#I fucking hate clutter and Too Much makes my brain a mess
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I know it’s annoying to be that person, but ten days is way too long to be away from this sweet face.
#the way our flights worked out he had to stay two extra nights at pet fair and I missed him so much#I can’t even look at pictures of him when I’m gone#pathetic#also I know everyone on here hates my house lol#I fucking hate clutter and Too Much makes my brain a mess#gray is soothing and calming to me and we don’t all have to like the same things#I like plants and light and space and colorful rugs and pillows and cohesion#ok bye!#jack the dog#adopt don't shop
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I had a breakdown earlier because I've been so overstimulated by people and I'm not reaching basic goals like "clean room over break" even though the break in reference was summer break and i'm nearly done with winter break. and i have alot of other things i gotta do to but every time i'm surrounded by people their emotions and issues and wants and needs are pasted over mine and i forget everything. i have finally stopped going out of my way to cater to unreasonable demands or expectations, like, it's not my job to make someone happy when they can't even use their words like a grown up, but since they'll still sigh and snap and do anxious things around me i'm still being totally overcome by their shit energy
so anyway ive been getting increasingly stressed
and i broke down and said i didnt want to socialize i didnt want to go to amtgard i didn't want to go to the store i didn't want to go back to work i just want to do nothing and be able to have a clear fucking thought, and that i dont have a rewards center in my brain the way most people do so finishing tasks doesnt make me feel relief.
and i brought up that my room being a mess makes me stressed every day and adds to my misery and i hate that i can't even figure out how to do that and even when i do that i'm still not even fully moved in here and so a clear room means space for living room stuff to clutter it, and then a clear living room means space for garage stuff to clutter it, and people keep giving me shit i dont need or want and it keeps building and i keep building piles of random shit arou d me and i can't even do the basics of tidying and my husband said he'd help and i started crying and said i didn't want to make him do everything for me.
and my husband said that he doesn't want to be disabled either, and he knows i would do it if i could, because obviously i care about it even if it isn't rewarding, and that it will make my life easier even if i don't feel like i succeeded by it being clean because it's making my life worse messy.
and he said he doesn't mind doing the things i struggle with for or with me, because i do the things he struggles with for or with him, and we can work together and also i do that other thing he likes which makes it all worth it anyway.
and my dudes, i have the best frickin husband in the world. i've spent my entire life not understanding why i work harder than everyone around me and get less done, and this person comes in and is helpful and actually shares a workload with me, my workload, and doesn't resent me for it. he cooks my meals and washes the dishes and helps me with nearly everything in my life. and i drive us all over the state so he can be in tourneys and i talk to people about his knighting and make sure that he has his medication and talk him through his rough patches too. and i love him unconditionally, and he loves me unconditionally. and we make sure to set time aside to be alone together and talk and cuddle every night even when he isn't staying in my room with me or is staying up for a few more hours and has stuff to do. and he takes care of our cats and i adopt more cats and pay their vet bills while he feeds them and waters them and teaches them life skills.
he's the best. and i feel so much better because we had this talk.
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Bad Girl
Prompt: short continuation of the dilf!Daichi brain rot.
Pairing: Dilf!Daichi x reader
Rating/Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. DaddyDom!Daichi is my fave. Some bdsm elements, spanking, slight edging/overstimulation.
Words: 1.8k
Notes: Part two of my dilf!Daichi series. If y’all would like to check out the first part here it is! Hope y’all like it!
Written to: All to you by Sabrina Claudio/Hate The Club by Kehlani/Ride by YK Osiris x Kehlani
It’s been six months since Daichi had the courage to take you out on a date. He was surprised at how long you’ve been with him.
Daichi felt way out of his league, especially out in public. He would notice people staring and glancing at you, especially other men… younger men to be specific. However, his doubts always disappeared when you’d kiss him in public without a care in the world.
You truly liked him, and sometimes you’d say you loved him, out loud to yourself and the butterflies were like no other. Although, you were still too chicken to say it to him you truly felt love for him.
This man wouldn’t just fuck your brains out, he would take care of you, he genuinely cared so much of you well-being. He was caring enough to make food for you to take home just so you would have something to eat.
It was a bit embarrassing when he first went to your apartment.
Everything was a semi-organized, cluttered mess until he arrived. He did two loads of your laundry, organized you pantry, threw out old cans, and he even vacuumed each room. You weren’t messy, you took care of yourself but sometimes your busy work and class schedule would get the best of you and chores would wait. And once you met him, any free time was spent over at his apartment.
On the days he would come over to help you clean up, he wouldn’t have you lift a finger… unless it was on yourself.
All he had you do was lay on the couch, naked, your fingers rubbing your pussy. He would be in the laundry room, encouraging you to moan harder, beg harder. He would come up to you in between loads and help you by lapping his tongue on your slick, he enjoyed edging you to your orgasm. As soon as you felt the release coming he would lick his lips and kiss your forehead and continue working on whatever mess needed attention.
It drove you crazy, the negligence of your orgasm would have you whining and crying. He wouldn’t allow you to reach your orgasm by yourself or else he wouldn’t fuck you like you loved to be fucked.
“You have to be a good girl and wait for daddy.” Daichi whispered against your lips as his fingers were coaxing your cunt.
“Please.” You held your hand around his wrist, not wanting his fingers to leave you.
“Just wait a little more sweetheart.” He kissed your lips quickly before you could catch his with your teeth.
His fingers left you, and immediately he cleaned them off, sucking every digit. You huffed and screamed into a pillow. He chuckled. He loved seeing you like this. So desperate for him and his touch.
Curiousity got the best of you when you peaked your own orgasm. You moaned out Daichi’s name loud enough for him to hear from the other room. He had been nothing but sweet to you. He never got angry or upset with you, you wanted to know what would happen.
He knew you weren’t faking it as you tried to before, he knew what you sounded like when you came, especially since from the many times you'd come over his cock and fingers.
The shuffling in your bedroom stopped abruptly. He walked slowly out of your bedroom. He stood under the doorway and finally spoke.
“Babygirl,” his voice was deeper than before. It sent chills down your spine, but it peaked your orgasm much more that it made your eyes roll back.
“So impatient" He tutted.
"What am I gonna do with you?” He questioned as you laid on the couch, riding out your orgasm.
“I wanted to come and you weren’t letting me.” You pouted.
“That’s all you get today then. Since you want to be impatient.” He says and goes back to his tasks. You stay naked, hoping he was just kidding and he’d come back to tease you. But to your dismay, he kept his word. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even look at you as he finished up the laundry.
He threw on his jacket and walked over and kissed your forehead.
“I’ll see you soon babygirl.” He said. It finally hit you, he was serious, he wouldn’t touch you.
“Daichi.” You cried out his name. He reached for the door and opened it slightly but you wouldn’t let him go.
“Please.” You felt so impatient, immature and embarrassed for acting like this.
“Babygirl, someone’s gonna see you. Go back and sit down.” He warned and closed to door, before anyone walking by could get a view of what’s his. He wouldn’t have minded, he was always down to share but not with just any random stranger.
“Don’t go.” You whimpered.
“Please, I need you.” Your body was clinging onto him.
Daichi sighed and locked the door. He shook off his jacket and lifted you up, your pussy rubbed against his clothing and it ached, you really needed his cock inside you.
“If you hadn’t been a bad girl I would be fucking your brains out right now.” His words elicited a moan from you. He sat on the couch, you were straddling him now, your arms wrapped around him, and your mouth sucking and licking on his neck.
His hands caressed your ass and thighs, rubbing in slow hard circles, occasionally gripping hard on your skin.
“Why’d you disobey me?” He questioned.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice was quiet.
Suddenly, Daichi’s hand collided against your thigh, earning a small gasp from you.
“No, I didn’t tell you to apologize. I asked you why you disobeyed me, so try again, sweetheart.” He rubbed gently on your thigh, a contrast to the red mark that was already starting to appear.
“I—um, I...” You wanted to speak but your words were stuck. Your head was still blurry, and all you could think of was how badly you needed him.
“Use your words, babygirl.” He tempted. You were no longer kissing on his neck, he positioned you slightly at and angle, getting a better view of your ass.
“You’ve got 10 seconds to tell me why. Each number, I’ll spank you harder, so get it out unless you want it to really hurt.” He spoke in a chilling tone.
“10” slap
He slapped your ass lightly, even if it was light it still hurt.
“Daddy, I just..” whimpers fell from your mouth.
“9” slap
“Please...” you huffed.
“8” slap
“I want.."
“7” slap
“Why did you misbehave?” Daichi’s slaps were getting significantly harder, causing tears to start brimming around your eyes.
“6” slap
“I did it because—” you gripped the couch cushions harder.
“5” slap
Tears were falling from your eyes, your breath hitched every time you tried to speak. Slight drool from the pain and pleasure started to stain the couch. Your pussy twitched with every spank, you were dripping all over him.
“4” slap
You worked your courage, breathing in sharply.
“3” slap
“I disobeyed Daddy because—”
“2” slap
You knew you would've been able to speak up before but the pain honestly felt so good.
“I disobeyed Daddy because I wanna be stuffed by him!”
Your ass was red, hand prints coated your soft skin. You were a flushed, teary-eyed, dripping, drooling mess and Daichi was loving every minute of it.
“Babygirl, I would’ve stuffed your tight hole if you just would’ve waited for Daddy to finish.” He soothed your reddened skin.
“You were taking too long and teasing me. It wasn’t fair.” You cried. He gently freed himself from you arms, making you look at him.
“You need to learn patience.” He had one hand holding you from your hip, the other traveled down your stomach and to your open thighs. He massaged over your wet folds slowly.
“Is this what you wanted?” He smirked, “You’re dripping babygirl.” He licks your honey off his fingers. His hands moved to your waist, helping you stand up. You felt week, your legs almost buckling underneath you.
Daichi took his shirt off, unbuckled his pants and pulled off his boxers.
“Come here.” He sat on a lounge chair you had in the corner.
As you were anticipating your relief of having him inside of you, you huffed in exasperation as he sat you down on his lap, your back against his chest. His cock twitched against your folds, it was snug between your thighs.
“Bad girls don’t deserve daddy’s cock.” He said. Your wetness coated your thighs, enough to provide lubrication.
He helped you move up and down on his lap. His cock rubbed against your slit, the feeling was too good for you to admit, even this would get you off.
His hand came down and opened up your folds, so your clit was rubbing against his head. You tried to move his cock into your entrance but he didn't allow that. He slapped your thigh.
"Behave." He hissed.
“Fu-Fuck, babygirl.” Daichi moaned, he loved how amazingly your thighs swallowed up his cock.
You moved faster on him, grinding and whining out his name, chasing your release with every thrust. Your ass was hitting his skin, making the pain come back but the pleasure of his cock rubbing between your pussy and thighs were enough to ignore it.
“Daddy.. I need to.. please.”
“Gonna be a good girl for daddy from now on?” He managed to huff out through thrusts.
“Y-yes Daddy. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”
He grabbed your hips, his legs spread yours out a bit more and in one swift motion his cock rammed into your wet entrance.
“Damn.” He groaned, “So fucking wet for me.”
"Oh, Fu-uck" Your eyes rolled back. The sensation was too much, the position he had you in was too much.
To add to it his hand pressed above your pelvis, and his other hand on your slit. You were close to crying from the sensation.
"Too m-much...Daddy!" Your breathing was erratic and your heart was pounding out of your chest.
"Take it all, only bad girls quit,"
"Is that what you are? A bad girl" He pounded deeper, and held onto you a little harder.
"N-No, Daddy."
"I'll be your g-good girl, p-please." The feeling came back, your head was feeling light again, anything you were worried was thrown out the window. Your moans got louder and his movements harder but slower, hitting you just right.
"I—"
"I know Baby, me too."
"Come, come on this cock baby."
...
Feeling extremely exhausted you collapsed back on him. He picked you up, carrying you into your bathroom and helped run a bath for you.
He was loving, and caring and did everything to make you feel that way through every touch and kiss.
“I love you.” You said confidently, staring up at him through the bubbles.
“I love you more.” He smiled wide, leaning down to give you a kiss.
#daichi sawamura#daichi x reader#daichi smut#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu daichi#dilf!daichi#more dilf!daichi brainrot
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this is big stupid, but can you rec any books or websites on cooking with adhd, where it's not just reminding me to be organized (aka have you tried not having adhd) or assuming that i have a huge kitchen or telling me to spend $ on very nifty but useless containers?
Sorry I've been sitting on this for 10 weeks 😬, but it's a really good question. It's been a while since I checked, but I don't know any books like that. The thing is, organization is something that can actually be so personal! Moreover, being disorganized isn't a fixed character trait—you only believe that because you got forcefed the one-size-fits-all prescriptive Container Store ass definition that never worked for more than one week at a time before your locker/backpack/room started looking like shit again. The fact is that any organizational system that's designed with the neurotypical person you want to be in mind will be rejected like a mismatched organ transplant every fucking time—and you'll only realize after it's too late to return all that crap to the Container Store.
Listen to me. It's in your self-interest to stop hating yourself long enough to prioritize making daily life (which includes but is not limited to cooking) easier. No amount of medication, therapy, or products will rewire your brain into working like another kind of brain. I know self-acceptance can feel like giving up, but the alternative is paying $3000 a month for a shithole where your kitchen is booby trapped so you can't even make shakshuka for your ladyfriend.
A small kitchen is a great place to experiment with accessibility as a practical form of self-care because it's a low-stakes high reward way for you tweak your environment, and the results are quantifiable—easier to focus, things take less time, you sustain fewer cuts and burns, you cry 23% less.
In my specific case, visual-spatial stuff is a huge problem—and it's something that's an issue for lots of folks with ADHD and NVLD, not to mention those who have strokes or neurodegenerative illness. You know how some people have a cluttered aesthetic that they can navigate, because their brain will automatically process visual input and filter out unnecessary detail? With me, too much visual input causes the neurological version of poor rendering and lag in a video game.
The solution? I slapped labels on all my storage boxes, drawers, shelves, and containers. Yeah, it is big stupid and my kitchen looks like Memento (2000) but my brain can handle verbal input like a dream, so I no longer have to create the universe in order to bake an apple pie. But like, before that? I spent decades (and $$$) trying to make it look and function like a Normal Kitchen™, messed up a lot of basic shit, and didn't even have fun doing it.
Anyway, if someone does have a bookrec that fits the bill, they should drop it in the fishbowl comments, but until then, think of specific challenges that you keep running up against when you're trying to cook, and move shit around.
#i'm not hating on the container store i love the container store but a container without a purpose is just a trashcan with a snap-on lid#also i just want to be extra clear that the labels did NOT trick my brain into being able to tell time or give me hand-eye coordination#but that shit did free up a lot of bandwidth and bandwidth can be exchanged for goods (focus) and services (emotional regulation)#anyway sorry this is too long and that jordi-savalls-jockstrap endured most of this shit in the dms before it occured to me to apply it her#anonymous#assbox
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Satisfied | Andy Barber x reader (chapter 4)
(chapter 1) (chapter 2) (chapter 3)
series summary: you’re the only lawyer in Boston who can get under Andy Barber’s skin, but you didn’t realise that he was trying to get under your clothes. as is the nature of law, it’s only a matter of time before the truth is discovered.
word count: 3.7k
warnings: angst, implied smut, non-linear storytelling
a/n: I wrote this series originally with my friend joyce, and after she deactivated some of the chapters were lost. this series is long-since completed, but I’m reposting now so people can still read!
You hated being back at your temporary ‘home’. The small apartment your company had rented was… suboptimal at best. It was a cramped little place that reminded you of your dorm at college. Only it had one difference: you were alone. But it was a place for you to reflect. And that was enough.
After the nightmare of a deposition, you had a lot of work to complete. Not only that, you had another two cases that you had to work on. Usually you would have been done and there would have not been so much stress involved but life happened.
Maybe if you were not so preoccupied by thoughts of Andy you would have been on top of your workload. But Andy posed more than one issue. He was on your mind a lot. He lived in your brain the way he did back in college. He was buried into your brain. And as much as you dedicated your existence to the law, he had more of you than any other person ever did. And that was why you had spent the last three days ignoring him.
Your entire existence burned to speak to him but you held out. You stayed strong and buried yourself in work. Your table was cluttered with pens and numerous reports and documents in a way that reminded you of being a student again. Andy always made fun of how messy you were when you studied. In every other aspect of your life you were so organized and neat yet the second you had any paper near you, it looked like a tip.
The little memory brought a smile to your face. It was dangerous to reminisce in the better days but you did miss him. Many a flurry of different failed relationships helped you realize that it was because you still loved Andy Barber. And your need to make him hate you stemmed from your inability to let him feel indifference towards you.
Ever since you returned to Boston, you spent more time than you were willing to admit dwelling over the past. How different would your life have been if you had gotten valedictorian? Would you have been happy?
You’re startled out of your thoughts when the buzzer rings and when you went to check the camera, Andy was at the front with his hands in his pockets. “Andy?”
“Let me in. You can’t keep avoiding me.” his voice is slightly distorted by the buzzer. Something, however, compelled you to let him in; you pressed the button and watched it flash green. It took a minute or so before Andy was at your door.
“Andy,” you breathed, “what are you doing here?” When you saw him, you realized that it was both a good and bad idea to have avoided him for a few days. You missed him. Just a little more than you wished to admit. But you needed to be away from him.
“Making up for lost time,” he replied before crashing his lips down on yours. It was practically a scene out of a stupid rom-com but it didn’t matter at that moment. He chased you the way you wished he had before. At least a part of you wished for that to happen.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you sighed as you tore away from Andy’s touch the way you’d drop hot coals.
“Don’t,” he pleaded, “you said that back in college--”
“And look where that got us,” you interrupted. The last thing you wanted was for that conversation to come up once again. It hurt too much to think about, let alone to talk about.
“No, we’re not doing this. Can you just let me in?” you had always been unable to resist him when he pleaded with his eyes; you let him enter and he made himself comfortable.
“It’s not as nice a place as yours,” you felt a little uncomfortable having him examine the bits of your life you tried to hide. “The firm I work for rented it for me.” You wished that the place was just a little cleaner before Andy came over unexpectedly. It was by no means a mess but it was nowhere close to the standard you were accustomed to. Or the one that he knew you had.
“Can you stop worrying about how you come across or how you’re perceived by people for just a second?” Andy raised his voice. You did not expect the outburst. Nothing gave you any indication for it.
“Did you forget that you came here, Andy?” he had a way of winding you up and you had never been above it. Your voice was blatantly irritated but Andy paid no mind to your frustrations.
“I...I just wanted to talk,” he sighed, calming down almost instantly. That made you understand that he really did come over for a conversation. It was never your strong suit but you needed something from him.
“About what, Andy?” your voice weak. “Us? There is no ‘us.’”
“About the case,” he looked at you pointedly avoiding the loaded statement you had just made. But you know that it hurt him. It was evident in his eyes. Even when he tried to hide the pain from you, it was impossible. You knew him too well.
“So what was all of that about making up for lost time, Andy?” you were on the verge of screaming not knowing how else to react.
“I-I came over about the case,” he licked his lips as he watched you, “but then I saw you. I saw your fucking face and I--”
“Andy…” you sighed, “we can’t keep doing this.”
“No, you don’t want to keep doing this,” he corrected, “but we still have a case to deal with.”
“We don’t have a case to deal with. I feel as if you have forgotten that we are representing opposing parties, Mr. Barber.”
“Trust me. I haven’t,” he deadpanned, “but seeing as your dearest client is shelling out a lot of money for this to be sorted, I thought that it would be helpful if we helped each other out.”
You raised an eyebrow out of interest, ashamedly intrigued. “And how would we ‘help each other out’?”
“Get your client to accept a plea deal. Considering how much money you’re being paid, he definitely has the means to fight it. But he doesn’t have the brains to. The evidence against him is mounting.” You hated Andy’s judgement. He always disagreed with your path, insisting that becoming a DA was the only moral way to practice law.
“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. Barber?” you cocked your head, “is this direct from your boss or is it stemming from your moral high-ground?”
“Consider it a favour from a friend. Or is it that you want that extra money so you continue to represent an arsonist?” Andy’s tone is biting, his disapproval of your career evident.
“Will you stop saying that? I’m doing it for free!” you blurted out.
Silence elapsed over the two of you. Andy looked at you with an admiration you had not seen in a long time. It was almost unsettling how warm it made you feel. “Why?” His voice was so soft that you almost missed it.
“Just because I didn’t become a DA doesn’t mean that I don’t give a shit, Andy,” you were unsure of why you so desperately craved his approval. Or why you needed him to know that you were not just another money-hungry, morally bankrupt attorney. “But that’s what you thought, wasn’t it? That I only care about money?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he breathed out but the guilt was evident. It was written all across his face. The cruealen eyes you looked into many times were laced with genuine sadness. He was wrong. “I’m sorry. Your client… he’s not paying, but the firm is still paying you, right?”
“No…” you let out a visible breath, “I have two other cases up here and so my company rented this place out and I am taking this one pro bono. If anything, I’m losing money by taking this on.”
“I’m sorry I judged you,” Andy pulled you into a hug you did not resist. He mumbled ‘baby’ into your hair at the end but you managed to catch it. It was soft but it was there. And it made your heart skip just a little. It had been so long since he had called you that.
You missed having his arms around you. It reminded you of safety and cramming for an exam. Land law was never your specialty but Andy got you through it.
Being pressed against his chest made you realize that he hadn’t changed his cologne. It was the same one you got him on your one-year anniversary. How you did not realize sooner was beyond you but there is something touching about it.
“You still wear it,” you’re surprised that you said it aloud. Andy looks at you in confusion. “The cologne I got you.”
He doesn’t look you in the eye but nods. “Yeah… it sorta became part of my everyday life. It reminds me of you.”
You nodded slowly and looked away, glancing out the window. The tone of the room shifted in exactly the wrong direction.
“Listen, I know we were sort of awful for each other,” Andy chuckled dryly, “I know we still are awful to each other. But it’s always been you. It’s always been us. And I don’t see why we can’t give it another—”
“I got an offer... I’m gonna be a partner,” you blurted out, cutting him off before he could say anything else that would make leaving harder.
“Oh my god!” he replied excitedly, after a pause to process your interruption. “Baby, that’s… that’s great.” You knew that he was worried, he had every right to be. All of the offers you once got had caused the same doubts.
“It’s in California.”
His face dropped and he swallowed nothing. The silence was heavy, and cold. Or maybe that was just the Boston air. It had always felt like this… dark and damp and carried on a wind that made you shiver to your bone each time it blew. It was exactly this feeling that should have made you long for sunny California, with its orange trees and beaches and manifest-destiny attitude. It didn’t, but it should have.
It reminded you of college. Of talking to Andy about vacancies available across the country. You had always liked the idea of moving for money but he didn’t. And that was how he stayed in Boston after you graduated whilst you sold your soul to a corporation.
He stood up and walked to the other side of the room, looking out the window. He ran his hands through his hair in that way he did when he was anxious. “You didn’t say you could be a partner,” he recalled. “You said you were going to be a partner.”
“Yep,” you agreed.
“So, you’ve already accepted it? That’s it?”
“I feel like I have to. I mean, you would never ask me to stay, would you?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Because you respect me too much? Or because you know I’d never choose you over my career?”
“Both,” he said, anger tinting his voice. “I would never want you to resent me. If you gave it up for me, you’d resent me. But just know…”
“What?”
“Just know I would’ve given up valedictorian for you,” he said it with such earnestness you did not know what to say or do. It was a declaration; one that you were not able to refute or confirm. Because you did not know.
“Are you fucking serious?” you were not sure how to feel; anger and doubt swelled in the pit of your stomach. He could have said that all those years ago. Tears pricked your eyes as you tried to keep your composure.
“Yes.”
“You think I still care about that?”
“It doesn’t matter if you care now. You cared then. And I would’ve given it up, to save us,” Andy raised his voice.
“But you didn’t, Andy! You fucking didn’t!” tears fell freely down your face as you realized that his words and his actions would forever contradict the other.
“Because I thought you’d never be with a guy who would do something like that! Do you realize that? You hated me because I got it when I didn’t want it, but I wanted to impress you! I wanted to deserve you!”
You were petrified, practically glued to the couch in fear and confusion and devastation. It was almost impossible for you to fathom Andy’s thoughts about you. Maybe he was right. Maybe you would not have wanted him if he gave it up. Because if he did, you would not have earnt it.
“Everything I did then, I was just trying to be the guy you wanted. I became everything you feared you would become if you had a relationship in law school. I completely lost sight of my studies, I would’ve flunked out, I was so obsessed with you-- thank God you were such a know-it-all or I surely wouldn’t have studied again after I met you.”
“Andy, this isn’t true. You were always a great lawyer. You always wanted it,” you tried to reason with him. He was a good lawyer.
“I’m only as much a lawyer as you made me. Everything I did was about building what I thought you wanted, so I could get you…” he paused with a slow breath, “and I’d throw it all away, to make you stay.”
“You won’t leave Boston...” it came to you slowly. You almost wished that it would not be the case. You wanted him. Maybe a little more than you wanted him back in college. It may have been the time and the distance that made you crave his heart.
“I won’t leave Boston,” he confirmed. “It’s the one thing that reminds me of who I was before you. Who I’m trying to be.”
“And you got an offer,” you realized suddenly.
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” he shrugged.
“Are you seriously suggesting you’d give it up for me?” you were petrified by the concept. You would have never let him do it, anyway. He had worked too hard and for too long for you to be the reason he gave it all up.
“If you gave up your partnership in Cali, wouldn’t it be fair for me to give up on being Suffolk County DA?”
“Oh shit, Andy, no, that wouldn’t be fair. You need to take it,” you begged him.
“I knew you would say that. You’ve barely changed at all.”
You stood up and approached him, placing a hand on his cheek. “Give me a year,” you pleaded. “Maybe that’s what we need. A year apart to remember who we’re supposed to be. Maybe I’ll love California and partnership and we’ll be able to say ‘hey, we’ll always have O’Leary’s’.”
He smiled a little, in a sad way. You hadn’t quite convinced him yet. He was unsure if you were really going to come back; he had trusted you with a lot before and each time he did, you broke it. Maybe giving you a year was too much of a risk for his sanity.
“Or maybe…” you breathed, half pleading, “maybe I can come back and you’ll be here. And we can try to get along better than we used to.”
“I won’t wait forever,” he nodded slowly, “but I can do a year.”
“Okay,” you smiled, reaching for his hand and weaving your fingers into his. He squeezed your hand but looked away. “Andy…”
He turned to you and you wondered if you looked like you were about to cry, because you certainly felt like you were. The situation was overwhelming, yes, but Andy, in himself, was the most overwhelming thing in your life. He consumed the only available parts of your existence. Everything you had not lost to the law belonged to him.
Maybe in another universe you got to keep him. That you got married and had little Barber children. But right then, none of that mattered. You just needed him to know the truth. Three tiny words on the tip of your tongue to let him know the one thing that had stayed buried in your heart for a decade.
“Don’t say anything,” he requested weakly. “Don’t say something that’s going to make this any harder.”
“But what if it’s the truth?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he denied.
“Look at me,” you demanded, running your hand over his face, stepping closer and pressing your body against his. You looked into his eyes and looked for hate, wishing that he still hated you at all. “I love you.”
“Please don’t say that.” Andy’s voice was strained. You saw the internal battle he was having and it pained you. You knew that he wanted to say it. He loved telling you that when you were young. He’d remind you of his love so much you had it ingrained in your mind.
“But what if I never get another chance to say it?” a small broken sob escaped the confines of your lips. Every fibre of your being wanted to repeat those sacred three words just once more to ensure that he heard you. That he really heard you. You needed him to understand the weight behind your words.
You had never meant them more than you had in that moment. You loved him. It was a confession you had not been able to deal with for years. You loved Andy Barber. And you had done so since the first time he said it to you in your dorm.
“You will,” he nodded, voice full of conviction, and soft eyes. “Come back in a year.”
“And when I do?” your voice was weak. Scared. It was unlike you. You had always gone after what you wanted but this time you had no choice. You had to wait a year. 365 days.
“We’ll have this conversation again. And it won’t be like last time. It won’t be like this time. It’ll be the truth.” Andy grabbed your trembling hands and kissed them.
“Before I go,” you whimpered, feeling a tear start to fall, “lie to me just one last time.”
That was how you ended up in his bed again, his lips all over you, whispering everything you wanted to believe could be true. I love you. We’re gonna make it. This isn’t goodbye. He kissed you like it was the end of something. He fucked you like it was just the beginning.
---
Another day, another argument. As he paced around the dorm, you were trying to remember a time when this wasn’t just a part of the cycle. There was no way it had always been like this, right? If it had, you wouldn’t have made it this long… just a few months and you were already at the end of your rope.
“I can’t keep diminishing myself because you’re afraid of being overshadowed,” he shook his head.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you scowled.
“You’re afraid you won’t be valedictorian,” Andy was tense and he stood away from you, “you’re afraid that it will be me that takes it.”
“Yeah! Of course I am! Because it’s what I’ve been working towards basically my whole life and now you’re trying to take it from me when you don’t even care about it!”
“Of course I care about it!” Andy ran his hand through his hair in frustration. The argument was going around in circles. It always did and you always ended up in the same place.
“Not half as much as I do.” Tears welled in your eyes. It was your dream. Your goal. And it was right in your sight. You were at the finish line and all you had to do was cross it.
“I don’t know why you’re so insecure, honestly. You are so… threatened, by everything, by everybody. Nobody’s nearly as good as you. You run circles around all of us. And you still can’t let go and let your accomplishments speak for themselves. You’re at Harvard! You’re already with the best!”
“Best isn’t good enough. I need to be the best of the best.”
He sighed and leaned back against the wall. “You are never going to be satisfied. I can’t satisfy you, and you can’t satisfy yourself.”
“What do you mean you can’t satisfy me?”
“You’re going to dump me if you get valedictorian.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Because I’m giving up on us, if I get it.”
You looked away. After everything you still didn’t want him to see you cry. “Think you can do better than a salutatorian?”
He laughed a little; a sad, broken noise. “Yeah, something like that.”
He started to walk away and you were going to let him. Some weaker part of you took over for a moment though, and grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t go,” you requested. He seemed like he was considering it. “We can still be together, if I get it.”
He shook his head and looked at you with watery eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Please, Andy,” you have never pleaded for anything, let alone anyone, but Andy made you want to fight. Whether it was for him or for valedictorian, you were not sure. But it wasn’t enough for him. You needed to actually give something up; before he made that decision for you.
And, so, you watched him leave. One footstep after the other taking a piece of your heart the further he gets. It crushed you. Since you had lost Andy, you had to get valedictorian. There was no fathomable way you were going to be able to deal with the loss of both. “I love you,” you whispered to his fleeting back.
And then it became your turn to grieve. The loss of Andy took a bigger toll on you than you were even able to imagine. That was in spite of the fact that you had spent less time with him over the past few months as he was working a lot more than usual.
You knew that he was saving up for a big purchase. He always did a lot more overtime when he was doing that. Only you had no idea what it would be. All you knew is that it would be a surprise, or so he told you.
next chapter: finale
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I Thought I Could Trust You- Prompt Fill
CWs: panic attacks, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts kind of? (Jon wishing that if someone is going to kill him that they would just get it over with), paranoia, insomnia, season 2 Jon and all his issues. Yes basically same as last chapter. Oh and Food and asthma.
This is basically a follow up for It Was My Job to Protect You
For Someone on Ao3 whose name escapes me because I haven’t slept well or recently and I am so sorry. If it’s you please let me know!
LAST BINGO! FINALLY. I am taking "things you said" prompts, come drop me one of those prompts for Jon, Martin, or Tim! I am very tired and can't remember if I proofread, so sorry in advance, or in past tense I don't know anymore time is fake and so is the order in which we perceive events. Have a lovely stretch in your existence. Card by the wonderful @celosiaa! Also very much inspired by @janekfan
Jon can hardly keep his eyes open. The stairs were almost too much for him. Wavering before his eyes and pulling on his heavy limbs, aching and shaky from his earlier panic attack.
It’s not like he can ask for help. And even if he could, Martin is just as badly off. And Tim... Tim scares him.
Tim is loud. Tim is angry. Which is Jon’s own fault. If he hasn’t been following Tim, Tim would be boisterous, not shouting. Jon wouldn’t have learned to flinch when he talks. To flinch when he moves.
And he wants to trust him but he’s afraid. And if Martin didn’t kill Gertrude, that makes it all the more likely that Tim did.
But no. No. Tim is his friend, right? Was his friend.
But all worry of letting him into his flat vanishes when the climb steals his hard-earned air from his lungs. Leaving him swaying and gasping on the landing.
Tim’s speaking and Jon flinches away. Almost teetering down the stairs, before he’s caught. By Tim.
“Oi, steady on, boss!”
Almost drown out by his breathing. Narrow chest heaving with effort and none of it reaching his brain.
“Hey Jon, could you maybe hold off on passing out on me until you give me your keys?”
Is that what Tim had been talking about?
Keyes, he can do that. Right?
But enervated fingers fumble with them in his pocket and he can’t grasp them. To his unending shame, he feels tears on his cheeks.
At least Martin is too out of it from his own panic attack earlier to notice. Much as the comfort would be welcome. It would also be stifling and even more embarrassing.
“Jon?” Still too loud. Tim’s too loud too close still steadying him physically which is still sending him further off balance. “Never mind, I’ll use mine.”
Because right. Tim had a key. Which Jon has been regretting because too loud too angry Tim could slit his throat while he sleeps but he doesn’t have it in him to change the locks so he’s been putting wedges under all of his doors. Ugly old wooden things that scuff the floor but that’s fine if it keeps him alive a little longer. Warns him early enough to arm himself. Although. Dying quickly without any fuss sounds... like a luxury.
Tim guides an overly pliant Martin to Jon’s understuffed and threadbare sofa. He tries to guide Jon to the bedroom before Jon’s knees buckle but Jon doesn’t want to be put to bed. He doesn’t want Tim in attended. He wants to trust Tim. But he can’t.
Much as Jon wants to sink into his bed and make up for all the sleep he’s missed over... well over the course of his whole life, he can’t leave Tim alone. Unsupervised.
Can’t let Tim kill him. Or poor, exhausted Martin on the couch. Or risk some other person breaking in and killing them all.
Jon isn’t sure if it would be better to be killed by someone he knows and once called a friend.
He isn’t sure.
But when Tim goes to the kitchen to make them all some food which Jon’s lackluster supplies, Jon follows.
Jon can’t keep his eyes open. Hyper vigilant to the sounds of the kitchen. But he can’t keep his eyes open. And… it might be welcome if Tim’s curry ends up killing him. So long as the poison does its work quickly.
He doesn’t want to die, not really. He’d very much like to survive, but surviving is exhausting, and maybe he wouldn’t mind too much if he just… wasn’t. He doesn’t want to be a mystery, but he doesn’t want to be afraid anymore… to Hurt anymore. And he is so exhausted that he does Hurt. Endlessly. Not to mention the ragged holes in his skin, still inching ever closer to being ugly scars… or they would be if he could stop worrying them… making them bleed.
But as tired as he is, it doesn’t stop him from being afraid. Afraid of dying? Or maybe just the fear of not knowing When the end is coming. If he only knew, then he could relax until it was actually imminent. Not just remaining alert every moment.
Christ he wants to sleep.
And… he does… in a way. He dozes while Tim cooks.
But he’s afraid that it’s poisoned. He is afraid Tim will be angry if he can’t make himself eat it for fear… then again it probably won’t be dangerous because Tim and Martin will presumably also be eating…
He wakes up to a clatter of something. He wakes up with numbed arms and a pounding pulse. He wakes up with Tim too close holding a knife.
And later he can parse out, Tim is only too close because he is picking up the cutting board that fell off Jon’s cluttered and diminutive counter, but all he sees is Tim with a knife, Tim cursing loudly. And he can’t even scream because his chest is too tight.
This is it. This is the end of Jonathan Sims.
He’s going to die. He is certain he is.
He shrieks. And aborted, choked off sound. Pathetic.
And he almost thought he could trust Tim. He almost thought he could trust him. Almost.
When Tim drops the knife and makes his posture as non-threatening as possible, Jon hates himself. Still unable to draw a full breath, and he Hates himself.
He’s broken Tim’s trust again by not trusting him. Again. Not even the first time today. He wants to tear himself up from the inside out, flacking little bits of old and poorly preserved parchment. Wants to make those lines appear and send tiny flakes of paper and dust flying and have no more of himself. Nothing left. Just this gaping chasm. Which is all he deserves really. Leaving nothing but a mess, just like always. Horrible… wretched… selfish… guilty… pathetic… What is WRONG with him. This is Tim. Tim. His first friend at the institute. Tim who has always been there for him. Until Jon went and Fucked it up. Properly fucked it up, with no way back. And.. And… FUCK.
He’s crying again. Making a proper fool of himself.
“Jon?”
He can’t look at Tim. Can’t catch his breath. Catching and wheezing in a way that is pitting the asthma against the panic and making them both all the worse.
Tim isn’t as gentle as he can be when he shoves the inhaler at Jon for the second time today. But Jon’s been sitting at the edge of a panic attack for weeks, and this time, it had been his fault. Not his fault that Jon’s been a jumpy paranoid wreck, but his fault for being loud and angry and threatening and waving a knife around in front of the nervous wreck that used to be his friend.
“Jon, you’ve got to use the inhaler. If you don’t breath, I’m gonna wake Martin from his nap. And he’s gonna be pissed at me, and if he gets pissed at me, I’m gonna get pissed at you, and you don’t want that.”
Probably a mistake to threaten the person afraid of you, but he can’t fix his anger in one day. Not until Jon puts in the work too.
Okay he gets it. Jon can’t exactly help being paranoid. He isn’t gonna shame Jon for having shit mental health. That would make him a bloody hypocrite. But… Jon did not handle it well. You’re supposed to reach out if you’re having a breakdown! (Yes he knows… he’s still a bloody hypocrite but Less of one). So… Jon’s gonna have to make an effort, and Tim… will try to be less …threatening? Loud? Big?
Jon stops stalking him, Tim takes a good snoop around his flat, they take turns keeping watch for monsters so maybe they can get some goddamned sleep. Simple enough!
If Jon can stop having a panic attack while he’s trying to cook!
No… No. Not gonna be angry at Jon for having another panic attack. Hardly even came down from the last one. Still too paranoid to leave Tim alone in the kitchen, stubborn bastard. And what kind of an idiot only has a few withered vegetables in his fridge?
(The kind who is too paranoid to eat non-packaged food, Tim does NOT think to himself).
Still. Jon should have reached out. should have said something before it got this bad! This isn’t Tim’s Fault. He didn’t help, sure, but it isn’t his Fault! And he isn’t going to apologize and he isn’t going to forgive Jon. (At least for now).
Jon has to be better. Try to be better. Tim will meet him halfway, but Jon has to make the first step, and use the goddamn inhaler. But the threatening just made it worse.
Jon looking frail and skinny and tired, hands over his head again, bracing for an attack. Just like in his office, just like on the stairs. Crumped up in such a way that even if he weren’t having an asthma attack and a panic attack, it would probably still be hard to breathe.
“Boss, you’ve got to breathe. We did this earlier, I didn’t kill you then. Not gonna kill you now.” Tim moves slowly so Jon isn’t surprised, and guides him a little straighter in his chair, holding the inhaler for him, as Jon’s finger tips (and lips) are going blue.
And Jon’s still fighting him, although quickly losing what little strength he had to begin with.
It takes some soothing before Jon lets him near enough to get the inhaler in his mouth. “That’s good, boss. That’s it, bud. Now breathe with me.”
He has a hand on Jon’s narrow chest now. Sticky with cold sweat, heaving unevenly. And Tim can’t believe how fragile his friend(?) has become.
But as soon as Jon has breath in his body, the apologies start flowing out.
“Hey, now. None of that now. You can apologize until you’re blue in the face once you’re not, ya know… literally blue in the face. I do want those, but not until you’ve gotten some sleep and you eat some of this damn fine curry that I am somehow making from your truly pathetic supplies. I’ll take the first watch, then we can talk about it, and you can actually start doing better. Because that’s what I want. I want you to stop hiding from us. I get it, you can’t trust right now. Fine. But what you’ve been doing isn’t okay. You don’t trust me. That’s …well not fine, but I get it. I do. But stalking us, and yelling at Martin, and hiding from us isn’t how to deal with that. You don’t trust us, so tell us how to help. How can we prove to you that we aren’t gonna hurt you? So you can’t help being a paranoid wreck, that’s understandable, but you can’t take that out on us. That isn’t okay. So first curry, then sleep. Then we’ll talk. Okay?”
And Jon nods. Allowing himself to be helped to the couch while Tim finishes dinner.
#the magnus archives#tma#jonathan sims#tim stoker#timothy stoker#tma fic#cw food#cw panic#cw paranoia#cw panic attack#cw mental health issues#cw suicidal ideation#cw insomnia#my writing#my fic#hurt/ comfort#cw strained friendships
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Hypothetically
@aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish
I wish to make you happy.
Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker
This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…
He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?
Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-
Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.
Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.
Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.
As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—
Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.
Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.
--
The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.
Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.
“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.
“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.
“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.
When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.
-
Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.
“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”
“I won’t have to! It came in today.”
“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.
“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.
“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”
Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”
Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.
-
Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.
He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.
“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”
Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.
When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.
Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.
She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.
Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.
“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.
“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”
“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”
“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”
“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”
Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”
“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”
Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”
“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”
“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”
Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing
“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”
#aspec archive week#jonathan sims#Georgie barker#cw alcohol#cw internalized acephobia#/confusion#just some good confusing feelings#based on my own experiences? said who?#also! important note: Jon's stims are reflective of my own habits#just sayin#asexuality#ace#ace flavor: who knows? not even Jon
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life updates: last month of 2021
whats up tumblr? i am back and its been awhile since i posted a life updates master list so i figured why not post one tonight, heck i have so much i wanna get out of my chest and mind, might as well do it now while im resting so without further ado, here's whats been going on lately:
work:
emailed my boss already asking if may company policy ba when it comes to filing for leave in terms of reviewing for the boards and im not surprised na she hasnt replied yet even though its been a weel; shes a super busy i get it, so my senior just advised me to file for leave either way especially since im already decided on taking the board exam regardless
work is okay, mean, its the only thing im busy with right now so there are days where its super hectic but there are days as well where its just really slow so its kind of a nice balance from time to time
freenlance work is going well too! just waiting for my tita's approval for the documents i recently submitted before i can start on the next phase which is the ceiling plan and the elevation (which is yung pinaka madugong part in my opinion when working on the keyplans)
im really happy too that our resort is doing really well kasi kahit papano nakakabawi na kami after the whole the 2 or 3 times na nag ecq yung metro manila and batangas
family:
really really excited for this month kasi ang daming ganap! my dad's birthday is this weekend and my cousins are coming over; sa susunod na weekend, pupunta kami ng bestfriends ko sa resort namin for a much needed mini reunion/getaway; and come christmas day, dito din magcecelebrate mga pinsan ko and my titos and titas so im just really excited
it hasnt been all rainbows and butterflies; there was one day where nagkasagutan kami ng mom ko and it just really made me feel like i still dont belong at all in this family and that our relationship (me and my parents' relationship) changed drastically ever since my brother left for the states
but we're okay now! a part of me is still like on a tightrope, just trying not to fuck anything up especially cause its the holidays, but at the same time another part of me is just trying my best to make everything work out and try my best to be there for my family and make them happy
my mom and her taste in food and the fact that sometimes she doesnt hold back? chef's kiss, muy bien, i love when she's in the mood to cook or buy food cause its always more than enough for the whole family
friends:
not much to say because im lucky enough to be surrounded by people who i dont have to talk to everyday and yet still hold the same energy between us and i really appreciate that with my friends cause they know im 1. super busy and 2. super lazy and the fact that they dont really mind really warms my heart or if they do mind, they tell me up front
personal life:
im currently having another really bad allergy attack and i hate it, my t-zone feels numb, im constantly going dizzy, and buti nalang medyo nawala na yung pagkakati ng lalamunan ko cause coughing just makes my brain throb
i hate it when my room is a mess, i feel like im less productive when there's clutter around me so i have to clean my room asap tomorrow morning or else im just gonna feel really lazy
i really cant wait to save more money; not because i wanna buy more things, its just that im already 23, thats still young for some people, but i really do want to become totally financially independent really soon
another thing i want to work on asap is learning how to drive kasi 1. my parents are never gonna allow me to go anywhere freely with our driver being with me all the time whenever i go out and 2. our family driver wants to retire already so 3. since grab is really fucking expensive and scary during a pandemic, i might as well start learning how to drive
my ig feed is full of stick and poke style tattoos in these really cute and very me type of design and i just know its a sign from the gods telling me to save that money and get a tattoo as soon as i can (and as soon as my parents wont mind anymore)
im craving for sushi and korean food; might consider buying some sa sweldo!
speaking of, i need to buy gifts too this coming sweldo! i just hope everything arrives on time since magbabalot pa ko and everything
tapos i plan on baking pa for a bunch of people so i need to buy ingredients and bake and buy ribbons para cute yung packagaing AAAAAAH my virgo brain is on overdrive and part of me loves it and another part of me hates it 100%
love:
SURPRISE wala pa din
but if theres anyone out there who would want to be my little christmas plot twist, please step on up, that mistletoe is gonna go to waste if we dont end up making out underneath it
so yeah thats basically my life these past few weeks; again if youve made it till the end of this post, thank you for actually taking your time to read what i have to say
i hope everyone is doing okay and i hope the holiday cheer is slowly but surely getting to each and every one of you!
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Okay, people. I’m just going to go on a superlong rant about characterisations and how Sherlock and John are made for each other. I feel like we sometimes get a bit sidetracked discussing mirrors and subtext, references and symbolism, and we forget what is actually there in the text and in the characterisations of these characters.
If we start with John... John is brave and courageous and loyal: 'soldier' qualities. He's also very caring and nurturing and protective: 'doctor' qualities. And that's all well and good. But he also has a bunch of less socially acceptable sides: he's a man who can't stand mundanity, who needs excitement and danger and adrenaline to be content. In reality, he's actually just as poorly suited to conform to social norms as Sherlock, but, unlike Sherlock, he's chosen to suppress the less acceptable sides of himself to be accepted by others rather than be alone (Sherlock has chosen the opposite). So joining the army is a compromise: a socially acceptable way for him to live a life of excitement. And it works - until he's forced home from the war. So to describe John... he has all these strengths: courage, bravery, loyalty, caring and a very well-developed sense of right and wrong. On the other hand, he just... isn't normal. He doesn't fit in. But, unlike Sherlock, he shies away from it instead of embracing it. He's very self-aware and he tries to disguise his lack of being normal. In a way, that he's a soldier AND a doctor shows that dual nature. So his biggest flaw is how incredibly hard he fights to be something he's not, how much of himself he sacrifices to be 'normal' - or at least to be perceived that way by others. His bisexuality is one such aspect of himself that he tries to suppress: he finds it incredibly hard to face the idea that he's not 'just straight' because being straight would be more 'normal'.
Also, there’s that entire halfway subtextual idea that maybe he's so defensive about his sexuality because his father was a homophobe. He's shown at various times to have a very sensitive response to authoritative older men. His sister (Harry) is a lesbian, so it would make sense that maybe she came out and their father didn't approve and John saw that and it just made his own sexuality crisis all the more potent.
So Sherlock offers John what he needs: a life of excitement and adventure that is still morally sound. And I think John loves him not just because of the lifestyle he offers, not just because he's intelligent and John is in awe of that, but because Sherlock represents what John can't find in himself: Sherlock is his own man. He doesn't give a fuck what others think of him (from John’s POV at least). He's himself 100% and all the time and he isn't held back by societal norms in the slightest. And I think John admires and loves him for that. And then... well, then there are the, uhm, more problematic sides of Sherlock. Not just that he insults people and insults John and does stupid, dangerous things and clutters the flat and does experiments in the kitchen right next to their food. That's annoying, sure, but whatever. The real problem John has is that Sherlock is destructive. He's selfdestructive (for instance, dealing with stressful situations by smoking and doing drugs), but he is also just plain destructive. John is moral. For him, the most important thing is morals and doing the right thing and helping others. And Sherlock doesn't always live up to that standard. So there are times when John has to question if Sherlock is actually, you know, GOOD or if he's just motivated by the thrill of being clever. John is a soldier, and later a detective, because he wants to live a life of excitement - but it HAS to be a moral life of excitement. That means everything to him. And the uncertainty about whether Sherlock feels the same is a major problem for John.
Sherlock is... well, he's kind of the opposite. He's not normal, but he's embraced that. He's true to himself and he doesn't suppress who he is. But that's come with a price: he's alone. Few can stand him, no one can understand him. He's lonely, but he's also not interested in being with just anyone, because he takes pride in his intelligence and his difference and people who are just plain, simple and normal... well, he's arrogant enough to look down on them. Like, a lot. He has no respect for societal norms and no respect for authority because he believes he knows best himself. So you could say that both John and Sherlock have a very developed sense of right and wrong. The difference is that John's 'right and wrong' is a universal, socially accepted 'right and wrong', whereas Sherlock's 'right and wrong' is his own and not always in agreeance with the rest of the world.
Sherlock's real problem, though, is that... well, to put it simply: he's too intelligent to be normal and too emotional to be a calculating machine. And he hates himself for it. He isn't actually unemotional, quite the opposite. Only a man who feels very strongly would ever come up with 'All emotion is abhorrent to me', 'I am a brain, everything else is just transport' etc. Sherlock wishes he could be just a brain - he looks up to Mycroft and, indeed, to Moriarty because they manage to do that (at least to his mind). He feels very strongly, but he's too intelligent to be normal, so he's alone and it's lonely and painful. So he longs to not feel. But he can't do that. So he does drugs and shit like that because it dulls that pain.
So John offers Sherlock what he needs: acceptance for who he is. John likes him when he's being himself. And Sherlock loves John not just because John accepts and praises him, but also because Sherlock sees who John is. He sees that John is a soldier AND a doctor, he sees that John is kind of messed up, but he LIKES John's messed-up sides - Sherlock hates the normal and John Watson is not normal.
So in a way, Sherlock loves John for the exact things John hates about himself. And John loves Sherlock for the exact things Sherlock hates about himself - his emotions. I think there's real beauty in that dynamic. They both offer the other exactly what the other needs and they both love the other because of the things the other hates about themself.
And all of that is text and/or basic characterisation. And I think that’s really important to remember.
Thank you for coming to my TED talk.
#Sherlock#BBC Sherlock#Johnlock#TJLC#characterisation#My Meta#Sherlock Meta#BBC Sherlock Meta#sort of
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City of the Living Dead
Chapter 6
"September 28, 2:30 am... It's down to just me and 3 others. No weapons...no ammo...and too many skirmishes have drained us mentally and physically. We're not gonna make it... Officer Phillips once suggested we escape through the sewers. Apparently, there's a secret tunnel under this place left over from its museum days. I brushed her idea off before, but now, it's not sounding all that bad. Yeah, there's no proof there's even a tunnel or that the sewers aren't infested with zombies, but I don't wanna sit here and wait to die, either. It's a long shot, but I'm gonna try to find out what I can about that tunnel... Elliot Edward," you read, "Shit. Rest in peace, buddy." You placed the transcript back to where you found it and proceeded in scanning the room you and Leon were in.
It was an office of some sort with mahogany desks occupying the center, swivel chairs pointing towards every direction, some paperworks piled in a stack and some (or rather most) cluttered all over the tables and floor. It looked like a hurricane together with an earthquake and a tsunami clashed and crashed in the area.
"Leon, w-" your head twisted and turned as you looked for best friend and even called out to him when you found him just staring at something on the ceiling, his trembling lips pinned in between pearly-white teeth, eyebrows furrowed upwards, and eyes looking like a dam was about to breakdown because of too much pressure. You went towards where he was standing and followed his gaze. You gasped. He was looking at stringed triangle banners with letters printed out on each of them
WEL COME
LEON
Your face began to mirror Leon's but a pained smile differentiated yours from his as a sudden rush of memory enlightened your brain. "Hey, look, the design's the same as the banner I surprised you with when we were 15," you said, raising an arm to point at the triangular flags.
Leon chuckled softly at what you said and nodded while a sneaky tear flowed down his cheek in a tiny stream. "Yeah."
"Come on, Leon! I worked hard for this." You hauled on your friend's wrist and led him towards his room with a strain as Leon's languor held him back.
"This better be good, Y/N. You fucking woke me up and I'm really close to fucking strangling you." His voice was a little hoarse from having just woken up right before you pulled him off of the couch and he was still lowkey tired because of the three-hour rest he had last night, but as much as he wanted to throw you out of his house and fall into a well-deserved slumber again, he was into surprises and was curious as to what you had in store. So, he went along with it even though he was pretty much a sloth still.
"I promise you'll love it." You chortled.
Leon sighed in defeat before loosening up and letting you pull him towards where you wanted to take him for this so-called surprise with a rub of his crusty eyes.
When a familiar door came into view in front of you, you covered Leon's eyes with one of your hands and twisted the door knob, revealing a bedroom with a banner hovering over Leon's messy bed, before lightly pushing him inside.
"All right, here we are," you spoke as you removed your hand from your face, moving right beside him to watch Leon's face as it shifted from being enraptured to crestfallen real quick. You guffawed in a boisterous way at his reaction and plummeted down to the ground whilst clutching your stomach in a joyful pain.
YOU SUCK
LEON
"Really, Y/N? This-this is what you wanted to show me?"
"It's true though, you actually suck!"
"Come on, you know you only won in Street Fighter because I let you," he whined. You stood up from being laid on the floor before clutching onto Leon's shoulder for dear life.
"For 20 times? Really?" You laughed again, "nah, you just suck, bro."
Leon narrowed his eyes at you with lips pressing tightly in a thin line and turned towards you, his feet moving slowly in tandem as he approach you with a spurious anger, his hands closing into fists.
"What?" You asked with a nervous chuckle and feet backing up in rhythm with his laggard advances.
"You think I suck?" His voice imitated a dark tone. Had you not been slightly scared - which you hated to admit - you would've busted a gut at how ridiculous it sounded.
"I mean, yeah, it's already said in the banner, dimwitt."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Hell yeah!"
"Well, let's see who sucks now!"
Welp, that's my cue!
You dodged Leon's attack by the skin of your teeth, stumbling on a stupid pencil for a bit, before proceeding to run around the house to avoid Leon's "spider fingers" as you call it and making a tiny bit of a mess. However, your luck has gone away and he eventually caught you when you accidentally tripped over the leg of a chair, throwing you into his bed and tickling each spot that would make you squirm and and laugh.
"I still suck, huh?"
"N-no, fine...y-you don't...s-suck," you cried in between heavy breaths and hysterics. Satisfied with your remark, Leon stopped his fingers from moving and plopped down beside you, taking a moment to catch his breath before he pulled you closer to his body and spooned you. "You still couldn't win yesterday though."
"Yeah, well, I know a million ways to win your heart though."
"Fuck off, Le-le." Leon tsked at the nickname.
"Y/N, that sounds awful as fuck."
"Whatever." You felt his lashes kiss the nape of your neck as he closed his eyes to give them another four hours of rest, your own following afterwards when you heard Leon's muffled voice vibrate against your shirt.
"Hey, you wanna be my date for homecoming?"
"I thought you already asked Lexee to be your date."
"Dante already asked her out, so..."
"Okay, fine, I'll be your date." You squeezed his hand before intertwining your fingers with his and smiling when you felt him kiss your hair.
"Thanks, Y/N. Good night."
"It's 10 in the morning, dumba-"
"Shh... Rock-a-bye baby..."
"You do suck though." You light-heartedly nudged Leon's side and wrinkled your eyes in a grin, chuckling when he returned the gesture with a titter.
"I really don't," he retorted back.
"Sure." You took his hand in yours and gently squeezed it in a comforting way to ease the two of you before placing a feather's kiss on the back of it. "Come on, we still have a job to do."
*****
Leon S. Kennedy, we're putting you on a very special case for your first assignment.
Your mission is...to unlock your desk! The key to your success is in the initials of our first names. Input the letters in order of our desks.
There are 2 locks- 1 on each side of your desk. Make sure you get them both.
Basically, your first task is to remember your fellow officers' names, but you figured that much out, right?
Good luck, Leon.
By the way, it might take a little work to get Scott to give you a straight answer.
Lieutenant Branagh
Scrawled in a corner between drops of blood on the paper was an additional note the lieutenant had written while he and his fellow officers were isolated and trapped, and it read:
Be glad you're not here, rookie.
"Remember your fellow officers' names..."
"I think that means the initials of my supposedly co-workers' names should be the password to open these locks on my desk." Leon stood up from where he was knelt down on the floor and casted around from desk to desk, unlocking the padlocks on his table and claiming the prize after accomplishing his "first assignment" - a magazine for his beloved Matilda.
You smiled when Leon pulled out the gun he's had since the beginning of his adult years, another retention reminding you of the peaceful days you once had before you started walking right into confusion.
Matilda was a gift Leon's father had given him on his 18th birthday, a few months before he died of cancer. He was happy about it, and knowing how his family had supported his decision on him becoming a cop, his heart fluttered inside and he couldn't be more grateful about it. Leon held onto it everyday, even becoming a bit hesitant about leaving it behind whenever he went to school. And when his father passed away because of said illness, he grasped onto the weapon the same way he did when his dad was still alive, if not more.
"Happy birthday, Leon. Happy birthday, Leon. Happy birthday, happy birthday... Happy birthday, Leon... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEON!"
Leon's cheeks stretched in an almost painful way as everyone erupted into cheers and confetti fell from the ceiling. Each person was wearing cone-shaped hats and the living room was decorated with different ornaments colored in his favorite hues. His family was there and so were his friends, and oh, how could he almost forget...
It was his 18th birthday!
"So, what do you think?" You spoke from behind him. He turned around to see you smiling like an idiot and tugging on the string of a party you picked up from the floor.
"This," he began. "This is amazing! Wh-"
"Well, son, the candle's almost melting. Wanna make a wish?" Leon's dad emerged from behind the small crowd with a three-layered cake balanced on top of his palms. The icing of the pastry was blue, edible police-related finishing touches garnished it with such perfection he almost didn't want to eat it for the sake of admiring and staring at the cake, and a single candle formed into the number 18 as an emphasis to his recent age was placed on top with a tiny flame dancing around in the air. Leon closed his eyes and wished for the best before blowing the candle, watching as the fire disappeared into a swirling smoke. Everyone rejoiced once again.
When voices had began dying down one by one, Leon's father called his name and picked up a box from underneath the table after placing the cake down where it wouldn't fall down.
"Leon, you're going to be attending the police academy soon and in the next few years you'll be the cop you always wanted. So, as a gift, I give you this gun." He opened the rectangular cardboard box where a gun laid and presented it to his child, Leon's eyes sparkling in delight at his very own weapon. "I know you'll be taking good care of Matilda."
"Matilda?" Leon asked in confusion.
"You know, like, Mathilda from Leon: The Professional," his dad replied. Leon chuckled in response before he carefully took the gun out of its container, still a bit iffy about touching it.
"I'll be taking good care of this, dad."
"I know you will."
"You still have that gun?" You spoke as you gestured towards his firearm.
"Yep, she still looks good as new. I didn't want to break my promise," Leon responded. He turned his gun around to show you just how much he kept it safe like a mother would to a child. Your E/C orbs twinkled in admiration, a feeling in your heart you had kept for a very long time flittering in a joyous manner for the first time since you last saw him.
"Nothing's really changed, huh?"
"I don't want to change anything for now...especially now that you're back here with me."
*****
So, I found this image on google and an idea suddenly popped into my head lmao.
Anyway, WE'RE BACK! I was busy in school blah blah blah. I think yall know that already.
#leonkennedy#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy imagines#leon s kennedy x reader#leonxreader#leon kennedy x you#resident evil#residentevil2#resident evil fanfic#leon kennedy#leon kennedy fanfic
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Foster Kid AU
Taemin’s whole brain short circuits. He can’t believe it, because sitting across the table from him is Kang Hodong and his wife. And every time he’s interacted with the man, he’s been goofy and funny and just a comedian. But now he’s serious, and even though he’s smiling it’s not the same, and Taemin just doesn’t understand what’s going on.
They talk for hours though. About all sorts of things. About how they want to be parents, how they’ve been trying to adopt for over a year now, how they heard Taemin’s story about wanting to be adopted and tried so hard to get in touch with Taemin’s case worker.
And Taemin talks too. About how he gets good grades in school. How he’s never gotten in trouble. How he’s a good kid who does exactly as he’s told. How he stays at the SHINee dorm all the time so he won’t even get in their way.
Taemin regrets talking though, because it seems to upset them, to throw them off, and he’s terrified of scaring them away.
“Please, I’m really really good, I promise!” he says quickly. “You can even look at my file, I’ve never been in trouble ever! See look!”
And he leans over the table and pushes the file his case worker brought towards them, even opens it for them, his picture on display right at the front. He thinks it’s a decent picture. It’s no SHINee photoshoot, but his hair is combed neatly.
“Can you tell us,” Hodong asks softly, “why you want to be adopted?”
He feels like his brain is buffering. He doesn’t really understand, doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know what the right answer is.
“I just,” he stammers, his heart pounding, “I just want someone to want me.”
Turns out that was right enough of an answer, because a date is scheduled for Taemin to have a sleepover at their house. A whole weekend. Just two days from then. Taemin is nervous and a little shaky as his case worker guides him out to take him back to the dorm, after saying goodbye, after getting hugs from both of them. As soon as he gets back to the dorm, he’s packing a bag and spilling word after word to the other members about everything that happened. They all seem just as confused and excited as Taemin.
Except that Friday, SHINee are guests for a Star King recording. Taemin’s never felt so nervous in his entire life, because he can’t fuck this up, there’s no room for error, he needs to do everything right and be the perfect guest or else Hodong won’t want him anymore, won’t even let him sleepover that, it will ruin everything.
But Hodong is as silly and goofy as ever, even carries Taemin around stage like he always does when SHINee comes to Star King, treats Taemin just exactly the same as always even though Taemin stutters more than he usually does and blinks more than he usually does.
Then after recording runs late and all the members are exhausted after a long day of school and practice and schedules, Taemin is slumped over on the dressing room couch, waiting for the other members to finish changing so they can go home. He’s tired and blinking slowly falling over Jinki’s lap when Hodong comes inside, speaks quietly to the senior manager, and then comes over to the couch to kneel in front of Taemin.
“Are you ready to come to our house?” he asks, smiling again in the same soft way he had in his case worker’s office.
Taemin didn’t realize he’d be leaving the shooting with Hodong, didn’t realize his manager had even brought the bag he’d packed two days. Taemin just nods, trying to stay quiet and calm and put together. And Hodong just slings Taemin’s bag over his shoulder and guides Taemin out of the room, out of the building, into the parking garage with a comforting arm held around Taemin’s shoulders.
“You must be tired,” Hodong says as he drives. “Your manager said you’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah,” Taemin says. “Kind of.”
“How was school today?”
“It was okay,” Taemin says, clasping and unclasping his hands in his lap. “Had a chemistry test.”
“How do you think you did?”
“I think I did okay,” Taemin says. “It was a little harder than the last test.”
It’s a little awkward and forced, but Taemin appreciates the school questions. They’re easy to answer. He talks about what he learned in math that day, what book he’s reading for his literature class, what war they’re learning about in history.
Then when they get home, dinner is prepared and waiting on the table, the three of them sit down together, and Taemin repeats the same answers for the same questions when Hodong’s wife asks them, even though Hodong has tried telling her that he’d already asked him all these questions.
“Do you like this type of dinner?” she asks instead.
“Yes, it’s delicious!” he answers immediately.
Taemin spends the entire weekend trying his absolute best to please them. To be nice and polite and follow every single tiny detail of the house rules they outlined. He helps wash dishes and takes out the trash and makes the bed they’re letting him sleep in every morning. He keeps everything in order in the room he’s staying in, no clothes on the floor, no mess in the bathroom, no clutter, nothing. On all accounts, he’s done everything right, done everything perfectly.
Taemin thinks it’s a good weekend. Even though he had to go to SHINee practice on Saturday morning and Hodong drove him and picked him up even though Taemin insisted he could get there on his own.
“It’s no trouble to take you to practice,” he insists.
He meets with his case worker that Tuesday after school.
“It was good, right?” he asks quickly, as soon as he enters her office, before he even sits down. “They liked me, right?”
“Did you like them?” she asks instead. She seems concerned, and Taemin has seen her get concerned like that before, and now he’s convinced he fucked it up, he fucked it all up.
He doesn’t sit down, his hand lingering on the back of the chair instead.
“They don’t want me anymore,” he says, his voice shaking. It’s not a question. He’s been through this enough times. But now he doesn’t know how he’ll ever go on Star King again if Hodong hates him.
“They adored you,” she says, and it throws Taemin off enough to make him fall in the chair. “But they were worried you didn’t like them.”
“But I did like them,” he says quietly.
“I explained that you’re just shy,” she tells him. “That it sometimes takes you a little while to open up more.”
“Do they still want me?”
“Very much so.”
It’s several more weekend sleepovers, then a couple week-long sleepovers, and then Taemin is officially moving into their house, into his new bedroom, with his new foster parents. But he doesn’t want another foster home, he doesn’t want more foster parents, he wants to be adopted.
“It’s just the next step to being adopted,” his case worker tells him for the millionth time. “It’s just a couple more months now.”
He’s on edge all the time now, even when he’s staying at the dorm instead. Because everything has to go right. Everything has to be perfect. He has to be perfect. Or else everything will be ruined and he’ll go right back to being alone and he can’t go through that again.
But Hodong and his wife always just tell him how amazing he is. How he’s just a delight of a boy. How happy he’s made their house, how it feels so much warmer, so much more like a home now that a child is living in it with them.
It’s too good to be true. He knows it’s too good to be true. It’s all got to be a prank, there’s a secret camera somewhere, they’re going to punk him. That’s the only explanation. It’s going to be the night before the set adoption at the courthouse and they’re going to tell him how it was all for tv, how stupid he is for thinking anyone could ever want to adopt him.
So just a couple weeks before it’s all supposed to be official, Taemin snaps. He acts out and he yells at them and breaks their rules and does presses every possible button. He stops making his bed. Stops keeping his room clean. Stops doing his homework. Starts staying late at the company building and not letting them know like they asked, starts staying at the dorm even on nights they specifically ask him not to, starts talking back anytime they try to discipline him.
And when Hodong finally snaps back and forces Taemin to sit on the couch and asks in what might be a louder voice than necessary what Taemin’s attitude is all about, his hands gripping Taemin’s arms, keeping him held down in front of him, Taemin just breaks down.
He’s crying, trying so hard to hold it back, but that only makes him shake more, heaving and gulping in air, his eyes squeezed shut but tears still pushing past and falling down his cheeks, pooling in the corners of his nose and lips until they’re spilling down his neck and wetting the collar of his shirt.
“What’s wrong?” Hodong asks, almost sounding like he’s begging, his voice soft and desperate and his hands moving from the way they were gripping Taemin’s arms to instead rub them up and down, trying to comfort him in anyway he can. “Please just tell us what’s going on with you. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”
It takes a few minutes before Taemin stammers our a desperate, “Please.”
“Please what?” Hodong asks, moving instead to cup Taemin’s cheeks, to use a blanket from the couch to wipe the tears still falling from Taemin’s eyes.
Taemin sucks in a few breaths before whispering, “Please don’t let it be a prank.”
“What’s a prank?” he asks. “I don’t know what would be a prank, Taemin, honest.”
“Everything,” Taemin cries, fresh tears welling in his eyes. That’s when Hodong pulls him close, hugs him tight, and Taemin hides his face in his shoulder as he begs, “Please, please I just - please want me, please.”
His wife comes and sits down with them too, rubbing circles into Taemin’s back, agreeing with Hodong as they both insist, “We want you so much, we want to adopt you so much, we want you to be our son so much. Nothing’s going to change that. You not always being perfect isn’t going to change that.”
It takes a lot of reassurance. A lot of fierce insistence that they’ll love him no matter what. A lot of hugs and a lot of tears and a lot of comfort. But then just a couple weeks later, they’re at the courthouse and the judge has approved the adoption and everything is official, Taemin’s family name is officially changed, because he officially has a family.
He officially had parents. And he doesn’t really know how to react to it. He just knows he’s happy and ecstatic and overwhelmed.
And the only time airing it on tv is brought it up is when Hodong tells him it’s because he wants the whole world to know that Taemin is his son now, that he wants everyone to know that he’s the lucky one because he’s the one who gets the privilege of being Taemin’s father. That so many people have missed out on having such a wonderful son.
And the next time Taemin is on Star King, Hodong is the same as he always is when SHINee are guests. He carries Taemin around and teases him silly and makes a big show of how much he adores all the SHINee members. Except this time, Taemin is calling him Dad and Hodong’s face lights up more than ever and it’s so clear they both adore each other, it’s clear Taemin is thriving under the attention, and that Hodong is thriving giving the attention.
It’s not always easy, and it’s not always cute, but they’re a family now. And they love it, even when it’s difficult.
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Communication Issues (AT:TTSIMBCMEOAYSFIL)- Chapter Three
Ao3, MasterPost, Chap.1, Chap.2
Relationships: Eventual Romantic Analogince, Romantic Prinxiety, implied background Moceit
Warnings: Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Self-isolation, Arguments, Unintentional Emotional Repression, Body Horror (in the form of Remus being Remus!), swearing, some small descriptions of pain, self-deprecations. There’s some fluff in the middle cuz I’m not pure evil, but this is pretty angsty :3 (I promise it’ll have a happy ending u just gotta wait ok). Remus uses it/its here, and is also aromantic.
Word Count: 8,167
Now, dramatism isn’t one of your functions, so you like to think that you’re being entirely reasonable when you say that you’d rather die than inform your closest friends that you’ve grown to love them a bit more than platonically.
And yet, here they are. Sitting on your couch, in your cluttered room, staring up at you with expectation in their eyes. They’re waiting, Logan. You didn’t actually expect to avoid this forever, did you?
Maybe you did, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong.
But you digress: you owe them the explanation they came here for. And as you open your mouth to speak, your voice is not nearly as measured as you’d like it to be.
“As I said before, It was never my intention for you to think I did not want to see you- that is to say, it simply wasn’t feasible, given- well- there were certain complications, you see…”
Virgil narrows his eyes, bemusedly, from his contorted position across the arm and top cushion of your couch.
“What kind of complications?”
You look at the carpet, but it doesn’t offer much visual stimuli. You look up at the ceiling, but the angle makes your neck ache. You settle your eyes on your bookshelf instead, studying the multi-colored covers of novels that span the length of the entire opposite wall.
“...Complicated ones.”
Virgil snorts, a sound that usually has you thinking about just how adorable he can be, but the sound is devoid of humor in its current form.
“Care to elaborate, Teach?” Roman inquires, his legs folded comfortably under himself as he watches you. He’s managed to keep himself pretty still and quiet, though you aren’t sure if that’s attributed to his current restraint or the effects of your room.
You push your glasses up on your nose. They fall back to their original position. You repeat this action almost compulsively.
“It’s foolish- Very foolish. I know this is somewhat hypocritical of me, but I believe it is for the best that I do not burden you with it.”
“You aren’t a burden!” Roman squawks indignantly, in conjunction with Virgil snipping: “We’re well past that, buddy.”
You feel your face heat, embarrassingly enough. You aren’t sure why, but their instant and vehement defensiveness for you is a bit motivating. They… they won’t hate you for it. They might even understand, if you’re willing to be optimistic about this.
“You could call it. Jealousy, I suppose.”
“Jealousy?” Roman scrunches his nose, uncomprehending.
“Yes- I know it isn’t exactly fair of me to feel this way, but it’s the unfortunate truth. I have noticed that the two of you have become much… closer, than you once were,” you see the two of them flush in embarrassment, which only serves to prove your point. “Rest assured, I’m very happy for the both of you and your bond. It’s just that I’ve realized that I have become essentially irrelevant, which I find to be… upsetting. And I know you both are far too kind and non-communicative to outright tell me this, thus I decided that I would take matters into my own hands by giving the two of you your much-needed space willingly.”
You do not add that you’re also avoiding them because you can barely stomach being around their PDA. It seems unnecessary, and maybe a tad pathetic.
Virgil recovers from his embarrassment at your calling him out quickly enough, his abashment being engulfed by indignation. Oh, wonderful. They really can’t let up without a fight.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His anger is clear, but all three of you know that he’s only upset at the situation.
“I would love to remain as your friends, of course, I only meant that it would be best if I didn’t interrupt you two-”
“Interrupt us?!” He’s very near shouting, leaping up from his seat and stalking towards you. He stops less than a foot away, and you try desperately not to recoil from him.
“Yes,” you sound meek, don’t you? “It only made sense-”
He stares at you as though you’re an idiot. It’s a despicable look, but when you turn your attention to Roman for a reprieve, his expression is no different.
And then they- oh, what they do next brings you more pain than any expression ever could. It starts quiet, like they’re trying to hold it at bay, but their resolves crack and crumble.
They laugh. They’re laughing at you.
You shouldn’t have let them in- not into your room, not into your head, not into your life at all. You should have known that when your genuine emotions came to light, they’d only find it humorous in the end. Because you, Logan- Logic, your ‘feelings’- they’re hilarious. They are nonsensical and hardly befitting a being such as yourself, yet you have them! And you actually began to speak about them! What a comedic situation. You’re a fool in every sense of the word- both a jester and an idiot.
They aren’t even laughing that hard, but to you each small sound reads as a raucous, villainous cackle that tears apart your skin and leaves you raw. Roman’s head is tipped back and he appears to be shaking with amusement; Virgil is trying to press his lips together and stifle his chuckling, but he’s doing a poor job of it.
Something writhes in you, much uglier than your shame or guilt. It squirms beneath the layers of your skin and runs up and down your spine, tensing your muscles with its electricity. It’s fury, burning nearly as bright as your face surely must be with this humiliation.
How could they, tricking you into caring for them, convincing you to help them and support them, only to then heckle you when you hand them your trust. It was such a fragile thing already- which you know is preposterous, trust isn’t tangible, but in this moment it feels quite like a cracked window finally shattering to useless shards.
“Out.”
Virgil is startled into silence immediately; Roman makes a strangled sort of sound as he stops laughing.
“What?” They chorus, both looking ready to contradict you with drawn out and over-emotional arguments.
You won’t give them that satisfaction.
“Get. Out. Of my. Room,” your shaking speech is blanketed in monotone; it’s like a towel thrown over a forest fire; it won’t last long.
Their eyes widen comically. They speak all over each other, clamoring to explain or excuse their actions, but to you the pleading is naught but white noise.
You gave them a chance to leave of their own volition, but if they’re so keen on remaining a nuisance, then fine. You huff a sigh, turning your back to Roman and Virgil. With a snap, their chatter cuts off unceremoniously, and you are left cold and lonely.
When you turn around, they’re gone.
<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>
You don’t get a chance to react before you’re thrown upwards through the floor of your bedroom. You land in an unceremonious heap, half-on and half-off of your bed, losing your balance almost immediately and toppling to the floor. Rising up makes you dizzy enough as it is, but being forced away from somewhere makes you want to vomit.
You pull yourself up from the ground, holding your head in your hands until the world stops spinning. As soon as your brain gets working again, you can hear thunderous footfalls out in the hall. They stomp right past your door and down the hall. There’s a series of loud thumps, rattles, and shouts, before whoever it is retraces their steps.
You walk to your door as if on autopilot, opening it just as Roman was about to knock. He’s panting, distressed.
“We fucked up,” he says.
“Yeah,” you pull him inside, slamming the door behind him, “We did.”
“I didn’t mean to, you know that right? I wasn’t laughing at him, I wouldn’t, alright?” Roman spirals, “He thinks I did! It was just ridiculous, was all! To think that we don’t want him around- to think-”
He curls into himself. You catch his hand before he can press it against his chest, unfolding him. You hold his wrist and rub little patterns into the back of his hand.
“Ro, hey.”
He glances up at you, wild-eyed. Eyeshadow is already creeping its way down his face.
“Why don’t we talk about this in your room instead, hm?”
He nods, shaking, with a small mutter of ‘right, right’. You nod back, holding onto him just tight enough that your claws don’t quite dig in.
You materialize in Roman’s room, dragging him along with you. Almost immediately a fierce pulse of energy overwhelms you. You stagger in shock, but Roman doesn’t even blink at the force. He pulls away from you and falls upon his massive, plush, circular canopy bed with a despairing whine. You can’t really blame him.
The Creative power of this room takes its effects on you faster than any other side’s abilities could- you really wonder how Roman is so used to it. You sit on the bed beside him, intending to comfort him as he buries himself further into his hoard of pillows. But then, you can’t. You can’t sit down. Far too much troubled excitement is pooling in your stomach; far too many ideas and thoughts are running through your head, and the loudest of them are desperate appeals to start fixing this mess.
Anxiety and Creativity wouldn’t theoretically mix well, but that’s just the thing about theories. They’re often wrong, so very wrong or crackpot or conspiratorial. The truth of it is Creativity and Anxiety work together wonderfully, both as concepts and as actual, metaphysical creatures. You’ve known this, even if you won’t admit it, since you were all teenagers. But only now does it hit you just how much Roman’s abilities can do for you. It takes all of your energy, all that pent-up fear and frustration from what’s just happened, and it gives you the tools to actually use it for something.
It also makes you, ya know. Just a little recklessly confident.
“Alright, Princey, get up.”
He whines again, shifting his head just enough to glare at you.
“I’m wallowing in self-pity! For the reason that one of my dearest friends thinks me a- a bully! How are you not freaking out about this?”
“Honestly?” You wrap your hands around his wrist again, pulling him into a ragdoll-ish sitting position, “I’ve got no idea. Mentally I think I’m in the fifth dimension or some shit, so we gotta work this out quick before I come back down and really lose my mind.”
He grumbles, but you see him biting back an amused smile. Flopping his legs over the edge of the bed and making no movement to stand, Roman narrows his eyes up at you.
“Alright, alright. We need to give that conversation another go, I know that, but we should give Logan some space first. He’s unlikely to hear us out now. You know how headstrong he is when he gets… like this.”
You nod, vacantly, because you're already three steps ahead of where he is in the conversation.
“Yeah, good point. More time.”
“Right,” Roman draws the word out, looking at you strangely, “So why aren’t you moping with me?”
You pull the reins of your practically palpable energy enough to sit down, right next to him.
“We obviously have to work out this-” you gesture between yourself and Roman, “-before we can really talk to Logan,” once the sentence is out of your mouth you wish you could swallow back the ‘obviously’, because Roman is usually slow on the uptake and you’d never intentionally make fun of that. But he does nothing more than scrunch his face up in exaggerated confusion, the pink tint to his face giving away that he must have at least some idea what you’re implying.
“What- what do you mean by that? The two of us already get along famously!”
“I think you know that’s not what I meant. You’re using your stage voice. You always do that when you lie.”
“Who are you- Janus?” He cough-laughs awkwardly, breaking eye-contact with you. You’re surprised that you’re holding up any better than him, but your strongest reaction at the moment is a mild blush and some prickling at your skin.
It is for these reasons that you both love and hate Creative-Mode Virgil. He is a very productive and efficient version of you, but his propensity for acting bold and impulsive makes you want to strangle him. Him being you, of course.
“Look, Logan was wrong to think that he was a third wheel, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure he was right about the… closeness with us, I guess.”
Roman’s staring at you with wide eyes, a deep red flushing him from his ears right across his nose and cheeks. He’s clearly trying to smile, but it’s coming out awkwardly strained, almost twisted sideways. There’s a second when the anxiety rushes back to you in a wave of oh no you misread this so fucking bad of course he doesn’t feel that way about you you’re his best friend whatthehellwereyouthinkingVirgil- and it almost wins you over, but you’re in Roman’s Room. And that doesn’t just mean motivation and creativity.
Your paranoid thoughts could never beat what’s ingrained into you as a fact. You can feel the romantic tension, almost like it’s a physical presence in the room. Maybe it is. A part of you- most of you, in fact- still wants to convince you that you’re doing something wrong. But it’s getting harder and harder to believe the longer you sit here, knowing that these emotions you feel aren't entirely your own.
“Virgil,” he breathes, and you can feel it on your skin- when did you get so close?
“We don’t have to do anything about this,” you start to backpedal, but you don’t move away from him, “Not if you don’t want to, yet. I just… we had to talk about it, I think.”
“So you…?”
The hesitance in his voice destroys your resolve. You reach out, tucking up both of his hands in your own.
They’re warm.
“Yeah, I- yeah.”
He surveys you for far too long; it’s hard not to squirm. You let him watch you, though, just so he can find whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. When he does, it only draws him in nearer.
“You and Logan are right. I love you, V.”
You try not to smile. It doesn’t work.
“I figured.”
He huffs at you, shoving you, but he’s grinning widely. You roll your eyes at him. You don’t speak for a while, holding your tongue for as long as you can- but you really need to say it. Just so he knows.
“I love you back, though. Or- something like that, I don’t know…”
Roman laughs outright at that, tossing his head back. You can already feel the energy you were given twisting into an entirely contradictory exhaustion. Because of that, you don’t even try to pretend to be annoyed; you just watch, fondly.
When he’s settled, that amused look turns sharply to worry.
“So now what?”
You pause, running your thumb over his knuckles as you think the question over.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well, like you said, we give him some space.”
“And then?”
You glance up at Roman for confirmation, but you don’t need to. Like you said, you can feel it; his room is a pretty big snitch.
“We tell him we love him.”
You let yourself forget about what happened, just for the afternoon. It’s hard, but what choice do you have? It’s out of your hands for now. And, while usually that makes you even more nervous, you manage to force yourself into the shape of something vaguely undaunted. After all, if you can’t tell Logan just how much you care about him, you can still remind Roman.
In your own way, of course.
“Hey,” you mutter, for what must be the millionth time that evening. Roman turns his attention away from the vent-art he’s working on, glancing at you.
“Yes, Knightmare?” He asks, but the tired and affectionate smile on his face says that he already knows your game. Damn, and here you were thinking you were subtle. (not.)
“Mmh,” you press your face into the side of his neck, leaving a few miniscule kisses to the skin there. Your arms are twined around his waist, a position that bordered on- oh, who are you kidding, it’s exceptionally clingy.
The embarrassment that you feel from so openly displaying such sappy, disgusting affection is overturned, however slightly, by the quiet laugh and kiss to the top of your head that Roman returns to you for your efforts. You hide your smile in the crook of his neck.
You continue to shower Roman with attention for a minute or so, covering his face with little pecks and pressing yourself against him, before leaning back a few inches. You sigh. He resumes his work, resting his back against your chest as he does so.
You will let him continue to draw for ten or so minutes. You will ask for his attention again, and he’ll give it to you with a slightly wider smile than the last time you did it- that smile grows exponentially, but only by tiny increments.
You’ll kiss him all up his neck and the side of his face, hug him even tighter, listening to him laugh in a much too relieved voice before you let up once more.
And he’ll be a little more sure of you each time. A little more sure that you two can do this together.
<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>
You are not a patient entity when it comes to the things you want. You are, in the best of cases, the exact opposite. This gets about One Million Billion times worse when the one thing that you want is to declare your love for someone, and said someone hasn’t left his room even once in six days.
Virgil, Patton, and Janus (once you’d relayed the situation to the latter two) have essentially been keeping you on a leash at all times of the day- or night- to make absolutely sure that you don’t break Logan’s door down. Which- to be fair- you wouldn’t put it past yourself to do that, but still.
But even with the distraction of a new boyfriend (boyfriend!!!!) and those two overbearingly caring friends of yours, you are still Physically Unable to Not Do Anything currently. And, you suppose if you can’t break Logan’s door down, you might as well try that idea out on someone who wouldn’t bat an eye at such an, ah, intrusion seems to be the fitting word.
“Uurghhhhh!”
You drop yourself face first onto Remus’ bed in your usual melodramatic fashion, immediately regretting it because fuck that smells horrid. When was the last time it washed its sheets?
Probably never, actually. You sit up.
Your sibling is sitting cross-legged on its desk, working on something that’s got a good deal of goop and limbs. It looks up at you blankly.
“Ro? What the hell are you doing in here?” It doesn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised.
“My life is ending.”
“Fun! Does that mean I get full creative control?”
“No! And it’s not fun, you animal!”
It scrutinizes you, setting its strange arthropodic creation down on the desk. You lean back when it leans forwards.
“Wow, shit must be really bad if you’ve decided to come here!”
You nod, miserably.
“Okay,” it claps its hands together, standing up only to fall against the bed beside you. It’s half-sitting, half-laying; the way it twists all its limbs up can not be comfortable. “What’s going on?”
You glare at it, but you aren’t sure why. Probably just because it is there and you need something to glare at while you talk.
“It’s Logan…” You trail off, waiting for Remus to catch on. It takes its time thinking, even more expressionless than before.
“You know why he hasn’t left his room in days? I tried to check on him but he barely told me anything. Just said he was tired, and ‘thanks for the concern’,” it says at last, catching you off-guard.
“You mean you haven’t heard? I would’ve thought Patton or Janus might have told you.”
It taps its claw to its chin a couple of times, thoughtful. The implication clicks just a second later, apparently, because it lets out a whining groan and drags its hands down its face.
“Oh, not that. I can’t do anything if it’s that!” It exclaims, “Yeah, they did mention it, but I guess I just tune that kind of thing out,” it pauses, “...It’s because you and Vee are fucking now, right?”
You flush, embarrassment and indignation welling up at the back of your throat. You bat Remus’ shoulder, bristly as a thornbush.
“No, we aren’t- I mean, not yet- I mean, that’s none of your business!”
“You did kinda come to me for help, though, so it actually is.”
You glower, refusing to justify that with a response. It rolls its eyes at you, turning over so that it’s flat on its back with its upper half hanging off the bed.
“It’s your bad to come to me for romance advice. You couldn’t have asked literally anyone else- yourself, for example?” It fusses with its talons as it rants, snapping off a couple of nails absentmindedly, “It’s not even the fun kind of gross.”
You can’t believe you’re considering saying it. You won’t! You shouldn’t! You refuse!
“...Please?” Oh fuck, you’ve done it now.
Remus pulls its head up slightly, a very smug grin across its face. Its teeth are horrendously crooked and yellow-stained, looking much too big and sharp to fit into its mouth.
“Awww, you’re begging? God, you’re so desperate.”
It’s very difficult to resist the urge to push it off the bed. But you are a pillar of restraint today, because it’s not entirely wrong about that, and you still need it to help you.
“Look, it’s too personal to my own life for my abilities to do me any good. And Virgil can’t talk about it- he’s way too frazzled to even think about it, the poor thing. Plus, Patton and Janus aren’t… great… at things,” that’s a very soft way of putting: the former gets much too emotionally invested and the latter is entirely snarky and unhelpful. “So I came here. I think a more, erm, detached point of view could help.”
Remus hums at that.
“I guess there’s nothing more detached from romantic issues than someone who’s never had any- you’ve come to the right place in that case.”
“So you’ll help?”
Remus slides slowly forward until it’s landing in a heap on the ground, various crunching noises resulting from the impact. It huffs, lifts itself up to rest its chin on the edge of the bed, and stares at you unblinkingly.
“You’re not allowed to tangent about how pretty his eyes are or how much you love his voice, or anything like that, got it? Otherwise, I will puke, and probably into your mouth just to shut you up.”
You gag, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly.
“That’s vile!”
“Thank you! Now, bitch to me about your problems before I get bored.”
You look down to your lap, winding and unwinding your fingers repetitiously. You think about the past couple of days; in many aspects, it’s been wonderful. Virgil actually wants to be your boyfriend! And that’s what he is now! Of course, you both are just as cuddly as ever, but now you don’t have to worry about holding back. That’s been an amazing relief.
But there’s always that little thing missing, holding you back from being content completely. You want to give Logan his space, truly you do, but every day you feel a little more distant from him. A little further from being able to fix things. It’s familiar in all the worst ways.
You blink rapidly, remembering where you are before the emotions overcome you. With a shaky breath, you begin to speak. It’s just a summary at first, but then you can’t help but give Remus your most detailed accounts of, well, everything.
You gauge its reaction intensely, but it’s as inscrutable as ever. You finish the tale hurriedly, expectant for some sort of response from the creature across from you.
There is an intolerable silence as you practically see the gears turning in Remus’ brain, which is funny because you thought Octopuses were supposed to have nine of them. You have no idea what it’s using all the other ones for, if that’s the case.
“You laughed at him,” it smirks when it speaks, sounding out the words slowly. You scoff.
“We were laughing at the situation! We didn’t mean it to seem that way. It was just bad timing! ”
It cackles at you, sitting back on its legs and tossing its head back. It sounds like a shrieking kettle.
“No wonder he’s so pissed! He thinks you think his feelings are a joke! His whole deal is not wanting to be that. That’s, like, his big thing.”
You’d… sort of figured that’s what happened, but hearing it out loud still stings. To think you’d done that to him. He was getting so much better with his feelings, but you had to go and ruin it.
“I already know that I- we-” mental filtering, Roman, “We caused the issue. I wanted to know how to fix it.”
Remus stops laughing as suddenly as it’d started, looking at you with all the sincerity of, perhaps, someone capable of being serious.
“Corner him,” it answers simply.
“Excuse me?”
“Corner him. Your first mistake was that you went to him in his room, which meant he could just throw you out of there. He’s stubborn, right? Plus, he thinks you were making fun of him. He’s not gonna come out to have a civilized conversation on his own, cuz he’s a dumbass, so I don’t think more space is gonna help you out here. Lure him out! Tie him up, if it’ll make him listen!” Remus pauses thoughtfully, “Orrrrr you could try amputating his legs entirely, but he’ll probably grow them back. He’s annoying like that.”
You choose to ignore the last suggestion, focusing instead on its main point.
“Are you sure that won’t make things worse?”
“Define ‘worse’ for me, in terms of right now, currently, in here on this day.”
“Good point.”
Remus nods to itself, standing up from the floor and stretching its arms above its head. Its shoulders dislocate, but it pops them back into their sockets once its done. This almost feels like the conclusion of the conversation, but you get the impression that it’s taking its time to piece together a sentence with a little more finality.
“He was obviously crazy about you two before, which means he probably still is. He’s also a sad little shit, though.”
You move to stand as well, curling your fingers against themselves again.
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I have no idea. That’s your department, remember? Now, get out of my room; no alloromantics allowed after-” it checks the time, clearly making the rule up on the spot, “Five twenty-six P.M.”
“Fine, fine, I can take a hint,” you place your hands on your hips, feeling just a little more confident in the wake of this talk.
“‘Hint’? I explicitly told you to leave.”
You grumble at Remus, but make your way to the door nonetheless. It turns back to its desk, grabbing for a jar that seems to be filled with insect legs. It’s immediately refocused into whatever strange creatures it was working on, pulling them apart and shoving them back together. You let the affronted look fall from your face, replaced by a small, fond smile.
“Thanks, Re.”
It glances back at you, briefly.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing…” it pauses, its hands stilling. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” you say, earnestly.
You leave, letting it get back to its work.
The hallway smells like a fucking Macy’s compared to Remus’ room. Jesus Christ, it’s a relief.
You shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning back against it with a deep, shuddering sigh. It’s been a long week.
Ah, and just on time, as if to prove your point, there’s a gravelly shout and a thump from downstairs. You draw yourself to attention, shaking the slump from your shoulders. You flit through the narrow hall to the top of the stairs, listening carefully for an issue to resolve or an unseemly beast to slay. A prince must protect his subjects, after all.
For a few seconds, all you can hear below is frantic whispering. You set a foot on the top step, but you don’t get the chance to descend.
Virgil is there like a flash of lightning, speeding up the stairs and heading right for you.
You startle, spiraling back to escape his path, but it’s futile. He catches you at the top, sending you both crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shoots up your back at the impact, as well as sparking in your shoulders where his claws are gripping you. You hiss, the sound dying when you meet his eyes.
They’re bright. No, glowing. No, seeping- their color is seeping into the world around them, curling in little streaks of murky green and violet around Virgil’s face.
He speaks, but it’s without distortion. It’s clear and crisp. It isn’t quite anxiety that’s consuming him this way, no, it’s something much more powerful.
“Roman,” he takes your hand in a fervent grip, “Ro, it’s Logan.”
You blink, and before you really know what you’re doing, you're already halfway downstairs.
<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>
Light, sparse taps are turned out against the solid wood door. The sounds, however small, echo throughout this packed little room.
Your fingers stall above the laptop’s keyboard, and for a fraction of a second frustration overcomes you. It’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced unceremoniously by numbness. This is a minor inconvenience to your work, but not much else. Thankfully, you are not one to dwell on it; after all this time, you are finally in complete control of your faculties and your emotions.
The knock returns, more sure of itself as it hits against the surface. Bemusedly, you wonder why on earth they’re still bothering- but, that isn’t them, it belatedly occurs to you. The rhythm isn’t that of some showtune or another, nor is it harsh and pounding.
You aren’t sure how many days it’s been since you’ve heard that particular sound. You aren’t sure… What day is it?
Well, regardless, you’ve been jarred from your work. You could ignore it and continue on- you’d likely forget it soon enough- but the fact that you recognize the presence specifically as Patton stops that idea in its tracks. He’s sensitive, an overthinker to an extreme degree. He could entirely misconstrue it as a dislike of his company if you were to not respond, unlike a flippant Remus or a collected Janus. And, well…
You’re over it. You’ve been over what Roman and Virgil did to you. But even though you very much are, it’s still perfectly reasonable to not want to be near them. There would be nothing to gain from talking to them, and you’d like to spare yourself the headache. But, you digress; Patton was not a part of what transpired. He would not do that to you, and therefore he is not an impediment to your work. Looking at it rationally, he is in fact a great source of comfo- help, for you.
With this in mind you stand, making your way across the room. You stagger when you walk, like something’s pulling you in different directions. Odd. The feeling is somewhere in your head, sinking down your vertebrae, insisting that you need to remain in the sanctity of your room. If you leave, the pull suggests, then all your carefully built clarity of mind should become disrupted. How strange for such a convincing conviction to be so seemingly baseless, you reflect.
The knock returns, and that is of course a much more pressing issue. There’s a pull coming from there as well, only one much fiercer and easier to place. It’s the strongest thing you’ve experienced in some time, like someone’s arm around your waist, guiding you forwards (even if there isn’t anyone there, really).
“Good afternoon,” you intone, drawing the door open with excessive force. Strange, again; maybe you had just forgotten how heavy it was.
Patton stands across from you, shock written across his features with his fist still poised in the air, as though to knock again. He drops the hand quickly, reaching out instead with both arms while a grin consumes his face. But the limbs spasm concerningly, and stop. He sweeps his arms back and presses his balled hands tightly against his chest, still smiling at you, only a little more strained. His eyes are big, murky pools of color and emotion, raging and contradictory and impossible to make sense of. Even looking into them is overwhelming.
“Hi, buddy,” he says it so quietly, but the actual words don’t matter. He says it with force, like perhaps he’s localized every emotion he’s ever felt entirely into his tone of voice.
You blink at him, an undefined question on your lips before that pull behind you turns into a sharp push, and before you know it you’re slumping forward into the hallway and out of your room. As you’re forced out, you narrowly avoid hitting the carpet. That’s thanks to Patton, who rushes forwards with a yelp, hauling you up into his sturdy arms with very little effort.
The confusion you’d felt leaves you in a great big rush, replaced by fire. Your skin is consumed by burns at your friend’s touch- or at least it feels that way, but logically it cannot possibly be actual flame- but fuck logic because you’re on fucking fire.
It’s an all-consuming heat, but that’s hardly all it is. It’s breathing. Like you’d been holding your breath to the point of mad deliria and only now are you gasping in great, relieved breaths of clear air as some great and stifling weight is lifted from your lungs. It also feels like moving from an ice bath to a sauna all too quickly, giving you the greatest relief in conjunction with horrific pain.
Oh. You’re crying.
“Shh,” Patton whispers, as though this isn’t anything out of the ordinary, “It’s okay, it’s alright.”
You hold onto him hesitantly. Are you sitting? You think you must be, judging from this position.
“Do you need me to let go? Is it too much?”
You open your mouth to speak, and your voice is in perfect, frightening monotone.
“Yes, please.”
Patton draws back gently, just far enough so that you’re not touching. Big, crocodile tears crawl down your face still, but they begin to die down after a moment. You get your breathing under control, even if just barely.
“I didn’t want you to fall and get hurt,” Patton explains, “But I realize that making you touch a living vessel for emotion might’ve hurt, too, after- well, after that,” he gestures vaguely to your room, and then to yourself. You tilt your head in confusion.
“What-?” You look down at your arms, and the question dies on your lips.
It’s lifeless; corpse-like. The cold, slate-gray painted up your arms and probably across your whole body. The color looks sucked out of you, leaving only emptiness in its wake. The only sign that you’re a living being and not a husk, a shell, a piece of shed skin- other than the tremble of your frame- is the shocks of electric blue running up your body. They could be veins, if not for the fact that the lines were perfectly straight and geometrically cornered.
Patton reaches out, pensively, and presses a cautious finger against the back of your hand. At his touch, the spot bursts into life like watercolor on wet paper. Lively, peachy skin with cool undertones appears, before fading back to gray as Patton removes his finger. And it stings.
You jump to your feet with a struggle, hardly registering when Patton follows your lead. You spin on your heel, staring through the open door and into your room. You can’t imagine entering it- just the feeling of being near it shortens your breath. It’s frigid, it’s hard and unshakeable and dark. It is completely and entirely devoid of emotion or life, and you hadn’t left that frozen hellscape in days.
It’s a wonder you can feel anything at all, after what you’ve done to yourself.
A shaking gasp rips out of your throat, and before you can think another panicked thought you jolt forward and wrench the door shut. You back away from it until your back hits the opposite wall.
“I- I didn’t realize I was doing it,” your words sound like pleas, falling from your mouth without your consent.
“I know,” Patton stands beside you, close enough to feel but not to burn.
“I didn’t mean to, I just-”
“I know.”
“I was doing better. I was doing so well, I was happy.”
He nods solemnly.
You’ve been aware of the existence of your emotions, and relatively accepting of it, for a good deal of time. Hypocrisy is unsustainable. You can’t very well preach the negatives of repression on a weekly basis and then go on to practice it indefinitely.
But what you are… everything that you encompass, everything that encompasses you, it makes it much too easy to slip up. To force out every pesky feeling in favor of more ‘important’ things. What it really is is a pitiful defense mechanism, unfortunately built deep into you by the purpose of your being. And it seems that your room can even do it without your knowledge.
“Logan?”
You look up, unsure if he can even see how miserable you are. Can you emote anymore? You try to frown, but your muscles are stuck like plastic.
“Why don’t we get you somewhere else and see if we can get some of the feeling back into ya, okay?”
You adjust your glasses once, then twice.
“Not your room, I would hope?”
“Oh, goodness,” he lets out a startled laugh, “Of course not, that would be way too much! I was thinking somewhere a little more, uhm, neutral?”
You perk up at that implication. You could just go to the common room, of course, but that’s hardly the only unaffected area in the Mindpalace. Your world isn’t quite real- and even if it is it’s extremely fluid and easy to influence- meaning you can make about just as many locations as any of you would like. Which includes structures ‘outside’ of your ‘house’.
An ill-defined existence like that might irk you, if you were in a philosophical mood. Thankfully, the only mood you’re in right now is sad.
“Yes, I think a change of setting could be beneficial.”
Patton chirps happily, much like a tree frog, and makes to lead you downstairs. You follow close behind him, chasing that emotional high but still nervous of the pain that it could cause you.
You’re on edge for reasons enough already. The idea that you could run into them is a prominent one that you’d rather not focus on.
For a split second you think you might have to, though, because there’s someone sitting on the couch when you step down from the landing. Your breath catches in your throat, but then he looks up at you, heterochromic eyes wide with surprise, and you exhale steadily.
“Hello, Janus.”
His eyebrows arch up at your greeting, perplexion in his smile. Appraisingly, he observes you, offering only a small wave. He addresses Patton when he speaks.
“Well, Dear, it seems you were right to be concerned about him.”
Patton mutters something that you can’t quite make out, looking disconcerted.
You’d be flushing indignantly, if you had the ability to. Your shoulders hunch up as you glance between your friends.
“You’ve been talking about me?”
They both look acutely uncomfortable, exchanging looks. That’s answer enough for you, though.
Oh, just look at yourself. You’re a spectacle now, aren’t you? Poor Logan, getting his metaphorical metaphysical heart broken, only for it to become the talk of the MindPalace for days on end as he relapses into repression. Isn’t it such a lovely thing for you to be? A piece of gossip. Entertainment.
Janus’ worry grows on his face, and soon he’s up from his spot and hastening towards you. You step back from him, trying to remember what glaring is meant to look like. He doesn’t invade your space again, but he just… stares at you.
“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks. You can almost laugh at the question.
“I’m sure you already know all about it, though, don’t you?”
Both of them are taken aback by your snapping. You regret it immediately; they haven’t done anything wrong, not really. They’re trying to help you, it isn’t their fault that they got caught up in your ‘tragic tale’. But your frustration is difficult to push down. You get the feeling that you can’t push anything down, without worrying that something will snap; it’s almost like an overworked muscle.
“Whatever you think has been happening out here,” Janus speaks, even and slow, “It’s not that bad, alright?”
Patton nods along with him, and reaches towards you. He falters, eventually opting to hook a finger through the band of your watch instead. Your skin prickles, but there’s no pain.
“C’mon, I was thinking we could try heading to the Clubhouse.”
That settles your anger, microscopically. You think Janus is being truthful, and Patton is nothing but consoling. And, of course, there’s the clubhouse…
You might not ever admit how much you like it. It’s been around since before you were around, back in the days of just Anxiety (the oldest), Creativities (tied for second), and a very newly formed Morality. Back when it was first made, it really was just a little child’s clubhouse, made primarily by Roman, with some disruptions by Remus, and small additions by a tiny Patton. It was probably the first neutral structure made up by the sides, as they had just begun to figure out their powers and the ‘world’ that they inhabited. Of course no one had the heart to get rid of it after that.
You give Patton a nod, angling your face so that it maybe looks like you’re smiling. He lets go of you, smiling back as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. You trail behind him, knowing that it must look very silly that you’re basically tailgating him. Janus follows you in turn, a few feet behind. He watches over the both of you protectively.
You step out onto the lawn, hearing grass crunch beneath your shoes. The wind is particularly biting, and the sky above threatens a storm. You’re sure that the weather in the real world isn’t this chaotic, so someone in the mindscape must be sulking. You don’t mind; it’ll only make the warmth of the Clubhouse all the more pleasant.
The Clubhouse has changed so much over the years that it’s unrecognizable as its original iteration. What once was a little stick-and-stone glorified fairy house is now a cottage-like building, one story high with a thickly thatched roof. Beside the door on either side are big bay windows, each made into little reading nooks. It’s essentially one big room, the outside painted with such vibrant pastels that it easily stands out against its surroundings.
The doors creak when Patton opens them, but not in a way that denotes damage or wear. It’s an old and comforting sound, one that comes from familiarity and consistent use. You step through the threshold, and affection floods your chest.
It isn’t large, but it’s well-equipped. There are ancient oaken tables stacked up with crafts materials, squashy bean bag chairs, and a bright rug or two thrown over the rustic hardwood floors. The nooks have pillows and blankets piled in them, looking like nests. There are bookshelves, art supplies, vinyl records (complete with a record player)- even some new-looking wall displays of preserved bugs and butterflies for decoration. To top it all off, fairy lights were strung across all the walls, making it all seem quite mystic.
You find yourself taking another step inwards; the amenities are incredibly inviting. Everything here is inviting, and homey, and lived-in. The house itself almost feels alive, nonsensical as that is.
It’s no wonder this is everyone’s favorite.
Patton watches you patiently, his hand resting on the door handle. You take a deep breath, but you aren’t sure why you need it. You make your way to the perfume-y, floral print sofa against the wall to your right, treating everything around you rather reverently. When you sit, you sink down into the couch.
Patton sits a respectful distance from you. Janus strolls right after him, knocking the door shut with the back of his boot before settling in an armchair on the left of the couch.
There’s a comfortable silence, and you start to feel your numbness abate. With a contented sigh, your head falls back against the cushion and your eyes fall shut. Not in an effort to sleep. You’re just… resting. You breathe deeply, letting the atmosphere envelop you.
The corners of your mouth twitch up.
“Logan!” Patton squeaks, “Look!”
Your eyes blink open, mildly startled at the outburst. Patton’s gaze on you is intense, first focused on your face and then moving down your arms. You follow the look, to see your...
Your perfectly normal, flesh-colored arms. Your human-ish, mildly tan, average arms. You feel what you can now recognize as a smile grow wider on your face.
“Well,” Janus chimes, “It seems you just needed a little break.”
“Maybe so,” your voice creaks from lack of use. You hadn’t even realized you’d been nonverbal since you’d last snapped at them. Neither had drawn attention to it, which you silently thank them for (they, after all, were all too familiar with the experience).
“Do you feel good enough to talk about what’s been upsetting you?” Patton gently asks you. And you… don’t have an answer.
“What is there to talk about?” You tilt your head bemusedly.
“I think he means, are you ready to talk to who’s been upsetting you?” Janus explains. Patton hesitates before nodding his agreement.
“I- what?” Your serenity leaves in a rush, replaced by astonishment and outrage, “You expect me to- to talk to them?”
You give them approximately three seconds to respond before plowing forwards with your rant.
“I’m talking to you both, isn’t that enough? You’ve done nothing to wrong me, of course. What does it matter if I don’t speak to those- those- those-”
Janus’ eyes expand to circles, the pupils shrinking to anxious slits.
“Those?” He prompts.
“Tricksters, betrayers, playactors, wolves- whatever you want to call them!” Where were vocab cards when you needed them? All your synonyms can’t carry the punch that you need them to. Insults aren’t much good if you have to explain them after.
“No!” Patton practically screams, out of absolutely nowhere. You glance at him, stunned, to see him looking like a kicked puppy- er, froggy. He’s on the verge of tears, leaning towards you precariously, with devastation swirling in his big eyes. “This is why you need to talk to them, please, Logan.”
You are so very bewildered, you barely notice that Janus is standing from his chair until he’s already across the room.
“As I said earlier: whatever you think happened, didn't. I can prove it, too,” he mutters, standing by the door.
“You weren't there, Janus,” you snap, "I tried to tell them how I felt and they- they laughed at me.”
“They didn't!” Patton squeaks. You shake your head frantically, still reeling.
“It was- it was awful, you can’t-”
“No,” Patton interrupts, “I meant that literally. They didn’t do that.”
This interaction is making your head spin with indignation. You are capable of immense patience when it comes to Patton- and Janus, for that matter- but this has become ridiculous.
“I’m so tired of being made a mockery of, Patton. I won’t stand for it any longer, even if you’re just trying to help.”
He breathes in sharply, about to argue, but then his gaze catches on something behind you. His mouth stays open, but he’s soundless. You jump to your feet, spinning around to see just what he’s looking at.
The door is open. Janus is gone.
There's a shout from the main house.
Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @intruxiety @thefivecalls
(Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed :3)
#analogince#logince#analogical#prinxiety#sanders sides#ts#logan#virgil#roman#remus#patton#janus#fanfiction#fanfic#my writing#ts fanfic#sanders sides fanfiction#cursing tw#body horror tw#angst#logan angst#chapter fic
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New Ficlet: The Art of Snuggling
Title: The Art of Snuggling
Summary: Some days, it just isn’t worth getting out of bed, when being human is just too hard to handle. And on days like that, sometimes the best thing for Darcy Lewis is a good, old fashioned, snuggle.
Pairing: Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers/Wanda Maximoff
@typhoidmeri and I have been tossing around snuggling headcanons for ages, and when we hit on an OT3 idea I couldn’t resist putting it down on paper. So, this story is for Meri, who I am very thankful to have had in my life for all these years, and this is a small token of my appreciation for you.
**********
Some days, it just isn’t worth getting out of bed. Darcy has accepted this as a fact of her life at this point: that there will be days when being human is just too hard to handle and the best thing she can do is stay in bed. To lounge there like some fairy tale heroine, propped up on lush velvet pillows and lovely, tactile blankets that cocoon her body.
Those are far too fancy words for depression though. From her own first hand experience, Darcy knows that her depression doesn’t result in her looking like a sleeping beauty, but rather a zombie who’s lost a lot of days to a restless, uneasy sleep and a brain that vacillates between feeling too much of the pain in the world sometimes and blindingly numb to everything on others. And when she finally manages to get out of the stupor, she looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, with a rat’s nest worth of curls on top of her head and in desperate need of a shower. Definitely not fairy-tale like.
She’s developed better coping mechanisms since college at least, which had involved a lot of cheap wine and other risky activities in an attempt to feel something, anything. Even the revelation of Thor and those events were only able to keep the depression at bay for a little while. When she crashed back down to earth afterwards, the nightmares and the “it’s totally not PTSD, I just keep seeing the giant metal Asgardian creature out of the corner of my eyes,” brought all of the feelings of uselessness rushing back that had to be hid away from Jane lest she lose her internship. Frankly, Darcy’s not sure how she managed to graduate, really.
Medication and the health insurance to pay for it makes a world of difference. And Darcy finally has people who she knows care about her just the way she is, damaged and dinged up and beautifully flawed, who love her and accept her love in return, even if the words don’t always come easily.
But, even with the medication there are still days when Darcy just can’t get out of bed, and so she pulls her cozy sweater tighter around her and curls into the blankets, eyes heavy and body trying to become as small as it can be. A few minutes later the door to the bedroom opens, soft footsteps heading her way. It’s the smallness of the tread that tells her it’s Wanda rather than Steve, gliding through the world at her own pace. Wanda sits down on the edge of the big bed, brushing some curls away from Darcy’s eyes. “Mmm,” Darcy hums, leaning into Wanda’s light touch.
There’s a clinking noise somewhere that Darcy can’t quite make out, so she pries her eyes open to spot a couple of fresh mugs on the bedside table amidst the rest of the clutter that’s built up there. “Did you take your pills yet this morning?” Wanda asks. More than once Wanda’s told both her and Steve that she’s not their therapist, she’s their girlfriend, and they try their absolute hardest to honor this...but it’s no secret that Wanda tries to help them where she can, with gentle reminders and quiet little prods that push things in the right direction.
“Not yet,” Darcy sighs. She pushes herself upright, the blankets falling around her, dragging her sweater down a bit until one pale shoulder is sticking out of the cardigan (it’s oversized anyway...and come to think of it she probably borrowed it from Steve’s section of the closet). “I need to.”
“Here.” Wanda leans over to the bedside table and pulls an orange pill bottle out of the mess there. “I think these are them.” She hands them over and Darcy hefts them in her hand, tossing them in the air and hearing the medication rattle around inside.
“I love and hate these things, you know?” Darcy says, popping the cap. “I hate that I’m so fucking dependent on them to keep me balanced, but I love that they actually mean I can function right.” She measures out the dose into her hand and pops them into her mouth, washing them down with a swig of coffee.
Wanda shrugs, moving around to lean against the headboard next to Darcy. Their bed is large enough to fit all three of them comfortably; it may have initially been a custom job to fit Steve’s large frame, but none of them can deny that it’s perfectly shaped for the three of them to sleep at nights. “The medicine’s a lot less self destructive than the other options, at least.”
“Depends on how you use them,” Darcy points out. She snuggles her coffee cup close and leans against Wanda’s side, letting the other woman’s warmth seep into her chilled bones. “Take enough of those pills and destruction is guaranteed.”
The statement is enough to make Wanda groan loudly with frustration. “I swear, between you with the bloody dark jokes and Steve with the bloody fists, you’re both going to make me go entirely grey-haired before I’m thirty.”
And while the rational part of Darcy knows that the comment’s only in jest, it’s enough to make Darcy shrink down inside herself, bury her feelings and the sting down inside of her and curl up inside that hard shell once more. “Sorry,” she mumbles in the direction of her coffee cup.
“Hey.” She feels Wanda’s hand on her face, turning her so they can lock eyes. Wanda glides a knuckle over Darcy’s cheekbone and gives her a soft smile. “No matter what,” she says, “you are absolutely enough as you are, and I love you just like that.”
Darcy can feel the tears start to sting at her eyes, one breaking loose and tracking its way down her skin to gather in the corner of her mouth. “I love you too,” she says, using her free hand to pull Wanda into a slightly desperate kiss that hopefully says everything that words can’t. Darcy pours all of her feelings into it, knowing that Wanda, with all of her psychic skills and abilities, will feel them that way too.
Wanda’s lips trail away from Darcy’s slowly, stretching up to plant another kiss on her forehead. “It’s going to be a bed day, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” Darcy glances over Wanda’s shoulder and out the window, seeing the sky a dull grey color, clouds heavy and leaden, like it may possibly snow but really, it just can’t muster up the energy for it. “Weather’s right for bed and cuddling.”
“Here.” Wanda grabs the remote from the other bedside table and drops it in Darcy’s lap. “You find something to watch, and I’ll get the blankets.”
It doesn’t take long for the two women to get everything situated just so, pillows in all shapes and sizes and colors piled high against the headboard, and some knit blankets that are probably about as old as Darcy is, but they’re warm and cozy, and that’s what matters. “What are you doing?” Darcy asks a few minutes later, once they’re finally curled up together under the blankets, the tv on the other side of the room telling stories of baked goods in soft voices that help to put her brain at ease.
“Texting Steve,” Wanda says, nose buried in her phone. “He’s out running right now, but I’m going to see if I can tempt him to bring some goodies home for us.”
“Goodies are fun, but really, I am a-ok with just cuddles.”
“Well, there’s nothing to stop us from having both of them.”
Wanda’s arm drops around her shoulders, pulling her close, the skin to skin contact doing wonders to soothe Darcy’s soul. Beneath the blankets, she curves her leg atop Wanda’s, clinging on like a truly desperate octopus, and it helps to settle her even further. They’re still like that when Steve arrives later, slightly sweaty from his run, with a tray of drinks in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“Hey you,” Darcy says, still not moving her head from where it’s pillowed on Wanda’s shoulder. Wanda’s fingers keep idly stroking at her hair anyway, and it’s enough to make her positively melt. “Good run?”
“Good enough. Nothing special.” Before Darcy can ask what’s in the bag the bed dips and Steve crawls over the two of them, bracing himself up so that they’re not crushed under the entirety of his body. He kisses Darcy first, slow and languorous with just a hint of tongue, tasting enough like hot chocolate that Darcy licks her lips when he pulls away. Steve kisses Wanda next, gracing her with the same sweet, slow kiss, and it’s a sight that Darcy will never be tired of.
“You need a shower,” Wanda says when Steve moves back. “You smell like jogging.”
“She has a point.” Darcy plucks at the T-shirt stretched over Steve’s chest, finding one of the sweaty spots there. “Go shower, then come cuddle with us.”
“If my sheets are getting sweaty, it won’t be because of this,” Wanda points out with a giggle.
Steve rolls his eyes, and sighs. His head drops forward and Darcy pats the back of his neck to try and comfort him a bit...and then wipes the sweat that collected on her hand off on his shoulder. “All right, I’m going.” He hauls himself off the bed and heads to the bathroom, the sound of delighted giggles trailing behind him.
One military-quick shower later Steve comes back, wearing loose shorts and a tank top, and crawls into the bed behind Darcy. His body brackets hers neatly, and his arm stretches over her head so that he can play with the loose strands of Wanda’s hair that spread across the piles of pillows. Darcy wriggles back into him, soaking in the skin to skin contact on her back, while tugging Wanda that much closer to her. There’s an art to the group snuggle, after all, which ends up resulting in the finest puppy pile that they could achieve, skin to skin to skin, making it hard to tell where one body ends and the next one begins.
“So what are they making today?” Steve murmurs into Darcy’s shoulder, just as his hand steals up to slide under her shirt, settling large and warm against her soft stomach and grounding her.
Wanda laughs, a little snorting chuckle that is absolutely adorable, and Darcy just shakes her head. “Just wait and see,” Darcy says. “It’s going to make your inner New Yorker curl up and die.”
Even on those darker days, when her brain chemistry is being especially stupid, Darcy knows there’s still something there that makes it all worth it. It could be something small, so minor that no one else would be amused by it, but it’s hers. These two beloved people, who accept and love her for everything that she is, flaws and all, are hers too, and she loves them back. And never let it be said that Darcy doesn’t fight for those she loves.
(a/n: if you’ve been watching this season of GBBO you’ll know exactly which challenge it is that made my inner new yorker curl up and...actually, it made me rage and throw a sock at my TV screen. Sign of a true Brooklynite right there.
Ask me how I really feel about this season of GBBO. Go on. I dare you.)
#Darcy Lewis#Steve Rogers#wanda maximoff#darcy x steve x wanda#fic#mcu#my fic#cuddle fic#because we all need a good cuddle now and then#a true cuddle - get your minds out of the gutter; this isn't that sort of a fic#typhoidmeri
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Breath Control, Chapter Ten
an A Court of Mist and Fury College Swim Team AU
Feysand and Elriel
All characters belong to SJ Maas
Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
Author’s Note: Is it too early to apologize?
Enjoy!
Full Fanfic: Masterlist Link
TEN
~~~Feyre~~~
The world spun around me as I slammed back through the glass doors into the dark hallway of the club. I could have sworn I heard a voice shouting my name from far behind me but that was probably all the alcohol talking. I mean, I was going crazy right? Surely it hadn’t taken all of two days before my brand new boyfriend decided to cheat on me? I was just imagining that. Right?
I stumbled through the bathroom door and barely made it to a stall before I hurled up everything left in my stomach.
“Shit,” I spit out. Then--
“Shit,” I said again as I somehow managed to puke up even more alcohol. It was red--what had I been drinking that was red?
Fairly certain I was done emptying my stomach, I wiped my mouth, flushed, and emerged from the stall.
My eyes directed at my shoes, I bumped directly into Rhys’s hard chest.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I said quietly, pushing off his chest and stalking over to the sink. Well, I tried to stalk. The few steps from the stall to the sink seemed to take years, rather than a few seconds. Everything was spinning, ever so slightly.
“Feyre, you’ve got to let me explain.”
“No.”
“Feyre, please.”
I turned at his desperate tone of voice.
“Were you or were you not just kissing Amantha? I mean, Amarntha. You know who I mean!”
Alcohol, you are not my friend tonight.
“I was. But--”
“No buts! That’sss called cheating, Rhys, in case you didn’t know. So get out of my way. I’m going--”
I realized I had nowhere to go. I was staying with him, for crying out loud. I did have my car at his place... But I was drunk.
So I was stuck.
“I’m going somewhere and you better not follow me there! Wherever there even is!” I was shouting now, and Rhys looked like he wanted to keep talking, but I turned, stumbled, and burst back through the bathroom door into the quiet dark of the hallway. I ran as fast as I could without falling flat on my face and didn’t stop until I was in the center of the dance floor.
Bodies pressed against me tightly from every direction. Only two people grabbed my ass on the long journey to the middle of the group. I was pretty sure I was crying, the world spinning around me thanks to the alcohol and what I’d just seen, when I finally found Mor. One look at me and she stopped dancing.
“Feyre!” She shouted, gripping my wrists with her hands. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “I have to leave. Can you call me an Uber? I don’t have the app!”
Mor nodded, looking concerned. She pulled me outside of the club and we sat on the curb, leaning against each other as she fumbled around in her pockets until she found her phone. Ten minutes later, our collective drunken efforts resulted in a successful call for an Uber.
When it pulled up, I looked at Mor. “Wait, where are you sending me?”
She shook her head as though trying to clear it. “No, no. We’re going to my place! Where I hope to hear everything.”
At her mention of “everything,” I started to tear up again. Damn it. Sad drunks were the worst and now I was one of them. Mor merely tugged me off the curb and we collapsed into the back of the Uber together. Twenty minutes later, we were outside yet another massive estate on the edge of town.
“You Nights don’t mess around,” I mumbled.
“What?” Mor asked, giggling a little.
“Nothing, nothing. Can we just go inside?”
She nodded seriously and led me around to the back door.
“My father really doesn’t approve of my inclination to party, so I have to sneak in and out. Shhh,” she added before another fit of giggles hit her. That was Mor. Her upbeat mood could not be beaten, even while drunk and with a crying friend tagging along behind her. And I was full-on crying by now.
Mor carefully unlocked the back door. She led me into an enormous kitchen bathed in shadow. We made a brief stop so Mor could grab a huge bag of chips and a couple bottles of water. Except for a close call that involved a cat on the staircase, we made it upstairs unnoticed.
Mor’s room was the first door on the right on the second floor. She led me inside, flipped on the light, and proceeded to flop down onto her enormous bed in the center of the room. Her room was… like a fairytale. The four-poster bed, hung with gauzy white curtains, seemed to float freely in the center of the room on a white fluffy carpet. The pale blue walls were covered with pictures of her and her friends, band posters, Polaroids, and other various paraphernalia. A terribly cluttered white desk sat on one side of the room, and a white dresser on the other. In one corner there lay several enormous white bean-bag chairs covered in luxurious blue and gold pillows and blankets.
“Alright, Archeron,” Mor said, sprawled across her bed, her shoes kicked off and her mouth stuffed full of chips. “Please tell me why we just fled the club faster than Cinderella at midnight.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I chose to sit down on the floor in the center of her bedroom, halfway between the door and the bed. “I don’t even understand what just happened, Mor.”
“Well, tell me and I’ll help you puzzle through it. And maybe start with why we stranded Rhys at the club?”
I let out a groan and flopped onto my back. The ceiling was still spinning, but only a tiny bit now.
“Drink this,” Mor said and chucked a water bottle at me.
I jumped as the water bottle landed right next to my head. Then I sat up, chugged it down, and put my head between my knees.
“Mreesechertedonme.”
“What?” Mor said sharply.
I raised my head. “Rhys cheated on me.”
Mor sat straight up on her bed. “What,” she said again.
I sighed, then explained what I had seen and heard. The tears kept coming as I told her about Amarantha and Rhys admitting to me what he’d done.
Mor looked thunderstruck. Her water bottle, which had been halfway to her mouth when I’d broken the news, was slowly dripping water onto her shirt. “And he said he wanted to explain? I’m confused. Rhys would never do something like that. Ever. Especially not to you.”
“What do you mean, especially not to me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not serious.”
“Serious about what?”
“Rhys has been in love with you from the moment you set foot on campus for your recruiting trip.”
“That’s a bunch of bullshit. I barely knew Rhys until like a month ago, when he saved me from the Halloween party.”
Mor shook her head slowly, her mouth hanging open. “No,” she began, eyes wide, “it’s not bullshit. I don’t know if you remember much about your recruiting trip. But Rhys and I were freshmen that year. You showed up to campus, your usual gorgeous self--” she winked at me “--and Rhys was a goner. He thought you were so pretty, and so cool, and you talked about books or something for like five seconds and then he thought you were so smart, too (which you are). And when the team decided to make the really dumb decision of drinking with the recruits that weekend, you turned down every offer for sex, drugs, whatever, that came your way from the upperclassmen guys, no matter how drunk you were. Not that he would have judged you if you had. But he could tell you knew what you wanted. It would have been easier, as a senior in high school on a recruiting trip, for you to do and say whatever the upperclassmen wanted in order to fit in. But you had those values, and you stuck to them. You surprised him.
“And then,” she added, laughing as I stared at her in disbelief, “you, drunk off your ass, got up on that table in the middle of the party, and announced to everyone that you were committing to swim at Prythian as soon as you sobered up enough to call the head coach. May I repeat--he was a goner.
“So,” she added somewhat awkwardly. “I hope he doesn’t hate me for telling you that shit. There’s a lot more behind it but I wanted to explain a little because you’re so obviously clueless!
“But none of that excuses him cheating on you, of course.”
Now it was my brain that was spinning instead of the ceiling. Rhys had been acting suspicious around me since the Halloween party--I had suspected his feelings even then, unwilling to admit it to myself. But I would never have guessed that he’d been interested for over two years… Why on earth had he cheated, then? Being drunk wasn’t an excuse. But it didn’t make sense that someone who was supposedly… in love… with someone else would go and cheat on them two days into their very new and fragile relationship.
I couldn’t puzzle this out right now. “Yeah. Um. I just want to go to sleep. Can you take me to Rhys’s in the morning so I can get my car and leave?”
Mor nodded sadly. “I wish things turned out differently,” she said. “But I do think you should talk to him.”
I shook my head. “Maybe. Where can I sleep?”
She patted the bed. “Right here. I’m about to pass out anyways.”
I merely stood up and shuffled over to the bed. I kicked off my shoes, tossed my rings and bracelets on the ground. The last thing I remember was how impeccably soft one of Mor’s pillows felt against my cheek as my tears dripped onto it.
~~~Elain~~~
***three days later***
I really did not want to do life for the next few weeks.
Okay, that might have been a slight over exaggeration. Really, I just didn’t want to do my classes and finals for the next few weeks. Christmas break was coming up, and the last thing I wanted to focus on during the holiday season were my exams. Nursing was hard--why had I decided to do this, again?
Of course, I did have one thing to look forward to now that I was back in Prythian.
Azriel.
We’d spent hours on the phone, texting, since the storm had stopped and Azriel had walked me to my car. He hadn’t kissed me. I’d wanted him to. And he seemed like he had wanted to. At least, that was what it seemed like.
I pulled my car into the parking lot, locked it, and started the trek to my eight hour long Monday morning nursing immersion ‘course’. I didn’t even want to think about all the ‘fun’ I’d be having until five pm tonight. But I only had to make it until five. Then I was meeting Azriel in the Student Union for dinner. His practice ended around five, so the timing was perfect. And I did like my degree, and job. It was just going to be very difficult to concentrate when I knew who I’d be seeing at the end of it.
Focus, Elain. Do your job.
Eight hours later, I shuffled out of the building, exhausted but satisfied after a hard day’s work. I barely made it to my car. I sat there for a moment, reclining the seat all the way back, and told myself I could close my eyes for just two minutes.
Twenty minutes later I jerked awake.
“Shit!”
I put the car into Drive and made it across campus to Student Union parking in what had to be record time. Still in my scrub top, I raced across the parking lot, body slamming my way through the front doors and directly into an extremely tall male standing just inside of them.
“Oof! I’m so sorry--Az?”
“Elain?”
“Uhhhh…” I suddenly became aware of what I must look like. I was wearing scrubs, my hair hadn’t been touched since that morning, and forget about makeup. Not to mention the crazed look that was probably in my eyes after my accidental nap and subsequent frantic race across campus. “Hey!” I gave him a hug.
His arms wrapped around me and as if by magic my body relaxed. Shoulders falling, I sank into Azriel’s strong chest, my head barely coming up to his shoulders. I breathed out. “This is nice.”
“It is,” he agreed.
“But I’m starving.”
He chuckled as I broke away from him and made a beeline for the line to the fast-food place that served the best chicken in the whole world. At least, it was the best chicken in the whole world when I was this starving and had no other options.
The line was way too long for a Monday night on campus. I was definitely going to die--of embarrassment at my appearance or hunger, I wasn’t sure which would kill me first.
“Elain?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you a question.” Azriel grinned. “But I understand if you were too busy bouncing on your toes to listen.”
I lowered myself to the ground and chuckled awkwardly. “I’m sorry--I’ve just had a horribly long day and haven’t eaten since eleven o’clock this morning.”
“I love it when you laugh like that.”
“Like--what?”
“When you’re uncomfortable--you have this laugh you do and it’s honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I covered my face with my hands and stepped forward to the front of the line. “Ohhhh my gosh. That’s so embarrassing.” I clenched my jaw to keep myself from laughing again.
Azriel gently prised my hands from my face and then put his fingers under my chin and pressed slightly. “Don’t do that! I live for every embarrassed laugh from you.”
I swatted his arm away--but I was smiling. “Alright. If you get to keep my embarrassed laughs, I’m gonna need something cute and embarrassing to hold over you.”
“Good luck finding one. I’m the portrait of smooth,” he said, rolling his eyes, hands in his pockets.
“We’ll see about that,” I said as I flounced up to the register. Azriel insisted on paying for my food--after he swore to let me pay for our third date. (Third date!!) It was ready before we’d finished paying and he swiped the tray before I could get to it. He carried it over to a table and chairs on the second floor balcony of the Student Union. I flung myself into the chair, resting my wrists on the armrests and slouching down.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Azriel said.
I raised my eyebrows and put my chin in my hand. “What makes Azriel Umbra uncomfortable? Hmmm..”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes.
“That’s it!” I said. Several heads whipped over to stare at us. “I mean,” I whispered, “That’s it.”
He sat down across from me. “What’s it?” Eye roll.
“You roll your eyes way too often. Like, way too often.”
I watched him attempt to restrain the eye roll.
“See, now that you’re aware of it you’re incredibly self-conscious.”
He stared at me. Then rolled his eyes. “I give.”
“Ha!”
Toward the end of the meal, I decided to be nosy.
“So… have you talked to Rhys recently?”
He looked up from his food so fast I thought he’d give himself whiplash.
“He mentioned a couple of things.”
I put my elbows on the table. All around us, the Union was emptying out for the evening.
“Feyre won’t give me any details about what happened between them. All I know is they went to a party, Rhys did something, and Feyre drove straight back to school from his place the next morning. She didn’t even come home to see if I wanted a ride. And I’ve heard squat from her since. They just seemed so… happy.”
Azriel sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I never actually saw them when they were ‘together-together’ because they got together over the break, but I know that whatever must have happened, Rhys didn’t do it on purpose. I’m not sure how much to tell you, but… he’s liked Feyre for a very long time.”
I bit my lip. “She was just so different while we were at home for the break. Much different than she’d been since she started dating Tamlin. Carefree, bubbly, talking with my father, joking with Nesta, of all people. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll try to get more out of Rhys. All he said on the entire car ride back to school was that he made a mistake, it was out of his hands, and it was probably better for Feyre if she hated him anyway. And I know that’s not true.”
“Let me know if he tells you anything else.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “Shall we go?”
He walked me back to my car. It was full dark outside, only the light of the streetlamps guiding us.
I opened the driver’s side door and threw my purse in. “I had a really good time--”
The world never heard the rest of my sentence because he kissed me before I could finish it.
His kiss was gentle, his hands cupping the sides of my face. My hands fumbled up to wrap around his shoulders as his lips caressed mine, increasing the pressure slightly. I understood and his tongue swept in. I ran one hand down his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his t-shirt, my other hands pulling him closer to me.
But he pressed one more kiss to my lips, then kissed the top of my head. “Good night, Elain.”
I gulped down air, the chill of the night surprising me as soon as his body moved away from mine.
I smiled at him and he kissed me again, briefly this time. “Good night, Elain,” he said again. “And there’s the laugh I was looking for!” He exclaimed after I chuckled nervously, but not unhappily, after the kiss.
“Oh go to hell!” I said, and he rolled his eyes. Purely for my benefit, I knew. I didn’t stop smiling the whole drive home.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tags
@aknymph @sleeping-and-books @queen-of-glass @fabfire
#acotar#a court of thorns and roses#acomaf#a court of mist and fury#acotar au#a court of thorns and roses au#feysand#elriel#feyre#rhysand#azriel#elain#feyre archeron#feyre x rhys#feyre x rhysand#sarah j maas#fanfiction#acomaf ff#breathcontrol ar ff
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not trying to hide it
pairing: dan howell/phil lester
rating: explicit
tags: flatmate au, strangers to lovers, smut, fluff
word count: 5.6k
summary: Phil's parents want him to get a flatmate. Bryony wants to get her newly-evicted mate off her couch. It’s not quite luck or fate, but Phil is thankful anyway.
a birthday present for the lovely and hilarious @karcathy !!!!! they deserve only good things and you should all go wish them a happy birthday!
read on ao3 or here!
Phil doesn’t want to get a flatmate. He likes having his own space, because he can mess it up as much as he likes and doesn’t need to worry about someone making noise while he’s trying to sleep. He only pays part of his own rent, though - half during a good month - so he doesn’t have much of a choice when his parents tell him to find someone who can cover at least a third of it. London isn’t cheap, and Phil makes a fluctuating amount of money, and he supposes his parents are well within their rights to insist he gets his life together at some point.
He’s pretty sure that they helped him pick out a two bedroom so that he would do that eventually. Maybe they’d had some kind of pipe dream about nurseries? In either case, Phil’s just had his miscellaneous junk piled in the spare for over a year. There’s a futon in it whenever Martyn or PJ come over and don’t feel like taking the Tube home, but it’s currently piled high with unopened packages and stuffed animals.
Clearing the room is probably the biggest task. Phil’s got a lot of clutter, and getting rid of it is weirdly difficult sometimes. Most of it just ends up in his room or in the common area, making the rest of the flat look even more topsy than it already did. Opening all the PR is fun, until suddenly he’s got dozens of empty parcels to dispose of and various merch items from his online friends scattered all over the rug. At least most of it is clothing and accessories - he’s got enough storage in his room to handle more clothes. It’s the trinkets that he’s got problems finding space for.
Phil’s parents didn’t give him a deadline, which was probably a mistake. He’s all too happy to just exist with a barren spare room until they get on his case again, but that’s before Bryony gets ahold of him. Somehow, she scares him a lot more than his own mum does.
“Phil,” she says, blunt and businesslike as if she’s calling from work. Maybe she is - it’s quarter to four, which he supposes is a normal time for adults to be at work. Phil is in his pants and eating cereal. He didn’t even want to answer the phone, really, too invested in the complicated storyline playing out on Riverdale, but he knows she’d just keep calling until he did. “Have you cleared out that room yet?”
“Yes, mum,” says Phil. “I hated every second of it.”
“Good,” Bryony says. Which part she’s replying to is unclear. “My mate just got kicked out of his place and I want him off my couch. Will you bump him up the nonexistent list of potentials you’ve got?”
Phil pauses the Riverdale episode. It’s hard to focus on that and Bryony’s drama. “Well, that depends on why he got kicked out. Like, is he a dick? Did he not pay rent? Did he leave dishes in the sink for three weeks? Did he kick a hole in the wall trying to do drunk karate?”
“You need to stop comparing people to your uni housemates. No, nothing like that.”
“Then what happened?”
There’s a pause, and then Bryony makes a disapproving sort of noise. “It’s not exactly my fucking story to tell, is it? I’ll just say he ran into a bigot landlord and leave it at that, yeah?”
Something like guilt for pushing the issue settles into Phil’s stomach, but he scolds himself. He couldn’t have known that, and he didn’t want to blindly do a favour for someone troubled and stupid and in need of help. Bryony has a habit of collecting those people. When Phil feels like being honest with himself, he can recognise that he’s in that category as well. He doesn’t really feel like it today.
“Fine,” Phil says, like it’s a bigger hardship than it is. “Send him over, uh, Thursday?”
“I’ll send him over tonight,” says Bryony. Phil makes a loud noise of protest that she bowls right over. “You said the room is empty. Dan is eight feet tall and he snores like a lawnmower. I want him off my couch.”
--
Bryony’s mate isn’t eight feet tall, obviously, although Phil thinks it would be pretty cool if he were. The flat has high ceilings that Phil has to jump to touch, and he’s been amusing himself by picturing a giant of a man reaching up and just tapping on them. He does have to duck around the hanging light in the kitchen, but so does Phil.
“I’m convinced that’s going to be the thing that kills me,” Phil says conversationally.
Dan hasn’t said much, mostly just mumbling awkward pleasantries, but he laughs at that. When he laughs, Phil sees a glint of silver in his mouth that has his brain short-circuiting a little bit.
“Maybe,” Dan says as he looks dubiously into Phil’s cupboards. “Only if the sugar intake doesn’t get you first, mate. Why the fuck do you need four bags of marshmallows?”
“They’re different sizes!”
“Do you do a lot of baking or something?”
The question makes Phil flash back to the last time he tried to make muffins. The stain from that adventure turned meltdown still hasn’t come out of his favourite jeans. Whatever expression twists onto his face makes Dan laugh again, louder, and Phil decides that being a little stupid is worth hearing that unabashed sound. He gives Dan a sheepish grin and sticks his hands in his pockets. “No. I just like marshmallows.”
“You know they’ve got gelatin in them, right?” Dan asks like he’s trying to be serious, but the twitching of his lips gives him away.
“I like jello, too.”
“That’s not what -” Dan starts, and then honks. “How d’you know Bryony again?”
That’s a bit of a long, mortifying story, but Phil tells it anyway. He makes tea as he relives spilling a blue cocktail on her very expensive shoes and then following her around like a puppy while he tried to make it up to her. Normally he’d feel like he was talking too much, but Dan leans against the breakfast bar with attentive brown eyes and laughs in all the right places, so Phil doesn’t feel that hint of self-consciousness.
He hands Dan’s tea over in a Kirby mug and pours his own into an ugly commemorative one from a dinky Florida gift shop. For a moment, there’s quiet. Dan doesn’t seem uncomfortable as much as he seems contemplative, running his tongue absently over his teeth to catch on the silver ball in his tongue.
Then Dan says, “I don’t have any mugs. Or furniture. Or anything, really.”
“Nothing?” Phil asks, wondering if he ought to be aghast or just empathetic. He wonders if that has something to do with Dan being kicked out, or if he’s one of those minimalist people. “Not even, like, clothes?”
“I’ve got clothes, Jesus,” says Dan. Despite his grumbling, he looks more embarrassed than anything.
“Well,” Phil says, then comes up short. He hasn’t had to live with other people in so long, he forgets how this part works. “You can use whatever I’ve got. I don’t expect you to go out and buy your own plates or something, that would be silly. And we’d probably put off dishes even longer if I did.”
Dan smiles, but there’s a wariness that Phil doesn’t quite understand. “Okay. Thanks.” He takes a long sip of his tea, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and Phil reminds himself - not for the first time, not even for the first time today - that it’s pointless to think about how pretty a guy is when nothing is going to come of it. “So you’re, like, really okay with me living here? You don’t need to let Bryony bully you.”
“Not quite sure what the alternative is,” Phil jokes, “but I don’t mind. I need a flatmate.”
“I can be a good flatmate,” Dan says, with a weirdly determined air about him. Phil has no reason not to believe him, aside from his own bad experiences with young men sharing space with him, but at least Dan isn’t a uni lad.
Phil finds himself shrugging. “Okay,” he says, because this is all going much easier than he expected. He supposes Bryony was doing him a favour as much as he was doing her one, because the relief of not having to do a bunch of interviews with potentially creepy strangers is settling into him now. “Rent’s due on the first, the water pressure sucks on weekends, and I’m gay.”
Dan blinks. Some of that wariness melts into something that Phil can’t read before he looks down at his tea.
“Me too,” Dan tells the drink. “More or less.”
It takes actual effort for Phil to bite back the joke. Maybe if the admission weren’t pulling at Dan’s shoulders in such an obvious way, he’d ask if Dan meant he also sucked on weekends. Instead, he just smiles. “That’s good. If Bry sent me a homophobe, I’d have to return her Christmas present.”
--
Dan leaves just long enough to get his bags, and then Phil has a flatmate. He promises to get a key cut in the morning, but Dan just shrugs and says he doesn’t leave the house much anyway, so there’s not much of a rush. That’s when Phil figures out that they both work from home, and anxiety swirls in his gut at the idea of that quickly becoming an issue. It’s so much easier to get on each other’s nerves when they’re both around practically all day every day, but that’s a bridge he’ll have to burn when he comes to it, or whatever.
For a couple of days, Dan is like a wounded animal that only comes out of hiding when he hears the fridge door open. Phil knows there isn’t really anything left in the room aside from his futon and a desk that he and Martyn tried to put together tispy, but he supposes that Dan’s got a laptop and big padded headphones to entertain himself with.
After a little while of getting used to the place, though, Dan starts doing his work in the common area of the flat. He’ll sit at the breakfast bar to sort through potential articles with the air of someone very bored on Tinder or make a nest on the corner of the sofa to watch Phil play Zelda. He’s good about staying quiet whenever Phil is streaming, but sometimes he’ll laugh or tease Phil for a dumb move, and people start wondering who the voice out of frame is.
They play games together, too, when neither of them have work to do - or, more accurately, are avoiding their tasks for a little while with pizza and Mario Kart - and Dan wins more often than not. That should probably be embarrassing to Phil, since he plays video games for a living, but he’s never been the type to try and excel at every single game he plays. It’s more about the entertainment, both for himself and for his audience. He imagines Dan feels similarly torn between sheepish and intrigued when Phil looks at the HTML on Dan’s laptop and points to an issue that Dan’s been trying to find for an hour.
Dan is a nerd with a contagious laugh who writes up a chart of ridiculous Riverdale theories on their fridge whiteboard, and it’s getting more and more difficult for Phil not to notice him.
His hair looks soft, his eyes are as expressive as the rest of him, he’s all lanky limbs and hairless chest when he hangs out half-naked - which is unfortunately often - but his mouth is probably the worst offender. He’s always chewing on a pen or toying with his tongue ring, like he’s got to be doing something with it when he’s not talking, and that’s not a train of thought that Phil should be going down except during the privacy of his showertime.
At this point, he’s not sure if he should thank Bryony or strangle her for delivering him a gorgeous ‘more or less’ gay man with all the same hobbies and interests as him, because there are too many ways for this to end badly and only, like, one way he wants it to end.
--
Phil is streaming Apex Legends in a surprisingly competent team when his phone rings. It doesn’t ring very often, and it’s probably Bryony asking why he’s been holed up for over a month, so he ignores it. It’s only when it starts ringing again, immediately after it stops, that he frowns.
“Hey, Dan,” he calls. Last time he checked, Dan was rearranging the spice shelf into something that makes a bit more sense than its current state. He thinks it’s a little silly, and he’ll probably still reach for the hot chocolate in the wrong place, but he likes that Dan has been making himself more at home lately. He’s noticed a few of his knick-knacks shifting around the room as well. “Can you check who’s calling?”
There’s a clattering noise that slightly worries Phil, and then Dan says, “It’s your mum.”
Phil freezes. He’s in the middle of something, sure, but he’s been waiting for this call. He doesn’t want to tell the couple thousand people watching him play about his dad’s health, so for a long moment he doesn’t know what to do.
Then, Dan is leaning over the back of the sofa. He takes the controller from Phil’s hands and replaces it with his still-buzzing phone.
“Go talk to her,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep playing for you.”
Gratitude washes over Phil, and he practically runs to his room to take the call. He doesn’t have time to worry about what his Twitch audience will think of Dan’s sudden appearance after so much time as a disembodied voice, because he’s got to spend all his brain power concentrating on the things his mum is telling him. At least he knows he’s not letting his team down - if anything, getting Dan as defense is an upgrade.
The conversation with his mum is long, but it’s all good news. Phil lets his mum talk his ear off, because the relief in her voice is so palpable and contagious that he doesn’t have the heart to say he’s in the middle of a video game. She only says goodbye when he gently reminds her to call Martyn as well, and then Phil is alone in his room with nothing but the pounding of his own heart in his ears for company. They’ve had good news (and bad news and no news) from the doctors before, but every time it’s like a shot of adrenaline right to Phil’s system. His dad is okay, his mum is happy, and his rampant anxiety can take a short break.
Dan isn’t playing anymore when Phil comes back, probably because the round ended, but he’s rambling about his own Apex opinions to the chat. He’s passionate like he is about basically everything, his hands and mouth moving faster than his brain, and Phil feels more warmth settle into his skin.
“Gunning for my job?” Phil jokes, plopping back down on the sofa. His thigh is pressed to Dan’s, but neither of them shift away.
“Maybe,” Dan teases. He hands the controller back all the same.
There’s a question in Dan’s big brown eyes: Everything okay? He doesn’t need to know details to pick up on how important that call was, and Phil thinks that this would have been the point of no return if he hadn’t hit that a couple weeks ago. He beams at Dan and nods, and the crinkly-eyed grin he gets in response makes Phil feel like he’s floating on air.
Later, when the night is winding down, Phil’s body is thrumming. Normally he’d be curled up with a book on one side of the sofa while Dan and his laptop took up the other, and that would be enough interaction before they headed to bed, but Phil still feels wired.
“You wanna go out?” he asks for the first time since Dan moved in. He’s always been more of a homebody than most of his friends, but having a friend like Dan - because that’s what they are now, isn’t it? - who also enjoys sitting in relative quiet doing their respective activities has made him even more of a shut-in than usual. Dan is clearly surprised by the question, and Phil doesn’t blame him. “I just - y’know, I got good news earlier, and I’m happy, and I want to get a drink or something.”
“And you want it with me?” Dan asks, his dimple deepening in the tell-tale beginnings of a grin.
“Yeah,” says Phil. Maybe he ought to have some kind of explanation that doesn’t make him sound like an idiot with a crush, but he can’t be bothered to think of one right now. Besides, Dan is smiling with the silver ball between his teeth, so he probably doesn’t mind how Phil sounds.
“Alright,” Dan agrees easily enough, shutting his laptop. “I’ll get dressed.”
--
Neither of them dress up; Phil leaves his top buttons open and Dan’s jeans are distractingly tight, but that’s as much of a concession as they’ll make. Phil likes bars more than he likes pubs or clubs, and he thinks splashing ten quid on a neon pink cocktail is absolutely worth it tonight. Dan doesn’t offer his opinion one way or the other until they’re sat at a booth, and then he says, “Thank fuck you’re not a clubber.”
“You don’t like clubbing?” Phil asks, distracted by Dan’s mission of blindly finding his straw with his tongue. The longer he knows Dan, the more he’s tempted to look up whether or not oral fixation is a real thing. “I mean, I don’t really love it, but it’s fun sometimes.”
“I’d have to already be wasted to dance in public,” says Dan.
“Oh, I can’t dance,” Phil says, matter-of-factly, and Dan snorts into his drink. “But I do it anyway.”
The bar isn’t overly busy or loud, but Phil still has to strain his ears to hear when Dan mutters, “Maybe it’d be more fun with you.”
It’s a little too easy for Phil’s overactive imagination to picture. Dan, pressed close to him and laughing with his head thrown back every time Phil says or does something stupid. He hopes that the flush he feels high on his cheeks isn’t obvious in the low light, but he’s not optimistic. Dan’s smile is more of a smirk.
Maybe getting drunk with the object of his stupid affections is… not smart. But Phil’s drink is good, and Dan is striking up an easy conversation about the music that’s playing, so Phil pushes logic aside for the moment to just enjoy himself.
--
Phil wakes up with a dry mouth and a slight headache, which is honestly better than he expected after three cocktails and a greasy kebab on the way home. Either Dan drank less than he did or he’s better at holding his alcohol, because Phil remembers getting guided away from lamp posts by his big, steady hands a couple of times.
He remembers making a bit of a fool of himself in general, but if anything Dan got more and more smiley the more that Phil rambled about Star Wars. Phil had reached across the table and poked at one of Dan’s dimples, and Dan had laughed loudly before taking Phil’s hand and holding it to the tabletop for a couple of seconds. Phil hadn’t wanted him to let go, and he wonders now if the hesitation stemmed from Dan’s own reluctance to stop touching him or if that’s just wishful thinking.
Phil gets himself together enough to take some ibuprofen and a long shower. By the time he gets out, wrapped in various towels, Dan is awake and making breakfast. It smells like bacon, but Phil is wary. It might be that fake stuff Dan insists on buying.
“That smells good,” Phil says, suspicious. He drifts over to the breakfast bar to try and get a peek at the pan.
“It’s real bacon,” says Dan. He turns specifically to roll his eyes where Phil can see it.
“Oh, cool. I thought you weren’t eating meat.”
“I’m not,” Dan says. “This is for you. I’m not hungry.”
“God, you’re incredible,” says Phil. He thinks that maybe he should tone it down a bit, because Bryony will kill him if he messes up this very good thing they’ve got going, but he’s not humble enough to not notice the way Dan dimples and turns pink at the earnest compliment. “Seriously,” he adds, talking to Dan’s back as he plates up some toast and bacon. “I am so lucky you needed a place to stay.”
“Luck’s not real, first of all,” Dan says as he hands over Phil’s breakfast. “Secondly, you’re only saying that because I cooked for you.”
Phil isn’t just saying that for the food, but it certainly takes over his attention. He pulls the towel around his shoulders tighter and leans against the breakfast bar to eat. Dan steals the crusts off his toast, rambling the whole time about the work emails he’d woken up to. Every time Dan talks about the ins and outs of journalism and website upkeep, Phil feels grateful all over again for getting a job so far out of his official field that the sectors barely touch. He doesn’t think he could handle working with so many people who can’t figure out how to change the alignment of text in simple HTML or which words they should capitalize in a headline.
“Thank you,” Phil says when he’s done, coming into the kitchen proper to rinse his plate. It’s the least he can do, considering his inability to actually wash the dishes before Dan gets fed up with the mess.
“At the risk of sounding gross and sappy,” Dan hums, “it’s really me who should be thanking you.”
“Maybe we should just both thank Bryony,” Phil suggests, turning to look at Dan again. Dan’s eyes snap up from - somewhere? Phil’s bare legs, maybe? - to stare determinedly at Phil’s face as if he can pretend that they never wandered. “You being too big and loud for her couch is the whole reason you’re here.”
Dan honks a laugh and reaches out like he’s going to shove at Phil. He doesn’t make contact, possibly remembering that Phil is somewhat naked, and just lets his hand fall back to his side awkwardly.
“As if your futon is any fucking better, mate,” he says, seemingly insistent on not drawing attention to the weird things he’s doing. Phil isn’t exactly stupid, is the thing. He thinks about Dan hesitating before letting go of his hand last night, the way he always grins when he catches Phil staring at his piercing, how it feels less like an unrequited crush between them and more like they’re just hovering at the edge of something, and Phil decides to throw caution to the goddamn wind.
“Y’know,” he says, messing with his damp hair for something to do with his hands. “I don’t think you’d be too big and loud for my bed, if you wanted to try that out.”
Dan laughs like he’s not quite sure if it’s a joke or not, and Phil shrugs to hide exactly how much his heart is pounding.
“Where were you planning to sleep, then?” Dan asks. His dark eyes are careful, searching, and Phil’s anxiety doesn’t like that at all. He doesn’t need Dan seeing things that he’s not purposefully putting on display.
“With you,” says Phil. “If you’d want me.”
There’s a long moment of quiet where Phil starts to worry that maybe he’s made a huge mistake. Then, Dan grins slowly and comes closer, pinning Phil to the counter without actually touching him, and Phil grins back at him in sheer relief. “I dunno why, but I never figured you as the type to be so blunt about this sort of thing.”
“What, you thought I was capable of subtlety?” Phil teases, putting a hand to his own chest as if he’s touched by the sentiment. “That’s so nice of you.”
Dan laughs, louder and more genuine, and then his big hands are cupping Phil’s jaw as he leans in to press their smiling mouths together. It’s been a hot minute since Phil kissed anyone while he was sober, so for a moment he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do with his hands. When he feels cool metal drag against the underside of his tongue, though, his brain shuts down enough that his hands find Dan’s hips without endlessly second-guessing himself.
It takes a while for them to reluctantly separate, because Phil is busy figuring out how to snog Dan without metal clacking against his teeth too much and Dan is busy figuring out all of the weak points in Phil’s neck with his thumbs.
“You taste like bacon,” Dan says in a strangely scolding tone of voice for someone who had cooked it for Phil.
“Sorry,” Phil says nonsensically, sliding his hands up Dan’s shirt to trace shapes over his lower back. The movements pause when Dan shivers. “Bad? Or good?”
“Your hands are just cold, you spork,” says Dan. He kisses Phil again, quick but firm, and then takes a step back. Phil doesn’t even realise he’s frowning until Dan giggles at him. “C’mon. Bed sounds fucking great right about now.”
--
Phil doesn’t remember the last time he kissed someone for so long that his lips started to tingle, but he’s certainly not complaining. He stopped feeling self conscious about being naked almost immediately after Dan told him it was frankly illegal to put damp towels on a bed, because the hungry way Dan looked at him and grabbed at him after he hung them up quieted the anxiety right away. Dan’s shirt has been discarded somewhere in Phil’s absolute tip of a room, but the soft material of his joggers keeps making Phil bite back noises when it comes in contact with his cock.
“You’re so hot,” Dan tells him in one of the times their mouths aren’t locked, one large hand wrapped around Phil’s thigh and the other supporting his weight on top of Phil.
“No, you,” Phil insists, not caring how dumb he sounds. He’s been mapping Dan’s back with his hands, but he slides them down the back of Dan’s sweats to win the argument before it starts. Sure enough, Dan’s words get cut off by a loud whine of a noise that gets pressed into Phil’s collarbone. Phil feels up Dan’s ass a little before using his grip to roll their hips together. “Fuck. What d’you want?”
“That depends,” Dan hums against Phil’s skin, nipping at his chest.
“On what?”
“On if this is a one time thing.”
There’s a jolt of guilt in Phil’s stomach, and he winds fingers into Dan’s curls to force Dan to look at him. “Hey, no, it’s not like that. I like you, you idiot.”
Dan smiles, and there’s no small amount of relief in it. Phil feels like he should have been more clear, but at least he’s got Dan in his bed and smiling about it now. “Oh good. I like you, too, and it would have been really awkward if you just wanted a fuck.”
“I do also want a fuck,” Phil says, teasing. “If I’m being honest.”
“I couldn’t tell,” Dan says sarcastically, rocking his hips down again and grinning when a noise is surprised out of Phil. “Well, okay, since I don’t need to bucket list this, I wanna go down on you.”
“I’d love to hear that bucket list sometime,” says Phil. He lets go of Dan’s ass and uses his hold on Dan’s hair to push him down, a little more impatiently than he intended. He’s got an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Dan just grunts an approving sort of noise and presses his mouth to Phil’s inner thigh. “But - ah - not right now.”
Dan’s got a mouth made for sucking cock, so it doesn’t take Phil by surprise when he sinks down easily, squeezing Phil’s thigh and running his tongue over the head of Phil’s dick whenever he comes back up, but it sure does make his legs start to shake.
“Fuck,” Phil breathes, doing his best to keep his hips still. That’s a lot more difficult when Dan looks up at him with those big dark eyes and takes him as deep as he can. “You look so good like that, you know that? Bet you do.” Dan hums around his cock and the vibrations from his throat make Phil shiver. “Yeah, fuck, of course you do. Such a pretty mouth, huh?”
With a quiet, wet noise, Dan pulls up to catch his breath. He grins. “I also didn’t figure you for a talker.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,” says Phil. He runs his fingers through Dan’s curls, tugging a little bit to watch Dan’s eyelashes flutter. “How’s it feel to be wrong about me?”
“In this case? Very good.” Dan presses his mouth to Phil’s stomach and bites down, just a little. It doesn’t hurt at all, but it still makes Phil’s hips jerk up. “I dunno, Phil, you’re usually a pretty fucking awkward person, which is, like, a big mood, and you don’t seem like much of a flirt.”
“I’ve been flirting with you for, like, a month and a half,” Phil laughs.
Dan grins wider. “Oh, oops.”
“I don’t have to talk if you don’t like it,” says Phil, even though he can fully tell that Dan does like it. Maybe he just wants to hear that Dan likes it.
The way Dan rolls his eyes makes it obvious that Dan can tell that he’s fishing, but he dimples anyway. “You don’t have to stop talking,” he says dryly, wrapping a big hand around Phil’s cock. “You know I like it.”
Dan takes Phil back in his mouth and closes his eyes like he loves it, which is a visual that Phil will absolutely be coming back to when he’s alone in the shower. Phil tells him as much, gives him a running commentary on every passing thought he has, because it’s hard to control his mouth as it is and the more he talks, the more worked up Dan gets. He sees Dan grinding into the mattress and pulls at him, not bothering to be gentle with it.
“Get rid of these,” Phil says, pushing at Dan’s joggers with a foot. He doesn’t actually think he’ll be able to help like that, but it gets his point across. “And then c’mere, I want to get you off.”
Dan laughs. “Alright, bossy.”
He sits up to get his sweats off and Phil sits up to watch. They grin at each other a bit as soon as Dan is naked, and Phil makes grabby hands.
“Bossy,” Dan repeats before knee-walking into Phil’s lap and kissing him hard. Dan wraps a hand around both of their cocks, but he doesn’t try to stroke. Without fully pulling away from the kiss, Dan murmurs, “Lube, now, I want to come.”
“Now who’s bossy?” Phil huffs a laugh, blindly reaching for his nightstand. He knocks over a couple of things in his search, but eventually he finds the bottle he’s looking for. He pours some over their cocks and gasps when Dan’s hand slides up and back down so easily. Phil would be lying if he said that he hadn’t thought about this, hadn’t wondered if Dan’s wide reach could envelop both of them, but he doesn’t bother telling Dan any of that. Instead, he drops the lube back onto his nightstand and settles a hand on Dan’s ass as he kisses Dan deeper.
Phil’s mouth finds Dan’s neck, and he can’t help laughing at the loud keen of a noise that seems surprised out of Dan’s mouth.
Even though Dan didn’t have his dick sucked, he’s as desperate and horny as Phil feels, and having a tongue and teeth on his pulse point seems to escalate it even more. His breathing is ragged, his hips are jerking up into his own hand, and he comes so hard between them that Phil feels some of it hit his face.
“Fuck,” Dan whines, letting go of himself to stroke Phil’s cock in tight, quick movements. Phil’s breath hitches, and he digs his fingers into the soft skin of Dan’s ass for something to hold onto. Dan kisses Phil’s forehead, then his nose, and then kisses his cheek. His tongue comes out to press against Phil’s skin, the cool metal ball still a small shock somehow, and it takes Phil’s brain an addled moment before he realises that Dan is licking his own come off Phil’s cheek. That’s so unbelievably hot to Phil that he couldn’t stop himself from coming if he even wanted to. He groans and fucks into Dan’s fist, tugging him into an open-mouthed kiss. He can’t taste Dan’s come on his tongue or anything, but the idea of it is enough to make him shudder through an intense orgasm.
Their kisses turn softer than Phil thought possible as they come down from it, and he nuzzles at Dan’s jaw. “I just had a shower,” he says, gently scolding. “Now I’m all gross again.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” says Dan, grinning. “I’ll clean you up, you big baby.”
Phil is fairly sure that their shower isn’t big enough for that, but he’s always up for trying.
--
After a heated debate on the benefits of flowers versus gift baskets, they end up taking Bryony out for pizza and beer. As thanks.
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I Know That I’ll Lose - Chapter Three - I Tell You Lies, But It’s Only Sometimes
It was 1am when she heard her phone buzzing relentlessly against the wood of her bedside table. She grabbed it, recognising the number that she really had to save as an actual contact. Eventually. One day. Maybe. But why was Matty calling at 1am? He was meant to be on a plane.
“We have got to stop meeting like this.” She mumbled as she answered the call, still half asleep.
“My flight got cancelled.” He replied instantly; opting to ignore her fantastic joke.
“That’s shitty.” She said with a yawn. “When’s your next one?”
“They just asked me to come back tomorrow to find out if there’s another.” He explained. She hummed thoughtfully in response, only really sort of processing what he was saying. There was a pause on the line for a moment as Matty waited for her to put two and two together. “So… I don’t have a hotel to stay in.” He added.
“Better go book another one then.” She replied.
“But it’s midnight.” He whined. “And so last minute.” He continued.
Her brain was starting to catch up to what he was getting at now, and she sensed he would continue listing reasons it would be better for him to stay at her house rather than at a hotel all night if she let him. “No, Matty.” She said, properly awake now.
“Please?” She could practically see the pout on his face through the phone.
“Why can’t you just book another hotel?” She questioned, rubbing her eyes to get the uncomfortable feeling of being awake far too early out of them.
“You’re the one who said your place is close to the airport.” He reminded her. She had said that. Why did she tell him that? That was a bad decision.
She groaned loudly and he could already tell that she had given in. “Fine. FINE.” She caved. His quiet ‘yessss’ echoed down the line. “You’re sleeping on the couch.” She added, just in case he was getting the wrong idea.
“Aw.” He laughed.
“I’ll text you the address and let you in when you get here.” She said, throwing the covers off and shoving some slippers on her feet.
“Wait, what? No, no, you can go back to bed. Just leave the door unlocked and I’ll let myself in.” He said, figuring it made no sense for the both of them to be losing sleep. Not over something like this, anyway.
“Firstly, no. That’s super unsafe. Secondly, no. I will wait for you to get here.” She was already out of bed at this point and starting to get a few blankets together to throw over the couch for him.
“You do a lot of waiting for me.” He quipped, the background noise of the airport filling the few seconds of silence as he let his comment hang there for a moment. She could just picture the smug look on his face as he said that.
“Shut up or I’ll take back my generous offer.” She shot back.
“Thanks! See you soon!” He said quickly, and with a click, the line was dead.
She draped the blankets and a pillow over the couch before taking a seat and waiting for him to get here. At this hour, the airport would only be ten minutes away, so she just kept herself busy on her phone until she heard the knock at the door. When she answered it, he looked all too happy about the news that his flight had been cancelled. Almost as soon as the door was halfway open, a massive grin was plastered on his face and he instantly dropped his suitcase to wrap her up in a hug. She let him in, leading him through to the lounge room where he was going to be sleeping.
“Couch.” She said, gesturing to the three-seater sofa in the middle of the living room with bedding spread out over it. “Kitchen. Has water and glasses to hold said water.” She waved in the general direction of the kitchen in the next room. “Bathroom is that way.” She pointed down the hall. “Do you need anything else?” She asked, turning to face him.
“I just really wanna look at all your stuff. Your house has such a different vibe to mine.” He said as he found himself drawn to all of the things around her living areas. His style of living was fairly… minimalist. He enjoyed things but didn’t own that many himself. Half of his life was spent on the road, if he had too much, he’d never be able to keep it all. So, most of his belongings were spread between a few different locations and his suitcase. This, in contrast, was extremely cluttered. Neat and organised, confined to only certain corners of the room, but cluttered nonetheless. He could tell with how things had been displayed that a great deal of care had gone into setting it all up and these items were clearly well loved. She sat down with a huff in the arm chair next to the couch he was meant to be asleep in by now, watching as he gently examined things around the room. He asked a few questions every now and again: where had she gotten this, why did she have such and such, what was the story behind that. At one point he had asked her a question and he had thought that she was trying to work out an answer, but when he had turned around, he realised that the reason for her silence was because she had fallen asleep while he was too busy fawning over inanimate objects.
“Bollocks…” He muttered, trying to work out what to do. He already felt bad for having woken her up and making her wait out here for him to arrive, he didn’t want to wake her up again just to send her to bed. But letting her sleep on the recliner was hardly reasonable either, especially if he was supposed to be sleeping on the couch right next to it. That was just going to be awkward for whoever woke up first. He took a quick glance around the small home, eventually spotting a doorway with a bed on the other side that he suspected to be hers. Deliberating his options for a quick moment, eventually he decided that she’d probably appreciate getting a decent night’s sleep after having to get up and let his sorry ass inside. He opted not to overthink the situation and made an effort to try and switch his brain off for five seconds as he picked her up and carried her back to bed. After he had put her back safely in her bed and pulled the covers over her, he stopped for a moment.
He had dragged someone else into his mess of a life to help him cope with shit that he should be able to deal with by now. Whenever he left the slightly darker part of his life behind, he was under the impression that he was capable of keeping himself in check. That was certainly what everyone seemed to congratulate him for; that he finally sorted it out, he got a hold of his addiction, he got himself through it. It had turned out that without company, his self-control was pretty limited. He hated how dependent that made him feel. When he was on tour and away from his friends and family, he could at least rely on the band. But, with the band already gone he wasn’t as much of himself as he usually was. However, her company felt comforting in a different way. Yesterday had gone exceedingly better than he would’ve expected it to, and he was sure that it was due to that. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, something wasn’t the same as if he would have been at those interviews with the band. But he thought that maybe he could work it out if he had enough time to. Hell, he fucking skipped out on his own flight just to hang around for one more day and see if he could do exactly that. She mumbled something as she rolled over, and he finally snapped out of it and realised he had been standing in this room for far too long now. “Creepy, Matty. Creepy. Leave.” He muttered under his breath to himself as he trudged back out into the lounge room to try and get some sleep.
* * *
“Sleep well?” He asked as she wandered into the lounge room the next morning. He was sat comfortably in the recliner, the blankets that had been tossed across the couch were now folded up neatly on top of it. The TV was playing some random morning news program, and he was mostly paying attention to that, other than the brief glance he threw her way as she entered. Did that man ever sleep? He looked almost exactly the same as he had when he rocked up last night.
“Not bad.” She answered, eyeing him curiously. Everything in the lounge room still seemed to be in place. Neater, even. “I fell asleep in here last night, didn’t I?” She asked eventually.
“Mmhm.” He nodded, not looking away from the TV.
“How did I end up back in bed?” She continued.
“I put you there.” He answered casually.
“I had a feeling that’s what you were gonna say.” She said, making her way into the kitchen to start finding some form of breakfast. “And I was kind of surprised to see that you hadn’t tried to worm your way in next to me. So, I wasn’t sure if that would be the correct answer.” She said with a dry laugh as she put the kettle on the stove top to boil.
“Geez. I’m hurt that you think I’d do that.” He gasped; a hand clutched to his chest. His tone of voice sounded serious but the look on his face was still joking. “You told me to sleep on the couch. I might be a bit of an arse but I’m not a complete psychopath.” He added with a shrug as he came over to lean against the counter top.
She hummed thoughtfully at his answer, “How you act sometimes would have me convinced you don’t know where to draw the line.” That one felt like it cut him a bit deeper than he would’ve liked, but he shrugged it off.
“You have never once told me to stop acting how I do.” He pointed out. She thought about this for a moment and quickly realised that he was right. Maybe she should start doing that… Maybe. “If you did, I would. But I know there’s a line.” The silence hung between them for a moment as she thought about how to respond. She felt like she should potentially apologise for accusing him of something like that after his answer, but he continued speaking before she got the chance. He seemed to be pretty good at that. “Tea?” She gratefully took the way out of the conversation that he was offering her before it got awkward, nodding as she grabbed two mugs.
They both prepared a quick breakfast, eating quietly in front of the background noise of the TV. She only had fairly limited supplies considering that she hadn’t expected to have to cater to a second person this morning. Which meant that they ended up stuck with buttered toast and tea, the breakfast of budget conscious champions. A decent amount of time had passed since she had woken up, and it was starting to move into mid-morning territory. So far, Matty had mentioned nothing about having to get on a plane and go home. “So, what are you going to do about your flight?” She asked him around a mouthful of toast.
“They wanted me to go back to the airport today to speak to the people and get a new one, but I think someone is just going to call me with the new details instead.” He answered, flipping channels to find something more interesting
“You just have to wait and see?” She asked with a frown.
“Yep.” He sighed, popping the ‘p’ as he said it.
“Which, in light of that, what is there to do around here?” He glanced around the room, trying to spot something that could be used to kill the time.
“You’re intending on hanging out here?” She questioned in surprise.
“Well, I might be leaving in half an hour, I might be leaving in eight. I can’t just wander around outside like some lost puppy until they call me and tell me when.” He pointed out as he stood up and made his way over to a bookshelf.
“Why not?” She huffed.
He gasped loudly as he turned to face her, but his shocked expression gradually turned into a smile. “You wound me. You don’t want my company?” The look in his eyes and the smirk on his face suggested that he was already giving her shit for admitting that she enjoyed having him around. She shouldn’t have said anything yesterday in the bar. He was already well aware of her answer by the blush creeping onto her cheeks.
“Okay, fine. You can stay until your flight. But I have actual things that I need to be getting done.” She finally agreed.
“But who will entertain me?” He asked with an exaggerated groan.
“Well, you can’t just expect me to drop everything I had planned for today.” She argued as she grabbed her laptop and set herself up on the couch.
“You should’ve been expecting me and freed up your schedule!” He said with a laugh.
“How could I anticipate that your flight would get cancelled and you’d rock up on my doorstep?” She asked without looking up from her screen. He quickly realised his mistake. Him intentionally ditching his flight to spend more time with her was a thought that only occurred in his mind, not hers as well.
He let out a nervous laugh, “True.” He mumbled as he quickly changed topics. “What you doin’?” He asked as he plopped himself down on the couch next to her.
“Answering emails.” She replied.
“About?” He continued, glancing over her shoulder and trying to read what was on her screen.
“Upcoming shows and sending spreadsheets off for yours.” She answered as she dragged and dropped a few excel sheets into an empty email.
“Any bands I’d know?” He glanced at the contact names on the email sidebar. None seemed familiar except the ones that he recognised as being Dirty Hit addresses.
“Doubt it.” She shrugged, “They’re all smaller, local shows.”
He watched her typing away at the keyboard, his interest eventually waning as his eyes wandered around the room. “Got any weed?” He blurted out.
She rolled her eyes at his question, then supposed it was probably only a matter of time before he asked it. “I do.” His face lit up at her words. “But I’m not sharing it.” And out went that light as quickly as it had come into his eyes. He opened his mouth to begin arguing as to why she should indeed split some with him, but she continued. “You need to catch a plane, anyway! You can’t rock up at the airport stoned.”
“Why not? I’ve done worse.” He laughed loudly, thinking on all of the stories he could tell her that would definitely top arriving at a flight stoned.
“I am not letting you rock up to the airport stoned.” She rephrased.
“Just tell me when I’m getting warmer.” He said as he stood up and started moving around the living room, holding his hands out like he was stumbling through the dark about to run into furniture.
“We are not playing hotter and colder for drugs, Matty.” She tried to sound at least sort of chastising, but the laugh that fell from her lips betrayed her amusement at how silly he looked walking around blindly.
“I’ll pay you back for it.” He added.
“That’s not…” She let out a deep sigh as she ran her hands down her face. “That’s not the point.”
“If you’re hiding it on your person, don’t think that’ll stop me.” He turned to face her with a suggestive grin. As she went to discount that theory, his phone started ringing. Thank god for that.
He held the device up to his ear, listening intently and making approving noises as he continued to pretend that he was a drug sniffer dog. While he was distracted, she got up and walked into another room. The random representative from the airline spent a good ten minutes apologising for the inconvenience of having to rebook his flight due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ before actually getting to the point. He decided it was probably best not to press that matter any further given it would come out sooner or later that the circumstances that caused him to miss his flight were pretty easily foreseen. She walked back into the lounge, seeing that he was still on the phone. “Sweet. Flight number BA637 at midnight? That’ll do.” He nodded to himself. After a few more apologies and pleasantries were exchanged, he finally managed to get off the phone and get back to the important matter at hand. “So… My flight is at midnight. That’s plenty of time to get stoned.” He said as he spun around to face her, only to find that she was already right in front of him, holding something out for him to take. He flashed her a confused expression before holding his hand out. She placed a snuff box and papers into it before taking her seat back on the couch. “Oh, you actually…” He seemed genuinely surprised to be presented with the drug. “Uh, thanks.”
He hadn’t anticipated that she would actually go get it for him. For the most part, he had been joking. Not that it was an unwelcome offer. His stash had run out after the show on Friday, and it was incredibly good for calming his brain down. He took a seat back in the recliner, quickly rolling a joint. Before lighting it up for himself, he supposed he should probably share with the gracious host. He held the joint he had rolled out to her and she shook her head in response without even looking up from her emails. He frowned as he looked down at it, then back up at her. “You’re not gonna have any?” He asked.
“No way.” She said with a short laugh. “I’ve got shit to get done, I can’t be stoned.”
“What! Why didn’t you tell me that before?” He asked loudly.
“You seemed pretty hell bent on getting high.” She shrugged as she looked up on him. He looked like a child who’d just been told that they weren’t actually going to Disney World and were, in fact, going to the dentist instead.
“Not by myself.” He mumbled in disappointment.
“Tough shit.” She chuckled.
He let out a reluctant groan, pausing for a moment before speaking again, “You sure you don’t want any?” He offered one last time.
“Another time, Matty.” She sighed with a small smile.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He nodded as he tucked the joint behind his ear.
He sat and waited patiently, half paying attention to the TV as she finished up the emails that she had to get done. Eventually, once she had finished the tasks that she was meant to get done with her day, she was considerably more willing to entertain the messy haired boy on her couch. They killed the time eating snacks and getting to know each other a bit better. She felt that she had a pretty decent grasp on the conundrum that was Matthew Healy after a few hours of chatting with him. They were both blunt and honest people, so it was easy to cut to the chase and skip around the idle chit chat that filled the majority of their day to day conversations. And he was finding that the more he spoke with her, the further the connection between them went. What had initially been him enjoying having someone around purely because of how well they reacted to him was fast becoming quite a well-rounded friendship. She was also quickly finding that whenever she got him onto a topic that he truly enjoyed discussing, he was an unstoppable force of enthusiasm and ridiculous vocabulary. A conversation with Matty mostly involved just listening to the torrential waves of thought that were Matty.
Eventually during their chat, he discovered a few retro video game consoles that she had hidden under her TV. He was all too keen to prove that he’d have more skill than her at any game she could throw at him, and being the competitive person that she was, she wasn’t about to let him think that he was right. As soon as they got engrossed in the games, the time flew by. It wasn’t long before his phone was buzzing to remind him that he had a plane to catch. Whoever was organising his flights had also organised a taxi for him that was currently waiting outside. He flashed her an apologetic look as he paused the game and started grabbing his things.
“Sorry, I’ll have to kick your arse another time.” He said as he quickly scanned the room to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind. Would leaving his wallet behind be a decent excuse to miss another flight..? Probably not. He shoved it into his pocket.
“You have lost more games than you’ve won, y’know.” She pointed out with an eyebrow raised as she stood up.
“So far.” He shot back as he pointed at her seriously, before cracking a huge grin. His smile was ridiculously infectious.
He started heading towards the door, pausing for a moment before grabbing the handle. “Thank you for letting me hang out here all day. Sorry if I was a bit of a burden.” He said with a sheepish smile, scratching at the curls sitting at the back of his neck.
“You’re not a burden.” She replied with a roll of her eyes. “But it’s no problem. Let me know the next time you’re back in this part of the globe.”
“Can do.” He said with a bright grin. “Bye, Y/N/N.”
“Bye, Matty.” She said, going in for a goodbye hug. He leaned forward in a different way than if he was reciprocating the hug, and for a brief moment the thought passed her mind that he might be about to try and kiss her. But he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling to himself as he did so. The blush that was rapidly spreading across her face gave her away before she could even try to cover it up.
“I’ll see you soon.” He said with a wink as he opened the door and walked down to the waiting taxi, throwing a brief wave over his shoulder in her direction. She realised as she stepped back into her house that the joint that she had given him was now sitting above her ear. She laughed to herself, expecting that she probably would be seeing that boy sooner than she thought knowing his antics.
* * *
When her phone buzzed loudly on her bedside table, pulling her out of her half-asleep state, she supposed that she shouldn’t have been surprised. Would it really have been a night of knowing Matty Healy without him trying to contact her at some ridiculous hour? She rolled over, grabbed her phone and held it to her face, trying to adjust her eyes to read the bright screen in the darkness.
11:36pm My flight got cancelled again :/
No way. Again? That didn’t seem very likely... The airports here were fairly reliable most of the time, the odd cancellation wasn’t unheard of but two in a row seemed pretty ridiculous. What had he said his flight number was? Maybe it said online what was happening with the plane. She quickly googled the flights heading to London that night, finding his flight number straight away. It was still scheduled on time. Why the hell was he trying to get out of his flight home?
11:39pm No, it didn’t
11:40pm It did. They said the engines are broken
She sent through the screenshot of the page that she had just looked up.
11:40pm It says here that your flight is still scheduled for midnight
11:40pm Your website must be outdated
She didn’t have the energy at this hour to work out if he was joking or not. But she was pretty damn sure that the website would’ve been correct.
11:41pm Catch your damn plane, Matty
He smiled to himself as he read the message before tucking his phone into his pocket and handing over his boarding pass. The flight attendant gave him a warm smile as they scanned it and handed it back to him. He hadn’t really expected to be able to get away with it two nights in a row, but he felt it was still worth the shot.
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