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letshavedeernnertogether · 1 month

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Let us make this dance properly

Charlie gathered everybody in the main living-room. It was the usual place to discuss the princess's plans about rehabilitation of sinners. This time she wanted to make a new exercise with the purpose to know each other better and to have fun.

Not everyone was excited with this idea; to be honest, all the residents, excpect Vaggie, didn't find any of Charlie's idea good or useful. But they still did everything she asked. And this time wasn't exclusion.

She looked around everyone with a shining gaze, and asked the residents to tell everybody about their favorite activities.

Angel started, "I love to fu-!"

"I swear, if you say it, I will fucking kill you!" Husk exclaimed.

You chukled. Angel always said something lewd, and it made you laugh. But you laughed even more, when Husk tried to shut him up. They were just adorable.

"What? Charlie asked and I answered!" he threw up his hands.

Husk only sighted heavily with a growl.

"And what do you like to do, huh?" asked Angel. "I bet you'll say "to get drunk", right?"

Husk nodded.

Charlie forced a smile and said, "Well, maybe somebody else wants to express their opinion?"

You didn't like to share you mind, but you didn't want to make Charlie upset either.

"Well, I'm not really into any activities, but I do like dancing" you said.

Vaggie looked at you with gratitude. There was at least one person who didn't make jokes about Charlie's offers.

"That's great!" said the princess with a big smile, so you could see her white snow fangs. "Everybody loves dancing!"

You knew that dancing is the thing that almost every resident liked: Charlie, Angel, you, and maybe Husk too. And of course Alastor. It was his favorite thing to do after murdering and cooking somebody. He was a great dancer as you heard, and you dreamt about having a dance with him one day. It wouldn't be impossible as you were pretty old-fashioned and liked the same dance styles, that were popular at his time. You blushed every time thinking about dancing at least shag with him.

You cautiously looked at Alsor, who stood near the sofa, where you were sitting. He was looking at you slightly covered eyelids and smiling.

Yeah, you dreamt of dancing with him, but there was no right time.

But maybe tonight?

Then Charlie clapped and exclaimed, "I have an idea! Let's teach each other our favorite dance! I'm sure it'll be interesting!"

Everybody considered for a moment and nodded.

Everybody went to the ball room. It was the biggest room in the hotel. Pale pink wallpaper, golden colomns and chandeliers.

Sir Pentious started. He asked you all to stand in two ranks. Charlie and Vaggie were inseparable, so they stood next to each other. Angel stood opposite Charlie, and Husk opposite Vaggie. You stood near Husk, and opposite you stood Alastor. Niftty stood beside you.

"We're going to dancccccce Mr. Beveridge's Maggot! " exclaimed Sir Pentious.

"What?!" you thought. Didn't you mishear? A Jane fucking Austen's dance?!

And what is even more important, was Alastor your partner?

Sir Pentious asked to turn on the music, and Alastor made his radio play load some classical music.

Sir Pentious explained the main thing about this dance and how to move. He stood opposite Niffty, and you began to dance.

Not everything worked out the first time. You missed your partners, your backs collided, somebody took an extra step because of which everyone was confused. But Sir Pentious had enough patience to be a good teacher, and after a while you danced a pretty good Mr. Beveridge's Maggot dance.

After you'd finished the dance Sir Pentious said with the tears in his eyes, "so sssssweet!"

While dancing you understood how really good was Alastor at it. He understood all Pentious's instructions the first time. And you noticed that it was comfortable for you to dance with him. Of course, you said you liked dancing, but, to say the truth, you were terribly shy. You never danced on public, prefering to dance just by yourself. You even waltz in your room all alone sometimes. But you thought it would be nice to find somebody one day whom you won't be afraid to dance.

"It was a pleasure to dance with you, dear" said Alastor, making you blush.

"Um, thank you. I liked dancing with you too!" you said and smiled.

He was looking at you with a softer smile that you'd ever seen on him.

The next dancing lesson wanted to make Angel. Of course, he wanted to teach you all how to make the most seductive movements, but Alastor just couldn't find appropriate music on the radio (or he just didn't want to find it), and Angel decided to sing a melody and show you the movements. (Thanks goddess it wasn't something too obscene, just slow swing of your hips and beautiful movements with your hands.)

Alastor was pretty confused with such a kind of dancing, but you couldn't help but notice that he was actually good at this one too. And the way his hips were moving side to side...

Well, you better to turn away before your turned out as red as his suit.

Now was your turn.

"Well, find a partner at first."

Vaggie and Charlie looked at each other, and Vaggie asked you, if it wouldn't be like the first dance?

The girls still were a little bit upset that they weren't actual partneres in the first dance.

"It will be similar to a waltz, so don't worry", you responded.

Charlie happily took Vaggie's hand, making her smile soft.

Angel came closer to Husk and smiled. The cat-demon rolled his eyes but didn't go away.

Niffty looked at Alastor, but he shook his head, so she was Sir Pentious's partner again.

"Well, Alastor is enough with modern dancing," you thought.

"The name of the dance is foxtrot." you noticed how Alastor pricked up his ears and tilted his head. Yes, he was actually interested in.

You continued, "There are two type of it: quickstep and slowfox. We're going to dance slowfox."

"As I mentioned before, it is similar to waltz but much smoother. Also the rhythm is different."

You stood your back to others and stretched your arms out in front of you, bending them at the elbows.

"Well, I'll be on the place of the one who's being led in dance. You need to make a step with your right foot back. Then a step back with your left foot. Step right and slightly back with your right foot. And then place your left foot next to your right one and take a full step to the right."

Everybody repeated your movements slowly, and you were glad, everyone succeeded in it.

"Ha-ha my dear!" you heard Alaslor laughing and frozen.

Suddenly he appeared before you and came closer.

"You're so funny, trying to waltz without a partner ha-ha-ha!"

You felt that your cheeks became red of shame and anger.

Alasor leaned over to you, "Don't frown, my dear," he placed your hands on his shoulders. "Let us make this dance properly."

He snaped his fingers, and the room was filled with slow jazz; several candels dipped.

He made a step onward, you made a step back and throw your head back. His hand barely touched your shoulder-blade, just enough you could place your hand on his shoulder. Moving your feet at the beat of music, your hips touched. He was gentler than you expected. He tenderly made you follow his steps hardly touching you. It felt like being a cloud driven by wind.

You whirled in dancing; two circles before you bend back; then he swayed you side to side; then again steps when your hips touched, that made you breathe deeper.

And you stopped.

He pulled you closer to him. Your breath became faster because of dancing, but his stamina was better then yours, and his breath almost hadn't changed.

"My, my, what a nice dancer you are," he said to you. "But a little bit shy, don't you think so?" he leaned to you and smiled wider.

He removed his hand from you back, but your palm was still in his one.

"I don't dance very often, and I usually don't have a partner, so... I'm just not sure about the movements I make," you mumbled.

"I know what can help you," he leaned even closer, "Maxixe," he whispered.

Now you were sure you'd become as red as his suit!

All the candles were lighted up again.

He drew himself up to his full height and exclaimed to everybody, "Now everyone! I'm going to teach you the most popular among the most scandalous dance of the 1920's!" he adjusted his monocle, "One man said, it is the easiest dance of all to do, and yet the hardest of all to do well!"

Everybody were intrigued, and you were the only one who was afraid.

To dance maxixe with him?! One of the hottest dances of his time? And he offered it himself? Just unbelievable! It must have been a dream!

Alastor tuned up the radio and found fast piano melody. All the pairs were the same. Only Sir Pentious got tired and was sitting on a coach, so did Niftty.

You've never allowed yourself to even dream of dancing something like this with Alastor. But now you stand together. Your hands in his; you back is lead against his chest; he makes steps forward slightly touching your knees; his breath is in your hair, and you feel how his heart beats.

It was better then any dream you could imagine. In your dreams you couldn't feel the touches, the breath, the fabric. But now you felt all of this.

You were swaying like in waltz, leaning together in direction of your moving, making funny steps forward on your heels. Then he turned you your back to him, placed his hand on your stomach and leaned against you. Swaying again.

You couldn't find a place for yourself at first and was blushing all the time. But very soon you understood how good it felt to dance with him. So you relaxed and let your body move to the rhythm of the piano.

Alastor turned you to face him and raised your hand high. You put your hand on his waist.

You both were dancing and smiling without noticing the others. They'd ended with maxixe and were dancing what they liked. Husk was leading Angel and sharply turning him round. Charlie and Vaggie were dancing a simple waltz. Sir Pentious, having already rested, joined a dance with Niftty.

Was it the most delightful evening in the hotel since you'd been here? Exactly.

But nothing can last forever.

When the music stopped Alastor stood beside you. Charlie thanked everyone for participation.

Now it was very late, and you all had to go to your badrooms.

On the way to your room you heard some static noise in the air and stopped. You felt like somebody was staring at you. You turned back and saw Alastor. He smiled at you soft.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, my dear, but I couldn't let you go without saying how much pleasure you showed me tonight."

He came closer.

"I hope that one day you'll do me the honour of dancing with you again, my dear."

Astonishment, shock, unbelief, fear and at last happiness. You felt all of this just in one second.

"Sure!" you answered, slightly jumping up and pressing your hands to the chest. You didn't say anything else because you believed that Alastor would understand everything by your smile and eyes. And he did.

He had never seen before your smile so wide and your eyes so bright. He understood what did you feel.

Both of you were standing in silence for a while, looking at each other and smiling.

"Goodnight, then?" you said.

"Goodnight, ma chère" answered Alasor and headed for his room.

Definitely, it was your best day at the hotel.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor #alastor x reader #charlie morningstar #hazbin vaggie #hazbin husk #hazbin angel dust #hazbin niffty #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel x you

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violetsandfluff · 1 year

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The Yogurt Shop

anon request: harry x invisible string by taylor swift

a/n: this is not proofread, but it is a little awkward— im still trying to write blurbs.

summary: fetus harry got a job at a yogurt shop and remembered his second customers thirteen years later

wc: about 900

June, 2010

You could see, smell, and practically hear sugar screaming out loud from the moment you walked in the door. The small building housed dozens of flavors of frozen yogurt in all flavors, and every kind of topping imaginable. The walls were covered in an energetic turquoise wallpaper, and the chairs and tables were each painted an array of jarringly bright colors, each of them empty. Not a single customer milled through the shop.

“Hello,” a cheery young voice greeted you as doorchimes alerted him to your presence. “Welcome to The Yogurt Shop.”

“He’s adorable,” your friend Samantha chirped quietly, catching your attention. You averted your eyes from the colorful atmosphere of the shop to the boy dressed in a shirt as bright teal as the walls standing at the register. A curly mop of dark brown hair rested atop his head, and you immediately noticed the dimples adorning each of his cheeks as he smiled.

“The yogurt and bowls are on the yellow table against the wall to your right and the toppings are on the other wall,” he explained, feeling foolish when he realized you could see for yourself. “I have spoons and napkins up here.”

You gave him a grateful nod as your eyes began scanning the vast array of flavors and toppings.

“His accent is so posh,” your friend rambled into your ear.

“We’re in England. Everyone here talks like that,” you reasoned, feeling jealous that she had spotted him first.

“It’s so sophisticated and lovely,” she gushed. “I wish the boys back home were like him.”

“Jared is,” you teased, hinting at the boy she had been crushing on since eighth grade. “Is he not?”

“Not like that,” Samantha cooed. “Forget Minneapolis. I’m moving to London so I can meet attractive boys with accents every day.”

You shook your head at her antics as you hesitantly added some frozen yogurt to your dish.

“Have either of you been here before?” the cute boy piped. “My favorite flavor is cotton candy,” he added when you shook your heads, prompting you to add some to your dish. “I didn’t think you were local based on your accents.”

“What are you doing?” Samantha hissed at your yogurt, choking back laughter. “I thought you hated cotton candy.”

You looked distastefully down at your dish, which had both orange and cotton candy flavored frozen yogurt, as well as a few M&M’s that had ended up in your dish when she tried to put them in hers. “I can’t put it back now,” you groaned, realizing most of the yogurt would go to waste, despite how expensive it was.

You and Samantha carried your yogurts up to the counter where Harry surveyed them with an untrained eye.

“Do you mind if I take a picture of us and your yogurts?” he asked hesitantly, beckoning to the wall beside him where a singular polaroid hung. Had you been closer, you could have made out a picture of himself and the owner, so new that the color was still seeping into every area of the picture. “I’m trying to expand our photo wall.”

You and Samantha leaned in for a picture and he gave you a grateful smile, holding eye contact slightly longer than necessary.

“How much is it?” Samantha asked awkwardly, fidgeting with the tassels on her purse.

Brought out of his trance, the dimpled boy shrugged, feeling his cheeks redden. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he apologized. “It’s my first day.” He disappeared into the door behind him, presumably looking for somebody else to assess the total cost of their yogurts.

~~~

August, 2023

You hadn’t been to England since you went with Samantha’s family the summer before your junior year, but you had recently gotten into traveling again. Traveling overseas solo was a bit of an adjustment, but you had grown accustomed to taking precautions.

Fresh in your mind was the encounter with the cute boy in the ice cream shop you and Samantha had swooned over for months. You promised her you’d visit the shop during your trip and report back about the cute boy behind the counter.

When you arrived at the all-too familiar storefront, you barely recognized it due to the swarms of people thronging outside of it. A line wound out the door and to the end of the block, filled with people from far and near. The line moved slowly through the color-saturated shop. Hanging on the door was a sign that boldly announced The Yogurt Shop’s final day in business.

As you neared the door, you heard a low yet charming voice calling out to the people in the line. “Hello! Welcome to The Yogurt Shop.”

He was tall like you remembered him, but older and more muscular. By the time you filled your yogurt cup (with more desirable flavors, you might add), you noticed the wall of polaroids behind the register. At the top of the second row of pictures were you and Samantha, goo-goo eyed over the cute boy between them, repulsive frozen yogurts in hand.

You pulled out your phone with a trembling hand while he rang you up and turned it around to face him. He squinted his eyes too examine the photo. Samantha with her tongue out, you holding your yogurt in front of your face, and himself, grinning winningly behind you.

He furrowed his eyebrows, blinking a few times as he stared at it. He turned around slowly to face the polaroid wall before turning back to you, smiling slightly so his dimple showed. “Just vanilla?” he joked. “Your palette’s changed.”

“How much?” you motioned to the cash register and he looked down at it as a cheeky smile blossomed on his face. Shaking his head slowly, he waved a hand at your yogurt. “I forgot to apply a discount.”

“How come?” you frowned in confusion as he passed your cup back to you.

He cocked his head to one side, giving you an insufferably broad smile before pushing your cup further into your hands and beckoning for the next person in line.

Taglist: @madybeth21 @groovychaosavenue @fishingirl12 @sortingharryshairclip @tenaciousperfectionunknown @mrspeacem1nusone @cayleyhannha-blog @whitemancumslut @xxrosebunny @hsdaydreaminghaze @daisyharry

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pynkricee · 2 months

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Blood In Your Hands Part 2

🤍The ChoGo Love Story 🤍

After hiding her identity to a strange man named Choso Kamo, KyiGo finally started to realize how important Choso is becoming in her life. The love and connection they start to share will determine if her life is worth sacrificing for him.

Art by AliyahArtss on Instagram 🤍

After about a fifteen minute walk, this Cayla finally led me back to her home. I was surprised as I walked in by the home, which was a mix between modern and cozy with an older-style vibe to it. As I walked through the living room area, my eyes seemed to dart around everything. I couldn't help it. I was curious.

After taking our shoes off and placing them by the door, she decided to lead me upstairs to show me her room. Which was a cozy yet somewhat messy space that seemed to reflect her personality. I traced my hands against the curved wallpaper that was placed smoothly on the walls as we walked to the room next to hers. It was a spare room, with a small, yet comfortable looking bed that could fit two people. It was laced with satin black sheets and black curtains that covered the windows. “This is where you'll be sleeping tonight. If that's okay with you..” she said to me in a low tone, as she opened the door wider for me to get a better view.

I walked into the room reviewing every inch of it before I turned to her and nodded quietly. It was a small space, but I had to admit it looked comfortable and warm. A bit of a contrast to the overall dark feel of the house.

As I looked over to her, I was almost shocked by how much trust you were placing in me to be here with you. I was a dangerous person, but only I knew that and even if she noticed that about me, especially by the smell of blood she sniffed on me earlier, it didn't phase her.

“Thank you for trusting me.. I promise.. nothing bad will happen.” I whispered to you as I looked down at the floor, almost in disbelief that you still trusted me like this.

She giggled slightly at my remark. “I didn't think anything bad ‘Would’ happen. I was just being a nice person and helping someone who needed it.”

I nodded as I could feel my expression on my face softening a little. “I have a question for you.. if you don't mind..”

I notice her eyebrow lift as if I didn't ask enough questions already. “Sure.. what is it?”

At this exact moment.. I was hella nervous. I ended up shifting my weight a little bit before speaking.

“If you don't mind, why are you letting me stay with you..? I asked, looking at her with genuine curiosity.

“Like I said before… I saw someone who really needed it. I saw a man who needed somebody. I mean.. what else was I supposed to do?” I could see the look on her face start to turn into pure guilt by what would have happened if she had just left me at the park. That was the last thing I wanted her to feel. But I could feel my eyes widen and my chest flutter at the same time. Even If she didn't spell out exactly what she meant, I caught her drift.

Without saying anything more to her, I stepped forward and gently placed both hands on her cheeks. I then leaned my head forward and slowly brushed my lips against hers. This time I noticed her eyes close, as the kiss was gentle and soft. I wanted to show how appreciative I was of you and this was the only way I could think of doing it.

I opened my eyes to notice hers were still closed, as they then slowly began to open.

She was the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. I felt like this moment was literally going in slow motion as I pulled my face from her. Her dark skin with a light hue. Her beautiful thick lips that felt like the most gentle pillows you could ever lay your head over. And there was something dark about her aura that drew me into her. I couldn't quite seem to pull myself away, nor did I want to.

I noticed her deep brown eyes flutter as she stared at me in mine. “I'm sorry.. Cayla.. it's just.. I couldn't help myself…” I whispered softly as my thumb started to caress her right cheek. In that split second, she closed her eyes again, leaning in kissing me back softly. I could feel my breath being to hitch in my chest as my eyes stayed open as I returned the kiss.

The kiss was soft and short as she swiftly broke it and looked back up at me. I couldn't help but smile as I pulled back, my gaze and my attention fully on you. I could feel my heart speed up as I let go of your cheeks and stepped back to give you some space. Being cautious not to take this any further than where it was already going.

“What.. was that for?” she whispered, her body language now being more calm as she stood in front of me. Her face was just as red as the shade of lipstick that covered her lips. I could feel my face warm up as you looked directly at me. I had to turn my face away from her to keep my urges from persuading me to go any further.

I quickly crossed my arms and slightly turned my body to the side. “ I.. just …felt that I should show you.. how thankful I am..” I was definitely trying to keep my emotions under control at this point but I could feel that rush that I was having toward you and I still couldn't fully understand why. Why was this happening to me? And with a human? A human woman at that..

“Do you think.. it's strange?”

She then gave me the strangest look as if she wanted to burst out into laughter. I could feel my head leaning back as my lips sneered on the side of my mouth, ready for the disappointment of her answer.

She then let out the cutest laugh, looking me directly in the eyes, placing her hands on her thick hips. “Ha! It is strange. Usually a hand shake would do. You must be drawn to my lips to keep wanting to kiss me the way you do.”

I couldn't help but blush and take another step back again, letting out a small sigh. “I know.. but.. your lips are just so beautiful.” I responded with a slight nervous edge to my voice. Dropping my hands to my sides. At this point, I couldn't keep my emotions under control as I could feel my breathing speed up tremendously.

“Well thank you Choso. I'm going to get some things ready for you to take a shower, okay? You can stay here if you want and make yourself comfortable before I come back.” I nodded as she then finally walked out the room disappearing into the hallway.

I wanted to keep looking at you , but I knew that might be inappropriate. Standing in the room, I turned the light on and closed the bedroom door behind me and sat gently on the bed. I leaned back and took a deep breath as I thought about how beautiful red lips were and the feeling of kissing you. I then threw my head back and looked up at the ceiling.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I whispered in a low tone to myself. “I'm a death womb, a curse created for the soul purpose of killing and I'm in a woman's house, kissing her… and wanting to do it again..” I then took a deep breath and closed my eyes as I leaned forward, resting my arms over my legs. I opened my eyes and looked down at the floor, really in deep thought about what I was doing.

After a couple minutes passed, you knocked on the door and came in with a few towels and a change of clothes for me. A pair of black sweats and some matching socks. I stood up off the bed as your tiny stature walked over to me. “ Here you go, and you have a shower right over there in the corner. So you know, your own private bathroom.” You said smiling to me. Your smile was contagious. I couldn't help but smile back as I could feel myself blushing, as I received the items out of your hands.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I could feel this feeling of just being drawn to you physically, but in a way I never felt before. You seemed so much more than just a female that wanted to help me at a time of need. You were a goddess and I was nothing more than a lowly cruel cursed spirit.

“Come downstairs when you're finished, okay. I'm fixing us some Pho.” She said walking back towards the door to exit the bedroom. Her fingers wrapping around the door frame.

My eyes widened, I was so confused by the offer of food you were willing to give to me. “You're.. making food for ME?” I asked with an expression that was a mix of gratitude, surprise and disbelief. I could feel my voice becoming shaky as I quickly nodded my head. “I-I'll be right down.”

She let out another small giggle that coughed me to almost stand on my toes and sent shivers down my spine. “Yes.. I am. You're hungry aren't you?” She then gave me the purest smile and walked out the room. “Take your time in the shower. If you need anything.. call me.”

I nodded and smiled widely. I was almost surprised that you were showing so much affection and care for me. I've never had anyone show this much appreciation for me at all in all the years I've been on this earth. “I'll take my time..” I said as I heard you begin to walk down the stairs. I placed the essentials I had in my hands next to me as I sat down on the bed for a minute. I threw myself back on the bed again and looked up at the ceiling thinking about what just happened. I felt like this whole situation was a dream. An almost perfect woman who invited me to stay with her after just meeting me. This had to be better than any romantic fantasy that I ever imagined. But in the back of my mind, there was still something about her that I couldn't put my finger on.

I finally took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down as I stood up from the bed and headed over to the bathroom.

After switching on the water, and ensuring the temperature was just right for me, I undressed, placed my clothes on the floor and entered the shower. As I stepped under the spray, I could feel so much stress just wash away from my body as I closed my eyes, letting the hot water run from head to toe. As I stood there, I began to recall everything that had happened today, how I had ran into her, how she brought me home with her, and the kiss you gave back to me. I could feel my heart begin to speed up again with just the thought of you. The way you were caring for me, the way you offered me to stay in your home.

I couldn't be falling for her… I couldn't be. That just doesn't make any sense…

As Choso was taking a shower upstairs, I decided to go ahead and take care of myself downstairs in the spare bathroom I had near the kitchen.

I went ahead and took a decent hot shower that took about ten minutes. I knew by the time I was out he would probably still be under the spray in the upstairs bathroom. I could tell he went through and was going through a lot at the moment and I didn't want to put more on him that he couldn't handle right now.

Once I exited the shower, I threw on some baggy shirt, no bra and some silk pants that flowed when I walked. Even though I had a stranger in the house with me, I still wanted to be comfortable in my own surroundings. But I couldn't help but wonder if he was doing okay.

I was still lost in thought as the hot water ran over my pale skin. The heat and steam was so comforting to the point where I could feel my muscles loosen back up. It felt like pure heaven, and I honestly didn't want it to end.

“Choso.. are you okay in there?”

I immediately snapped out of my trance, realizing that she was standing outside of the door. “I'm fine.. Im.. just taking my time.” I responded over the running water, hoping you couldn't hear past the lie I just told.

“Oh.. okay… I was just checking on you. I'm still here if you need me.” I could hear her footsteps slowly walk away from the door as I let out a sigh as my breath started to shake.

“Ill.. be out soon.” I responded as I tried to remain as casual as possible.

“Okay.. like I said I'm here if you need anything.” I could see your feet finally disappear from underneath the doorway. I let out a sigh of relief as I heard the door close behind you as you left the room. Your presence has such a calming effect on me that it made me nervous in a good way when you were around me. I turned the shower back on and continued to rinse the remaining suds off my body.

After a few minutes, I finally shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. I managed to finally calm myself down even further while I was bathing which was a surprise even to me. Stepping out, it felt like the world was suddenly in an entirely different light, as if I was able to leave my old world of curses and sorcery and just experience the bliss of this exact moment.

This was a moment that I dreamed of for a long time, that I've always wanted for myself. But who knew that it would take someone else to give it to me in return. Someone I didn't expect to come into my life at the most random of all moments. As a curse, I felt like I didn't deserve this at all. I felt like I wasn't worthy of you.

I didn't deserve you…

#choso #choso kamo #chosokamo #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk choso #chosoandpynk #choso x reader #i love choso #choso and pynkricee #choso x black!reader #choso x black woman #choso and kyigo #ChoGo #jjk #choso story #chosolovestory #choso smut #smutty choso

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withoneheadlight · 1 year

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One hundred and seventy five.

That’s how long he’s been here. Tubes and needles and metal stitches and beeping machines. The emergency light above the door of his room endlessly flickering. One hundred and seventy five and stiff, nuclear-white bedspread and freshly pasted wallpaper and the piercing stink of disinfectant and bleach.

One hundred and seventy five days and Billy feels like he’s become aseptic by now, sterile, in this arctic-pristine space. Gloved hands constantly touching him in plasticized intimacy. The most pure detachment of touch.

One hundred and seventy five days and, when it happens, it pierces through Billy like lightning in a glacial storm. Bright. Bright. Bright. Thundering.

Hot.

Steve Harrington touches him: the most pure delirium of touch.

The most well-intended. The most innocent. Steve just happens to be there and Billy’s back hurts and it’s like,

“Can you. Please help me to―?”

And like―

“Yeahyeah. Sure”

And like,

Steve’s hands feel warm against the paper-thin fabric of his hospital gown. Tender. On his side on his belly on his hip. Billy’s skin’s bristling under his touch and he― he moans. It sounds like a sob. He gets so hard so fast his cock throbs throbs throbs and―

Steve. Dark. Round eyes. He notices. Of course he does. Doesn’t stop touching Billy, tho. Acts as if not. Pity, Billy realizes.It stinks in harmony with the sanitized purity of the room. Creeps like bile up his throat.

One hundred and seventy five. Billy thought he’d be used to shame by now. But this time is the worst. He bites his tongue. Metallic. Pushes Steve back. Shows teeth,

“It’s not about you, Harrington. Don’t get your hopes up”

But Steve fucking Harrington just snorts a laugh. Steve fucking Harrington shrugs it off with a smirk and the kind of half-lidded gaze that’d have gotten a less sedated, less undead Billy Hargrove’s heart to beat up his throat.

Asks,

“You sure?”

This Billy’s chest, instead, feels so thin it’d shatter.

Nausea hits him. It’s been one hundred and seventy five days and he ain’t told anyone but he wretches it up now like it’s a sickness.

“It’s brain-dead, ok? It can― Piss and, hang and sometimes it. It does. That. But. That’s all about it, alright?”

Steve sits back. Looks him in the eye. Takes his thumb to his mouth, teeth on his nail but. Doesn’t bite.

One hundred and seventy five days and one, two, three—fifteen seconds, and then he says,

“I could help” and his eyes wander. Down. For just a slice of a second. He sets them back up, lashes cutting “With that. If you wanna”

Billy swallows. His stomach hollows. He squeezes his thighs close. Feels the ghost of that dripping feeling. How sweet it was. And he wants it. Sticky. Nasty. Hot.

God, he wants it back.

“With what”

Steve just keeps staring at him. His eyes talk, one brow cocking up. They say You know what so he just gotta add,

“Maybe if. If. You know. Somebody else― did it. Maybe then it’d―”

Pity. That’s the one thing all these high-purified cleaners can never seem to mop off the tiles. It’s like acid on the top of Billy’s throat, like it’s just been scrubbed with the sharp edge of ammonia. He pulls up the blankets to cover himself. To cover it. As it starts to deflate. Chubb. Then go flatline. His hands clenched into fists. Tight. Knuckles white, dry, stinging.

He takes the pain. Spits it out. Rage’s always tasted red on his mouth. Between his legs.

And God, he misses it. God he wants it.

“Are you a fucking weirdo or what, Harrington?”

Steve doesn't flinch. His eyes talk, still, those amazing, expressive eyes he’s got, but this time Billy can't really get what they’re saying as Steve just– stays there. On that chair. Picks up the book on the nightstand and reads from Max’s last dog-ear as if nothing’s happened. Stays until nightfall. Until Billy’s been fed and changed and gotten his vitals checked.

He looks like he’s completely forgotten about it.

But,

It’s an infection: despite how millimetrically sterilized his new cage is, what just happened worms its way through Billy’s mind like a parasite.

He can’t now stop thinking about it.

He’s still awake, when the clock on the wall ticks its way up from one hundred and seventy five to one hundred and seventy six, days going by like seconds on the clock, just as simply irrelevant.

He breathes in, breathes out in sync, still wide-eyed at one, two in the morning. He’s usually out by nine, ‘such a well-behaved boy’ as his nurses tell him, but not tonight, sleeping pill sneaked into the stuffing of his pillow, nerves knotted tight down his stomach with the twisted anticipation of what he’s about to do. And he's alone. Truly, overwhelmingly alone. For the first time since they took him into the arctic of this nuclear kingdom.

And night― night’s always been the only place he’s ever really felt safe. Just him and his thoughts. His truths. His desires. Just him and that stupid bulb agonizing above the door, now.

At night it’s just him and―

His hand. Cold. Always so cold, now. Riding his hospital gown up. Thinking about lips and the harsh pressure of fingertips and that way Steve’s eyebrows burrow when Billy gets him thoroughly pissed. That way he tried not to dig his nails into the sharp bone of his hip but―

Couldn’t really help it and,

Down there, Billy’s become the land of the fucking dead. Romero at his finest. His dick barely reacts. Wakes up then fills then gets almost limp. Useless. The spark of Steve’s touch an undercurrent of need pulsing at the base of his balls, goosebumps up his belly. Billy fucking tries. Closes his eyes. Pumps it. Can’t make it fucking work. He feels ashamed and desperate and unsatisfied and nasty. Wants to call the nurse and ask her to drown him in disinfectant. He squeezes his dick until it hurts. At least pain feels like something.

Three. Four in the morning. He doesn’t cry and the bulb above the door doesn’t blow and he’s broken beyond repair and―

Somewhere around dawn sleep finally takes him over.

One hundred and seventy nine. Days. Nights. And Billy― Billy asks for it.

Tentative.

“The other day―”

Fragile.

“You said―”

His skin so thin it barely covers him.

“Would you― actually. Do it? Just so I know if―”

Steve hasn't come in three days. They all take turns at staying with him. PityPityPity. Harrington. Max. Joyce Byers. Will. El. Even the fucking chief. They all know Billy has no-one. Sit in that stiff hospital chair between the bed and the window and Billy feels too empty not to pretend they’re here for him when they all act like it.

Today’s Steve’s turn again and he’s more laid down than seated. Headphones purring around his neck and one foot tapping against the metal frame of the bed. His eyes cut up to Billy’s, eyelashes sharp, soft. And Billy’s trying to breathe steady but the air inside his lungs comes out broken and arrhythmic.

Out. Out.

Out. Out. In.

Steve says fucking nothing. He just― moves. Slow. Fluid. Drags the chair with a metallic rasp along the cold-tiled floor. Limbs light. Dark hair like a waterfall. He leans in just so. Fingers long and careful. They brush Billy’s forearm. A quick touch. Featherlike. His skin goose bumps like in a paper cut.

And Billy’s body feels heavy. Numb. Anesthetized. He smells that warmth of Steve’s skin that’s always out of reach. That feeling of a dream blowing away like breeze between your fingers. A blink of sunbathe and sweet in the middle of all this barren purity.

And Billy’s drained. Of feeling like a flaccid shredded skin of what he used to be. Of bleach and surgical steel and the dry taste of antibiotics.

He fucking pleads for it,

“Please?”

Steve nods. Licks his lips. His fingers hook into the hem of the blanket. Draws it down, the motion an eternity, and Billy’s―

Shaking. Toes curling against the bleached fabric of his sheets. His cock pulsing. Starvation wet at the tip. Can’t look but he can feel how it’s dripping down, spotting the sheets and,

Steve's voice breaks. He gasps “Billy―” swallows “Shh. It’s ok, Billy”

Blood rushesrushesrushes, stings like sunburn all along his chest. His stupid thighs are trembling. The worn out fabric of his hospital gown feels raw. Perfect. Against the hypersensitive skin of his cock. His hips buckle up. Like a convulsion.

Steve’s fingers brush his knee. Billy’s legs spread wide apart, eager. He feels bare. Exposed. Stupid. He needs this more than he’s ever needed anything in his fucking useless life and–

Steve’s fingers dare up. Dip under the hem of his gown. Run all along the inside of his thigh. Billy feels like fucking crying.

“Harrington. Steve―” his chest is heaving. Hollowing. He’s got no fucking idea what he’s trying to say “I. I―”

But Steve’s eyes slide up. His hand. Billy’s open thighs. Billy’s shame. His torso. Up. Up. To his eyes. And he gets off the chair to sit right by his side. Hips touching. Leans closer, then. Speaks so close words brush his open mouth.

“Hey. It’s alright. I got you. C’mon, s’ alright”

His fingers wander up sensitive skin and need and lust. Like Billy barely remembers it. Famelic. Blind. And―

“FuckFuckFuuuck”

It’s a seizure. His body winds up tight, back arching up when Steve runs the back of his fingers all along the underside of his cock. The barest expression of touch. They slide at the tip, brush against that tender spot just right there where it feels so good it almost hurts. And Billy’s cock jerks. Pleasure like a cutting edge. Sharp. Silver-bright. His cock weeping precome and the sweet, heady tone of Steve’s ragged laugh burning hot, melting like sugar down his mouth.

“God, Hargrove, you ain’t gonna last shit ain’t ya?”

And Billy wants to lick it, taste it. Wants to cum all over it and then kiss the dirtiest mess out of that prettypretty mouth. Instead, he bites down a sob and a,

“Go fuck yourself”

But then Steve fists his cock. Heat so tender it’s unbearable. Pumps it like it’s a point he’s gotta make, milk the truth out of him. The head of Billy’s cock squeezing in and out the wrap of his fingers. Sliding. Each time delirium. Billy fucks into his hold, hips thrusting, and it’s osbcene, nasty. It feels like bone-deep intimacy and hysteria and magic and―

Billy chokes out a breath. Hips spasming. Steve groans a ragged “C’mon,” lips blood-red and full and pretty. Billy grabs his arm. His nails dig into the tender meat. It’s involuntary.

He feels so close. So close. So close but―

“I don��t’ know if I. Can. I. Ah―Steveah―”

“You can” He slows down the rhythm. A sweet, honey-coated drag. “For me. Billy, for me. I wanna see ya. Billy I―”

Billy cums so hard he feels ripped apart. Hot. White. Wet. Messy. Cums like a fist in the mouth, like the first lick at candy.

And Steve looks at him like it’s hurting him too. Between his legs. Where nobody’s touching him. Grins to the side. Mutters,

“Guess you’re not that broken, uh?” and his voice sounds like Billy feels. Shaken apart. Dangerously unsteady.

Billy can’t speak. Can barely move. Can’t stop looking at him. His mind white noise. Limbs weary. Not broken, maybe. But maybe something even worse.

Scarier.

Steve has to clean him off, after they both regain some composure. After― everything. Damp towel. Warm. Tender.

It’s pathetic.

It’s the softest thing he’s felt in days that too count in hundreds.

And Steve stays, afterwards. Sun setting. Gold melting in that fractured space where earth meets sky. Helps him lean up against the pillow when one of the nurses brings him the dinner tray. Sits there, with him, till he finishes.

Winks at him goodbye.

“Sleep tight, weirdo”

Billy stays awake all night.

One hundred and eighty.

What Billy does know now: it was the sleeping pills what were doing the trick. He can’t fall sleep by himself for fucks.

What Billy doesn’t: if his little stupid useless dick is actually cured, now. Brought back to life by the works and miracles of Hawkings King himself. If he’s been uncorked now, somehow. Emptied back to life.

His dick still feels sore and hypersensitive and wide awake and perfect one whole day after. The ghost of Steve’s hand an ever-present feeling, like it’s been imprinted into the ends of Billy’s nerves. He takes a deep breath. Thinks about Steve and cum spilling hot all over his belly like melting caramel, the kind of feeling that sticks to the tip of your tongue.

He wraps his hand around that thought and he―

He doesn’t dare.

He was sure that would be it but,

It happens a second time.

The bathroom tiles are pure, pure, pure, the purest shade of white.

It’s shower time. Saturdays, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. The shower heating up next to him in a heavy stream. And Billy’s still too weak. To walk. To exist. To fucking shower on his own. And usually there’s a nurse by his side but in one hundred and eighty six days you earn privileges. More so if you got that hair, those eyes, that smile. Not Billy of course. Steve. He gotta use them. Pale February light filtering in from the ceiling-high windows, casting shadows from his lashes, teeth movie-star perfect, eyes like starting a wildfire in this barren, glacial land.

The smile he puts to good use is one of those lopsided ones, the most dangerous kind he’s got. He’s leaning on his shoulder against the wall. Irresistible. Billy’s nurse sneaking glances at him like she really wishes she could, but knowing it’s pointless.

Because who can resist Steve Harrington?

“I can do it, if that’s alright?” Eyes round. Impeccable high-class education “Really. I promise I’ll call if we need anything”

He doesn’t even have to insist. The rightful heir to the throne Hawkins. The million dollar baby-boy.

So she leaves them alone with a timid smile and a bat of lashes and Billy’s heart feels like trapped in the very eye of the storm.

It beats, beats, beats, beats. Steve pushes off the wall. Gets closer and―

Traces down the curve of his shoulder, the touch feather-like, monstrous in the bare intimacy it carries. His breath on his skin the most real thing Billy’s felt in one hundred and eighty six. Days. Eighteen. Years. Forever.

Steve asks. “What do you need?” and Billy’s―

Naked. Exposed. Stripped out bare. He’s got a skin that barely covers him. It feels washed out. Frayed.

There’s no way he can hide himself from Steve.

No way he can hide how bad he wants those hands all over him and to never again feel this cold. No way he can hide how bad he wants the hard spray of the shower to cover them like a shelter, like so many times in those dreams he shouldn’t dream.

No way he can hide how bad he wants Steve. Always Steve.

The bathroom’s been getting warm and warm and warmer. Feels dream-like and intoxicating, dense with desire and shame and the tangible wetness of the steam, sweet like cotton-candy. Billy’s breathing in short, sharp inhales. It feels like drowning. Steve’s hand trails downwards― Billy’s waist and Billy’s hip, the curve of his belly. Steve’s eyes following the path his own hand trails across the clear drops of Billy’s perspiration.

“Billy you are―”And, for a second, they’re surviving on the same breath of air. And it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Because his head’s spinning and his lungs are hurting but― “God, Billy you are―”

“Yeah” Burning. Dying. Pulsing. Needing. Billy is― “Yeah”

So hard he’s dizzy. Knees weak. Heart a machine gun.

Except it’s Steve who shoots him. Bullets for words.

“Ask me, Billy” he fucking riddles him “Tell me you want me to touch you”

One hundred and eighty six. Seven days, since Steve― And Billy’s got withdrawal syndrome. From feeling like this. From just feeling.

It comes out shattered into tiny little pieces.

“I want you to touch me”

Steve smiles that same smile. Soft. Loopsided. It’s a killer. He guides Billy’s arms around his neck, wraps one of his around Billy’s waist. Presses them flush, the dampness running down Billy’s skin seeping through his clothes and into his own body and―that smile, it feels even softer when Steve brushes it against his ear, makes blood rush hot to his cheeks when he hushes, tone low, rasp, fucking teasing,

“Ok, pretty boy” bordering on obscene, “Hold on fast”

And then he sneaks his hand in between Billy’s thighs, drawing up his fingertips and the blunt edges of his knuckles up the fine skin in there and then higher and higher up, cupping Billy’s balls in the palm of his hand, squeezing lightly and― Billy fucking shivers, teeth clenching hard, nails finding grip in the meat of Steve’s back. He feels dizzy and deadweight. Feels raw and out of his body, when Steve’s hand curls around his cock, his touch such a fucking relief, Billy’s knees almost giving out.

He holds onto Steve. Fast.

“Fuck, I―”

“Shhh, I told you. Told you I got you, didn’t I?”

Steve's hand moves like torture and balm and Billy― Billy can’t help himself. Buries his nose into the curve of his neck, hides himself in there, takes this safeness that Steve’s offering, that Steve’s giving to him. This pleasure and this warmth and this smell of him, sweet with sweat and life, like scented soap and sunlight. And Billy feels high, light-headed with how gut-wrenching real it all is.

He moans “Steve” breathless “Steve” lips on his pulse, on this unrestrained life of him, “Steve” because his mind is empty of any other word, only SteveSteveSteve, but Steve gets it and―

“You’re close. You’re so close. Fuck, Billy. C’mon―”

Billy’s cock is weeping thick, long beads of precum. He can feel himself pulsing them out, drenching Steve’s hand. It’s lewd. Pornographic. Steve’s fingers sliding on his length. His fist squeezing the mess, shifting oh so slightly, oh so sweetly at the top, thumb rubbing that tender spot just below the head. And Billy’s holding so tight he might be drawing blood, making it soak out Steve’s neatly pressed blue shirt. He wouldn’t ever, ever scratch it from under his nails. Keep it as a reminder on this cold white still life painting. Of this feeling. This moment. Of Steve―

Running his teeth along Billy’s pulse. Harmless. In spite of how bad Billy wants him to bite.

“Cum for me, baby. I want you to cum for me again”

Babybabybaby. Billy’s heart can’t take it. It’s gonna burst out of his ribcage. Steve kisses his neck. A soft, loving thing. It’s what draws blood out of Billy like no bite would ever do. He cums so hard it’s blinding. In shocks. In thick, long ropes. Steve’s lips trail to his cheek, kisses it the sweetest “Baby”. It’s anything but harmless.

He leaves one last kiss on the corner of Billy’s mouth, thumb stroking his cheek, says,

“I’ll clean you up, ok? Just don’t let go yet”

Billy couldn’t even if he wanted to, his legs won’t hold him on.

And Steve does. Cleans him off under the forgotten stream of the shower. Gets himself all wet but doesn’t seem to care. Takes him to bed. Arranges the covers all around him and gives him that smile again. Then one that’s different. One Billy’s never seen before. One he’d give anything to see again.

“Are you ok?”

He nods the tiniest yes. He’s lying. And he’s not. Steve uses his privileges to stay way after past visiting hours. As he always does.

That night, Billy takes his sleeping pills. The water washes away most of the sourness of their flavor but not the acid coming up his throat with the burn of pity and the helplessness of how this is something he’s not meant to keep. Steve Harrington is not a weirdo, not the same way Billy is. This was the second time. There won’t be a third.

One hundred years pass until he finally falls asleep.

―and eighty seven. Eighty eight. Eighty nine.

Sometimes, he thinks the emergency light over his door is trying to hypnotize him. He’s forgotten how it was not hurting. They won’t give him stronger sleeping pills.

So he finally surrenders and does. Try. Again.

Hips grinding against the rasp fabric of his pillow. Sweat running down his spine both from terror and need. His mind full of Steve. SteveSteveSteve. Full of that kiss right by his lips and baby. His mouth full of the how would it be, to let his knees give as they want to, get on them for him. Take him inside his mouth till he’s so full he’ll be barely breathing. He fucks hard into the matted stuffing. A wet finger down his ass doing what it shouldn’t and―

Two. Three in the morning. He tries. God he tries. But can’t finish it.

He falls sleep to the magnetic feel of the veins of his cock pulsing back into emptiness and the drying stickiness of precum and sweat. The unsatisfied stink of sex fading out in his pillow.

He feels broken beyond repair. Tries, but doesn’t remember ever feeling different.

If the nurses notice anything in the morning they just zip it, and Billy buries his face in the familiar smell of bleach of his new sheets and wishes it would strip out all this shame, and all this starved desire too.

Steve’s comes back on the one hundred and ninety, one hundred and ninety two. He doesn’t touch him again. Billy doesn’t ask him to.

And they might have been doing the trick before but― his sleeping pills do absolutely nothing.

On the two hundred and two, he loses it.

Or, at least, he thinks he does. It’s white tiles and then it’s blood running down the wall, dripping on the floor. His knuckles look violet and black and broken. On the big, round clock on the wall, twenty four minutes are missing. They’re wiped out of Billy’s memory too.

It’s three o’clock in the morning.

This time, they increase the dose.

“Do they hurt?”

Two hundred and five. Steve answers himself before Billy can even look up at him, exhausted as he is from lying on this bed, from antibiotics and wearing-off sedatives. Avoids his eyes when Billy does, shaking his head towards nothing.

“Forget it I― of course they do”

But it’s already been three days of cures and anesthesia and they―

“No. They― they’re numb. I can barely feel them”

Steve’s eyes trail off to the window. They stay in there.

“That’s good. I guess I―” His teeth catch his lower lip. Sink in. Release it. Do it all again. Looks like some tiny, peripheral punishment. It’s bright red when he finally stops “That’s good”

“Steve wh―”

“Listen” He says. Then says nothing at all and―

Right there. On that chair. In the middle of Billy’s recurrent nightmare, sun melting around the wild crown of his hair, framed like a masterpiece by the peeling window pane, Steve looks like everything Billy’s ever wanted, like everything he can’t reach out for with his damaged hands.

He treasures him, commits him to memory, golden and beautiful, right then and there, because when Steve does finally speak, he sounds like everything’s about to change.

“I’m sorry I― did what I did. I didn’t want to hurt you”

Steve― Billy could hear him talk, those first weeks. Heard him in between dreams. Heard him call him an asshole, a piece of shit. Could hear him whispering next to his bed, hours and hours sat down in that chair while Billy hadn’t still woken up, not really. ‘Max needs you to come back, so fucking do’ and ‘If you don’t and don’t give me the rematch, you’ll be a fucking chicken, Hargrove’ and ‘I swear I’ll piss on your goddam grave if you don’t’.

Steve’s spent with him all the two hundred and forty-two days that have passed since they took him to this cold, lonely, creepy hospital wing in the colder, lonelier, creepier Hawkins Laboratory, one way or another. On that chair, on his mind, on his heart. Everywhere. King of every single corner of Billy’s mind so―

Billy doesn’t get what the fuck he’s talking about.

He frowns, too weak still, too groggy, to do anything more than that and rasp out a,

“I don’t like, enjoy seeing your stupid face almost every frikin’ day, Harrington, but it ain’t like, it’s actually hurting me I―”

“I. Touched you. And you―” Steve’s tone hitches up, teeth back on his lip and he shouldn’t, shouldn’t be the one biting it “Maybe you didn’t want me to. Not really, because you’re―here and you’re probably― And I. I wanted to. But maybe you didn’t and I― I was the one who. Started it and I―”

“What? No. Don’t―no” suddenly, Billy feels fully awake. Shook out of lethargy. Because Steve can’t think― can’t really think “It wasn’t you. Doesn’t have to do anything with you at least no― not because you. Touched me” he takes a deep breath. Looks Steve in the eye, hard as it is, he does it “I hurt myself, pretty boy, not you”

And it might work because those eyes of his, they always, always speak, once you learn to understand their language. His smile deepens at the corner, dimples blooming like the first of May. Billy wants to get up and soothe the red out that bitten mouth of his.

Steve nods. Once, twice.

“Then why?” he asks, voice hushed and hesitant.

Billy’s heart ignites, pumps shame and fear and adrenaline. The whiteness of the room feeds on the warm golden of the day, it latches on it, devours it. Billy feels both shaken and numb.

“’Cause I thought” he starts. Pauses. He’s got to tear the truth out of him. Open and infected as it feels, the worst of his wounds. Raw and bleeding “I thought they’d fix me. I hoped they’d fix me but― It’s been two hundred and five fucking days and I can barely― do anything I can’t even― I―”

It’s the quietest thing. Slow motion. Steve gets up from that chair, sun blinding. Pulls down Billy’s sheets and his weight dips the mattress, as he lays right next to him and it’s suddenly― mind-blowing, intoxicating, all this life radiating out of him. His warmth, his smell, the heaviness of his presence, that heart-stopping way their foreheads are brushing when he gets real, real close.

Steve pulls the sheets back up.

Brings them over their heads. Reduces the whole universe to this: their breaths mingling, just millimeters apart, the light bump of their knees, his voice the kind of caress that’s water under the desert sun, his face lit up in velvet-like white through the thin fabric.

“What. You can’t even what, Billy”

“I can’t. I still can’t even―” shame. Washes over him. Like a wave, like a starving ocean “Make it work. Not if you don’t touch me”

Steve smiles, fingertips ghosting over his temple, trailing up to his hairline.

“So? Does it really matter? If I wanna do it again? If I want to touch you?”

On him, this alien, unnatural white, looks like the warmest of colors.

“Steve―”

Steve’s hand, it trails down now. Over his paper-thin chest, over millions of invisible scars. It finds its way under the hem of Billy’s gown and into that place between his legs where Billy’s starting to feel wet and hot and heavy.

“Uhm?”

He sighs, full body and shaking, when Steve wraps his hand around him. It feels like relief. Like his skin’s been wantingwantingwanting. Missing. When Steve stars stroking him. Coaxing pleasure out of him but―

Billy grabs his wrist. Makes him stop. Didn't even realize his eyes had closed when he blinks them open and Steve’s looking back at him with that same worry from before back on his face.

“You don’t have to. If you’re doing this for pity you don’t have to―”

“Hargrove” Steve cuts him off. Smiles at him. Presses closer. Makes his heart run so fast it trips on its own beat. “You ain’t been fucking listening, uh?. I said I wanted to” but he― he stops touching him. Makes him moan at the loss when he lets go. “’C’mon, lemme show you” and Billy― his fingers feel barb-wired around Steve’s wrists but he. Lets go. Fingers brushing as Steve switches sides. His finger drawing a light caress upon the pulse on Billy’s wrist, right above the bandage, then curling back around it. He guides Billy’s hand like this, still clutching at him, to in between his own legs and then he―

“Touch me” says, breath hitching up, carrying Billy’s with it “’C’mon. Touch me” and Billy inhales. Deep. Fights the fear circling in his gut and―

“Steve”

Steve’s hard. So hard Billy can feel the way heat throbs, under the thick fabric of his jeans. Pre seeping through with the sweet wetness of it. And he doesn’t but he wants to, touch him. Move his hand and make Steve feel so good as he’s made him feel. His hand feels like crying with the raw desperation of it.

“Does it feel like I don’t want to? Does it feel like pity to you?”

Billy swallows.

“No”

“Say it again”

“No”

“Now what you ain’t saying”

And Billy. Billy says it. Says it with a moan that splits him in two, when Steve rolls his hips into the palm of his hand. Says it with the way his breath breaks out of control when Steve’s lips brush against his. Says it with the way wetness weeps down the inside of his thighs. The way his whole body aches for sliding his finger back where it shouldn’t, open himself up to make space for Steve.

Asks, for it.

“I wanna touch you”

“Ok” Steve nods against his lips and Billy bites his own not to bite him. But it’s Steve who catches his mouth. Who sinks his teeth into him. Who licks at his tongue like he’s the one who’s spent his whole life this hungry and―

Eighteen years. One hundred and forty-two days. He’s survived them. But it’s Steve who destroys him, somehow, right in this moment.

“Ok, baby. Ok. I want you to. I want you to, too”

Somehow, it’s Steve who stitches him back together again.

He unbuttons his jeans. Pulls them to his knees. Lets Billy touch him. And Billy―

Billy never thought it’d feel like this.

Touching another boy. Touching Steve.

He’s as hard as Billy is. Soft like silk against his palm. And it’s electric, when Steve reacts to it. When his voice bleeds into a cry. When he begs his name “Billy, please. Fuck, Billy, please”. When he sucks his tongue and grinds into his hand. Uncoordinated. Almost erratic. Like he’s so hungry for it. Like he’s so desperate.

“Fuck. Come ‘ere” Steve pants, and his palm feels soft and so big, curving along the small of Billy’s back. And Billy can’t even―breathe. When their cocks bump together and then slide. Skin on skin. A burn between their bodies Billy wants to forever grind himself against. And then, for a long, long moment, it’s like he’s been narrowed to this and only this: their heated bodies sticking to the white sheets, breaths becoming shallow, lips and hot spit and tongues and Billy’s teeth catching Steve’s lips until―

“Tell me. How much of a weirdo can I be?” Steve pants, sweat hot and sticky on their foreheads, and under the minuscule igloo of his hospital sheets, Billy feels like he’s suddenly breathing fire.

“All you want” he says, feels his own heartbeat in his throat, loud and heavy.

Steve brings his fingers to his mouth. Waits till Billy opens it. Sinks two of them into it. Three. When Billy opens wider. “Get them all nice and wet for me, baby” Steve whispers, babybabybaby eyes fixed on him, cock dragging against his. And it’s a famelic kind of need, this one Billy feels. The pull to get filledfilledfilled. He swallows around Steve’s fingers, trying to get them deeper, his eyes watering with how stuffed they feel inside his mouth. Chokes out a cry when Steve takes them out, shhs him, kissing him brief before offering the palm of his hand for him to lick. And he tastes like salt and anticipation and like Billy, like the way they’re both aching between their legs.

Steve brings his hand down. Wraps it around the head of their two cocks. Strokes them together and it’s― fuck. It’s like nothing, nothing Billy’s ever felt. Because he knew, the moment he laid eyes on Steve. That it would forever haunt him: the possibility of Steve’s touch. The absence of it. This recurrent dream about how his name would taste on Steve’s lips and he’s got it. Right here and now. Everything. Everything.

Steve arches his neck backwards, moans at that same touch. Cries out at the feel of Billy’s teeth on his throat.

Everything.

Says:

“Billy I― Billy I want―”

“Yeah?”

Steve’s hand works them faster and the feeling cuts through him, the exhilaration of being on knife’s edge, so close he can taste it. He tangles his bandaged hand in Steve’s hair, brings his mouth back. Wants to never stop kissing him. And Steve laughs, gasps. Feeds on Billy’s breath.

“I want to get you out of this fucking place. I want―” Hips thrusting, rhythm crooked. His hand slick and perfect, slippery with saliva and precum “Want us to make the biggest mess out of my bed. And I want you to stay, Billy. With me. ‘Cause I can’t stay with you in here and I― I wanna―”

Billy kisses and kisses and kisses him. Because in Steve’s words there’s no pity. There’s no shame.

“I wanna touch you. Like this like― everything, Billy. Every way I can”

And then he kisses him back, and kisses him back, and kisses him back. Keeps on touching him like nobody else’s ever before. In all those ways nobody’s ever before. And his body, his wasted, broken body, feels like it’s blooming under Steve’s touch, feels as if life is something you can caress into somebody's skin, kiss into somebody’s lips. Steve breathes life into his lungs and Billy’s there, right there. Alive inside his own body since longer than he can remember and then. Steve says it again, Baby, like a spell, “Baby. ‘Cmon, baby, I know you’re right there” licks it into Billy’s mouth. “I want to feel you. Billy, baby” Makes him shiver with it. Draws him closer to the edge “I want you to cum all over me, please, baby, please” and Billy’s moaning, fucking into Steve’s fist, cumming with his nails dug deep into Steve’s back and sobbing into his mouth and Steve’s cumming too, hot and thick and filthy and fucking perfect, making a mess of Billy’s impeccably pure bedding, of all the stupid shit plaguing Billy’s head, making him feel like it really doesn’t fucking matter, how broken he might be, how beyond repair, if he’s got Steve’s hands to hold him like this, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, just like this. Call him baby. Keep all his pieces close together with all the care in the world, like they’re more than enough, for him.

“I wanna be with you, too” he whispers, his palm spread down the back of his neck, lips on his. Right at this moment, Billy feels like he ain’t ever gonna be able to let go of him “Steve. Fuck—you. You got no idea―”

“But I do. God, Billy I do” Steve breathes out a tiny laugh, it tastes like sunlight on his lips “I’ve been counting the days. Till you woke up and then. Till maybe one day I could. Kiss you. I could. Touch you like this” he reaches out to trace the shape of Billy’s mouth with his fingertips “I’ll count them to that day you’ll come with me, now”

Billy kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. There’s nothing else he can do. Nothing else he wants to ever do. Somewhere outside the daylight-white of their little fortress of sheets, the emergency light above the door of his room flickers, the clock on the wall ticks its way to two hundred and six. When the night nurse comes to check on him, Steve earns himself a pass to stay way, way beyond visiting hours.

“He fell asleep on me. Don’t wanna wake him up” he whispers, and Billy knows it was that smile that did the trick when the door clicks close one second later.

“I’m not” Billy mumbles into his chest, his voice dense and drowsy. Can't remember ever feeling so warm.

“But you’re about to, baby” Steve laughs softly into his ear and―

Billy burrows against him and sighs, not giving him the satisfaction to hear what Billy already knows: he’s gonna be the best sleeping pill Billy’s ever had.

Two hundred and six days after Billy woke up, he falls asleep in Steve’s arms.

#harringrove #xharringrove

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coffeedepressionsoup · 6 months

Text

Somebody Does Love | MYG - They Meet Again

Pairing - Yoongi x F!reader

Summary - "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Two people are in love but that is not enough because sometimes loving requires courage. This is the one where fate plays games and Sammy plays Cupid. Part 3 of Somebody Does Love.

Series Masterlist

Genre - fluff, strangers to lovers, eventual smut and angst

Word count - 2.2k

Warnings - lil swearing, SMOKING IS INJURIOUS TO HEALTH! nothing else I can think of

Ratings - 13+

Taglist: @majiiisstuff @starlighttaek8 @yoongrace @proudnoona

A/N - I have been in some of the worst times folks. Slipped back into depression. Lost people. Learnt lessons. Still very much in love with our honey boy though. The day I wrote this was one of the very bad days and I am typing this note through my hazy glasses because of these bloody tears. Excuse the typos, and grammar errors. Do not have the energy to proofread. Please be kind. Do like, comment and reblog. Thank you! Here goes nothing.

What was he thinking? Just how drunk was he? Why is he considering going? It’s just a jacket. He has dozens of those. Yoongi nervously bounced his legs as the rest of his body sat very still on the dressing room chair. Two different brushes - no one brush and a sponge - were being lightly tapped against his face now and a pair of hands were insistently tugging at his half-wet hair trying to style it. This was the last look for a magazine cover shoot. Even as he stared straight into the mirror, he thought back to a small cat and their rescuer.

The next hour and forty minutes passed agonisingly slow. As soon as the director announced wrap, Yoongi was up and halfway out of the satin shirt he was in. By the time he reached the dressing room, he discarded it completely. Soojin, his manager, rushed in after him and asked as he shut the door, “You are really going?”

Yoongi placed the rings and earrings he had taken off on Soojin’s extended hands and nodded as he put his own t-shirt on.

“It is too public, Yoongi-ah…” the older gentleman tried to reason one last time as he saw the other scrub his face hastily off with a few makeup removal wipes.

“How will they know?” the rapper turned around, now having completed his outfit with a cap, a sunglass and a mask.

“They know you by the shape of your head and the size of your shoulder. You really want to risk it?”

“I am not risking anything. You are driving me there,” Yoongi said with a smirk evident in his tone.

Soojin was left looking at the open door of the dressing room that now had the stylist and a couple of other members of the crew walk in. He handed over the jewellery he was holding from earlier, bid goodbye and jogged off to his car.

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

You were sat at the cafe sipping on your second latte of the evening. Tapping on your screen to check the time, you let out a yawn. 6:53. Well, maybe you could excuse an hour’s delay. Weekend traffic. Maybe he overslept? As much as you were grateful to Yong-ho, you were also hoping to see his face today. There are not many things you know about him. He has a deep, soothing voice. He smells nice. He is rich enough to casually wear designer jackets. He is kind, helpful and polite. Thoughtful. He is also quite patient. And his eyes. His eyes were beautiful. Solemn but with a shine that could make someone comfortable.

Comfortable. Why did a stranger you met for half an hour register as comfortable to you? Your phone chimed. A message from Sammy. - Done yet? “Still waiting” - Wtf

- I don’t think he will show up then - I told you it’s a perfect fit for me

- Let me keep it

You chuckled at the series of messages.

“I will wait till 7:30”

- Then meet me directly at Hajoon’s place

- I will put out food for Ash

“Thanks, man. See ya soon” You closed the chat and smiled down at your wallpaper. Ash fast asleep on Woolfie’s back. The kitten and the dog had gotten along exceptionally well. After Woolfie peed on the kitchen floor when baby Ash hissed at him from Sammy’s lap on the first night, there had been no major issues. Ash had tried once to drink from the dog’s bowl the next day and had fallen into it. You fetched her out and dried her up with a hand towel, and the rest of it, Woolfie had licked clean. That night was the first time they napped together.

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

Yoongi sat on the floor near the sofa where Yijeong and Hoseok were playing FC24. Hoseok was leading by 3 goals. Yijeong almost threw his controller at him in frustration, as the rest of the small group around them chuckled and watched the game progress.

Yoongi also stared at the screen but his mind wandered far away from the game and his friends. His hands absent-mindedly tugged at the inseam of his jeans.

As Soojin pulled up in front of the cafe earlier that evening, he could feel the sweat drip down his spine inside the air-conditioned car. He stared for a few seconds at the road in front of the car before turning his head towards the cafe you had agreed to meet at. As if it was an attempt to allow himself to catch a breath and just appear cool, just in his own head. A failed attempt at that.

Even though he turned to look at the cafe from his car seat, he had not expected you to sit right at the window from where he was parked not even 4 whole metres away. Thankfully you were facing sideways, staring at something inside the cafe that Yoongi could not see. If only you were to turn towards the window to your left, your line of vision would directly collide with the tinted window of Yoongi’s car.

Soojin coughed lightly from beside him. Yoongi only blinked a couple of times before he shut his slightly agape mouth and swallowed the breath that he didn’t know was stuck at his throat. He saw your face move down towards the table, presumably where your phone was. Phone. Why didn’t he exchange numbers back then? He knows why. Well, he could have given Soojin’s number at least. They could arrange for a more discreet pickup.

Fuck the pickup. Yoongi had half forgotten that this meeting was about picking up the jacket he had lent you to wrap the rescued kitten in. Sure, that was the reason he gave Soojin that morning when he said he had to make a stop after the shoot. But for the whole weekend, his head had been clouded with your face. And your cooing voice at the kitten. And your bright smile as you introduced yourself. And the smell of your perfume and/or your shampoo that encircled you.

Looking forward to Sunday evening, he felt a tightness in his chest and stomach that could have been mistaken for trapped gas. But he knew this feeling all too well. It was anticipation. He has felt it for years ahead of each show or some big live interviews. He would also feel it once for someone he used to date. But that is what is odd.

Sunday evening was not a date. Hell, he even felt creeped out by the fact that his feelings mirrored something akin to what he would feel like in anticipation of dates. Of course, it wasn’t even his intention to turn a simple transaction meeting into a date. But he had also not expected the sleepless nights that followed meeting you. And the half-written lyrics of a song on his phone. Nor did he expect the feeling of missing somebody he had exchanged less than 20 lines of dialogue with.

When you had asked how to return his jacket, he almost wanted to say that you didn’t need to. Luckily, even within the first second, his mind deemed it too off-handed of a statement to make and he saw the cafe logo in his peripheral vision. Before he started overthinking and/or asked to exchange numbers, he pointed at the cafe and said, “How about we meet at that cafe on Sunday evening?”

And there he was. Outside the cafe. On Sunday evening. Almost having a panic attack in the safe confines of his car.

He could walk out of the car and into the cafe. He could walk up to you and say hello. He could make small talk for a couple of minutes. He could take back his jacket and thank you politely. He could then walk back out.

He could. But he didn’t want to.

He did not want to make small talk with you. He wanted to know how you were doing. How your days have been. If you have spent the three nights just as sleeplessly. He also wanted to know how the kitten was doing. How the two of you were getting along. If you had any other pets. If yes, how many. If all of them were getting along. If the pets had another parent. He wanted to ask you so many things and he wanted to hear you say so much.

The cafe was not at its busiest. Even from where Yoongi was, he could see a few empty tables. He drew in a deep breath and placed his fingers lightly on the door, preparing to open it.

It was at that very moment that you turned to your left, looking out of the cafe through the window you were sitting next to. You glanced down momentarily at what presumably again was your phone and looked back out the window. 6:18. You looked at people milling around the street outside the cafe.

But to Yoongi, you were looking right at where he was. The concept of his tinted glass windows disappeared from his comprehension as he (seemingly) held your gaze and fluttered one of his hands over Soojin’s arm, urging him to drive off. Alert as ever, the elder man started driving promptly. Yoongi “held” your gaze for as long as he could till he bumped his head against the car window, closing his eyes, inhaling and exhaling in quick succession trying to even his breathing.

He slowly slumped back down against the passenger seat of the car and unclenched the hand that he did not realise until now was clamping down on one of his knees. He stared ahead at the Sunday evening Seoul traffic, shivering a little from feeling some of his sweat dry up. Soojin turned to him at the next red light and said, “Don’t worry, Joon will understand.”

Nothing more was said in the whole car ride up to his friend’s place. Soojin dropped him off and went back to drop the car off at Yoongi’s building before heading to his own place. Yoongi had planned to drive back home with Hobi. They lived in the same building after all.

Joon will understand. Joon will understand?Joon will not even know that the jacket he gifted his hyung last year was missing unless Yoongi told him so.

He wasn’t thinking about Joon. Nor was he thinking about the jacket. Of course, he wasn’t.

He was thinking about your slightly impatient gaze. You bun sitting lightly at the nape of your neck. Your hands that you briefly rested your face on. Your face. You. He was thinking about you. Like he had for more than than the past two days.

He was thinking about where you were now. What you were doing. What you were thinking. What you decided to do with the jacket. If you threw it at a random trash or kept it with you. If you were cursing him. If you were complaining about him to a friend.

He felt a cramp in his stomach that is usually indicative of nervous diarrhoea. He felt like a dick. For having stood you up, yes. But he was also disappointed at having chickened out. Maybe if he had not waited in his car at all, it would have gone over smoothly. Maybe if you hadn’t looked out at him (his general direction) he would not have freaked out. He tried to tell himself that it was too crowded. He was too tired. And not a coward because of his stupid, random, huge ass crush on Y/N Y/LN. Someone he only met for half an hour. And spent almost all of it watching her bond with a stray kitten by her side.

He looked up as he felt a slight kick on his back. He realised he was staring at a static screen and that his friends had all gathered over the pizzas that had now arrived. He had not noticed when even though he was the closest to the door. He got up and was making his way towards the rest of the group when the doorbell rang.

Yoongi stopped and turned around. He was the closest to the door after all. None of the others seemed to bother reacting to it anyway. He walked to the door and froze as he saw the person on the ring machine. He knew he was supposed to press a single button to unlock the door. He knew which button it was. But his head and his hands refused to cooperate. He stood frozen for a couple of seconds, staring at the screen in front of him, until the bell rang again.

Yoongi thought he heard this ring in a more muffled way as if it was coming from far away.

It wasn’t until the third ring that someone else left the group, half a slice of pizza stuffed in his mouth and half in his hand walked towards the door, that Yoongi could hear everything normally again.

“Must be Y/N,” Hajoon called out, patting Yoongi on the back, and reaching over his shoulder to open the door.

After the small beep, you walked in, almost bumping into someone’s chest.

#min yoongi #bts fic #bts suga #min yoongi x reader #suga #yoongi #yoongi fic #bts x reader

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kattreffic · 11 months

Text

I didn’t see a lot of Ghost wallpaper I liked so I made some ^^ Hope somebody likes them. These ones are mainly Sodo/Dewdrop.

Pls don’t repost these without my permission anywhere else. Thank you <3

#per sodo eriksson #sodo ghost #dewdrop ghost #dewdrop ghoul #sodo ghoul #ghost band #wallpaper #don’t repost

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polarizefinn · 7 months

Text

A GUIDE TO SERENDIPITYS FALL: a short story

a little bit'a angst :^) artist hyunjin x gn!reader notice: 0.7k words, wrote this in a span of like 15ish minutes, may be messy (are we surprised?)

warning: mentions of nudity, bitchesz broken hearts fr and scars.

deep breath. in, out.

as much as youd like to believe that time heals all wounds, youd like to believe that this one had completely disappeared by now.

the person who you were addicted to, who you couldnt insist on letting go from your life broke your heart, yet your feet guided you here. his first official exhibition, which you promised to him over a year ago that youd attend no matter what.

you stare at the art gallery in front of you, the glass doors seeming to expose the long hallway before it, at the end a big room extending to the sides.

the walls of the place seeming decorated with spectacular pieces, wallpapers glistening and making the place seem heavenly. you push the door open, taking it all in.

the air here feels heavier, richer - sort of.

you walk down the long hallway, with each step your shoulders loosening, your breath alligning and your ears starting to lose the overwhelming sense of hearing your heartbeat.

you reach the end, allowing yourself to take in the canvases, almost a lifelong worth of work all in one space. the amount of people here doesnt shock you, hes always been loved. still, he couldnt fit the part of being the lover.

you walk to the far left, starting from the beginning and working your way up to observe all the paintings, as if you havent seen most of them already.

you giggle at the first couple of unfinished pieces, admiring a bit how he had always left some unfinished on purpose,

"i have other things to focus on."

the ones after explore life, nature, the sky. things that are simply beautiful, things that build more imagination, things that are simple yet hard to understand.

"look, do you see it the way i see it?"

pain, humiliation, flowers. flowers had meanings, he taught you. the one time he got some for you, he apologised for it.

"i didnt envision that this would end up hurting you instead."

as you reach the last couple of paintings, you spot the artist.

the group around him listening intently to his words, his explanation for the newest painting.

as you look at it closer, your head starts spinning and you feel tears filling your eyes.

deep breath, in and out. you repeat over and over to yourself.

you look up again and confirm - the painting is of you.

your nude body, a photo you sent to him when he was still a somebody to your life, when you thought you meant so much more than a piece of artwork.

you put your hands in your pockets, looking from afar. you couldnt help but to overhear his explanation, the description of the inspiration earning a chant of "ooh"s.

"and who were they to you?"

you hear a man asking.

you turn to look at hyunjin, his head tilting slightly to look at the man, as a smile creeps up on his face. he looks at the painting again, that goddamn smile still stuck to his face.

"they were merely a muse, nothing more."

and there it was.

how could the same person have the guts, have the fucking guts to break your heart enough times that you can start counting them?

you tried to say something. you tried, but couldnt. your stomach filling up with anxiety and embarrassment instead of butterflies upon hearing his voice.

as much as you hated to admit it, he was something you considered otherworldly. but very slowly, and painfully you came to realise that his weakness was his art, his fondness to you seemed to be replaced.

until you merged as one, and you had to step away from that picture, promising yourself that you wont let yourself be someone elses second choice.

you promised him youd come here, no matter what. didnt he remember?

you became his object, his composition. this time you werent there to stop it, to tell him that youd rather be a distant memory, than now a new collectors item.

that, and he forgot to paint the scar on your wrist from the thorn of the rose. the unrequited love flower, remember?

#stray kids imagine #stray kids oneshot #stray kids #hyunjin #hyunjin imagine #hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin #angst #reader is gender neutral #bang chan #lee know #changbin #han jisung #seungmin #lee felix #jeongin #x reader

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cleromancy · 2 months

Note

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.

#dc #roydick #dick and jason #dick and donna #ex child star au #dick grayson

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