The movie started — Rowan detested movies that spoke in rhyme — and the two settled in to watch. After only a couple of minutes, Rowan was yawning.

“You better not fall asleep,” Aelin said, raising an eyebrow as she looked over at him.

“So bossy,” he said, leaning forward to grab his hot chocolate. He put the mug to his lips and drank. Pausing the movie, he looked over at her. “Is there alcohol in this?”

“You’re asking me if there’s alcohol in it?” Aelin asked, shooting him a grin.

“Of course there is,” he muttered, taking a sip. He could taste a slight hint of rumchata through the cocoa and extensive whipped cream.

Aelin was good at a lot of things.

At the top of the list was a solid mug of hot cocoa.

The titles played, and The Grinch began.

Rowan used to love that movie, back before his father left and Christmas still felt like Christmas.

Aelin had had a hard childhood, too, and Rowan envied her for still loving Christmas. After all those years, she still adored the holiday. Still adored the magic of the day.

Rowan had a much more difficult time getting into the holiday spirit.

That could have been why he chugged the hot chocolate and Aelin was up getting seconds for them both before the titular character was even on screen. That pattern held until an hour later, when Aelin was grabbing a bottle of whiskey out of the freezer, the Rumchata long gone and Rowan was hollering from the living room, voice beginning to slur, “Like, if he doesn’t like Christmas, why doesn’t he just move? I’m sure there’s a community of people somewhere who hate Christmas just as much as he does.” Aelin sniggered as she set down the bottle, but he went on. “And for that fact, the Who’s just need to let the damn man live his life. He’s not hurting anyone up on his mountain.”

“He kind of is,” Aelin argued, closing the fridge and heading back to the living room. “I mean, he scares everyone and makes people miserable on purpose.”

“Yeah, because everyone’s so damn judgmental,” Rowan said, his head falling back against the couch cushions. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you love the Grinch so much,” Aelin grinned, falling onto the couch next to him. “Save for being green, you’re practically the same person.” 

“Not true,” Rowan scoffed. “I would never wear the outfit of a German yodeler.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes. “First of all, it’s called a lederhosen. Secondly, you’re so full of shit.” 

Rowan was unable to control his grin. 

“I could see you in lederhosen, by the way,” Aelin continued, sipping from her mug. Rowan followed her lead, the warm sensation of whiskey trailing down his throat.

“I don’t think it’s my style,” he snorted, propping one of his feet onto the coffee table.

“You’d rather wear the table cloth?” Aelin asked, giggling quietly.

“I think that’s more of your style,” he chuckled, tossing back the rest of his mug.

Aelin cocked her head and looked over at him. “Topless, huh? You think that’s my look?”

Rowan began to backpedal. “No, I mean- I just meant it was a skirt.”

Aelin began to howl, Rowan’s cheeks bright red.

“You’re something else, Whitethorn, you know that?” Aelin asked, downing the liquor in her mug.

“In a good way?” Rowan asked.

Aelin looked at him through his side eye and remained silent as she tossed an arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “You’re an interesting man, you know that?”

The alcohol he’d consumed, coupled with the scent of her around him was nearly too much and he was unable to stop his hand from resting on her thigh. “Interesting, huh? Is that a good interesting or a bad interesting?”

Aelin’s own cheeks darkened, but her fingers began to draw small circles into his shoulder. “Good interesting. You’re never boring.”

She lifted her arm off his shoulder, but was glad when his hand didn’t leave her thigh.

“I’ll take interesting,” he went on, even if all he could think about was his hand. His hand that rested on her thigh. Her thigh, which was warm and unmoving. “As long as it’s a compliment.”

Aelin cocked her head to the side, and golden strands fell into her face. “And what do you think of me? Am I interesting?”

“You’re…” His words trailed off as he turned his head to the side and looked into her eyes. Those turquoise and gold eyes that made his knees weak and his heart ache and made him feel like his chest was going to burst. “...dangerous.”

Aelin took a sip of her whiskey, licking the last sip off her lips. “How am I dangerous?”

“First of all, you have no filter,” Rowan said, unable to hide his smile. “You say whatever is on your mind without the consequences.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Aelin asked, brow raised, still fully aware of Rowan’s hand on her thigh. 

“I say it has both its good and bad qualities,” Rowan followed.

Aelin laughed, quietly, then said, “And what else makes me so dangerous?”

“Exactly what you’re doing right now,” he said, taking a deep breath, regretting it immediately when he realized how close to Aelin he was. The smell of her spice and vanilla perfume him and if he would have been standing, he would have fallen to his knees. “You have to have the last word. It’s impossible to win an argument with you.”

“Some people would call that tenacity,” she said, bringing her legs up and tucking them beneath her.

Rowan’s fingers squeezed gently. “Most people would call that stubborn.”

Aelin tossed her head back and laughed and Rowan was powerless to stop himself from leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

As soon as his lips left her skin and he’d realized what he’d done, his eyes went wide.

Aelin only hesitated for a moment before lifting a beautifully sculpted brow. “What was that for?”

“There has to be a reason?” He meant for it to come out as a snarky remark, to match her tone, but it came out nothing more than a whisper.

Aelin slowly shook her head. “No, there doesn’t have to be a reason.”

Rowan took a moment to try and figure out what that statement meant. Was it an invitation? Something cordial to let him know that kissing her cheek was okay? Did it mean that she wanted something more?

The two fell back into silence and as the movie played, Rowan continued to ponder Aelin’s reaction to his kiss. He was just about to clear his throat and apologize when lithe fingers and manicured nails finger-combed through his hair.

He nearly purred.

Rowan leaned into her touch and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling Aelin move closer as well. He didn’t want to do anything to stop her, didn't want to say anything that would result in her stopping the way she was lightly scratching at his scalp, but he also wasn’t completely positive he wasn’t dreaming.

A thousand emotions rushed him, lust nearing the top of the list. He tried not to let it show, but was certain he was failing as his eyes fluttered shut one more time.

“Feel good?” She breathed.

He made a contented noise, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and settled deeper into the cushions. With a breathy chuckle, she ran her fingers through the front and brushed the stray strands out of his face. He cracked one of his eyes open and looked at her through a heavy lid.

With his pine green gaze on her, Aelin’s cheeks heated. “What?”

He gently shook his head, but continued looking at her, taking her in. “What's on your mind?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” he said, with a grin. 

“Nothing important,” she corrected, her fingers still working their magic.

Rowan watched her for a second before repeating, “Liar.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” She asked, turning the tables on him.

He was quiet for a minute more before he admitted, “I was thinking about how different my night is going than I planned.”

She asked, “Yeah?”

He nodded. “See, I was planning on coming home, downing a beer or two, and passing out.” The smirk he tried to hide broke through. “Instead I find you, dancing around my house, baking cookies and just being all around cheery.”

“Are you complaining?” Aelin asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m the luckiest guy in Orynth.”

She rolled her eyes, even though her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “You're full of shit.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “I mean it.”

Aelin couldn’t hide the smile that grew on her face and when she turned to Rowan, she found a similar smile on his own. The hand in his hair drifted down, a thumb brushing over his cheekbone

“Can I kiss you?” Rowan asked, not letting himself think of the irreparable damage he could be doing on their friendship.

With a smirk, Aelin said, “I thought you already did.”

Rowan hesitated before letting out a breathy laugh. “Well, then can I kiss you agai-.”

Before he could finish, Aelin had leaned toward him, and put her lips on his.

That hand on her though tightened and her other hand framed the side of his face, and Rowan Whitethorn forgot how to breathe as he kissed Aelin.

When they finally pulled apart, both beaming at each other, Rowan wrapped an arm around her and they settled onto the couch.

“I hope you have a pretty good present for me tomorrow,” Aelin said with a grin.

Rowan laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He didn’t bother to tell her that no present would ever compare to this night, she was present enough.

#Rowaelin #Christmas 2020 #TOG #Throne of Glass #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #shara #rowan #aelin #modern au

[washymylifeaway]

SakuAtsu Fanfic recs pt2 leggo

I promised a pt 2 and here it is! Link to pt 1 here :) I was lazy so given summaries (I cped this time, but in the future I might paraphrase), and ofc these aren’t all of the ones I loved, just some :D So in no particular order, have some SakuAtsu <3

As always, pls check WARNINGS, TAGS, and SUMMARIES for fics before reading (esp cause I didn’t put individual warnings PLEASE make sure you’re okay with the content!!!!!!) and make sure you’re taking care of yourselves (since mental health is key!) Stay healthy loves <3

Teach Me, Tune Me, Tempt Me by Anonymous (E) 38.8k // Sakusa Kiyoomi needs to conquer many lifelong fears in order to enter his first romantic relationship. Miya Atsumu is there to guide him every step of the way, even if the one Sakusa desires is someone else.

Flowers Bloom In Our Masks by UnicornFlowers (G) 24.5k // "Mysophobia, also known as verminophobia, germophobia, germaphobia, bacillophobia and bacteriophobia, is a pathological fear of contamination and germs." "You read that off of Wikipedia." "That's the point, Omi-kun. I read up on it fer you."

the art of folding a handkerchief by Emlee_J (T) 5.6k // “Atsumu-san’s just realised he likes Sakusa-san,” Shouyou says simply, as though announcing the weather. “Ahh,” Bokuto nods sagely, standing up straight and nodding his head, as though this was a perfectly normal thing to hear and not monumental in any way. “'Ahh?'” Atsumu protests, indignantly, “what do ya mean ‘ahh?’” “We were wondering when you were going to notice,” Bokuto shrugs, and Atsumu gawps at him. “'Scuse me?” He splutters, and whips his gaze around to Shouyou, who bobs his head at him in confirmation. “How did you two notice before I did?” Atsumu blurts out. "Most people do," Shouyou says softly. -In which Atsumu develops something annoying, like feelings for a teammate, but at least he has a couple of wingmen and Tobio's seemingly infinite resources to help him out.

for whom the heart beats by cielelyse (T) 1.6k // Atsumu's heart keeps skipping a beat whenever Sakusa's around - so often that it's baffling and honestly downright concerning. "I think I might have a medical condition," he says into the phone. "Good," says Osamu, and hangs up.

as you are by papertulips (G) 5.8k // Kiyoomi learns that falling for Atsumu is the easiest thing in the world.

Hide and seek by badreputation (E) 10.5k // It’s just a fleeting infatuation. As long as he pushes through it he’ll manage. So what if nowadays there isn’t a night where he doesn’t dream of Sakusa pinning him down on his own bed, in the shower or make Atsumu go down on his knees in the hallway? Those are just pesky details.

People Will Say We're in Love by tirralirra (T) 9.5k // “Saku...Atsu? What does that even mean?” Atsumu says, squinting at the device. People seem to think that Sakusa and Atsumu are in love, so they come up with a list of things to do to deter that. Maybe it would work...if they weren’t in love.

do not separate! by aalphard (T) 5k // He knows he likes peanut butter and the tuna onigiri Uncle Shamu makes for him. He knows he likes volleyball and the way his daddy looks so, so cool when he’s on court. He knows he likes drawing and playing with toy swords. He knows he likes reading and it’s even better when Atsumu is the one reading for him. He knows he likes to have pancakes in the morning but he also really, really likes tamagoyaki and he knows his daddy can’t make those at all. He tries, but fails every single time. He knows his daddy’s teammates like him and he knows they’ll help him if he wants to play with them one day. But the thing is he likes Uncle Omi-kun more than he likes the rest of them and that is a secret he won’t tell anyone that’s not his daddy. He doesn’t like to make people sad.“Omi?” “Yeah?” “Nao said he likes you more than he likes the rest of the team. Don’t tell’em.” or atsumu is a single dad and kiyoomi can't help but fall for him.

you make my heart burn by myhopeisjhope (G) 9.2k // “What’s up with that awful expression?” Atsumu asked. He leaned against the counter with his hip, looking directly at Kiyoomi, his regular fox-line grin plastered on his face. Kiyoomi made eye-contact with him then, his eyebrows knotting in annoyance, but Atsumu was too interested in the cute pair of beauty marks above Kiyoomi’s eye to care about the glare that was sent his way. “What’s up with that awful hair?” Kiyoomi shot back. And that was exactly when Atsumu decided he liked the guy. 

somewhere in the middle (i think we lied a little) by akanemnida (E) 4.3k // “Body worship,” Miya said instantly, after Kiyoomi asked him what he wanted as reward as the winner of their service ace competition. “I can do that,” Kiyoomi said with a frown. “God, you really are the vainest person on this planet—”Miya shook his head, smirking. “Nuh-uh, Omi-kun. I meant I wanted ‘ta worship ‘ya.”(Or: Sakusa and Atsumu and all the blurred lines in between.)

san'yō expressway, 6:17 pm by yamabato (T) 8.1k // Atsumu tilts his head to watch a slice of orange light bend over the impassive planes of Sakusa’s face. He is absolutely, ruthlessly beautiful. It makes Atsumu want to punch something—put his foot through the windshield—scream, maybe. Kiss him again, maybe. They have 344 kilometers to figure this one out.

affection by papertulips (G) 2.1k // "I gave you the key to my house for emergencies only." “This is an emergency.” “What?” Atsumu pouts, looking up at him with wide eyes that definitely work on Kiyoomi but he will never admit it. “I missed you.”

love could be labeled poison and we'd drink it anyways by myhopeisjhope (NR) 21.3k // "Huh?" is Atsumu's response, and it's seemingly the only thing the man could think of after the minute-long silence that stretched between them. "We should break up," Kiyoomi repeats, more clearly now. He doesn't let any emotion seep into his voice, keeping it neutral and detached, as if breaking up with Atsumu was the easiest thing ever, while in fact it's the complete opposite.

And I'll Ask for the Sea by meeks00 (T) 6.9k // When a couple of his teammates reveal that Atsumu has feelings for him, Sakusa doesn’t react well. It doesn’t help that Atsumu is his typical petty and salty self. --“Come on,” Atsumu is saying in a wheedling tone behind a bright grin. “Just stop,” Sakusa snaps suddenly. “Will you just leave me alone for once? I don’t even like you!”Normally, Sakusa’s words don’t phase Atsumu at all. He’ll talk over Sakusa or brush off any harsh words easily enough and might turn to someone else for the attention he apparently craves. But this time, Sakusa’s words seem to stop him cold, the smile freezing for just a moment on his face.

the Definition of Miya Atsumu, by Sakusa Kiyoomi by orphan_account (G) 4k // Miya Atsumu is a self-centred prick who thinks he's top shit. Underneath the word 'asshole' in the dictionary is a picture of his stupidly pretty face. Sakusa Kiyoomi's definition is, according to him, 100% correct, until he takes a closer look.

i’ll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands) by liliapocalypse (T) 7.6k // Seeing Sakusa stressed out, Atsumu writes random letters on Sakusa’s skin to soothe him during the team’s assisted stretches. Somewhere along the way, the touches shift from barely tolerable to something Sakusa actively craved for. One day, though, Atsumu accidentally writes a confession instead.

it ain't no matter of 'if' honey, it's just a matter of 'when' by irleggsy (M) 2.1k // With a beer in one hand and an accusatory pointer finger on the other, Sakusa slurred, shouted even, “Atsumu. If you wear those godforsaken cutoff camo jorts one more fucking time I’m breaking up with you.”Atsumu made a noise in his throat caught somewhere between a wheeze and a squawk that came out more of an avant-garde honk noise than anything else. He stared up at Sakusa with wide eyes, a bewildered smile just barely glued onto his face. Or: The MSBY Black Jackals go to a bar. Sakusa likes to run his mouth when he's drunk.

dog eat dog eat dog world by perennials (T) 8.4k // You are your first and only line of defense against the universe.

Who Could Have Seen This Coming? by crone_zone (M) 16.7k // Peering out the side of his eyes at the man walking beside him, Sakusa wondered why he’d impulsively changed his mind about his plans this evening when he’d noticed Miya’s reluctance. Surely he wasn’t worried about this asshole, was he?--In which Sakusa impulsively invites Atsumu over to his apartment when he sees he's upset and something entirely unexpected happens: he realizes he likes this asshole. Cue [off-camera]sex, mutual confessions, insecurity, and adorable losers who are opposite in all the right ways.

Miya Atsumu's unwavering love for Sakusa Kiyoomi and an unholy amount of terrible food analogies that should not have the right to Exist by aiviloti (G) 5.6k // Five times Miya Atsumu talks to (harasses) his friends and sibling because he has feelings for Sakusa and doesn't know what to do or how to deal with them and the one time he talks to Sakusa about it. “How do you make friends apart from showering them in praise?” Atsumu wails one night, and Osamu thinks, oh god, here we go again.

Sakusa's Secret Admirer by TwilaFrost (T) 20.2k // Every day after practice, Kiyoomi finds another letter inside his shoe locker. It's only every signed: -❤ He's determined to find this person. Is it crazy to fall in love with someone you've never met?

take what's yours and make it mine by claudusdiei (T) 5.9k // (this has a second fic hehe) atsumu falls in love four times in his life (or: in which atsumu gets his heart broken twice, has the self-awareness of a sober mule and really likes yellow tulips)

School Bus Yellow by yuuki (G) 4.9k // Atsumu has a crush on Sakusa, and it’s kind of ridiculous how much he likes a guy who wears ugly colored jackets and is afraid of germs.Though, Atsumu’s probably not all that great himself. He’s still figuring that part out.

show me how by emeraldpalace (G) 2.9k // Sakusa isn’t sure when or how it happened, but the fact remains: Miya Atsumu has become a comfortable constant in his life.

touch me (i want you to) by melstar (G) 3.9k // He should have seen it coming, really. Spend six months tip-toeing around the line of domesticity with the team’s resident germaphobe, and there was no way he’d be able to think of the guy the same way anymore. Or, Atsumu touches Sakusa's arm once and thus begins a downward spiral into the inescapable jaws of attraction.

Dreaming of You, Talking About You by kitkatwrites (T) 1.1k // Osamu learns that Atsumu talks in his sleep, especially about a certain wing spiker from Tokyo.

If your world falls apart, I'd start a riot by Serendipity (jenjaemrens) (NR) 3.1k // "It was Atsumu who was the older brother, but it was Osamu who was more protective of him. He would always protect Atsumu from things around them that could hurt him. "Or, the story of Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu through the eyes of Miya Osamu.

but soft what light by min_mintobe (T) 2.1k // "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, Bokkun—" Atsumu drawls, "—hot. "In which Miya Atsumu woos Sakusa Kiyoomi by (gratuitously, seductively) quoting Shakespeare. One-shot.

sakusa kiyoomi's fixation on (miya atsumu's) lips by catsoncocaine (E) 3.7k // Everything about Atsumu is fucking beautiful, but there is one specific part of his that is like kryptonite for Kiyoomi. It is both his curse and his remedy, rendering him useless and yet egging him on to move at the same time. Kiyoomi hates it as much as he loves it.

The Jacket In Your Closet by dai_naning (T) 8.6k // According to the gossiping players around him, Miya Atsumu is an asshole. He's an incredible player in court and an obnoxious person off the court. He taunts people, points out their weakness, and doesn't give a shit if he's disliked or not. Some even say his teammates ostracize him. Sakusa looks at Miya Atsumu and can only see a player who keeps his eyes firmly forward, demanding the same to the players who want to stay on the court. Sakusa can't fault him for that. (That doesn't erase the fact that he's an asshole though. And that he's still the one who gave a jacket to a stranger.)

sakusa kiyoomi is....an uncle? by miyaudrey (T) 5.9k // “Oh, by the way, my nieces and nephews are going to be there.” “Your what now?” Or, Atsumu finds out three hours prior to a Sakusa family gathering that Kiyoomi is an uncle.

Confessions of a V-League Setter by Anubis_2701 (T) 3.3k // "Never?" Sakusa's lips thinned. "No, never. Now stop talking to me." Or, Atsumu discovers that Sakusa Kiyoomi, germaphobe and reluctant heartthrob of the Black Jackals, has never been confessed to before. He decides to change that.

Touch Me by cajynn (E) 3k // Sakusa actually likes being touched but he's very picky when it comes to who and how. When the who turns out to be Miya Atsumu he has a crisis.

Please Stop Crying by dauwtrappen (G) 2.9k // Friday starts off well until it doesn’t and Kiyoomi can hear something crash, feel something snap inside him when Miya, about to set him up for a quick attack, suddenly starts crying in the middle of their three-on-three. Kiyoomi doesn’t even react when the ball bounces off his head, doesn’t cringe when his face is smushed against the net briefly because he forgets to land in front of the it. He’s too shocked, too appalled with the tears pouring out from Miya’s eyes to care.

I can't take much more of your hesitating by playexodus (T) 2.7k // The curved sides of Atsumu’s pecs peek through that absurd tank top at just the right angle. Sakusa swallows. “Your entire chest is hanging out of that shirt. We’re in public. You could at least pretend to be a decent, morally upright person. Not to mention that this Los Angeles beach boy aesthetic is terrible on you.”Glancing back down at Atsumu’s chest to glare at his sharp, glistening collarbones is a bad idea. Sakusa wills his eyes to stay fixated on Atsumu’s face. As it turns out, this too, is a bad idea. “Oh?” Atsumu turns his half-lidded gaze onto Sakusa, the corners of his mouth curling. “Just to be clear: you’re definitely not enjoying the view then, Omi-Omi?”

curse breaking by allicanseeispink (T) 9.2k // Nearing the fourth hour of the silent treatment, Kiyoomi’s already frayed nerves began to whittle down to their last fibers. Today, it was raining. A proper Tokyo monsoon tantrum just shy of a full-blown typhoon that left puddles on sidewalks and fell from an angle so wicked it eluded umbrellas. It was raining and they haven’t spoken in almost four hours. (In which Sakusa wanders into the minefield that is Atsumu's feelings and tries not to blow things up.)

Summer Special: Omigiri by mika60 (T) 6.9k // Miya Osamu always comes up with the perfect marketing plan for his shop, even if it involves the two biggest idiots he knows.

a list of things sakusa kiyoomi hates by BrenH (T) 7.3k // “Just fuckin’ write shit down so ya remember it then. ”It was probably supposed to be a joke, just Osamu being as annoying and unhelpful as always, just reminding him that he shouldn’t have bothered trying to count on his brother for help. He’s forgotten about the whole thing until a few days later when he’s shopping and comes across a small, black notebook shaped like a cat, and his brother’s stupid suggestion flashes through his mind. Before he knows it, the cute little notebook is dropped in his basket, purchased, and in his possession. Or, the one where Osamu suggests Atsumu keep a notebook to track all the things Sakusa hates that he does, and he takes it further than he means to.

A Challenge, A Cat, and A Confession by Kitaa (G) 6.2k // Atsumu enjoys bothering Sakusa. One day he bothers him enough to be invited over to his apartment, only to discover that Sakusa has a plant, a cat, and a cute laugh.

Multiples Of Two by yuuki (G) 3.3k // He does everything in multiples of two. The day Sakusa Kiyoomi died, Atsumu checked his pulse twenty-eight times. Okay, so Sakusa Kiyoomi has never died. And Atsumu has never been close enough to Sakusa to be able to check his pulse. So what if Atsumu is just being dramatic again? He’s allowed to be dramatic when he’s in love with a man who has less emotion than a rock.

gold rush by sketchedsmiles (T) 18k // When the MSBY Black Jackals sign their newest team member, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu makes it his personal responsibility to befriend the indifferent player.

got sand in my eyes (and my shorts too, damn you miya) by luxnoctre (T) 4.7k // On one of their rare rest days, Hinata takes the part of the MSBY team to the beach. Chaos ensures. (or alternatively, do not piss off Sakusa when he is in the middle of relaxing)

mortality is found in the flesh of your sins by citronnes (M) 10.6k // dickhead one, sakusa kiyoomi. dickhead two, miya atsumu. neither understand how to communicate. Pray tell, why are you drawn to him?Are you drawn to him in the way he looks beautiful even when crying? When his eyes are red, shiny tears streaking down, lips quivering, is he beautiful?

This was v long ahahaha.... Anyway, is this finished? No LOL, but I’ll just make small additions via reblogs (?) over time. Maybe :) Sorry if you wanted me to ramble on about SakuAtsu,,,, slide into my messages/asks for that LOL. Maybe over time I’ll add the commentary from other posts I make in the future :’)

#sakuatsu #haikyuu fanfic rec #haikyuu fic recs #haikyuu!! #haikyuu #hq fic rec #anime #manga #sakuatsu fic recs #i'm a lazy person #also if you saw me saying i was gonna post kyouhaba #no you didnt #like i just said #lazy #there are a lot of fics in that one #anyway #all of these are really good #like i couldnt not put them all #ya know?

[petalbrooke]

ace fic ace fic!

I want to thank @runawayface for inspiring me to write some ace content and actually post it! This is a very short and self-indulgent fic where Elliott discovers he’s ace - I have a lot of headcannons around that possibility and maybe I’ll dig into them one day.

Here is the link if you want to give me kudos/comments on ao3, which are always appreciated, and the full fic is below.

Thanks for reading :)

Elliott had wanted desperately to fall in love. He’d read and written about it in so many ways, had seen it in blossom like flowers in the couples around him, but had yet to experience it – truly experience it. The heady feeling of falling for another, of long nights and early mornings with that person by his side. Of years and years of getting to know them better than he knew himself. In a town comprised of about thirty or so people, half of which were married or otherwise committed, Elliott had always thought that it wouldn’t happen to him.

At least, until the new farmer rolled into town.

Everyone was interested when they heard the local farm was being taken over by the previous owner’s granddaughter. A new face would be interesting under any circumstances, but one who was going to transform the weed-ridden farm? Well, that was something else entirely. He hadn’t met her until about a week after she’d moved in, when she’d gone to visit Willy at the docks. Elliott had been on the docks, bare feet dangling over the side as he scratched out several lines from a poem he was trying to write.

“Are you… Willy?” the woman had asked, hesitating outside the door that would actually take her to Willy. Elliott was immediately struck by her appearance – chestnut hair she had pulled back in a messy bun, dirt streaked on her slightly burnt face that matched the hue of her eyes. She was, he supposed, beautiful, though not in the same way as the heroines he often read about.

“No,” he laughed, gesturing towards Willy’s home. “He’s in there. My name is Elliott, and I live in that little ramshackle shack on the beach. You must be Elona, the new farmer?”

She beamed, and Elliott tried to imagine how he would write her if she was someone in his novel. He’d make sure to mention that slight gap in her front teeth, and the way her cheeks flushed when she smiled. Or perhaps that was the sunburn the work on the farm must have given her.

“That’s me. Well, it was nice to meet you. I really need to talk to Willy, but… I’ll see you around?”

“I hope so.” Elliott returned to his poem, changing one phrase five times until finally settling on the one he had originally chosen. Later – he wasn’t sure how much later, but the back of his neck had started to feel rather toasty – she had emerged, a new fishing pole in hand, and had joined him. They sat in companionable silence, each occasionally asking the other a question, until dark.

This was how it had all begun. Elona would come by every day, usually just after noon, with some products from her farm and fishing rod in tow. They would sit and talk and Elliott found himself craving every moment he would get with her – every minute spent with her was the best of that day. Afternoons turned into evenings turned into nights, and Elliott was finally beginning to understand the feelings of the characters in those romance novels he so loved.

Well. He was understanding most of them. There was one aspect he still didn’t understand was hoping might change with time, and it was the… intimacy aspect. He’d always tiptoed around the idea, even in his novels; all his knowledge had come from other authors and not from experience. After months of time together, he felt sure he loved her. Reasonably sure. What else would this feeling in his chest be, his desire to spend his life with her? To grow old with her? But there was still one thing – the marriage bed – that he couldn’t figure out how to navigate. (Well, not always the marriage bed, but he’d always been a bit of a traditionalist.)

He’d always thought that the swell of desire would come when he fell in love. That was always how it seemed to work in the novels. Sometimes it even came first. But even with Elona, even with everything he felt about her – he just couldn’t see beyond the fact that she was pretty. Elliott could tell when a person was attractive, objectively speaking. But it didn’t make him feel anything. He thought it would come with the right person. But Elona felt right in every way, and still, nothing.

She hadn’t brought it up yet, and neither had he, but tonight was the night, he had decided. It wouldn’t be fair if she had expectations he couldn’t meet. Or perhaps he was just completely broken, and could never love, not the way he was supposed to.

They were having dinner that night, at his cabin. Not homecooked – Elliott was never meant to be a chef – but seafood from the Saloon on his own plates worked just as well. It was quiet dinner, and Elliott’s hands betrayed his nervousness.

After three unfruitful attempts at conversation, Elona slammed her fork on the table, startling Elliott. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange all night. Barely talking, you’ve hardly touched your lobster, and I know that’s your favorite.”

Elliott glanced at the aforementioned lobster, unable to meet her steady gaze. “Yes, well, there was… there was something I wanted… something I needed to talk to you about.” He took a deep breath, suddenly at a loss for words, despite having rehearsed it endless times. “I don’t think I can be what you need me to be,” he said, the words tumbling out, unbidden.

Elona’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Clearly, whatever she’d expected him to say, this hadn’t been it. “What… what do you think I need?” she asked.

Elliott cleared his throat. Yoba, why was this so hard to say? “I don’t think I can… I mean, you’re beautiful, and I hope you know that, but I’m not… I don’t feel…” he stammered, unsure how to say what he wanted without wounding her. That it wasn’t her, it was him, it was that he couldn’t make himself feel that attraction he thought all couples had.

Her eyes softened, and she reached out and took his hand in her own, her fingers small and rough from hard labor. “Elliott, honey, I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

“You do?”

“Unless I’m wrong – and I rarely am,” she laughed, “you’re trying to tell me you don’t feel any sexual attraction towards me. Is that right?”

Elliott could feel heat creeping to his cheeks with how outright she was about it. “I, um, I…”

“And let me guess,” she continued, giving him a knowing smile and a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve never really figured this out about yourself and you feel broken. You see what everyone else has and you don’t understand why you don’t.”

“Yes,” he whispered. He could feel tears forming behind his eyes, though he couldn’t explain why.

“Honey, that just means you’re asexual. Or somewhere on that spectrum. It’s fine.”

“What… I don’t…” Elliott’s head was spinning. He’d never heard the term before, though he could figure out what it meant. “You mean… it’s okay?”

“More than okay,” she said, giving him that huge smile, the one that reminded him of the rays of the sun. “I was going to talk about this with you soon, because I wasn’t sure. But it had never come up, and I was nervous to be the one to do it… I’m the same way. I don’t feel that kind of attraction. But I still feel love. And I love you.”

The tears flew unbidden now, though he was smiling as they did. “So… so it’s okay?” he asked again, not quite able to believe it.

Elona stood and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “More than okay. Let’s finish dinner up and we can talk about it some more.”

Elliott swept her tiny frame into a massive hug, so overcome he was with emotion. He had agonized over this conversation, had been so sure it would lead to the loss of this woman he loved, and instead it had proven that nothing was wrong with him, with them. He was whole. They both were.

Never had he been more excited for his future.

#sdv elliott #stardew valley oc #stardew valley #sdv #sdv fanfic #stardew valley fanfiction #my fic

[liquorisce]

reading between the lines (High School Years, Ch 2)

pairing: eren x mikasa (shingeki no kyojin) // mild erehisu, yumihisu

rating: t

summary: (modern au) Junior year is difficult, especially for Mikasa, because it turns out Eren’s decided to test the dating scene. 

(banter, jealousy... and lots of feelings)

part 1 | read on ao3

A/N: this chapter has been a long time coming (5 years omg), and tbh I have a lovely anon to thank, who messaged me asking for a sequel to hsy, which made me actually want to put down my scrambled headcanons on paper. if you're reading this anon, i'm truly grateful for the push you gave me. 

NOTE: although i intended a sequel, this is a COMPANION fic to chapter 1, it is meant to fill up the gaps in the story that the previous chapter didnt tell you. i hope you enjoy :)

Today was not one of Eren’s favourite days, for 2 reasons. For one, the day started off with … an encounter. Two, today they would be getting the results of their final trig assessment, which Eren knows perfectly well he didn’t have a chance of passing.

The ‘encounter’ happens pretty much without preamble.

…

i.

“… Hey, it’s Eren, right?” He turns around from his conversation with Armin, to see the same guy from a couple of weeks ago, the one who was talking about Mikasa, and her pretty hair. (he wasn’t wrong)  

“Yeah?” He does his best not to let the subconscious irritation seep into his tone.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day,” the guy with the oddly horse-shaped face says, “… My name’s Jean.”

“… Nice to meet you,” he says awkwardly delivering his dishonest words.

“… So, I wanted to be straight up with you,” Jean says, cheeks oddly pink. “About Mikasa… and you. I’ve heard some rumours, and I thought it best to address it with you directly, because I really don’t want to cause any trouble.”   Clearing his throat, he says, “Are you guys… y’know, together?”

It’s in the way Jean speaks, he thinks, or the way he talks about Mikasa (or even thinks of her?) - it makes him want to ram his fist right in the middle of his ugly face. And because he was too busy clenching his fists to actually respond, Armin says with a laugh, “… Ah, don’t worry, Mikasa is totally single.”

And then proceeds to wink at Jean.

Eren can barely believe his eyes and ears. And once Jean is out of earshot he hisses, “… what the fuck, Armin?”

Armin blinks up at him innocently. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

 “… You didn’t have to encourage him,” Eren mumbles petulantly, when he admits to himself that Armin did, in fact, say nothing wrong.

 “Erm, why not?” He sighs, “Look, I know you… worry about Mikasa,” Armin keeps his tone as neutral and veiled as possible, because worried is definitely not all Eren feels for Mikasa, “… but Jean is a good guy! And if anyone deserves attention from a good guy, it’s her.”

…

 ii.

 She finds him lurking near his locker, stuffing his crumpled papers in, probably wishing away their existence.

“That bad, huh?” She asks, hiding away her grin at his predictable reaction. Eren has always been predisposed too sulking - whether he was a 7-year-old who wasn’t the fastest on the field or 16-something and having just received his trigonometry results.

“… You look like you did just fine,” he mutters, not having to see the A+ on her paper to know that Mikasa had no problem acing the trig test (or any other test).

“You could just ask me for help, Eren. I could help you out for the retakes,” she offers softly, not for the first time.

He sighs. When he glances at her, dark eyes offering earnestly, he knows she means it without any pride or arrogance, but he isn’t able to suppress the prick of his own ego that has him mumbling, “… the mandatory remedial lessons should do just fine.”

…

iii.

When he shows up for class, he sees only a couple of others unfamiliar faces, so he curses under his breath at his own ineptitude towards mathematics for getting him in this situation and takes a spot at the back of the class.

The Support teacher - Erd, he calls himself, apparently too young to be addressed ‘Mr.’ or any of that - seems just as tired as the rest of them, sighing at the lack of answers, obviously frustrated at the complete lack of interest or gratitude of the teenagers in front of him.

So, 20 minutes into the 1-hour lesson, when the short blonde walks in, out-of-breath and apologetic, the sarcasm in his tone is biting. “You’ve already missed 1/3rd of this class, you might as well have stayed out entirely and practiced your cheer routines.”

Eren watches sympathetically at the visible cringe on Krista’s face and offers her an empathetic smile as she takes the seat next to him.

Later when they’ve been informed that the retake is just an assignment filled with proofs and average difficulty problems that they can do in pairs, he looks at Krista, the only known person in the room.

They weren’t that close, but they had quite a few mutual friends what with him playing basketball and her being part of the cheer team. So, when she says, “… see you at the library tomorrow evening?” with a pretty smile across her pretty features, he grins gratefully.

..

She doesn’t struggle with trig even half as much as he does. In fact, she seemed to be happy to do most of the work herself and explain her solutions - if he actually had the interest to understand them.

“I don’t understand,” he admits after she solves the 5th problem in a row effortlessly, “you seem to have everything down already. How come you didn’t pass the test?”

Her eyes skittered nervously away from him. “I was… sick,” she mutters. “I couldn’t really focus.”

He eyes her closely, observing the sudden change in her countenance. Usually Krista was all easy smiles, twinkle in her blue eyes. Now, she looks uneasy, unwell almost. Deciding it wasn’t his place to pry, “… Well, I guess I turned out to be the lucky one in all this,” he grins, “… I get to hang out with you and have you do my assignment.”

She rolls her eyes. To be honest, she’d enjoyed the past couple of evenings with him. Eren was easy to talk to, despite being somewhat of an airhead and being completely incapable of anything remotely math related. But regardless, he made her laugh and just about forget what happened the morning before she showed up for this test, with fresh tears choking her throat, and purpling bruises on her thighs.

“I guess you owe me then,” she quips back, smugly.

“… I definitely do,” he says smoothly, green eyes watching her in a way that makes her feel warm. “How can I make it up to you?”

Flustered, because she hadn’t expected his easy response, she mumbles, “… Dinner?” And with red cheeks hidden by her blonde bangs, she whispers, “I like pizza.”

…

iv.

She finds him at the end of the day, on one of the wooden tables outside the basketball court, chin resting in his hands, eyes glued to his laptop.

“… Hey,” she breathes, giggling when startled green eyes flash up to her, body jerking in surprise.

“Damn, you got me,” he grins, pushing his laptop away and leaning up for a brief kiss. She’s happy to return it, and she lets her fingers wind into his hair, enjoying it for a moment longer.

“Mmm,” she mumbles, “I saw you closing that browser window,” she teases, wrestling control of his laptop, “watcha lookin’ at?”

When she manages to open his browser history – much to Eren’s protest – her eyes widen. “Women’s dresses, spring collection??” She waggles her eyebrows at him.

“… It’s not for me,” he grumbles, deciding to make it painstakingly clear before Krista enthusiastically begins to tell him what dress would suit him the most – he knows his girlfriend, crossdressing would be absolutely acceptable, if not encouraged – and he watches her eyes feign disappointment.

“… Boring,” she sighs, rolling her pretty blue eyes, “I don’t see how you’re not curious about how you look in a dress,” – she gasps, hand flying over her mouth, “Wait… was that… a surprise… for me?”

“… Um,” Eren starts, intelligently, because the situation that was already awkward in his opinion, just became even more so. “Well,” he gulps, taking in the sparkle in her eyes, knowing fully well just how much she likes surprises, feeling guilty even thought he needn’t be, “itsformikasa.”

He hangs his head in apparent apology, but more so because he doesn’t want to see the disappointment flit across her features.

“… Oh.”

He chances a glance at her, and there’s no particular emotion per se, and it worries him, because she gets this faraway look in her eye sometimes, and he can’t really tell what’s going on, and they’ve only been together a few months and he’s not an expert in reading her silences –

“I see, is it for her birthday or something?” Her tone is measured, and she’s looking pointedly at the screen.

“Um… yeah.” Eren sighs, wondering what the hell was up with his own reaction. He had nothing to feel guilty about – where did that even come from anyway? – Mikasa’s his… family (or something). Shopping for her was normal. He did it every year. This isn’t something he needed to hide.

“Yeah, it’s next month,” he says, giving her a smile. There was no need for this to be awkward if he didn’t make it so. Besides, it wasn’t like he was buying her lingerie or something! (he brushed this thought aside faster than the red blush crept up his neck)

“Do you think, you could help me with it?” He blurts this out, partially in an attempt to distract the weird atmosphere, and also partially because he could really use the help.

Krista blinks. “Err, yeah. Sure.” She pulls up Mikasa’s profile on Instagram. “Let’s see,” she murmurs… Turtlenecks… Jeans… a ridiculously modest swimsuit that she wore to a pool party two years ago. The sexiest outfit on her entire profile was probably her in her tennis shorts and that had more to do with Mikasa’s undeniably ripped body than anything else.

She looks up at Eren, who’s still looking at her tentatively, green eyes unsure.

This whole thing was silly anyway, she thinks, offering him a genuine smile. He and Mikasa were close (and they lived together, which she did her best not to think about), but this wasn’t a surprise so it’s about time that it came up in some way in their relationship. In any case, she hadn’t felt any hostility from the raven-haired beauty and Eren was usually quite forthcoming about everything, so she didn’t really have anything to worry about.

“So, um, does she have a favourite colour or something?” She’s eager to kill the awkward mood and is grateful to see his shoulders visibly relax as he ponders.

“… Red, I think. Maybe, like, a darker shade. Sort of… maroon, y’know?” He thinks of the scarf he gave Mikasa when they were younger. It was a ratty, yet fluffy maroon thing which she was absolutely terrible at tying, but she wears it everywhere during the winter, even though his father had a bought her a better one at some point.

They peruse their options for a bit, and Krista picks out a deep red number, a shimmery satin one, with slinky straps and a slit that travels up an already high hemline. It wasn’t really a spring dress but more of a cocktail night outfit, and Eren is weirdly embarrassed thinking of Mikasa in it.

He eyes the screen incredulously. “… Somehow, I just can’t picture Mikasa wearing something like that.” He opens up another link, to a denim overall dress, “… now this, she would wear.”

“And that,” Krista retorts, “is why she’s still single. She has an amazing body; she should flaunt it.”

“… What would she wear it to?” Eren asks, unconvinced. (Also, what was wrong with Mikasa being single?) “… Student council meetings? Debate competitions?! I just,” –

“Parties, Eren,” she says, exasperated, “… it’s high school!”

“You know she doesn’t” –

“Drag her to some! C’mon, we’re going to be seniors soon. She’ll thank you for it!”

…

v.

Six hours later, she’s closing up her shift at her part-time job. It’s a job she’d rather keep hidden – from her friends at school and the law – because she isn’t sure what the age policy was in these kinds of establishments. It worked out because it was close enough to home, and between her and the bartender, the tips compensated the poor wages. Plus, the bartender – a slightly older girl named Ymir with a pretty fringe and a sharp tongue – was genuinely fan to hang out with. And she was surprisingly protective of the small blonde, particularly with the rougher customers, whom Ymir scared off quite effectively with her glares.

“So,” she says, as she scrubs the counter clean, “… I helped my boyfriend buy a dress today.”  

She doesn’t turn back to see her, but she can hear Ymir’s raised eyebrows as she says, cheekily, “… I didn’t realize you guys were into that stuff.”

Snorting, she replies, “Well that would be interesting. But no, it was for his, um, friend. Or something.” Or something, because sometimes Eren refers to Mikasa as his best friend, sometimes his family, and sometimes it just felt like… something else, basically.

She turns around to look at Ymir, who says nothing, continuing to rinse the rest of the glasses. “Her name’s Mikasa,” she continues, her voice getting oddly unsure, “They’ve known each other forever. They even… live together.”

“… What,” Ymir stares at her in disbelief.

“It’s not like that,” Krista finds herself sounding defensive, “Eren’s dad is her guardian… or something. Has been for some years. So, it’s not like they moved in together…”

She elects to skip the part where Eren’s dad is a doctor with Doctors without Borders and is barely home for more than a couple of months a year. She didn’t like the look Ymir was giving her anyway.

“So… they’re like brother-sister or what?”

“No,” she says, realizing that the word came out more vehement than she intended. But she knows that was definitely not the way Eren saw their relationship.

“… Krista,” Ymir starts, and the blonde can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s going to get all protective on her, “… I know you’re in high school, and… you’re dating – as you should – but you don’t have to waste your time on shady boys.”

At this she laughs because, “Eren’s not shady, he’s a nice guy,” –

“… You could get anyone you want; I mean look at you, you’re beautiful.”

The defense that was bubbling up in her throat suddenly stilled, because there’s something about the way Ymir just said that – called her beautiful – earnestly, quietly, and it made her feel funny. It took her breath away for a very brief second and replaced it with a warm flush that creeps up her neck.

It’s strange, she’s heard it before from so many boys with obvious motivations; Eren’s always calling her pretty, and complimenting her eyes or whatever… But when Ymir said it, and looked at her like that, honey brown eyes, deep with unnamed emotion, all she could do was avert her eyes.

…

vi.

It’s 7pm and the library’s home only to the nerds by now. The librarian is lax (and underpaid) enough to ignore the low buzz of two over-enthusiastic AP chemistry students that grates on Mikasa’s ears.

Ordinarily she’d just plug her earphones in and ignore the world to focus on the assignment at hand. But today she accepts anything to distract her from the scene earlier at home. And even though Armin’s sitting right next to her, supposedly doing his own thing, she doesn’t miss the worried glances he sends her every now and then, which she really doesn’t want to address.

Her feelings for Eren were a well-known secret by now, just as well-known as the fact that he clearly didn’t return those feelings, so she wasn’t particularly in the mood for Armin’s indulgent pity… regardless of how well-intentioned it was.

So, when its 8pm and the librarian is shooing them out, and she bumps into Jean, she’s grateful for the few extra minutes of conversation surrounding absolutely nothing important.

When they continue to the parking lot, their conversation having progressed from awkward conversation starters to an animated discussion on Jean’s tennis form, Armin’s well and truly realized that he has no place here.

After Armin’s said his goodbyes and Mikasa recognizes that she doesn’t mind staying away from home and possibly Eren and Krista in the middle of their 5th round, she asks Jean, “… so do you like Chinese food?”

…

When she walks in a little after 10 pm, cheeks cold from the night air, there’s a small grin on her cheeks, because she’s made a new friend today, whose company she genuinely enjoyed.

But when she enters the living room to see Eren fast asleep on the couch, she finds herself staring in the face of the reality she’d tried so hard to escape. It’s difficult to ignore the ruffled quality of his brown hair, mussed up in a way that could only have been achieved by someone (a very blonde, very beautiful someone) raking their hands through it.

She can’t help the wave of irritation that sweeps through her - so she doesn’t bother to soften her footsteps as she walks up the wooden stairs.

Minutes later, she hears his sleepy voice at her door. “Hey,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice, “you were out pretty late, so I left you some dinner. We made pasta, it’s not as good as yours but,” -

“… I ate already,” she says, tone clipped.

“Oh.” He’s quiet, just watching her put her things away, and there’s irrational tears pricking at her eyes, anger, and frustration that she knows she doesn’t have the right to, so she doesn’t turn to acknowledge him. “… Mikasa, are you…,” he clears his throat, “… is something wrong?”

When she says nothing, he sighs, turning, “… Well, if you want to talk about it, you know I’m always here,” -

“… Could you please go over to Krista’s house next time?”

She colours, surprised at herself for her outburst of honesty. But her blush pales in comparison to Eren’s as he processes what she’s saying. “… This is my house,” he sputters, “… I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to want to bring my girlfriend over.”

“Well, it’s not just ‘bringing her over’, is it?”

His eyes widen in disbelief. “… What I do with Krista, in my personal space, is definitely not your business, Mikasa.”

“It is when I can hear it, Eren,” she retorts, as he shuts the door forcefully behind him.

…

vii.

It’s been two weeks since that… confrontation, and Mikasa’s barely spoken to him since.

She leaves before he does, makes sure dinner’s left out on the stove for him, whether he needs it or not, and locks her door when she’s done. And although he’s found himself staring awkwardly at that shut door multiple times, he’s never had the courage to actually knock.

He simply cannot comprehend this situation because despite the numerous arguments they’ve had in the past - it was always him, whining about something like a petty child and sulking till he got his way - she’d never truly been mad at him. And she’d never, ever, gone days without talking to him. And as he stares at the locker next to his (it was Mikasa’s) with a horrible ache in his chest, he is well and truly sure that he loathes this situation.

So, when small hands reach around his waist, enveloping him in a tight embrace, his subconscious reaction is to jerk back in annoyance. “I didn’t realise it was you,” he murmurs apologetically, rubbing her hands softly.

“… Who else would it be?” Krista asks, somewhat thrown off by this mood that had been festering for days now.

“You ask some very valid questions there, babe,” he mutters, a distracted half-smile on his face.

Taking a deep breath (determined to shake him out of his pensive aura), she whispers, “… You know, I don’t have work today.” She leans against him, reaching up to murmur in his ear, “we could hang out at yours for a while, if you want?”

She makes it clear what she means by “hanging out” by the way she presses up against him, and even though he’s responded with fervent enthusiasm to a similar invitation in the past, today he just averts his gaze, awkwardly.

Swallowing the rejection with a graceful exterior, she puts an arm’s length of distance between them. “… What’s going on, Eren? Your head’s been somewhere else all week.”

And before he starts to stay that it’s nothing, just that he has some stuff going on, she says, “… does this have something to do with Mikasa?”

His green gaze jerks up at her, startled with unfortunate honesty. “… I haven’t seen you talk to her all week.”

“…I,” he starts, but his throat closes up, for some reason, unsure whether he should really tell her what happened. He doesn’t want to put her in the middle of something that was clearly between him and Mikasa.

But with every passing second, the guilty look on his face only begins to feed the fears that she had successfully kept dormant all this while. “… Did something happen between the two of you?”

And when he looks into her eyes, bright blues seeping insecurity, he says, hurriedly, “… wait, I hope you aren’t thinking that we,” - he inhales sharply, wondering how he manages so successfully to upset the women in his life - “God, no. We had a misunderstanding, that’s all. She said something, I was pretty rude to her, and I shouldn’t have been.”

“And,” he murmurs, admitting it to himself, finally, “I’ve just taken too long to apologize.”

…

She’s barely finished washing the vegetables for dinner, when she hears the thud of the front door closing loudly.

(She remembers Carla reprimanding him every time, for not being gentler)

Mikasa has managed to avoid Eren successfully these past days, because she knows his schedule, knows that despite his complete lack of organization, he’s fairly predictable. And with his recent interest in a particular cheerleader, he almost invariably never comes home before 8.30 PM. So, when she hears him enter their kitchen at little over 7, she isn’t prepared.

She isn’t prepared because she’s been quite cowardly, saying things that she had no business saying, and then being unable to own up to it, unable to apologize to him. Because she knew that when she looks at him, she’ll feel the way she feels right now - taking in the sight of him, drizzle droplets fresh in his brown hair, as he runs a hand through it, his mouth twisting into an awkward grin. She knew she’d realize that her feelings for Eren were never really much of a choice, they just were.  

“… I brought your favourite dumplings from Li’s,” he announces. “And I brought an extra serving of the spicy soy sauce so we don’t have to fight over who gets the last bit.”

…

He’s grateful for the small smile that forms on her face when she accepts the dumplings (the peace treaty as he calls it in his head), and for the small banter that she indulges him in as they eat.

After they’re stuffed with dumplings and inconsequential conversation, he clears his throat, because he remembers he came home early tonight with a certain conviction.

But as she does with most things, she beats him to it. “… Eren, about the other day,” she looks at him earnestly, “… I had no right to demand that of you. I’m sorry.”

And when he’s still quiet, she mumbles quickly, “I don’t know what got into me that day, honestly, I,” -

“Don’t apologise, Mikasa,” he says, a strange disquiet taking over him as he replays her words, “… the last thing I want, is to make you feel uncomfortable.” Or to make you feel like you can’t demand what you want from me.

This is the part that settles into him slowly, that somehow, the one person in his life that he’s always felt he could ask anything of, could demand anything of, and actually receive it without fail… she didn’t feel that she could count on the same from him. And it twisted painfully inside of him.

“I appreciate that, Eren. But honestly, I’ll get used to it… so don’t worry.” She smiles, in that genuine way of hers, small lips, curving shyly, “… and who knows, maybe someday I’ll want to ‘bring someone over’ too.”

She laughs as she does the air quotes and even though he manages a small grin in response, all he can say, without really meaning it, is –

“Yeah… Of course, yeah.”

…

 viii.

 She takes her frustration out on the cash register. “… Damn thing doesn’t open when I need it to, and doesn’t close when I want it to,” she mutters under her breath.

 “You just need to show it some love,” Ymir says, amused, promptly closing the problematic register without any difficulty. “… Go sit, I’ll close up here.”

 She does as she’s told, pouting slightly, but she’s grateful for the older girl’s help and understanding. “So… want a beer before I close the tap?” Ymir asks with a wink.

 “You need to stop offering underage girls alcohol,” Krista whispers, scanning the room hastily.

 The brunette rolls her eyes. “You need to stop with the innocent act every time. You’re a hot cheerleader for god’s sakes, everyone knows what goes on at your high school parties,”  -

 “Ok ok,” she acquiesces, suppressing the blush at Ymir’s offhanded compliment and deciding that that there was no point in panicking every time they did this, “… but only if you join me.”

 “Cheers,” Ymir says, offering her glass to Krista’s and taking a generous gulp. “So, tell me. Boy trouble, again?”

 Krista nurses her drink slowly before taking a sip.

 To Krista, Eren was a breath of fresh air. He didn’t hover, he didn’t foam at the mouth every time she spoke to another guy, didn’t hound her if she didn’t pick up his phone call.

 Does he even care? Ymir had asked her once scathingly, but she had disregarded it, grateful for the freedom she felt in his embrace. Freedom from toxic attachment, from past trauma or unresolved baggage like the one she was destined to carry. When she was around him, she had felt different. Lighter almost, as if this persona that she had created for herself could actually have a shot at happiness after all.

 But lately she’d begun to wonder if she’d just been fooling herself… again. She’d begun to question if she had just convinced herself to see the promise of something that was never there.

 “… I thought this guy was one of the good ones,” Ymir says, watching Krista closely.

 “He is…” she sighs, “He is one of the good ones. It’s just…” she trails off, unsure if she should give voice to her thoughts. “Ah fuck it, I’m just feeling a little insecure, it’ll be fine…”

 “… Is this about that sexy flatmate of his?”

 She winces, feeling exposed. It often felt that way with Ymir. Like there was no point to any of the barriers she had worked so hard in constructing.

 “She is attractive,” Krista admits, begrudgingly. “… I’m only surprised Eren hasn’t noticed that.”  

 “… But that’s what you’re worried about, aren’t you? That he has noticed that of late?” Ymir narrows her eyes at Krista. “You should just ask him about it!”

 “I did,” she states defensively, “… and he said there was nothing,” -

 “… Oh, sure there’s nothing. I can’t believe he thinks he can lie to you and get away with it,” -

 “Ymir, I trust him, he’s my boyfriend,” -

 “But that’s the problem with you. You just trust everyone, and you let them walk all over you. You did this with Reiner and now with,” -

 “Ok,” she whispers, “Stop it, Ymir.”

 “… Krista, you need to trust your gut about this sort of thing. If your gut is telling you that he’s a lying asshole, then you should just dump his ass and,” -

 “… See this is why I didn’t want to tell you about this,” she cries, her voice rising In frustration. Because this is how it’s always been with Ymir, no one she dates is ever good enough, no decision she makes is ever smart enough.

 “You’re always shitting on my boyfriends. And I know you were justified about the last one, but,” her voice cracks just a little bit, because at the end of it all, she just feels weak, “… it feels like you’re just taking a massive crap on me as well.”

 “I didn’t mean,” Ymir starts apologetically, brown eyes remorseful, “… look, that wasn’t my intention.”

 She takes her hand, slowly, lets her long fingers intertwine with Krista’s smaller, dainty ones.  The crumpled expression on Krista’s features has her regretting ever opening her big mouth. But she was tired of seeing one person after another, enter her Krista’s life, and undo the progress she was trying so desperately to make.

“… The truth is,” she takes a deep breath, ready to unleash a truth that’s been stifled for so long, she can’t even remember when it first sprouted, “I think you’re pretty fucking amazing. And I see you wasting all your time and your feelings on these stupid boys who don’t deserve you.” The words come out quickly, rushed almost. A sharp contrast to how long they’ve festered in Ymir’s chest, growing and growing until these feelings knew no reason.

 Ymir doesn’t look at her, she keeps her gaze focused on Krista’s hand, afraid of what might happen if Krista understands the depth of feeling behind her words. But more important than her feelings, there were some things she wanted Krista to see clearly.

 “Did you tell him about your father, Krista? What he does to you when his wife isn’t looking?”

 Krista tugs on her hand, a wave of unbridled panic spreading at the mention of her father. “I trusted you with that information, Ymir, you promised you’d never bring it up,” -

 “… Did you tell him your real name?”

 She can’t answer this question, even though she knows the answer, knows it’s an emphatic ‘no’ - but she cannot answer because there’s an overwhelming lump in her throat, and it’s taking everything from her to barely keep it together.

 “… Let go of me, Ymir,” she pleads, and that’s when Ymir loosens her grip.

 “… You trusted me to keep quiet about your secrets - and I’m fine with that. I’m fine with doing anything you ask of me,” her teeth grit together, because she doesn’t know, Krista doesn’t know just how much she would do.  

 “You asked me not to do anything about the fact that your father is hurting you, and it even though it kills me, I listened to you. But now I see you hurting yourself in this farcical relationship with fabricated feelings for some boy who doesn’t treat you the way you deserve, and I don’t know if I can be quiet about that anymore.”

 And because it’s grown too large, too much to keep inside of her anymore, she whispers, “I love you, Historia. And if you want me to let go of you, I will. But,” she brushes her lips gently against Krista’s cheek, “… You can trust me with your secrets, and your heart, if you’d let me, because I could take care of you.” She feels a warm tear roll down Krista’s cheek and her heart clenches, “… I could make you happy.”

 …

ix. 

 “… I really appreciate you making time for this,” she murmurs, as she watches him lay the white lilies at her parent’s grave.

 He always remembers, without her prompting, because the first time he’d come with her, she’d spent hours crying at their gravestone, telling him tear-filled anecdotes of the dishes her Mama cooked, the bedtime stories her Papa told, the flowers that they used to grow in their garden together (white lilies).

 “C’mon Mikasa,” he rolls his eyes at her, “… we do this every year. Why wouldn’t I make time for this?” And why the hell are you thanking me?

 She can’t really explain it to him, the possibly childish notion that she thought he might be too busy with his girlfriend to remember the death anniversary of her parents. She regrets doubting him, regrets that of late she’s been so clouded by petty jealousy, that she hasn’t truly appreciated how little he’s changed around her.

 “It’s ridiculous,” she confesses, softly, “… you’ve given me everything. A home… A family.” She smiles at him, somewhat blurry. “But I can’t help it, every year on this day, my mind always goes back to that… moment. I lost them… in what felt like the blink of an eye.”

 He tenses, as he always does when he sees her upset, or shedding a tear. There is a fundamental part of him that deeply despises the sadness on her features; it makes him feel helpless. So, he does the only thing he can - he wraps an arm around her, tucking her face into his shoulder as she snuggles into him.

 “I miss them every day. But you saved me, Eren,” she whispers, dark eyes looking up at him with a gratefulness that he has never known how to accept, and never felt worthy of. “… and now I have you.”

 Her voice trails off, almost wistful. “… I guess the world really can be cruel but beautiful at the same time.”

 …

 x.

 When he stops to think about it, he supposes it really is ridiculous it took them so long to get here. And by here he means - Mikasa wrapped securely in his arms, in his lap, on their couch, taking advantage of the privacy they’ve had all along.

 He feels her tongue flick against his - it makes him shiver - and he can do little more than just wrap himself around her tighter, and sigh into her kiss. Her fingers make their way into his hair, cradling his head, pressing sweet kisses on the side of his mouth, on his jaw, and on the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

 And because Mikasa’s always been a quick study (she’s learnt what he likes, what he’s weak for), he stills her exploration (very reluctantly) before she goes too far.

 “Are you okay…?” He whispers, rubbing a thumb along the dried tear stains on her cheek – a reminder of her tears, of knowing the pain that he’d caused her, bubbled quietly within him, having been quelled temporarily by the glorious feeling of having her in his arms.

 She laughs, shaking her head, “… I love you. I can’t believe I finally get to say it.” She rests her forehead against his, a happy smile forming on her lips.

 “… You could have said it ages ago; you know. No one asked you to keep it inside for this long.” Even though he teases her with his words, his lips drift back to hers, brushing softly, unable to stay away for too long.

 “… Well, you never know, I actually might have said it. If it wasn’t for, you know, you having a girlfriend.” He senses the eye roll, the teasing lilt of her voice, but he can’t help but regret the time he wasted. Because even though Krista was a dear friend, and there were no ill intentions there, now that he is here, chest to chest with the girl he loves, he only wishes he’d been here sooner.

 “You’re going to use that against me forever, aren’t you?”

 She grins in response. “… I have a question though.”

 “Shoot,” he murmurs, nibbling against her lower lip.

 “… Why’d you guys break up?”

 He groans, kissing her jaw testily. “… Do you really want to go into that right now?”

 She hesitates, torn between potentially ruining the mood and needing to know what happened. God knows, she had spent countless nights losing sleep over the details anyway. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay, I guess…”

 “It’s fine,” he says quickly, realising that if he wanted to set a precedent where she could ask him anything, then it‘s best he starts now, “… She’s in love with someone else. A girl, actually.”

 Her eyes widen, not having expected that turn of events. “… Please tell me you didn’t ask for a threesome.”

 “What the fuck, Mikasa, of course not!” He pulls back, offended.

 “Good,” she murmurs cheekily, “I’ve raised you well.”

 “Hmm,” he hums, “Speaking of ‘raising me’, you should probably stop saying stuff like that. Do you know that Connie asked if you were like a ’sister’ to me?”

 He grins, seeing the shocked expression on her face. That’s exactly how he had felt when he was posed that question, with a little mortification added to the mix. “… Is that really how everyone sees our… relationship?”

 His fingers drift to hers, where they rest on his chest. “We’ve been living together for a while now,” he caresses her knuckles absentmindedly, “Kids our age… they don’t really understand it, I guess. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

 “My turn: I have a question for you,” he murmurs. This is a question he’s long considered, stopped only by his embarrassment, fielding it from others only to put the vaguest labels on it.

 “… What am I to you, Mikasa?”

 The question throws her, because even though she’s told him candidly how she feels, that she loves him, she always has, he is asking her, right now, to define their relationship.

 The very notion, the expression that flits on her tongue, bubbles up in her heart with an exciting warmth, even though she hopes this is just temporary, that it will grow, that Eren is so many things and will be so many things to her that she cannot possibly define right now - “… My boyfriend, of course.”

- fin - 

A/N:  i've been really nervous to post em, because its just been so long, and the writer that wrote chap 1 is different from the one that wrote chap 2, and honestly i dont even know if there are inconsistencies. so my request to you, dear reader, is to please let me know if i have made any fuck ups in writing this - or if you have any ideas for pacing, or storytelling that could possibly help me improve.

also there will be a chapter 3 focusing on eremika’s sexual exploration~

#eremika #erehisu #yumihisu #eren jaeger #mikasa ackerman #shingeki no kyojin #liquorisce fanfiction

[fanfic-corner]

Cockles

I found out this morning that apparently Misha knows that Cockles exists. So... that’s fun. I’ve never been sure where I stand on RPF, so I thought I may as well read some and decide what I think after. Anyway, here’s what I read!

Revenge of the Subtext by MittenWraith on AO3. (80,064 words).

Tags: Case Fic, Fake Relationship, Canon Divergence after 10.20, French Mistake style AU, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Crack, Light Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Supernatural Convention, Human Castiel, Switch Dean, Switch Castiel, First Kiss, First Time, Enthusiastic Content, Love Confessions.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Descrition:  Things are finally settling back down to normal since Cas gave up his grace to cure Dean of the Mark. Well, as normal as their lives are allowed to get. Sam relentlessly finds new cases to work, one right after the other; but Dean thinks they need a break to let Cas have some purely human fun, for once. It’s true they had a difficult time readjusting to humanity at first, but Dean thinks Cas deserves to do more than ride around in the back seat and follow them on monster hunts. Then again, Dean’s a little bit scared to ask exactly what Cas would want, just in case it doesn’t include spending quite so much time with him. And with Sam (of course).

Sam’s been tracking a series of odd occurrences in Laramie, Wyoming for the last few weeks that looks just enough like a case to finally convince Dean they should go check it out. Whether they like it or not, the goddess responsible for the weirdness in Laramie takes an immediate interest in the three less-than-perfectly-happy hunters who’ve stumbled into her town.

Notes: Absolutely adorable, such a good case and beautifully written. There are some other works in the same series which are also absolutely fabulous!

He Who Laughs Last (The Joke Is on Us) by anoradh on AO3. (4,248 words).

Tags: RPF, Fluff, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Silly.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: For the prompt: Jensen and Misha think they’re pulling the mother of all pranks on Jared by pretending to be a couple, but they’re in way over their heads.

Notes: This was cute and I love the sheer panic they caused in Jared - I couldn’t stop laughing.

Through the Screen by ArchOfImagine on AO3. (28,722 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Season 9 Divergence.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: "What would you do if you woke up in the Supernatural world?" A fan asked Misha. Little did the actor know, but a few weeks later he would actually be finding out the real answer to that question. Because when Metatron tosses Castiel out of Heaven at the beginning of season 9 -- he tosses him right into Misha's universe. Now Misha is stuck in the Supernatural world, looking at his husband's face but a different man.

Notes: This was funny and cute and just generally adorable!

Is It Really A Mistake? by BriMaco518 on AO3. (6,819 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe - The French Mistake, s6e15 The French Mistake, Angst, Coda, Fluff, Happy Ending.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Dean and Sam Winchester find themselves in a world where the supernatural does not exist. Everyone calls them Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki respectively. Their efforts to protect the key that Balthazar gave them from Virgil, one of Raphael's angels, should be Dean's focus. Yet the elder Winchester finds himself distracted by the actor that plays Castiel, Misha Collins. Who also turns out to be the husband of Jensen Ackles.

Notes: Once again hit by not reading the tags, but if you read the sequel then that gets sorted out. Also, this is adorable and I actually saw the gifset it was based on afterwards, which confused me for a full minute.

Mistakes Are Better When They’re French by maraudersgirl47 on AO3. (21,791 words).

Tags: Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Fluff, Angst.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Notes: This was funny and touching and I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the ending!

Description: Number One: Dean would definitely never appear on a soap opera.

Number Two: Dean Winchester did not wear makeup.

And Number Three: He was not gay!

God, Cas, whoever was listening - Please get them the hell out of here.

Fever by lysanatt on AO3. (13,624 words).

Tags: Romance, RPF, Post S8, No Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, First Time.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: It's Christmas and the otherwise so mild Vancouver is hit by a rare blizzard. Misha is hit by the flu and Jensen is hit by the urge to take care of Misha. Of course there are unexpected consequences to it all.

Notes: This was so sweet -  I love a good hurt/comfort and the way they wrote Misha was amazing!

Twisted French Mistake by literaryoblivion on AO3. (3,170 words).

Tags: Episode: s6e15 The French Mistake, Parallel Universes, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Kissing, Mistaken Identity.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: If Sam and Dean get sent to the Supernatural set, where do Jensen and Jared end up? That's right, the world of Sam and Dean. But they're safe, and Castiel checks in on them and ends up learning more about himself and Dean from Jensen.

Notes: This was a really good idea - I remember watching the episode and wondering where Jensen and Jared were!

The Bubble by thunderpuffin429 on AO3. (21,035 words).

Tags: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Feelings, Character Bleed, Kissing.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Cas has to choose between Heaven and the Winchesters. Again. For the final time.

Notes: The Destiel part of this was phenomenal but the Cockles part was mostly smut, which is fine but made me a bit uncomfy just because I’m ace and I’m not a massive fan of reading it. So, it wasn’t my favourite, but that’s entirely on me for not reading the tags properly.

Do You Know What You Think You Know by ljunattainable on AO3. (5,761 words).

Tags: Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Romance.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Everyone knows Jensen and Misha are together. Nobody even thinks about it. They just know. Except Jensen and Misha. They don’t know. A few things happen in the space of a few weeks that leave everyone at least knowing the same thing.

Notes: This was sweet and I loved how everyone assumed they were dating and they still didn’t know.

Method Acting (Or ‘In Which Misha Is Not, In Fact, Kidding Jensen’) by HigherMagic on AO3. (5,567 words).

Tags: Character Bleed.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: There's a little surprise in the script for the latest episode, Misha is unruffled, and Jensen is not amused, but he's determined to put on the best damn performance he can, 'cause it's the last season and, hey, he owes it to Dean.

Notes: This was pretty good but it did get me thinking... can you IMAGINE if we got a Destiel sex scene? Tumblr would have imploded. There would be a national holiday. 

Second Take by anonymous on AO3. (6,237 words).

Tags: Polyamory, First Kiss, Psychology, Character Bleed, Internal Monologue, Internal Conflict, Friendship/Love.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Wherein Destiel becomes canon, and Jensen and Misha face the consequences of their first kiss.

Notes: This was fairly sweet, and Jensen’s internal monologue was written really well.

Still undecided, I think, but I hope you enjoyed! Some of the fics came off better than others, but some just seemed a little bit... not right? I don’t know how to explain it. Anyway, please remember that Cockles stuff should stay inside the fandom. I hope you find some fics you like!

#cockles #jenmish #fic recs #fanfic #spn rpf #spn #supernatural

[itsmyara]

Playing Cards (SFW Fanfic)

Pairing: Chrollo/Machi (yep!)

Word Count: 1.7 k

Warning: Hisoka acting psycho.

Note: I've recently talked about Kuromachi with @takkarulz and it reminded me of this VERY old fic. It was supposed to be the first chapter of a story about Hisoka's first mission with the Troupe but I don't think I'm gonna continue it. Oh, and it was originally written in Portuguese, so maybe something got lost in translation. I hope not but sorry if it did!

The prey was aware of the bloodlust that emanated from his pores. Hisoka was bored when he felt that random aura and left in pursuit. Granted, it wasn’t a strong aura, but the relative abstinence made him lower his criteria. Any less-than-a-minute fight would offer some relief. The prey was already running ahead, looking back at him now and then in despair. He was sweating, breathing heavily, tripping over his own feet. It was a shame. Even so, the predator felt that in that aura there was an impulse to try to fight back, a courage that could spring from adrenaline and give him some precious extra time to live.

He focused entirely on instilling fear in him, as a favor to awaken that trace of hidden strength, and as a favor for his own sadism.

Fear and death roamed the desolate streets at night, accompanied only by concrete walls, garbage cans overturned by mangy dogs, and abandoned souls, drunken and empty, who wouldn’t dare to approach the source of that terrifying bloodlust.

Hisoka's expression was already inhuman.

The victim turned a corner, looked around, started to run faster. Perhaps he was close to home and struggled to reach it, with that false feeling that at home he would be safe. Poor fool. The predator licked his lips, he wouldn’t allow the prey to gain distance from him. In fact, he didn’t intend to let him free for too long.

Thirsty for action, Hisoka dashed and jumped to reach him faster but when he was in mid-air, something stopped his body, suspending it far from the ground, and a third presence was revealed. A woman fell gracefully in front of him and as soon as her feet touched the ground, her hands pulled a thread, making him realize that the trap had tightened around his body.

The pink-haired woman boldly stepped between him and his victim, and when she looked up and glared at him, her blue eyes were unfazed by his bloodlust. The victim stopped for a moment to try to understand what had happened, but he wasn't stupid enough to stay.

Soon it was only he and her.

Hisoka smiled and sought a comfortable position within her trap. It was worth exchanging the weak prey for that woman who either mastered zetsu very well or knew how to take advantage of his distraction to catch him. Either way, she was incomparably stronger.

“Well, well... and who are you?” His voice sounded mischievous as his eyes sparkled, studying her carefully.

She kept him in her threads without difficulty, as they crossed the deserted street trapped to the side of two buildings, forming a web that closed around him in the center. A spider web. She was skilled and agile to prepare that engineering in such a short time. Besides this, she also had that delightful demeanor. So under control. So cold. So full of an unshakable self-confidence. It wasn’t someone to be thrown away. Maybe he would keep her to play with, little by little, instead of killing her at once.

“I have a message from the boss,” when she said those words, Hisoka understood and closed his eyes. He definitely would have to save her for later. “Midnight at the sanctuary of St. Levi. If you’re too busy hunting mice, you will suffer the consequences.”

A crooked smile grew on the magician's face. Suffering the consequences was what he wanted the most, but not in the way they used to apply them.

“Will the boss be there?” He asked, but his question was ignored.

“I think you can get out of there alone.”

It was the last thing she said before disappearing into the night.

There was a possibility that Chrollo would attend the meeting, but there was also the possibility that it would end up being just another spiders’ meeting that would kill him with boredom at once. He had recently joined the Phantom Troupe for a single purpose, and so far he had successfully avoided childish robberies and meaningless missions, no matter who showed up to try to intimidate him.

An Ace of Hearts took shape between his fingers and he used it to slash the tangled threads that held him. To his surprise, not all of them broke on the first blow, demanding one or two more hits for him to break free completely.

He thought that maybe this time it would be worth it to show up at the meeting if she were there.

***

Their current hideout was a mansion away from the city and with a reputation for being haunted. The abandonment of the building made it cold and fragile, but there was a certain beauty in all those aged memories left by the corners, and in the way nature was taking over the place little by little. In a few years, the creeping plants will probably take it over completely.

Machi entered through the backdoor absolutely quietly, just in case. Soon she realized that there was someone in the basement and she walked down the stairs, equally silent, to find Chrollo sitting on an old wooden chest. By candlelight, he analyzed something on a table in front of him.

“Fascinating... whoever lived here, was someone impressive. It is not by chance that this house has a reputation for being haunted,” he whispered when she approached but kept his gray eyes fixed on the objects spread on the table.

In that room, Machi noticed opaque crystals, rusty metal objects that were supposed to serve very specific uses, animal skulls with horns, and some books so old and yellow that she thought they would turn to dust if she looked at them for too long. She stood next to the boss and realized that what captured his attention were cards, similar to a playing deck, but more numerous and richly illustrated even though -- like everything in that basement -- they were in dull colors.

“Did these objects serve any ritualistic purpose? They must be flooded with nen,” the energy of the place was somewhat obscure, and she thought that maybe this is why he felt comfortable there.

“I haven’t found any trace of nen in this basement,” he said, causing a brief expression of surprise in her. Fascinating, really.

Chrollo finally looked at her, his expression calm and pleasant. His eyes were more mysterious and dark than the energy of the place. By far more fascinating. Eyes that caused her the same feeling, again and again, after so many years.

Perhaps because she was so close that he could feel that commotion inside of her, or perhaps because he was feeling comfortable in that environment, he placed one hand on her waist, while the other held some cards.

“Sit here with me, as we used to do when I read to you,” he said, invoking the past and leading her gently so that she sat on his right thigh.

The memory stirred the feelings inside her even more. She was so young when she found him, a beautiful, intelligent and kind boy, as young as she was, who talked to her, played with her, and cared for her. Chrollo was always different from everyone else. He had ended up awakening in her still innocent heart that dream that he was a prince charming and that they would marry someday, even marriage being such an abstract concept in Meteor City. It turned out that the commitment she had made to him was far greater than that of a marriage.

Enjoying the moment, she rested her arm around his shoulders and studied the cards ahead more closely now.

“Are these tarot cards?” She asked, vaguely recognizing a couple of drawings.

“Yes, it’s the most valuable thing I’ve found here. The style is so unique, each card is a work of art by itself.”

Her eyes met an Arcana and she leaned over to pick it up, almost instinctively. The Fool, with his extravagant clothes and gestures, looking at the horizon from the edge of the abyss, projecting himself to it with nothing to hold him back -- from the infinite fall or from the flight to the horizon. Her intuition led her to believe it would be the first option.

“How was it with him?” Chrollo asked, noticing the card she was looking at so attentively.

“He's strong, I ended up having to set a trap with more aura than I've expected,” she replied almost automatically, only managing to return the card at the end of the sentence.

“He wouldn't have listened to you any other way.”

"No," she confirmed, and then they looked at each other. “The decision is yours, danchou, but I wouldn’t trust him.”

“This is why you didn't bring him here. You’ve decided to wait until tomorrow.”

Chrollo hadn’t told her to take Hisoka to him, he had left the option in the hands of her interpretation. Since the magician was one of them, he belonged -- in theory -- to that place with them, and it would have been natural for her to invite him. But it wasn’t.

Machi knew that sometimes Chrollo let her interpret his orders because he trusted her judgment. And in addition to not having taken him to the boss, she also left promptly so as not to be followed.

“You have been more receptive to new members before,” he said softly.

And the fact that he pulled her to him gently to place a kiss on her temple softened his speech even more.

“Sorry, he seemed to have a special interest in you,” she spoke in a slightly serious tone. Intuition. Concern.

Something that made him snicker as his free hand touched her hair.

“Don’t worry too much, Machi.”

That was the end of the subject brought up by the card. Soon he would touch her thigh and his hand would roam her body. Soon he would show her how comfortable he felt, to the point of allowing himself to enjoy the tenderness that Machi dedicated to him right from her lips, her skin, and her embrace.

#kuromachi #chrollo #machi #hisoka #chrollo lucilfer #machi komachine #machi komacine #hisoka morrow #chrollo x machi #machi hxh #chrollo hxh #myarawrites

[super-secret-sick-fics]

Hi, could you write a Iwaoi or bokuaka fic?

Hi! You’re in luck!! I just finished a bokuaka fic :) I’m working on and iwaoi one right now!

Suddenly Sick: A BokuAka Sick Fic

Pairing: Sick Bokuto, caretaker Akaashi

Words: 2,330

Warnings: vomiting

Bokuto and Akaashi walked hand in hand down the sidewalk on their way home after one of Bokuto’s matches. The Black Jackals won, of course, and the whole team went out for dinner afterwards.

It was a really nice night, so the couple opted to walk home instead of calling for a cab. The sky was cloudless and the moon was full. The slight breeze made it a little chilly, but nothing too unbearable. It was incredibly calming and Akaashi felt completely at peace.

Bokuto was chatting excitedly beside him, relaying different highlights of the game, despite the fact that Akaashi was there and saw the whole thing. His animated stories were punctuated by Akaashi’s occasional nods and hums, the setter content to let his boyfriend relive the most exciting moments of the game.

The relaxing atmosphere tricked Akaashi into letting his guard down. Normally, he was hyper vigilant of their surroundings for both himself and his absent-minded partner, but he was lulled into a sense of security. Hardly anyone was out at this hour and they were only a few blocks from their apartment. Further, Bokuto was riding high from his game. He didn’t need to keep his mind running with the different situations and outcomes that they might encounter on their short walk.

Bokuto was slowly calming down, his stories becoming less animated as they walked, but that was given. Akaashi expected that to happen because it was their usual routine. Bokuto expended his leftover energy until he came back to a normal level and Akaashi was happy to oblige him in any way he needed.

What he didn’t expect was complete and sudden silence.

Akaashi was looking at the stars when it happened. Bokuto stopped talking abruptly. No more relaying highlights. No questions about Akaashi’s day. No idle conversation about current events. No, it was radio silence and after 2 minutes, all of Akaashi’s nerves were set on edge.

He was about to ask if Bokuto was okay, though he wasn’t sure what would have triggered the change in Bokuto’s mood. Right as Akaashi turned to face his boyfriend, Bokuto released his hand and stood frozen, rooted to the ground. Akaashi was completely thrown off. Something was very wrong. Immediately, he moved in front of Bokuto.

“Kotarou? What’s wrong?”

Akaashi scanned Bokuto for any obvious signs of distress and was not pleased with his findings.

Bokuto was pale, his skin taking on an ashen grey color. His eyebrows were scrunched and his mouth twisted. There was a slight tremble in his shoulders, and a hand rested precariously on his stomach.

“I-I’m not sure. I just feel really bad all of a sudden,” he panted. Akaashi felt his own eyebrows come together. He brought a hand up to Bokuto’s sweaty forehead and frowned.

“You’re a little warm. Were you feeling off at all earlier?” He asked. His arms wrapped around Bokuto’s shoulders and he pulled his distraught boyfriend into his chest. Bokuto shook his head.

“No. It just hit me in the last few minutes,” the ace whimpered into Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi rubbed a hand up and down Bokuto’s back gently.

“Okay,” he whispered back, “let’s get you home and in bed then? I’ll take your temperature. It’ll be okay, Kou.” He pulled Bokuto from his chest and held his shoulders. His concern grew when Bokuto didn’t respond verbally, opting for a short nod instead. Was he paler than before?

They tried to move forward, only for it to become blatantly, painfully, obvious that whatever was plaguing Bokuto sapped all of his energy when he stumbled and nearly face planted within the first two minutes of them walking. Akaashi felt a jolt of anxiety surge throughout his body. He didn’t know what was wrong, but it wasn’t good.

Akaashi threw one of Bokuto’s arms over his smaller shoulders and wrapped a hand around his boyfriend’s waist. They started walking again and Akaashi sent up a silent prayer to whatever god would listen that they could make it the measly 5 remaining blocks to their apartment without incident.

Apparently no one was listening.

“K-keiji,” Bokuto stuttered, desperate. Akaashi’s head snapped to look at his boyfriend so quickly he swore he got whiplash. Bokuto was entirely too sweaty given their slow pace and his eyes were squeezed shut.

They were only about a block from their apartment now. They were so very, very close.

“Keiji, please stop.”

“It’s alright, Kou, we’re almost hom—“

“No, we need to stop walking,” Bokuto panted, halting them with a strength he didn’t have just a few seconds ago. Akaashi stepped in front of his boyfriend and gave him a once over again.

In addition to the pained look on his face, Bokuto’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed tightly. A sense of foreboding washed over Akaashi.

“Kouta-“

“Keiji, I’m gonna be sick,” Bokuto muttered weakly behind a poorly suppressed gag. He brought the back of his hand up to his mouth and peered at Akaashi with pleading eyes.

Akaashi scanned their surroundings. They were in the middle of a small strip mall the block down from their apartment. Curious eyes of children and concerned adults looked at them from afar. No, this was far too public. They needed to move.

“We’re almost home. Can you hold on a little bit longer?” Akaashi nearly begged. He didn’t want to face the judgement of adults and frighten children. No, he needed to get Bokuto somewhere isolated quickly.

Bokuto looked at him again, eyes wide and watery, his lips pulled in a tight line. The whimper that sounded was quiet, barely noticeable, but made Akaashi’s heart pang nonetheless. He immediately reprimanded himself for thinking more about their public image than helping his boyfriend when he was clearly distressed.

“Okay,” he soothed, cupping Bokuto’s face in his hands, “it’s fine, Kou. Can you try and make it off the sidewalk at least? To those bushes right there.” Akaashi gestured to the shrubbery about 5 feet away from them. Bokuto took a deep breath and nodded. Together, they slowly made their way over, Akaashi supporting Bokuto far more than he liked.

What had caused this sudden illness? Perhaps a stomach bug and Bokuto was too filled with adrenaline all day to notice symptoms earlier? Perhaps food poisoning? Anxiety? Appendicitis?

Akaashi ran through and tried to rule out every possibility in the short time it took them to make their way to the bushes. His rapid thoughts were interrupted when Bokuto stumbled slightly and gagged.

Akaashi directed him towards the innocent plants, and Bokuto doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. He panted and Akaashi’s chest ached in sympathy. Bokuto wasn’t good at being sick. It was such a direct contradiction to his personality, that he was utterly miserable the second he even caught a cold.

“K-Keiji. It hurts,” he choked out, before having once more, bringing his hand to his mouth.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry this is happening,” Akaashi said gently.

The next few minutes were terribly pitiful. Bokuto continued to gag and heave without relief. Children asked their parents what was happening before quickly being carted away. Older adults frowned and mumbled words of sympathy and pity. There was no way Bokuto didn’t hear the exchanges and Akaashi was sure it only made him feel worse.

“I want it to stop,” Bokuto whimpered when he had a second to catch his breath. Tears were falling down his flushed cheeks, whether they were from sadness or the strain of endless heaves, Akaashi wasn’t sure. He frowned and rubbed a hand up and down Bokuto’s back. His muscles were tight. They tensed with every unsuccessful retch.

“Please relax, Kou. It’s alright,” Akaashi whispered calmly. Bokuto shook his head, eyes shut tightly.

“It’s fine, baby. You’re fine. I’m here. Once this is over, we’ll get you home and I’ll take care of everything, okay?” Akaashi kissed the back of Bokuto’s sweaty neck. He tried to ignore the heat that he felt for the time being. It could be addressed once they were safely and comfortably back in their apartment.

It took a minute or two more, but finally, Bokuto heaved and a wet burp immediately followed, bringing with it his dinner. It continued on like that, Bokuto’s body refusing to give him a break between rounds of vomiting.

“Breathe, Kou,” Akaashi tried to comfort. At some point during the vomiting spell, Bokuto crouched down and placed his head in his hands. He continued to heave, vomit splashing between his legs. Akaashi knelt with him, ignoring the splash-back on his shoes. He rubbed between Bokuto’s shoulder blades and shushed him gently.

A minute later, Bokuto gasped, finally managing to catch his breath, and fell with a thud on his ass. Akaashi pulled out his handkerchief and wiped down his face, frowning.

“Keiji, I really don’t feel good,” Bokuto choked, his eyes wide. He didn’t regain any color in his face, save for the flush of the fever Akaashi discovered earlier. The look on his boyfriend's face reminded him of a surprised child. He chuckled lightly.

“I can see that, Kou.” His hand found Bokuto’s hair and he ran his fingers through it before sliding it down to cup Bokuto’s cheek. Bokuto closed his eyes and whimpered.

Akaashi allowed them to rest a few more minutes before asking Bokuto if he could make it home. Bokuto exhaled slowly, but nodded.

Together, the two of them got Bokuto standing. Akaashi supported him the same way he did earlier. Slowly, the couple made their way home. They only stopped twice when Bokuto thought he was going to throw up again, but kept moving when it turned out to be a false alarm.

Bokuto paled when they got to their apartment. Akaashi grimaced when he remembered that there was no elevator and they had to get up 7 flights of stairs. Around the fourth floor, Bokuto started shaking.

“Koutaro? Are you okay?” Akaashi asked, alarmed. His boyfriend nodded, his lips in a tight line and his eyes determined.

“I’m not going to throw up in the staiwell,” he gritted. Akaashi understood and tried to speed them up as much as possible.

When they finally made it back to their apartment, Akaashi escorted Bokuto to the couch and immediately rushed to the kitchen to get their big trash can. He brought a few extra trash bags too. Just in case.

As soon as he made it back to Bokuto, the sick boy grabbed the trash can and heaved, a slurry or brown vomit spilling into the trash can. Akaashi winced, but left Bokuto to go get him a change of clothes, promising to be back as quickly as possible.

Akaashi changed into more comfortable clothes himself and stopped by the bathroom on his way back to Bokuto. He grabbed a thermometer, a couple wet wash rags, some medicine, and a glass of water.

Upon entering the living room again, he found Bokuto leaning back on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes. The trash can was sitting idly next to him, only an arm’s length away.

“Hey baby,” Akaashi sat down beside him and brought his legs up so he could face his miserable boyfriend. Bokuto looked at him pathetically. Despite the situation, Akaashi found the look on his face utterly adorable and he gave Bokuto a sad smile.

Akaashi worked quickly, helping Bokuto change into more comfortable clothes. He wiped down his face with one of the wash rags. The thermometer was placed in his mouth and as they waited, Akaashi got the appropriate number of pills ready for Bokuto.

The beep of the thermometer broke the disconcerting silence and Akaashi sighed to find that Bokuto did indeed have a fever. Maybe it was a stomach bug then. In which case, Akaashi should prepare himself to face the same fate in a few days' time.

Bokuto took the medicine and Akaashi coaxed him into drinking the rest of the water. When he finished he handed the glass to Akaashi, who set it on the table.

Bokuto wrapped his arms around Akaashi’s middle and whined as he nuzzled his face into the former setter’s stomach.

Akaashi maneuvered them so that he was laying down, his back leaning against the armrest of the couch, and Bokuto lying between his legs. He slid his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, breaking up the gel and making it fall down.

“I feel so icky,” Bokuto pouted. His eyes were closed and he frowned, his lower lip sticky out childishly. Akaashi giggled.

“I know, babe. Don’t worry, you’ll feel not icky soon.”

Bokuto turned his head so his chin was resting on Akaashi’s stomach and looked at him with wide, fever-glazed eyes.

“You’ll take care of me?”

Akaashi blinked a few times before his face relaxed and his lips pulled up into a gentle smile.

“Of course. Always.”

Bokuto seemed satisfied with that and turned his head so his cheek was resting on Akaashi’s stomach again. He sighed.

It was bound to be a long few days, but the two of them would get through it.

***

A week later, Bokuto was sitting at the breakfast table, feeling much better, though he could still only stomach light meals. The worst week of his life was over, and he was starting to feel like himself again.

He was eating some toast and humming to himself when Akaashi stumbled into the kitchen, a hand on his stomach and sweat shining on his flushed face. Bokuto stared at him, eyes wide.

“K-koutaro? I don’t feel so g-good,” Akaashi managed to force out before promptly doubling over with a jarring belch and vomiting on their kitchen floor.

Bokuto scrambled over to his side and dragged him to the bathroom, a trail of vomit marking their path. He guided Akaashi to kneel in front of the toilet and rubbed his back when he threw up once more.

“It’s okay, Keiji. I’ve got you.”

#haikyuu sickfic #bokuaka #bokuto kotarou #akaashi keiji #sick bokuto #sickfic #my fic #vomiting #fever #caretaker Akaashi

[moonlightserenadeeznutz]

Okay, hear me out. A marauders fic of Sirius being genderfluid, Remus being a trangender man, James and/or Jily being bisexual, Peter aro/ace (if you include him) and Regulus being gender.

Absolutely! Especially since I have these headcanons anyway, so I loved writing this. Thanks for the prompt <3

~ “Remus? How did you know you were trans?” Asked Sirius one day, entirely out of the blue, causing Remus to pause for a second before answering. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all.” Remus thought for a second.

“I just did. There wasn’t a time when I didn’t know. It’s not that I only liked boy clothes and stuff, I just knew that I was a boy.” Sirius was quiet.

“So you never felt like a girl, ever?”

“Nope.” Sirius was quiet, thinking. Remus picked up on it, as he always did

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, yeah everything’s fine.” ~ Sirius would spend ages in front of the mirror, but not for the reason that everyone teased him about. He wasn’t grooming himself, or checking out his hair, he was... pondering. Some days he had no qualms about how he looked, he’d glance once at his flat chest and stubble and wouldn’t think twice. But other days it made him stop. Other days he shaved, and would let his hair down which he usually wore in a bun or ponytail.

One day he wore a skirt. He’d borrowed it from Marlene- without her knowing- and had put it on in front of the mirror. It looked good on him. He liked how it looked.

He dabbled in makeup sometimes. Just some eyeliner at first, and some nail varnish. Things he could get away with. Things that just enhanced his rebellious persona. But secretly he tried on lipstick, and blush and mascara. And along with the skirt and his long hair, it made him feel fantastic.

But other days it didn’t. Other days he didn’t want to put it on, and he was happy with his jeans and leather jacket.

And then there were some days when he liked it all. Nail varnish and a skirt with his hair tied up and stubble on his chin. He was honestly so confused.

She was honestly so confused. When she first tried out female pronouns, her heart sank in her chest. She liked them. They fit. They really fit. And oh god, what did that mean?

But then some days they didn’t fit. Some days he hated them, and he couldn’t even imagine using them. And he felt relieved, because he must have been wrong.

And then the next day, she wasn’t wrong.

Remus was trans. He’d been born a girl but felt like a boy. He’d gone from female pronouns to male pronouns. He’d gone from looking like a girl to being a boy.

Was that what Sirius was going through? But with Remus, it was consistent. He was always a boy, he always felt like a boy, and he never had any desire to look, act or be a girl.With Sirius, there were no set rules. He was a boy, then she was a girl, then she was both? Neither?

‘Seriously, brain, what the fuck?’ He had to tell Remus. Remus would understand. Remus could help.

“So... you remember when I asked how you knew you were trans?” Sirius asked a few days later. They were alone in the common room. James was out at Quidditch practice and Peter was somewhere in the Great Hall. Sirius and Remus had the sofa in front of the fireplace to themselves.

“Yeah?” “Well... I don’t know really know how to say this but... I might be too?” Remus stared wide eyed at him.

“Really? You think you’re a girl? Do you want me to use female pronouns?” “Hold on, calm down,” Sirius laughed, though he understood why Remus was jumping the gun a bit. Remus knew how important pronouns were to someone like him. He didn’t want to use the wrong ones for any length of time. “Look, the thing is. I don’t actually know. Because some days I feel like a girl, and some days I don’t. So I have no idea what I want. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Okay. Well, I really appreciate you telling me. And if you need me to change pronouns let me know.” “Thank you.”

“Do you have another name?” Sirius shook his head. The only thing that had never given him dysphoria was his name. He liked his name. He didn’t want to change it. A few weeks passed. Not much changed, but Sirius was glad that at least one of her friends knew what she going through, and that she could just talk to Remus about something relating to her random, unpredictable bursts of dysphoria and Remus would listen and understand, and try to help. She could go up to Remus and say “I’m a girl today,” and Remus would reply with “okay, ma’am” without hesitation. It was nice. Though it didn’t feel like enough. She still couldn’t wear everything she wanted, and on the day she felt like a girl her other friends would still see her as a boy.

She hoped James and Peter would accept her for being... whatever she was.

~ What Sirius didn’t realise was that Regulus was going through something very similar.

Regulus had never thought about gender before. In fact he hadn’t thought much about who he was at all. It wasn’t in his nature to question anything, a side-effect from growing up in a household with such set rules about how to think and act that there was really no room to explore.

But when he was around fifteen, he began to finally question things. And it all started because of a Gryffindor named James Potter.

Regulus had always been fascinated by James Potter, ever since he caught site of him from the Slytherin table in first year. All Regulus knew about James was that he was Sirius’s best friend, a friend that his parents mostly approved of since James was part of the Sacred Twenty Eight. But what Regulus didn’t know was that James was handsome and funny and talented and cool. He didn’t know that James had black messy hair that fell all over his face when it rained. He didn’t know that James could score three goals in a row during a Quidditch match. He didn’t know that James’s laugh was so contagious that even Regulus- who unlike his brother had mastered the familial trait of keeping a stiff upper lip- couldn’t help but crack a smile when he heard the boy laughing with his friends. But now he did, and his feelings were hard to ignore.

Regulus didn’t know if his feeling towards James were normal. He didn’t know what was normal. What did people feel like? His parents were cold and distant, so they were no example. But they were the only example he had.

But he knew that how he felt about James was more than what he felt about girls. And it terrified him. He was the heir to the Black name, the prodigal son. And in Walburga’s eyes, the only son.

But he didn’t like that label. He didn’t know why. It was the son part. It felt wrong to him. Ever since he’d started thinking about James in a way that scared him, he’d started thinking more about his status within his family, and what it meant.

It meant that he was to grow up and be the man of the house, to carry on the bloodline as the male heir.

Man, male, son.

It didn’t feel right. And the feeling grew and grew until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He’d hear someone refer to him as a “he” and he overthought it until he realised that he hated how it sounded.

“She” didn’t sound much better, though it took Regulus a while to even accept the idea of trying out female pronouns. He did it once, just out of curiosity, and was relieved to find that they did nothing for him. So what was he feeling? Did other people feel like this? Surely not, but if he didn’t like being a boy or a girl then what the fuck was he supposed to do? What did that make him? What pronouns was he supposed to use that didn’t make him wince?Them? They?... oh.

Regulus. Their name was Regulus. They were in Slytherin.

That actually sounded... okay. They liked that. It suited them. They weren’t a boy or a girl. They were... Regulus. They were a person.

They were a person, who happened to really like James Potter.

~ Regulus’s feelings weren’t one-sided. James had noticed Regulus as well. He’d hid it as best he could, but there were times when he couldn’t help but stare. He noticed how good Regulus looked in green. How low and smooth Regulus’s voice was. How quiet Regulus was, and how much James wanted to talk to them.

But then there was Lily. Her beautiful red hair, those green eyes that flashed every time she spoke to him and the Scottish accent that made James melt every time she opened her mouth.

He was conflicted, to say the least. But his feelings for Lily were unreciprocated, so he allowed himself to ponder the possibility of what it would be like to date Regulus.

Would Sirius hate him? That was his main worry. He wasn’t worried about what his friends would think of him if he told them he was bi, because he knew he wasn’t the only one in his friend group. Sirius and Remus made that blatantly obvious. But if he was dating Sirius’s little brother? That was a different story.

But then, in seventh year, a miracle happened. James found himself dating Lily. The girl he’d liked since second year finally liked him back. He couldn’t believe it.

“If I’m being honest, I genuinely thought you liked Regulus.” She said one day. The topic of her changing her mind about him had somehow cropped up, and she’d stated this as a passing thought, but it made James stop dead. “Wait... you noticed?” Lily looked at him.

“You do like Regulus?!” James hesitated. “I suppose I did, yes. But I liked you too. So it was confusing.” And he hadn’t expected Lily to be the first person he came out to as bisexual.

~ Peter was suddenly surrounded by couples. Sirius and Remus, James and Lily. It’s not the couples themselves that bothered him, nor was he jealous. He quickly realised that he wasn’t jealous because he realised that he didn’t care about what they had. He was happy for them, yes. But he had no desire to partake in what they were doing.

It’s not that Peter had never been in a relationship before, because he had. Once. With a girl named Olivia. Olivia Blake from the Hufflepuff house. She was sweet, if a little scatty, and they enjoyed spending time in the greenhouses together. But Peter really only saw her as a friend, though he hadn’t yet worked out that that was how he felt. He thought that was how romance worked. If you liked spending time with someone and you got along well, then you might as well date them.

But he soon realised that that didn’t make much sense. Because then everyone would be dating everyone they’d ever interacted with if the interaction had gone well.So he thought perhaps he just needed to kiss her and then he’d start feeling a romantic attraction towards her.

But it didn’t happen like that. When he kissed her it felt like kissing a brick wall. It was just... nothing. He didn’t feel anything. And the thought of going any further than kissing was just... nothing. He really had no desire for anything romantic or sexual with Olivia.

Maybe it was just Olivia. Maybe it was girls. Maybe he was gay, like Sirius.

But no, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he just wasn’t interested. And he never had been. He thought back through his teenage years, the years when all teenage boys were apparently at their horniest. But he hadn’t been at all. He hadn’t thought about sex. Well, he had. But mainly out of curiosity, rather than something that he was eager to try. Every time he thought about it and had been turned off by the thought, he just told himself that he was too young. ‘You’ll like it when you’re older’ he said every time.

Well he was older now, and he didn’t like it.

So what did that mean? Was he broken? Why didn’t he like something that everyone else did?

He tried, he really did. He dated Olivia for a year, desperately trying to feel something more than just platonic feelings towards her. And then he’d dated another girl when Olivia eventually broke up with him, but that relationship lasted such a short time that he didn’t even count it as a relationship. Again, he’d felt nothing.

And it really started to scare him. Surely there was something wrong with him.

But it was when he was looking around at all the different couples that he realised something: he wasn’t unhappy. The couples looked happy together, yes, but he was just as happy on his own. He didn’t feel like he was missing out, or that he should be sad that everyone was in a relationship when he wasn’t. He was perfectly content. Being in a romantic or sexual relationship would make him unhappy. So then, there couldn’t be something wrong with him. Because then he’d be affected by it, he’d be sad. But he wasn’t.

He was happy.

~ “Could you use female pronouns for me on the days I feel like a girl?” Asked Sirius. It had been a few months now since he’d told Remus how he felt, and he’d finally been ready to tell the others. James, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas. All of them. It was time they knew. “Of course! You’ll have to make sure you tell us though, so we don’t make a mistake,” said Lily, a sentiment which the entire group seemed to share. Sirius’s coming out had been successful, as he knew it would be. In fact, no one had been that surprised. And now he was finally able to be who he was. He even wore skirts sometimes, and it didn’t matter if anyone said something shitty about it, because they weren’t his friends, so they didn’t matter. They could say whatever the fuck they wanted. Sirius didn’t care, and neither did Remus, or James, or Peter or Lily or Marlene or Dorcas or...

He didn’t know how Regulus would react. In fact, he didn’t even tell him, not wanting to know the response. He just let Regulus find out for himself. And find out Regulus did. They came up to her a few days later and wanted to know why people were saying that Sirius was a girl now.

“I’m not a girl,” Sirius replied calmly. “Well... I am today. But sometimes I’m not.” “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I think it does. Sometimes I feel like a girl, and sometimes I feel like a boy. And sometimes I feel like nothing.” Regulus’s confused look dropped slightly, and they seemed shy all of a sudden. “Nothing?”

“Yeah.” “What do you mean by nothing?” Sirius thought for a second.“Well... I mean nothing. I can’t explain it. I suppose some days I’m just a boy and a girl and it feels like nothing.” “Oh.” Sirius looked at him curiously. Regulus had on an expression that Sirius wasn’t used to.

“Why?” She asked, rather gently. Regulus fiddled with their sleeves before answering.

“I feel like nothing too.” “You... do?” Sirius was shocked. Regulus felt like her? The golden boy? The favourite son? The only son? Was like her?

“Yeah. But all the time. And not because I feel like both a boy or a girl. I feel like neither. I don’t know what it means.” “Oh. Well... it’s okay to feel like that.” She wasn’t sure exactly what to say. The two hardly spoke much, and a serious and personal conversation such as this... Sirius was out of her depth.

“You think?” “Of course. How, uh... how do you want to be referred as?”

“Well, I don’t like male pronouns, or female ones. So I worked out that the gender neutral ones were they and them. So, maybe like that?” “They? So like, ‘Regulus is doing their homework, aren’t they’?” Regulus nodded.

“Yeah, like that. Exactly like that.” Sirius smiled. “Okay.” Regulus smiled back. It had been a while since the two had shared a smile.