americanaspacecadet

[americanaspacecadet]

lay all your love on me - sapnap

posted: july 15th, 2021 ship: sapnap/f!reader fandom: YouTube RPF rating: mature desc: [Now, you knew that Nick was mouthy; whether it was the chirps he’d shout during League matches, or the backtalk he’d hit you or Clay with when he got a little too cocky, he made sure to stand his ground and throw his weight around a bit. But this kind of mouthy? It’s a bit more physical.](AKA, the five times Sapnap bites platonically, and the one time it’s romantic.) tags: 5+1 Things, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Childhood Friends, House Party, Halloween, i drop a lot of song titles in this, yes i suggest listening to all of them ❤️, First Kiss, Making Out, Fist Fights, Biting, Possessive Sapnap, No use of y/n word count: 8.5k the original can be read HERE, on AO3 [notes]: doctor diagnosed me with down bad for texas boy, now here we are :] sorry it's been a hot minute, hope y'all enjoy <3

—A—

     It both feels like forever ago and just two seconds when you think about the day that you and Nick first met — tag-teaming other players while duo-ing on Mineplex’s Survival Games server. The two of you were thrown into a team by chance, the name Pandascanpvp blinking like a yield light in your peripheral. Your parents always said to never trust strangers, especially online, but seeing your survival games partner willingly whisper his Skype username to you? Well, who were you to say no?

As the two of you got older, your tastes changed: Nick moved onto CS:GO and League, Minecraft on the back burner, while you got more into the performing and fine arts at your high school. Late night calls became far and few between, the last one occurring the night before the two of you were supposed to head off to different colleges, half-way across the States from one another.

     “You won’t forget me, right?”

     You sniffle, faking a laugh. “Like I could ever forget you, Nicky. Who else can I trust to back me in a Survival Games match?”

     “You still remember that?” His voice pitches up gently, a soft tone of surprise. “I still can’t believe that that’s how we met.”

     “Better start believing,” You tease. “And I’m still glad we did.”

The night thereafter devolves into spiraling down memory lane, both of you wishing tearful goodbyes once the clock struck three am.

You lost touch after that one; well, for a couple years.

Then, your Twitter account chimed with a direct message notification.

     Hey, it’s Nick! Been a bit, huh?

Your heart caught in your throat as the two of you rapidly messaged back and forth, hints of something you’d buried long ago beginning to take root once more, blooming vibrantly in your chest. It took less than an hour of frantic messages for the two of you to catch up, a little over that hour for Nick to explain Discord to you.

And a few months after that, you moved in with him and Clay.

It took some time to get used to — you’d been living on your own since college started, only changing it up when you moved back in with your parents during the summers — but you couldn’t be happier.

       Now, you knew that Nick was mouthy; whether it was the chirps he’d shout during League matches, or the backtalk he’d hit you or Clay with when he got a little too cocky, he made sure to stand his ground and throw his weight around a bit.

But this kind of mouthy? It’s a bit more physical.

  —I— 

     The first time he play-bites you, it’s over the last piece of baklava.

His mom had brought the large bags of ingredients when she’d visited the other day, grinning from ear to ear as she hustled towards the front door.

     “So this is the lovely girl my Nicky always talks about!”

     “Momma, please ,” he whines, “I have a reputation to maintain.”

     “Not when I come to visit,” She retorts. “Where’s Clay?”

     “Right here ma’am,” he smiles, waving from the kitchen. “Happy to have you!”

The four of you spent the afternoon in that same room, a chorus of bubbling pots and pans and warm laughter filling the air as you and Clay learned different recipes from Nick’s mom.

You can’t quite put your finger on it, but there was something about cooking with the rest of them that settled a perfect warmth in your ribcage. Maybe it was the way Clay’s eyes lit up at the taste of dolmades he so carefully put together; or maybe it was the care that Nick put into kneading out the dough for the baklava, his big hands carefully pressing at the edges of the pastry. Or was it the way Nick’s mom seemed to grin a little brighter when her son stayed glued to your side, guiding your cooking with gentle words over your shoulder?

Regardless, you’d fallen in love with how warm the house had become.

The three of you dug into the meals you’d made while she chipped away at dishes, denying help no matter how many times any of you offered.

     “Shush, go eat your well-earned snacks. I’m just happy to feel like a full-nester again.”

       It’s a couple days after she leaves that Nick gets territorial over the food, like some kind of feral dog.

     “Nicky, down ,” you tease, reaching for the pan of baklava tucked neatly into the pantry. “You ate, like, half the pan. Let me have the last piece.”

     “Can’t we just split it?” He’s whiny now, setting his chin on your shoulder while his arms sneak around your sides. “Half ‘n half, c’mon…”

     “Nicholas, seriously,” you spin in his hold, sliding the pan onto the counter with one hand while the palm of the other presses against his mouth. “Stop being greedy.”

He steps back by an inch, and you think you’ve won the argument, when —

     “ NICK! ” you yelp, pushing his face away. “You bit me!”

     “Not that hard, jeez,” he grumbles, and takes your hand to hold back towards you. “See! No bite marks!”

     “Sap, dude, just kiss her already,” Clay retorts, stepping into the room while you both squawk at him. “Ooh, pog. You got the snacks out. I’ll be taking that.”

     “Clay no —”

     “Dude!”

But the blond simply raises the pan above both of your heads, a taunting smirk on his tan face.

     “I’m gonna eat this. Go flirt somewhere else.”

  —II—

     The second time he bites you, it’s in retaliation.

The two of you were spending the afternoon in the media room, controllers in hand while insults and swears flew back and forth between you. It’d been a couple months since the Baklava Incident, as you’d described it to Niki.

     “Stop fucking bumping into me!”

     “Get out of my way then!”

You shove your shoulder against his when he runs his go-kart into yours again, knocking you off of the track.

     “Dude!”

     “You’re just mad that I’m better at Rainbow Road than you are,” he taunts.

     “You’re only better because you keep shoving like a child ,” you emphasize, steering yourself back into second place. “Get out of first, you cheater.”

     He mockingly gasps at you. “How dare you call me a cheater.”

     “I dare, because you keep pulling the same shit!”

He sticks his tongue out at you, slowing down enough to bump you off one last time before winning the race. You throw the controller to your feet before leaning back with a groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

     “You’re so mean to me. You’re such a bully. What did I ever do to you to deserve this.”

He laughs at that, dropping his controller and turning off the SNES before slinging an arm over your shoulder. He tries to pull you over to his side of the couch, but you protest, pushing the ball of your foot into his side before scooting away.

     “C’mon,” he drawls. “You can’t be that mad.”

     “Don’t touch me,” you retort playfully, pushing at him again. “I don’t want to be tainted by a cheater .”

     “ Tainted? ” he says, then laughs. “You’re so upset over Mario Kart of all things, sheesh. Big baby.”

You curl up in defiance, narrowing your eyes at him from across the couch while he watches from the other end.

     “D’aww, baby’s pouting,” he teases, but his voice is soft. You hate the way your stomach fills with butterflies. “C’mere, c’mon, we’ll hug it out.”

Nick’s eyebrows furrow when you stay in your corner, eyes flickering with something you can’t place.

     “Fine. If you won’t come to me...” he trails off, then, “I guess I gotta go to you.”

You get one chance to blink before Nick lunges, scooping you into his arms with a victorious cackle. You yelp, wiggling and writhing to try and break his grasp while he laughs. But his grip only tightens, his chin hooking over your shoulder while his arms squeeze your waist.

     “Submit,” he whispers, laughter in his voice.

     “I surrender to no man,” you reply, giggles bubbling in your ribs, and roll the two of you off of the couch.

Boxing in his chest with your legs, you sit squarely on his stomach, victory in your eyes.

     “I win,” you declare. “And I didn’t cheat.”

Nick rolls his eyes in retort, folding his arms behind his head and placing his feet flat against the floor while staring you down. You hold his gaze, sharper than glass, but the fight falters when you see the look in his eyes change, can feel the way the air shifts between the two of you. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for Nick — he’s handsome, sweet, and the two of you have a bond that could rival his and Clay’s — but the idea of acting on it, even for an advantage, feels illegal. So when he slowly pushes himself up, shifting you onto his lap and leaning so close, close enough you swear you can taste the mint of his toothpaste and the chocolate of the M&M’s he’d been chewing on, the butterflies in your stomach turn to bees and make you feel sick.

But he simply sits there, breathing you in with his forearms against your hips, eyes lidded.

He lets out a quiet, strained breath in the moment after, a muddy combination of something flicking through his eyes before he breaks your gaze, dropping his head to rest his cheek onto your shoulder. He hugs you loosely, carefully, so you bring your arms around him in return.

     Your nails scratch gently against his back. “You okay, Nick?”

He hums, non-committal, and moves to set his chin back to where it’d been before. You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, worried about him, when you feel the smirk that presses against your shoulder.

     A sudden sense of deja vu runs through you. “Nick…”

You smack the back of his head when he bites down, the hard line of his teeth pushing at the fabric of your hoodie, barely pressing into the skin. You shove away from him.

     “Bro, what is wrong with you?”

But he only giggles in return, laying back on the floor with a shit-eating smirk. 

  —III—

     The third time he bites you, he’s drunk.

Going to the basement rager wasn’t your idea — instead, Nick made you tag along as his plus one, claiming that he was ‘afraid of getting approached by random girls’.

So, essentially, you played arm candy.

Which was fun, at the start; Nick got to play up the alpha card by showing you off to random people you’ve never met, and you got to deflate his ego by telling said strangers that the two of you are completely platonic. The two of you roamed around like that for a while, until the White Claws, Bud Lights, and wine coolers caught up and glued you both to the ratty couch near the back of the room; a smile on your face as you tucked yourself into Nick’s side, your head on his shoulder. Clay and Alex had squished in moments later, lighting up at your familiar faces. A few more people flocked to the couch a little bit after, making a semi-circle around the weed-infused landing spot. You mostly zoned out from the conversation around you, nearly cross-faded from the amount of smoke in the air.

Your eyes drift closed as the conversation ticks onwards, the music seeping into more low-key pop, Glass Animals’ cover of ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ rumbling through the subwoofers and mid-ranges peppered around the cinderblock walled basement. Wrapping an arm around Nick’s shoulders to get more comfortable, you settle with stretching your legs over his lap and pressing your face into the column of his neck. The laughter in his chest buzzes like comfortable static against the right side of your body, your heart skipping a beat when he easily shifts you fully into his lap, carefully angling himself into your former corner of the couch. His hand comes up to rest on your shin, the other tracing circles and squares over your denim-clad thigh with the pad of his thumb.

Your eyes sluggishly blink open when his teeth nip at the outer shell of your ear, moving down to mouth at the dangly silver cross earring you struggled to put back in your ear before the party.

     “Whatcha doin’ mouthy?” your voice is a murmur, careful to not startle the pretty boy beneath you.

     “Jus’ gettin’ a taste,” he slurs, his teeth tracing up your ear. “Sweet as southern sugar, darlin’.”

Your body rushes with heat, fizzes with the sting of alcohol in your system. But there’s something about the brunet pressed against you that’s more intoxicating than any drink you’ve had through the night — and maybe sober you would be worried, should be worried, since he’s your best friend — but inebriated you is more than content with staying right where he’s got you.

  —IV—

The fourth time he bites you, you think you might be letting him get away with a little too much.

Clay’s out of town, gone for the week for a family reunion he wasn’t allowed to skip — which left you and Nick alone, on opposite ends of the house.

You call Niki and Cara mid-afternoon of the third day, a few days after the rager. Your camera’s on, your headset secured tightly to your head, the attached mic hanging just before your mouth so you could pace while ranting.

     “And that’s all that happened! No follow-up!” Your voice was hushed, fearing the consequence of alerting the cause of the problem: Nick. “It’s like he’s just toying with me.”

     “Maybe you should flirt with Dream — er, Clay — instead,” Cara jokes. “Sorry, habit. But seriously! Make him notice!”

     “But he was drunk,” you counter, “so who knows what was going through his head.”

The other girls hum, watching as you sit down in your desk chair and set your face in your hands.

     “I just don’t know what to do,” you whimper. “I’ve liked him for literal years, but I just know it’s not gonna go anywhere.”

     “I wouldn’t say that,” Niki returns, balancing her chin in her hand. “Did you watch or hear anything from last night’s stream? Especially on Twitter?”

     “Oh my god,” Cara murmurs. “I thought the stans were going to go nuclear for a hot minute last night.”

     “What did Nick do this time?”

     “I just think you should look at Twitter, see for yourself. Maybe check the vod while you’re at it.”

The two girls leave with quick goodbyes, dismissing themselves to go about their day while wishing you the best. You sigh, clicking into your browser before checking the trending tab — and your eyes nearly pop out of your head at the top result.

     “ Sapnap GIRLFRIEND ?” You have to fight to keep your voice down. “What the fuck ?”

Scrolling through the tab until you find an audio clip, captioned with a simple ‘weirdchamp dono, but pog for sapnap??’, you turn up the volume, and slowly sit further forward in your chair.

     “ ‘aye big daddy sap, are you a horse? ‘cause i wanna tame you and ride you forever’, ” the automated voice for donations drones, followed by a scoff, and a sharp, commanding “Enough of the lewd donos, chat. I’m not hooking up with a fan. Get over yourself; I’m happy with who I’ve got now.”

Your stomach twists with something toxic, bitter and foreign, and you find yourself headset-less and standing outside Nick’s door in a blink. You open his door with little second thought, letting it swing open wildly. The man in question nearly leaps from his chair, eyes wide with surprise and a tinge of fear as you storm towards his desk.

     “Bro, when the fuck did you get a girlfriend?”

He blinks owlishly at you, dumbfounded. “I did what?”

     “Oh, I don’t know, will the clip from last night’s stream that took Twitter over like a fucking dust storm jog your memory?”

He blushes immediately , his skin painting itself a candied pink from the tips of his ears down to his chin.

     “Ah,” he squeaks, quietly. “That.”

     “Yeah. What, did you meet her at the rager?” You’re wracking your brain now. “No, no way, you were attached to me the whole time like a kicked puppy...”

You miss the way the brunet fidgets while you rant, his eyes skimming over you — over the threadbare zip-up hoodie of his that you’d stolen, thrown over a random lace bra from the back of your drawer, the short spandex shorts clinging to your thighs and hips — and he winces again when your voice stops abruptly.

     “Nick, are you even listening?”

     “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he chokes out, clearing his throat when your eyebrow raises. “I mean, I like someone, I just… I wanted the chat to stop being gross.”

You huff, running a hand through your hair before flopping backwards onto Nick’s bed.

     “Look, you don’t have to tell me who she is, I guess,” you decide, fighting the green monster in your veins. “Just… promise me she won’t come between us?” You wince when the brunet just stares at you. “Actually, you know what, forget I said anything. I’m gonna go make some tacos from that kit Clay picked up, and —”

Your rambling cuts off when Nick plops down next to you, his temple bumping against yours.

     “You know that’d never happen, right?” He’s quiet, withdrawn. “I love you too much.”

     Not in the way I want , you think. “I know.”

     “Thanks, Han,” he snorts, and bumps his head against yours again. “We should have a rematch from the last time we wrestled.”

You flicker back in time, a few months ago, to the mesmerizing glaze in his eyes, the weight of his arms against your sides.

     And yet, you bite the bullet. “Loser has to make lunch.”

     He grins. “Deal.”

Nick pounces the moment after, laughter filling his room as he pins you in an instant. His arms find purchase around your legs, the scruff on his chin tickling your stomach when he settles to look at you.

     “You remember what I did the first time we wrestled together?”

     “What, when I first moved in?” Your brows furrow. “Hang on, I actually don’t —”

Your heart races when his lips press against the heated skin of your stomach, only for you to attempt to get away with laughter in your lungs as he blows out, the childish sound ringing through the room.

     “Nick, stop! Sto-op it!” But the grin on your face is like liquid gold to him, like someone had taken the Sun and condensed it into one girl’s glowing face: yours. So he continues, tickling and teasing, before sneaking a bite at the well-loved skin. You smack his head in retort, giggles still wracking your frame while he grins at you.

     “I’m gonna bite you back,” you threaten, ruffling his hair before you drop backwards. “One of these days, Nicky…”

     “Nah, I don’t taste good.”

     “Ah, you’re probably right. I’m sure you taste like stale chips and gamer grease.”

     He gasps, pulling away with a mock-offended frown. “Don’t make me bite you again.”

     “Gotta catch me first, stinklet.”

And you shove the brunet off of you, booking it to the kitchen with him hot on your heels. 

  —V—

     The other shoe falls at the Halloween party.

Clay sits in your assigned bedroom in the rented house with you as you finish prepping, rolling a rubber bouncy ball between the tips of his fingers while you color-match your eyeshadow with your costume. You look up at him through the mirror of the vanity when he scoffs, his eyes narrowed at his phone.

     “Karl says the party’s BYOB.”

     “And we’re fresh out,” you return, sighing. “En-route booze run? We don’t really have time to go beforehand, unless you wanna go.”

     “I’ve been told I don’t have good taste,” Clay snorts. “We’ll just pick some up on our way there — there’s a corner store five minutes from where Jimmy’s hosting the party.”

     “Nick said he wants Coors, so we’ll get a case of that. I’m also thinking some Claws and a couple box wines, just to change it up a bit.”

Clay nods, standing up from his perch on the edge of your bed, and heads for the door.

     “Party starts at eight, so we should probably leave around… seven?”

     “Six-thirty,” you reply. “The BnB’s a bit further away than I first thought. We’ll start getting ready around quarter to five, ‘kay?”

     “I’ll let Nick know,” he nods, then shuts the door behind him. He re-enters after a moment. “You’re still helping me get ready, right?”

     “Of course! I’ll need help too.”

     “What about Nick?” He pauses. “Wait…”

     Your eyes widen. “You heard nothing.”

But a grin slips over his face nevertheless, and you find yourself shouting at him to keep his mouth shut as he runs from your room.

       “Okay, dude, you have to put the bodysuit on first.”

     Clay wrinkles his nose, wincing. “It looks so tight , though.”

     “And yet you insist on wearing the corset.” You roll your eyes. “Suck it up and put on the leather, Minecraft boy.”

He grumbles, again, but wiggles his hips enough to get costume on, roughly tugging the chest piece into the right spot. You pick up the corset from your vanity once he’s set, wrapping it around his torso before lacing the back.

     “I’m gonna tighten it, ‘kay? Take a deep breath, hold it, then tell me when to stop.”

He follows your instructions as you say them, breathing out a ‘stop’ once you’ve pulled the ties tight. Tying a bow at the base of his spine, you spin him towards the mirror, and grin at his bewildered expression.

     “Wait, hold on,” Clay’s face splits into a wild smile. “I’m kinda hot.”

     “Does this mean I get to put the bunny tail on you too?”

     He thinks, then, “Why not? You’re doing my makeup too, right?”

     “Yeah, gimme a sec.”

You spend the next little while dolling Clay up, fastening the tail to the clip on his tailbone and placing the bunny-eared headband on his head. He holds surprisingly still as you do his makeup, smoking out and lining his eyes with wide flicks of eyeliner.

     “Red or black?”

     “Black,” he says, and jokingly purses his lips when you pick up the tube of lipstick.

     “Feeling brave enough for heels?”

     “Duh. I didn’t put the fishnets on for nothing, dude.”

You laugh, passing him the heels before picking up your own costume. While the others had gone with joke costumes — Clay as a Playboy bunny, Karl and Alex as Finn and Jake from Adventure Time, and Nick as a vampire — yours had a bit more thought into it. After all, what’s the point of Halloween if you aren’t going all out?

Looking down at your costume now, though, you feel a little intimidated: a strapless bronze and leather bodice with a short layered waterfall skirt, adorned with various belts and straps that criss-cross your torso and the top of your hips stares back at you, the metallic details glimmering in the low light seeping in from the window. You pick at the pre-ripped tights you’d put on earlier, biting your thumbnail.

     “You’ll look great,” Clay says, placating. “Nick’s not gonna know what hit him.”

     “That’s not— I’m not— why— shut up.”

The blond wheezes, patting your back before shoving his feet into the custom-made heels. You step into the dress, pulling it on and fastening the bodice with practiced ease. Zipping up the knee-high heeled boots you’d picked out, you strike a pose — only to break down laughing when Clay lets out a wolf whistle that echoes through the room.

     “Like I said: he’s not gonna know what hit him,” he teases, laughing when you blush. “Go ahead and finish getting ready, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Putting the cap back on your eyeliner, you let out a shaky breath before stepping back from the mirror, taking in your reflection. Cat-eyed liner and smoky shadow stares back at you, in tandem with glowing cheekbones and blood red lipstick. Straightening your back, you finish your hair and settle your goggles onto the top of your head.

     “Now or never,” you decide, and head for the stairs.

Clay’s head turns first as your heels click on the hardwood floor, bunny ears waving as he moves. He leans towards the door to the kitchen, calling for Nick with a teasing ‘Pandas! The dame’s here!’ . You can see his shadow move through the room as you walk down the stairs, and you brace for whatever horrible costume he might’ve found during his shopping trip a week before the three of you were supposed to leave for North Carolina — 

But, of course, the Texan finds a way to knock the wind out of your lungs once more.

His stride is casually confident, chest slightly puffed with a smirk on his face. The Victorian-era styled shirt looks like a second skin, the black material shimmering in the dim sunlight reaching through the windows of the living room. The matching pants fit snugly around his thighs, leading down to fall loosely over the burgundy Attack-10s you’d bought him as a gag gift, convinced he’d never wear them. Your eyes trail back up to the intricate jacket thrown over his broad shoulders, all garnet red faux silk with black accents, and the silver chains and rings laced around his neck and fingers. He faces you, finally, and you think the combination of smudged eyeliner, fake dangly earrings, and his grown-out hair, with little pieces that curl around his ears and sweep away from his forehead, would be the final blow.

     Instead, he speaks. “Hey, darlin’ .”

And the rasp of his voice, with the hint of fake fangs peeking out from behind his lips, takes the rest of the air from the room.

     “Hey, handsome,” you return, surprised at the way his smirk grows. “You ready?”

He nods, holding out an arm for you to hold as Clay picks up the invite tickets, and types something on his phone.

     “Nick and I already decided that I’ll be the driver,” the blond says, and picks up the keys for the Tesla he’d rented for the weekend. “Since I’m sure the two of you’ll outdrink me again .”

     “You’re just bitter we kicked your ass at beer pong,” Nick replies, and Clay snorts.

     “Better shut your mouth before he makes you drive,” you warn, and head for the door. “Don’t ruin the fun before it starts, Nicky.”

     He breathes out a laugh, ducking ahead of you to open the front door. “Touché, doll. C’mon.”

You lose yourself a little in the nickname, drinking in the warmth of his hand on your lower back. He opens the car door for you as well, a careful grin on his face that flashes his fangs once more. You lean towards the front seats when the door closes next to you, fingertips pressing into the shoulders of the seats.

     “What, is this a Driving Ms. Daisy situation?” Your voice is bright, teasing.

     “I need Nick on nav,” Clay says, sending the addresses to Nick’s phone before plugging his phone into the aux, “and I want aux.”

     “Dude, you always get aux. Let me at it.”

     “Last time you had it, we listened to the entire Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. Twice!”

     “It’s a good musical, you’re just a coward.”

     “Just put on your suburban white boy playlist on and call it good,” Nick interjects, seemingly ending the argument. “Or I get the aux.”

     “Nope, yeah, definitely cueing up some Posty,” the blond blurts, shouting over Nick. “We’re not listening to shit-ass country on the way to a Halloween party, Nicholas !”

     “You’re so mean ,” Nick whines, and you shift out of the way so Clay can back out of the driveway safely. “Country’s good!”

     “All I can hear in my head right now is Bo Burnham’s country song,” you add, laughing when Nick flips down the visor mirror just to glare at you. “ It feels like hay — it’s a fucking scarecrow again! ”

Clay howls with laughter, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he flies down the interstate. Nick rolls his eyes, pushing the visor back up before turning to face you.

     “So what are we getting at the store?”

     “I know you wanted Coors, so we’ll get a case of that. Probably some box wines, too — opinion on Claws?”

     “I’m sure there’ll be more than enough of those, so we’ll get two cases of beer and two boxes of wine.”

     “Red or white?”

     Nick snorts. “You know I don’t drink wine. Get one of both, probably our best bet.”

     “Mmkay, so… two cases of Coors, a red box and a white box, and whatever else we might find?”

     “Deal,” Nick agrees, and whips around to face the radio and crank the volume dial. “Quadeca!”

The skull-rattling bass of Beamin’ shakes through the car’s speakers, the car filling with Nick’s voice as he shouts along with the lyrics. Clay watches you through the rearview when you lean back, a fond look in your eyes as you watch the brunet go wild in the passenger seat. He’d kill to have a camera now, to document the moments of ignorance between you and Nick, of how the two of you would do anything for the other regardless of reciprocation. He stifles a laugh when your eyes meet his in the mirror, a guilty blush painted across your face. The blond smiles subtly, and winks before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive goes quickly, Smells Like Teen Spirit blasting out of the rolled-down windows as Clay parks in front of the store.

     “I need to fill up the gas tank — you two get the booze.”

You nod once, affirmative, giggling when Nick opens the car door for you again. Linking your pinky with his, you wave to Clay before entering the corner store.

     “How much clout will I get for mixing drinks?”

     A snort. “Dunno. You think Jimmy hired a bartender?”

     “Why would the party be BYOB then?”

Nick’s lips purse, quirking to the side while he scrunches up his eyebrows. He shrugs after a moment, and shuffles down one of the aisles.

     “I mean, I’m paying, so,” he continues, eyes flicking over the different bottles, “if you wanna get some fruity shit or some hard liquor for fun, I’ll bend.”

     “Aww, Nicky’s got my alcohol bill?” you coo, pinching his cheek. “Gonna be my sugar daddy?”

     “Keep calling me daddy and we’ll find out.”

You laugh, pushing down the butterflies that flutter around the heat in your veins. Patting his shoulder, you scoot beside him to pick out bottles of Kahlua, Fireball, Grey Goose, and Tequila Rose, the glass clinking as you settle them in your arms. Nick ducks into the walk-in afterwards, scouting the cooler for his precious Coors. Wandering the aisles, you locate the boxes you need and — 

     “Got your arms full, huh?”

     You turn to face the stranger next to you. “Oh, yeah. I’m okay though, I’m —”

     “No, no, c’mon. It’d be rude to not help the pretty girl out,” his voice is too smooth, and you catch his eyes drifting to your chest more than once. “Tell me, where’s a thing like you going with all this? Need a plus one, maybe?”

     “She’s fine, dude. Back off my girl.”

You’ve never been more relieved to hear Nick’s voice, heart racing at the warning tone and the way he called you his . The words burn through your body like sparklers on the Fourth of July, and you subconsciously lean towards him, finding sick glee in the fear painted in the stranger’s eyes.

     “Shit, uh, my bad man,” his focus stays on Nick. “You two have a good night.”

You turn back to the brunet once the man leaves, heart melting when his gaze softens as he looks at you.

     “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

     “No, just looked and made a couple comments.”

He scoffs, setting the cases on the floor before stacking the boxes of wine on top. Hefting up the stack, he tips his head towards the front counter, and sets off.

     “Is that not heavy?”

     “Nah. Clay started dragging me to the gym with him a couple months ago, so this isn’t shit. Could probably pick you up too, if I wanted.”

     “Well now you’re just getting a big ego,” you return, setting the liquor on the counter after the cases. “Meathead.”

     “Better a meathead than a twig,” he laughs. “Gotta scare creeps like that last guy off my girl, y’know?”

     There it is again. “Nicholas, my hero.”

He huffs, a smile on his face while he pays. You offer to take a box or case after the bottles get bagged and you’re heading for the door, but Nick shakes his head.

     “Don’t worry about it baby, I got it.”

     “Sure, baby ,” you grin, biting your tongue when he raises his brows at you. “Oh, c’mon, you can do it and I can’t? Am I only allowed to call you —”

     “Quiet,” he bites, and you see the Tesla sitting near the door. “Give him that ammunition and he’ll never stop using it.”

     “Wait, are you actually into that? That’s kinda hot, dude —”

     “What’s Nick into?”

     “I’m gonna be into this case of Coors if the two of you don’t quit,” Nick warns, dropping the stack into the backseat. “ETA?”

     “Twenty minutes, I think, which means we’ll be there fashionably late,” Clay responds, flipping through one of his many playlists. “Opinion on Five Seconds of Summer?”

     “Only if it’s the song they did for that Ghostbusters remake. Shit slaps,” you chirp from the backseat, making Nick snort out a laugh as he sits back in the passenger seat. “Their Live from the Vault version of Teeth isn’t too bad either, though.”

     “Girls Talk Boys it is, then,” Clay says. “You better know every word.”

     “Is that a challenge?”

But Clay only cranks the volume, screaming the lyrics over the grungy wail of the guitar and the roar of the wind through the rolled down windows. You match his volume, word for word, but drop your voice to a breathy falsetto when the pre-chorus hits, your hands coming to rest on Nick’s shoulders while you lean in close to his ear.

     “ ‘Cause every night you and I find ourselves kissing and touching like no one else, ” you purr, fighting the laughter curling in your chest at the subtle bewildered look Clay gives you. “ Falling and falling until I fell… for you. ”

     “Stop it,” Nick grumbles, a snort coming from you when his voice cracks. “You’re so mean .”

     “Can’t help it. You’re cute.”

     “Stop flirting with my navigator,” Clay orders, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “Where am I going, Nick?”

     “Exit two-oh-seven in… ten miles — shouldn’t be much longer, about fifteen minutes. We’ll stay on the main drag after that until Greensville, then it’s side streets and back roads to the BnB. Shit, we actually might be really late then.”

     “So what you’re saying is… full send it?”

     You look at Nick through the passenger side mirror. “Should I be worried?”

     But he only grins. “ ‘Course not. Just need to hold on to your seatbelt and the alcohol and pray Vin Diesel doesn’t get us pulled over.”

His teasing joke is the only warning you get before you’re thrown back into the seat, Clay’s foot pressed flat to the floor while wild cackling spills from him and Nick. You watch at the speedometer ticks steadily upward, 80/90/100/110, cars turning to multi-colored streaks of paint and headlights as the Tesla rockets down the interstate. The car finally caps at one-twenty as the music changes, ‘Rodeo’ purring through the speakers with kicked-up bass and growling guitar licks. Your pulse runs vivace while the two wild children sat up front scream with delight, a full-chested “ yeehaw! ” coming from the Texan — typical.

     “What is wrong with you two?” you shout, hands coming up to grip the shoulders of the front seats. “Oh my god, this is how I die, isn’t it?”

     “Relax, sweetheart,” Nick soothes, electric heat blooming and stinging where he grabs your hand. “Clay and I drag race all the time and we haven’t died yet, so.”

     “You two are insane, for fucks sake.”

     “Not insane, just fun.”

     “I just cut the time on the interstate in half, I think I’m the winner here,” Clay resolves, the speedometer finally dwindling as the sign for the exit blinks onto the horizon. He taps the clock on the display. “See? Half.”

     “Literally insane. Actually mental. Absolutely out of the gourd.”

     "Relax, doll," Nick murmurs with a smile. "Clay, we've got five minutes to the BnB."

     "Easy," he grins, and you roll your eyes when the car flies down the road again.

  You can see the blinding party lights and feel the rib-shaking bass long before Clay parks the car, the rented mansion reaching high over the surrounding woods. You recognize the droning synths of ‘PHONKY TOWN’ as you open the car door, gathering your skirt before stepping onto the driveway. Nick whistles at the rows of cars parked along the drive, tucking his phone into his pocket while Clay retrieves the alcohol from the back.

     “You ready, sugar?” Nick says, flashing a fanged grin when you nod. “Let’s kick it, then.”

  Various whistles and cheers greet the three of you as Nick opens the front door, and you gape at the house Jimmy managed to swing for the party: rich stone and dark wood make up the walls, a similar wood under your feet. Glittering chandeliers pepper the ceiling, the blacklights attached alongside them somehow looking perfectly in place within the fancy house. The entryway surges with people, and you lose Clay as he searches for the kitchen — leaving you with Nick.

     “Hold my hand,” he shouts. “Don’t wanna lose you too.”

You snort, taking his hand while you dive further into the house. You’re greeted by various unfamiliar faces as you wander through the halls, a sigh of relief slipping from you as the two of you find a door to the back balcony.

     Nick takes a deep breath, resting against the railing. “Thought we’d get crushed in there for a second.”

     “I almost did,” you laugh. “I felt someone’s heel on the back of my dress.”

     “Shit, do I need to start carrying you everywhere?”

You furrow your brows at him as he giggles, rolling your eyes when he doubles down.

     “Well, if you’re just going to keep laughing at me, I’m gonna need a drink.”

     “Get me one too?”

     “But of course, your highness ,” you reply, sarcasm heavy on your tongue. “Want one of your Coors?”

He nods, and you dive headfirst back into the fray.

  Okay, so maybe going on your own wasn’t your smartest choice. But in your defense, you didn’t know the asshole from the liquor store would be at the fucking party.

     “Your so-called cling-on ditched you after all, hmm?” His voice is condescending, and fuck, you’d love to punch him square in the mouth. “Y’know, my offer still stands, sweetheart.”

     “Dude, fuck off ,” you snarl, stomach twisting at how awful the nickname sounds in the stranger’s mouth. “I’m getting him and I drinks.”

     “Right, right,” he says, and your forearm turns cold where he grabs it. “Now how about you come with me instead, and I’ll help you forget about that asshole.”

But your hand connects with the side of his face before you can think of the consequences, the harsh smack! of palm to cheek traveling over the music. His grip tightens roughly, fingertips pressing hard into your skin. You grit your teeth, trying to pull your arm away. He doesn’t budge.

     “What the fuck is your problem, dude?” You fight to keep your voice steady. “No means no, you piece of shit! ”

     “You brats and your ‘no’s’,” he retorts. “Stop being such a prude.”

You brace for whatever the creep has planned, eyes screwing shut, only to jolt backwards into a familiar pair of arms — Karl, thank god — Alex and Clay’s hands warm on your shoulders.

     You panic. “Where’s Nick?”

     Clay laughs . “Turn around. You’ll find out.”

You register a raised voice, carrying bold and heavy over the hum of ‘TRRST’ through the surround sound speakers.

     “I warned you once before, you sick piece of shit, to back the fuck off of her. Yet you followed us here, completely uninvited , to what? Try and get with someone you could never have in a million years?”

     “You think you’re better just because you have a few fangirls nipping at your heels.” The reply is snippy, but falls flat when Nick rolls his eyes. “You’re all mouth and no action.”

     But the Texan scoffs, a haunting smirk on his face. “No action, huh?”

The crack of Nick’s knuckles against the agitator’s nose is sickening, and you lean back into Karl’s hold as Nick goes for another swing after taking a fist to the mouth.

     Alex looks giddy, yet nervous. “You think we need to step in?”

     “Nah, dude, Nick’s got this,” Clay dismisses. “This is good for him.”

     “No, I think he’s out for blood,” Karl replies. “I think he might kill the guy.”

     “Fuck, I can’t watch this,” you whimper, and raise your voice while wiggling out of Karl’s arms. “ Nick! ”

But he’s like a horse with blinders on, slurred snarls of anger oozing like poison gas from his lips. His knuckles are raw, coated in blood — his or the creep’s, you aren’t sure — and sweat shimmers under his shadowed eyes, across his forehead. The look in his eyes is near-feral, pupils like pin-pricks despite the low-lit room. You grip desperately onto him, hands palm-down on his shoulder, flinching when his head turns sharply toward you.

     “Honey, he’s down,” you murmur, barely audible over the bass. “Let go.”

He blinks slow, like a big cat after a kill, rising to his feet. You wince at the glob of something — spit, maybe blood — that lands next to the other male’s head.

     “And stay down,” the Texan commands, rolling his shoulders. “Hope you learned your lesson, freak .”

       “Ow, shit , stop. You’re hurting me.”

You roll your eyes when the brunet whines high in his throat, a pout on his split lip. You hadn’t realized the extent of his injuries until you’d sat him on the lid of the basement bathroom’s toilet, pale skin painted gold by the incandescent lights in the complex fixture above the mirror.

     You hold his chin with your fingertips, tilting his head further back, assessing his bloody nose. “Well if you hadn’t been so adamant to fight for my honor, you wouldn’t be bleeding all over this bougie-ass bathroom. Now suck it up.”

     He’s quiet, for a moment. You continue the patch-up work while his brain and mouth idle, gentle fingertips pressing butterfly bandages over split skin and passing softly over the watercolor-like splotches of violet-rouge toned skin.

     “Hated seeing you get treated like that. ‘N hated seeing another guy touch you.”

     Your heart pounds. You scoff. “That’s no reason to —”

     “ ‘S a perfectly good reason,” his words are slurring harder, the lethargic drag of post-adrenaline pooling under his tongue, through his veins. “He hurt my girl.”

Your chest aches, stinging with longing and the threat of nervous bile.

     “Nicky…”

His palm is warm against your cheek when he holds you, his pinky curling under your jaw to tug you closer, pulling you into his lap. He presses his forehead to yours tenderly, careful beyond simple concern for the broken blood vessels just below the fragile skin on his face. The air shared between the two of you burns, his still-heaving breath teasing contact.

     “Lemme me make it up t’you,” he whispers, finally.

     You swallow. “Promise?”

     “Always.”

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering shut as he follows the intake. He stops, lips brushing yours, desperation in his eyes.

     “I’m sorry.”

     “I know.”

He hums low in his throat when you finally connect, years of unrequited somethings and what-ifs pouring in like water tumbling down a cliffside. The skin of his bruised hands feels like burns and sparks against the sides of your face, the heat licking at you as if there was a wildfire trapped within his veins.

     You understand, in that moment, what fire means.

Because it spreads from him like shaken nitroglycerin, through the way his teeth and those stupid glue-in fangs sink into your bottom lip, sharp and tugging while he teases your mouth open with his tongue; it’s the way his hands finally leave the curve of your jaw, preferring to glide over your shoulders, down your sides, rushes and pinpricks of heat bubbling to the surface of your skin like newly formed magma. You’ve never felt a warmth like his, so completely encapsulated yet untamable in the manner of being .

     You’ve never been kissed like this, and you hate how long it’s taken for it.

Nick breaks away, unwillingly, chest heaving slow and deep. His eyes are lidded, pupils wide, and you can’t help the sigh in your chest.

     “You’re so pretty, Nicky.”

You bite your lip as he whimpers , his mouth burning open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. You can’t help the way your breath catches in your chest when he bites down, painting your neck to match his mottled skin.

     “Is this,” you pause with a gasp as his teeth catch a sensitive patch of skin, “why you kept biting me?”

He hums in response, hands shifting to grip your thighs.

     “So possessive ,” you murmur, a teasing smile on your face. “Love it when you call me yours.”

     “Is that what you wanna be?” His voice is quiet against your skin. “Mine?”

     “S’what I’ve always wanted.”

The confession lifts a weight from your chest, especially at the dazed smile painted lazily on Nick’s face.

     He pulls away from your neck. “Lemme take you on a date, sugar. Wanna do this right.”

     You laugh. “What, don’t wanna take me to a Waffle House at…” you check the elegant clock on the bathroom wall, “two o’clock in the morning? Isn’t that peak romance?”

     “No, c’mon darlin’, gimme more credit than that,” he snorts. “We’ll go to a nice restaurant back home, get all dressed up for the occasion.”

     “Well, if that means I get to see you in a suit… consider it a deal.”

     Nick laughs, high-pitched and full. “And you know I like a pretty girl in a dress.”

     “What, I can’t wear a suit too?”

     “S’up to you,” he says, and then, “you look good in anything.”

Your face paints itself ruby red at his honest words, the adoration in his eyes almost overwhelming. Your heart melts as you kiss the scratches on his face.

     You pull back. “So is it still a no on Waffle House or —?”

The laughter that shakes his body in response is the cherry on top.

  —+ I—

     Once the two of you get together, on Halloween in a fancy basement bathroom, you can’t keep Nick off of you.

You’d conned him into going to Waffle House, of course — after gathering Clay, Alex, and Karl from where they’d sprawled out on the large couches in one of the many lounges — and gorged yourselves on way too many breakfast items. Nick took you out on the self-proclaimed “real date” a week later, showing up at your bedroom door in an all-black three piece suit that nearly made the two of you late to your reservation.

Now, though? He takes any chance he can get to have you near him. Whether that be having you doze off in his lap while he streams, cheering him on from the side during manhunts, or watching movies late at night while Clay complains to George about the two of you, you’re inseparable.

     And, yes, Nick’s still just as mouthy, if not worse.

You’re stretched out on Nick’s bed while he showers in the ensuite, your brows furrowed in concentration while the Xbox controller in your hand clicks and rumbles. The faint sounds of his music playing can barely be heard over the sound of gunshots and various curses that pour from your mouth.

     “You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?”

     “No, dude, I kiss your mother,” you retort, clamping your mouth shut with a grin as Nick laughs loudly in the other room. “She gives great head, by the way.”

     “You’re a fucking freak, shut up you —”

You roll your eyes, muting the voice chat to tune out whatever half-assed misogynistic crack the other player was about to fire off as Nick reenters. The end of a Travis Scott song hits your ears as he sets his speaker on the bedside table, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. He jumps when you let out a low, sultry ‘woof’ in his direction.

     “You’re so weird ,” he giggles, pulling on a pair of boxers after moving his towel to his shoulders. “Kicking ass?”

     “Trying,” you grumble, swearing loudly as you die again. “These kids are so fucking sweaty, holy shit.”

Nick snorts, slipping into his favorite pair of sweatpants — Texas Longhorns, of course. You only like them because they’re grey — and flops onto the bed next to you, opening Spotify on his phone to switch the music to his surround sound system. His hand rests on the back of your calf, fingertips tapping along to the rhythm of whatever song’s playing over the speakers. Nick snorts after a moment, typing away at his phone before dropping it onto the bedside table with a loud clatter. The current song fades after a moment, followed by a familiar trap beat.

     You snort. “Babe…”

But he doesn’t respond, hands rubbing up your legs with a grin on his face.

     “I wanna see some ass~,” he sings under his breath, and bites down on your ass, cackling loudly when you yelp.

     “ Nicholas! ” But he barely hears you, too busy being thoroughly entertained by his own joke. “Alright, that’s it —”

He reels back when you climb into his lap, humming contently when you kiss him. The hands on your thighs grip tighter when you break away to bite at his jaw, low groans thrumming in his chest when you move to his neck.

     “You’re too good to me,” he murmurs, moving to bump his nose against yours. “I love you.”

     “I love you too. Now give me kissies.”

His lips are gentle against yours, giddiness and careful puppy love playing in your veins like children in a river under a summer sun. The warmth within your chest is solar, too; blinding and celestial in nature, barely confined in the mortal bindings of bone and flesh. In truth, you’re content to stay right here — the Warzone lobby forgotten on the television, against the muddled tangerine-gold glow of the midday sun just outside the window — to get lost in the boy melting in your touch.

     So you get lost — because you know you’ll be found.

#sapnap x reader #minor blood warning #possessive sapnap #5+1

[americanaspacecadet]

break and burn - technoblade

posted: may 3rd, 2021 ship: technoblade/reader fandom: YouTube RPF rating: Explicit desc: The Taiga North was no place for the weakest of humanity — snowstorms came suddenly with no control when winter approached, aggressive winds stole cloaks and burned skin until it turned blue, shelters and homes were few and far between — and yet you stayed, exiled from what they now called ‘Manberg’. It’d always be ‘L’Manberg’ to you. That day still burns when it resurfaces, but the chill of the North makes it easier these days. It reminds you that you’ll never go back. Not after Schlatt tore L’Manberg apart. (Or, you realize you do have to go back, and must face this while also falling for a certain piglin hybrid. Good luck.) tags: AFAB reader|She/her/hers pronouns, hybrid!techno rights, loosely based around canon, Emphasis on loosely, some events will probably be inaccurate tbh; tried my best to stay true to canon, took arctic north/techno's exile arc and mashed it with manberg era, please have mercy i was using my twitter moots and the wiki for references, but at this rate lore is simply a suggestion for me ❤️, i break game canon for this, [basically think minecraft w mods], i also fucked w manberg's layout, no y/n to avoid immersion breakage, but nomad/firefly is you!, very self-indulgent tbh, minor blood/injury warning, sparring match, Praise Kink, Size Kink word count: 16.2k the original can be read HERE, on AO3 [notes]: 

opening: 

techno’s design in this is taken from/inspired by Saturn_Digital_ on twitter!! - [link one] - [link two]

The "Piglin" song I reference in the story is 'Tusk' by Fleetwood Mac The "Empire" song I reference in the story is 'Empire Ants' by Gorillaz

closing: WOW HOLY FUCK I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG

This is genuinely the longest one-shot I've ever written, and I think this is the proudest I've ever been of something I've made. It's been a good while since I've written something like this [esp. nsfw], so it was a blast and a half to really dig into it again. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I struggled to write it, because DAMN was I going out of my normal zone/comfort zone for this one. Shout out to my best friend Felix btw -- he's literally the reason this fic exists in the first place. I was looking for something to write to take a break from that ... still untouched... Dream/Reader fic, and he looks at me and goes "just be horny for Technoblade, dude". ...And after 13k words of plot, I did just that.In all seriousness though, thank you for reading. I had a blast.

ps: if you get the reference in brackets near the end of the fic... we're officially friends. [wink]

     The Taiga North was no place for the weakest of humanity — snowstorms came suddenly with no control when winter approached, aggressive winds stole cloaks and burned skin until it turned blue, shelters and homes were few and far between — and yet you stayed, exiled from what they now called ‘Manberg’. It’d always be ‘L’Manberg’ to you, no matter what becomes of the world. That day still burns when it resurfaces, but the chill of the North makes it easier these days. It reminds you that you’ll never go back. Not after Schlatt tore L’Manberg apart.

       Your eyelids fight against you, heavy with nightmares and dreams as the early sunrise trickles into your room, staining the oak floors and terracotta walls with shades of tangerine and scarlet. Heavy wool and polar bear fur blankets lazily roll off of you as you slowly sit up, skin shivering as the cool air of your home settles over you. Throwing a lighter blanket over your shoulders, you hike your thick socks back up to your mid-thigh before leaving the warm cocoon you had burrowed yourself into through the night. Tying the makeshift cape at the base of your throat, you climb down the ladder to the first level of your home. Red-grey embers wink back at you from the hearth in the middle of your living room, prompting you to lay the remaining tinder and couple fire logs you had left among the ashes. Warmth begins to flood into the space, and you move into the kitchen to check on the brewing you’d begun the night before. The deep violet of strength, near-black indigo of night vision, and vibrant orange of fire resistance greet you, covered with the faint fuchsia glow that simmers over finished potions. Picking the still-warm bottles up from the stands, you nestled them into their respective racks, and moved to prepare both your living room — and spare room — for whoever may stop by today.

     Regardless of the fact you’d settled down in the barren North after your pseudo-exile from Manberg, you still were greeted every so often by a knock on your dark oak door. Most commonly was Tommy and Wilbur, teeth chattering with cold no matter how many times you warned them to wear heavier coats. You still had little idea as to how Tommy always lost the spare cloaks you’d either made for him or had laying around. But you kept making them. You knew he needed someone to lean on. You knew they both needed someone; someone like you to reflect ideas, dreams, hopes off of. Whispers, murmurings, of a new Communist cooperative festering in a ravine just outside of Manberg. You captured these late-night confessions in a well-worn journal under the fifth floorboard from the mantle, marked with spots of ink and a smudge of glowstone dust. To the unassuming, it was a stain. To the knowledgeable, it was a reminder.

     Along with the two of them came Phil, usually on his own but sometimes trailed by Tommy. The one on one nights often filled with stories of days past, sweet berry wine, and the hope of a better tomorrow. He’d mentioned another — Technoblade, he’d said — but with no follow-up. You began to wonder if the hybrid had truly moved into retirement, or if he was simply a wanderer, reluctant to settle down after everything had fallen apart.

     An unfamiliar sound at your front door draws you from your thoughts, and you sneak from the spare room into the main entry, a poison-tipped arrow gripped tightly in your dominant hand. You pause just in front of the door, ears straining to pick up any spare noises as the wind picks up. A solid thunk of something heavy sounds just outside of your front door, followed by frantic footsteps down the porch stairs. You wait, tense, until the sound of steps disappear, and the wind dies down. The door creaks in gentle protest when you open in, confusion furrowing your brow as you’re faced with a tight yet neatly wrapped bundle, topped with what appeared to be a letter. Picking up the fragile sheet, you’re greeted by neat lines of black inked words.

  By the order of President Schlatt, 

In two weeks’ time, your presence is required

 at the First Manburg Ball,  put on to celebrate 

the election of our great and mighty President. 

Enclosed within this bundle is your required attire for this black-tie event. 

Please arrive no later than an hour before sunset on the sixteenth of October, 

as the festivities will begin soon after. 

Best regards, 

Vice President Quackity.

       To say you felt ice in your veins would be an understatement — you’d travelled so far, hell, you’d been exiled — and yet, you were being summoned right back into the thick of it. A loud, chest-voice swear bursts from you, carried off by the wind to hopefully hit whomever had deposited the package upon your doorstep.

     You retreat back into your house, the package in your hands.

       A familiar creak of the front porch floorboards sounds at your door hours later, as the sun rolls just beyond mid-afternoon. You’re pleased to see Phil sitting placidly on the steps, watching your livestock idle aimlessly in their fields.

     “Mr. Minecraft.”

     He turns then, blond hair ruffled from the flight over. A smile graces his aged features, prompting you to join him on the stairs. You pass him a mug of beetroot tea, cradling a mug of your own in your calloused grasp.

     “Good to see you, Nomad.”

A timid silence settles over the two of you, and you begin to worry.

     “Phil?”

He hums.

     “Why are you here? Not that I’m not glad to have you stop by, but it’s a bit unexpected.”

     He sighs. “Did you receive a parcel from —”

     “ ‘Mr. President’ ?” you scoff. “Yeah, I did. What the hell is he planning?”

     “It can’t be anything good, considering he roped Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno into it.”

     You shrink. “Pogtopia…”

     He grimaces. “I’m not sure he knows. But if we can make it through his propagandist bullshit ceremony — without any major hiccups, that is — we might still be able to stage our revolution.”

     “Doesn’t it feel like a trap, though?” you murmur. “I can’t help but worry, Phil.”

     A quiet sigh. “I know. But at times like these, maybe there’s no other option…”

Nothing left but to leap from the frying pan, and tumble into the fire goes unspoken between us, digging in like the spines of a cactus in the middle of a burning desert. Phil takes another drink, then sets his mug down between his feet.

     “I’ll send Techno to meet you tonight,” he says. “You’ve met him before, haven’t you?”

     “Only in passing,” you reply, “so not particularly. I’ve mostly heard ‘stories’ of the so-called ‘Blood God’.”

     Phil stifles a laugh. “He’s kinder than you’ve heard, I promise. Seriously, though. I’ll let him know to meet you, say, dusk?” You nod. “Great. Dusk it is. I’ll give him some talking points, fill him in on the plan and let him inform you.”

     “Why not just tell me now?”

     “It’s not completely in place yet. Still needs some minor work, maybe some changes.”

A quiet hum of acceptance rumbles in your chest. You twirl your cup, letting the dregs of your tea spin before taking a final sip. Phil’s wings twitch, sleek black and silver feathers ruffling before settling back down. The tranquil moment simmers as the sun rolls lazily across the mid-autumn sky. You lean against Phil, heart sinking as his arm wraps loosely, yet protectively, around your shoulders.

     “We’ll make it out of the woods,” Phil murmurs. “We always do.”

       You wave to the dimming sky as Phil flies back towards what you figure is Pogtopia, and turn around to head back into your home. Piling logs into the mantle, you hang a cauldron over the fire, and begin collecting ingredients for the evening meal.

     Faintly remembering Phil mentioning Techno’s love for potatoes, you dig into the barrels in your kitchen, fishing out said vegetable, carrots, red and brown mushrooms, and a few pieces of sugarcane, wheat, and other spices before dumping it all on your kitchen counter. Retrieving a bucket of milk from the cobbled-together icebox in your cellar, you place the handle between your teeth before hoisting yourself back up the ladder. Moving back into the kitchen, a faint sound near the front door startles you. Reaching for a kitchen knife, you sneak to the entry, and — nothing. You curse yourself, scoffing at your own paranoia while moving back into the kitchen. You let yourself fall into a steady rhythm of chopping up ingredients, grinding up spices, sugarcane and wheat, and making a sauce with the bucket of milk, butter, and the trio from before. Moving to the now hot cauldron over the fire, you combine everything before setting the cast iron lid over top. Adding a few more pieces of kindling to the flame, you neaten up the living room once more before heading back out to linger on the porch. Regardless of the rumors of the North, seasons other than winter were seemingly tolerable: Spring brought slightly warmer winds, enough to plant hardier crops; Summer brought comfortable heat, just enough to swim in the nearby pond and let the bees play in the flowers; and now, Autumn brings brilliantly colored leaves to the sparse oak tucked within the tall spruce, along with pumpkins and cooler winds. You watch the blue-green grass shiver across the fields, the last of your wheat twisting along with it. A sudden weariness settles over you when you remember the reason for tonight’s visitor, and you drink in as much of your sprawling farm as you can — seeing as this may be one of the last times you can once the sixteenth arrives — before returning to the pot of soup over the fire.

       You hear the rhythmic thumping of hooves through the open windows long before you see your visitor, the nordic valley you call home acting as an amphitheatre of sorts to any noises in the night. The wavering sun on the horizon piques your interest, and you’re both pleasantly surprised and pleased that the hybrid is particular about being on time. Turning back to the fire, you add a few finishing touches to the meal, and move the cauldron to a heated stand in the kitchen. Retrieving the loaves of bread you’d baked the day before from a warm furnace, you plate everything neatly, and move to the window to watch for The Blade.

And, boy, is he a sight to behold.

Polar colors — white and indigo — wrap around him in the form of a king’s regalia, each piece of clothing fitted perfectly to his form and contrasting his pastel pink skin. His broad chest is hidden within a netherite chestplate, the dark onyx metal glowing with the vibrant heliotrope of enchantments. Matching arm and leg braces sit snugly in place, and a gleaming golden crown sits atop his head in place of a helmet. His signature crimson red cape flares behind him as he rides towards your home, the thick white fur around the collar flattening with the wind. His horse slows as he reaches the end of the pastures, allowing him to jump off before leading the strong creature into the field.

Your stupor breaks when he turns to make his way up the path to your cabin, and you rush to the door before gently opening it.

     “Technoblade, was it?”

     “Techno is fine,” he replies, the low monotone drawing you in. “Did Phil tell you I was coming?”

     “He was here earlier today, actually,” you say, and open the door wider. “Please, come in. I just finished making dinner.”

     A short sound, reminiscent of a laugh. “Not necessary, really —”

     “It’s our first time meeting, Techno. I’m more than accustomed to pleasantries. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.”

     Another short laugh rumbles within his chest, and you can’t help the fascination in your eyes when he has to duck to enter your home. Gesturing to your dining room, you busy yourself with fussing over minute details while he sits down, seemingly ignorant of your gaze. Having him here, barely a room away, allows more detail to become visible: piercings of gold and bone decorating his ears and face, a neatly trimmed hint of a beard, scars running gentle rose-toned seams across his skin, and, of course, the tusks peeking out from his lower lip. Heat rises on your face when he catches your stare, and you hurry to finish moving everything onto the birch wood platter.

     “Sorry,” you murmur when you arrive at the table, “I get lost in thought more often than I’d like to admit.”

     A gentle huff. “You sound just like the old man. Shouldn’t spend so much time with him, y’know. Might age yourself by osmosis.”

     You snort, the grin on your face proving immovable the more time you spend around the hybrid.

     “Didn’t know a regal man like yourself could be such a court jester.”

     “ ‘A jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one.’ ” he returns, accepting your offer of sweet berry wine.

     “Robert Greene, hmm?”

     “I’m more than just a brute, Nomad,” he reminds you, a teasing lilt to his tone as the nickname the early days had provided rolls off of his tongue. “Legacies do not write themselves, after all.”

You raise your glass, gently chiming it against his before taking a slow drink. Dinner passes like a rolling tide on the southern shores, filled with jovial laughter and intertwining stories. Techno’s warm demeanor takes a slight sidestep, however, when dinner ends.

     “I think it’s about time we discuss the plan Phil spoke of,” he begins, “and how it involves all of us.” You nod, and he continues. “How much do you know?”

     “I only know that you and the boys got roped into this stupid ‘propogandist bullshit’, as Phil phrased it, and that we need to stay on our toes if we expect to make it through this.”

     Techno nods. “And that’s where you come in. You see, news hit radio not too long after the invitations were sent out. News that…” The way he trails off makes you uneasy. Nervous.

     “What, Techno?”

     “Each invitee needs a partner,” he finishes, and you sink into your chair. “Whether as a date, or as an escort.”

     “And what are we?”

You bite back a laugh when Techno’s pale pink skin shifts to a rosier tone, the furred end of his tail thumping against the floor.

     “Phil wants us as a date, doesn’t he?” you poke again. “He probably thinks —”

     “— it’s less likely for detection,” Techno completes, his tone clipped. You reel yourself in. “You were deemed a Banished Nomad, while I went into ‘Retirement’. We’re the least likely to cause trouble.”

     “Compared to if Wilbur and I were partnered —”

     “— Schlatt would have your asses detained, hell, most likely killed before you could even step onto the dance floor.”

     “Well, if it makes you feel any better,” you breathe, “I’d be honored to go to a fancy ball with ‘the man that never dies’. Maybe some of that pseudo-immortality will rub off on me.”

The smile on his face grips your heart to a near-painful degree.

       You don’t hear him leave in the morning.

     You figured he wouldn’t stick around for too long — whether worried about overstaying his welcome, or his duties with the ever-growing cooperative gaining steam at a head-rattling speed — hell, you’d be surprised if the man even slept. Nevertheless, you rose with surprise to a still-warm home, butterflies in your stomach at the extra logs in and next to the fireplace and the thin-glass vials of southern state honey hanging by threads in the kitchen that greeted your descent from the floor above.  Your next few days afterwards are spent in quiet isolation, centered around trekking through the caves below your cabin and tending to the slow-fading farm just outside your front door. Your cellar rolls with heat as you smelt the ores you collect, filling your home with the warmth and the smell of coal smoke. 

The peace is broken, however, when a familiar blond crashes through your front door, his favorite brunet in tow.

     “C’mon, Tubbo, I wanna surprise her before —”

Said blond skids to a stop in front of you, Tubbo colliding with his back.

     “Nomad!” He shuffles a box behind his back. “You’re home!”

     “I am, Tommy. Might I ask what your so-called surprise is?”

Tubbo moves around in front of him, a crudely wrapped package and another box in his hands catching your eye.

     “Well, Wilbur told us you’re going to the ball with Techno,” he chirps, “so we wanted to bring you some presents that would go along with your outfit!”

You raise an eyebrow, but bring the boys into the living room with a wave of your hand.

     “Let me get dressed in it, then you can show me. Okay?”

     Scurrying up the ladder, you close the trapdoor behind you before locking eyes on the package from yesterday. Carefully tearing at the aged paper, you’re stunned at the sight of brilliantly colored fabric swelling out of the wrappings. The dress, all things considered, is gorgeous: Layers of black, cobalt, and ivory tulle make a form-fitting floor-length skirt that looks like the night sky, with slits that end mid-thigh. The skirt leads into a similar toned strapless corset bodice speckled with obsidian and iron beads. Simple white ribbon laces up the back of the corset, and blue-grey tulle drapes off of the bodice to act as sleeves.

     A knock sounds at the trapdoor. “It’s me. Can I come up?”

     You smile, throwing the dress over your shoulder and opening the hatch. Tubbo climbs into the room with a similar expression.

     “I had a say in your outfit,” he says, lingering in the hatchway. “I wanted to make sure you’d look nice for the ball.”

     “Why didn’t you warn me?”

     He sighs. “Schlatt barely let me get away for a while. And all outgoing and ingoing mail was blocked. He’s… he’s got us on full shutdown until the ball. I only got out because I claimed it was for business.”

A sigh slips from you. You settle on the bed, patting the spot next to you. Tubbo lands with a bounce, leaning into you as you wrap an arm around his shoulders.

     “Regardless of what happens, Tubbo,” you say. “I’ve got you. Always.”

He smiles, then sits up.

     “Try on the dress!”

You laugh when he slides down the ladder, presumably to get Tommy and the presents.

     “All set?”

     “Yeah. Can you get the ribbon on the back?”

He scampers back up to you, quickly yet neatly fastening the ties. Tommy follows on his heels.

     “Wow!” Tommy chirps. “You look like a woman!”

     You snort. “Gee, Tommy, I sure hope so.”

     Tubbo jabs him with an elbow, picking up his gift to you. “Okay! Present time!”

     “Boys, really, this isn’t —”

     “Shush! Let us have fun,” he warns, making you laugh.

The wrapped package is passed to you, and you gasp at the finely detailed thigh high boots in your hands. Tendrils of silver run up the black leather, swirling and tracing elegant designs into the material.

     “I know you always complain about wearing fancy heels to parties, so I had Fundy help me make a more comfortable version!” The grin on his face shines through into his voice as he speaks. “The wedge heel can actually be flattened to make a normal boot, just in case you need to get somewhere on steady footing.”

     “Kiddo, these… these are absolutely marvelous.”

     Tommy gently shoves Tubbo to the side. “Yeah yeah, boots are cool, whatever. My turn!”

The smaller box is pressed into your hands, and you open it to reveal jet black leather shoulder straps, along with a sheath for a sword.

     “What is this for?” Your expression falters as you look at the duo. “None of my swords would fit this, guys. They’re all cleavers or broadswords.”

     “One more piece, actually,” Tubbo interjects, and passes you the last box. “We — originally — weren’t supposed to tell you, but this last one is from Technoblade.”

An interested trill rumbles in your chest, and any jokes about the situation leave you as you open the box.

     “How…”

Pure netherite stares back at you in the form of a thin-bladed Roman gladius, the surface of said blade ebbing with enchantments. The handgrip is wrapped with dull red leather, the pommel made of wither bone and fashioned into the shape of a skull. The sword feels like an extension of your arm when you pick it up, and you direct the boys to stand against the back wall before swinging at the expanse of your room.

Excited shouts echo from the duo as flames roar to life along the stretch of netherite, small sparks and thin trails of smoke following in its wake. Soot marks appear on the floor, the flames extinguishing as your thumb presses against a golden button in the middle of the handguard.

     Tommy pipes up first. “Fire Aspect!”

     “Techno said he’d put Sharpness, Unbreaking, Sweeping Edge, and Mending on it as well,” Tubbo adds. “Pretty cool, if you ask me.”

     “Right,” you trail off, still staring in awe at the expensive gift.

     “Well, we’ll let you get changed back!” the brunet chirps, turning back to the ladder down. “We should go fishing once you’re done.”

     “Yeah, I’ll meet you guys in the living room.” 

Tubbo nods, and leaves the room.

     “He never mentioned Fire Aspect,” Tubbo murmurs to Tommy as he climbs down.

     “Well he did always call her a firefly,” the blond replies, following behind. You leave the hatch cracked open, listening to their conversation as you change. “Especially after he watched her spar.”

     He… watched me? Your internal monologue rings like the bells in a village. Was he impressed, then?

     “He told me once that he was always a fan of when she and Wilbur went hand to hand.”

     “Yeah! Especially with that… what was that one move?”

     “We’re probably thinking of different ones,” Tubbo says. “I’m thinking of the one where she gets a running start, wraps an arm around his bicep, and then—”

     “—uses the momentum to swing around and grapple his neck with her legs—”

   “—before throwing him into a headlock on the ground!” The duo finishes, blazing grins on their faces. You finish tightening your arm braces before shrugging the sheath onto your shoulders, putting the sword in its rightful place, and pulling on a tan overcoat before meeting the duo.

     “You know, boys, I could always teach the two of you some of my moves after our fishing trip.”

You’ve never seen Tommy so excited to sit for hours. He nearly breaks down the door while you and Tubbo trail behind, laughter shaking your shoulders while Tommy sprints to the pond.

  The night before the ball, Techno stands outside of your door, a large knapsack slung across his back, another in his hand.

     “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be coming —”

     He ducks his head upon entry. “Phil told me to come. He said Manberg has guards littered across the perimeter, stationed in patches outside the border. They’re tracking where people are coming from.”

     “They have to know,” you breathe. “Schlatt wouldn’t be taking these precautions if they didn’t know.”

     “I don’t think they know of Pogtopia. Not yet. But with you, Wilbur, and Tommy in exile, along with Phil and I in retirement, I’m sure he’s trying to cover his bases.”

     “New plan, then?”

     “Only minor changes,” he returns, settling himself on the living room sofa. “The biggest one is that you and I need to arrive together, and come from the same direction. Phil suggested that I stay the night here, so we can arrive from the North instead of the South with the other Pogtopians.” He sighs. “Splitting us up is our best bet to avoid detection.”

     You smile, patting his bicep as you walk past. “I don’t mind, you know.”

     “No?”

     “Absolutely not. It means I’ll have someone to help me get ready.”

He snorts out a laugh, settling onto the living room couch. Idle conversation floats between the two of you as you finish making dinner, dwindling as you dish out portions for the two of you. Placing the bowls onto a tray, you dig out a fresh bottle of apple cider and your favorite glasses, and move back into the living room.

The sight of Techno half-asleep on your couch greets you, his crown on the coffee table. A huffed snore hits your ear, and you stifle your laughter while setting dinner next to the crown. A gentle hand on his shin wakes him, another huff slipping from him as he slowly awakens.

     “Sorry.”

     “You work yourself half to death, Techno,” you tease. “I’m not surprised. Go ahead and eat, by the way — I want to spar for a bit before bed.”

Techno wakes up a bit more at your words, and you can’t help the rush of pride in your veins as you remember Tommy and Tubbo’s conversation.

     “Any particular reason?”

     “Just want to stay ready,” you say, then lower your tone. “And I want to see if you're as good as everyone says you are.”

His tail twitches at your words, a tremor shivering through him. You’ve got him hooked now.

     “What kind of combat?”

     “Hand to hand. No weapons, no armor, no rules — besides killing each other, obviously. Any type of fighting style works.”

     He grins. “How many rounds?”

     “Best of three.”

He mulls it over, then picks up his dinner.

     “Consider me on board.”

       The hidden level below your cellar flickers to life as you flip some switches, illuminating the room and the ring in the center. The room itself is decently sized, with a walled off alcove on the far wall for showers. Boxing gloves, spare wraps, and healing potions sit on shelves on the left wall, along with various other practice weapons and gear. A cobblestone and terracotta scoreboard sits on the right wall, peppered with redstone lamps. The floor of the sparring ring is made of red wool, rimmed with white on the outer edge. A fencepost sits on each corner, connected by three levels of rope from top to bottom.

     “Impressive,” Techno murmurs. “How long have you had this down here?”

     “It was one of the first things I built,” you reply, and fish out your favorite hand wraps: deep purple fabric with black runes stitched into the edges. You toss him Phil’s old set — emerald and meadow green — and get to work wrapping your hands. He settles onto the wooden bench across from you, dropping his arm between his spread legs, tail curling around his ankle, before continuing the wrap. Soft pink skin is replaced with the fabric, winding elegantly around his arm and over his palm, fitting snugly over his knuckles to keep them in place. He looks at you after a moment, a too-knowing glint in his eye. You tsk , and climb into the ring while ditching your shirt. The chill of the room hits your skin, but you know it’ll be welcomed once the match begins.

     “Skins?” he jokes. “Since when?”

     “Since I know I’m gonna work my ass off to keep your face to the dirt,” you return. “Less restrictive, too.”

He snorts, leaving his tunic in a pile next to yours before hoping the ropes opposite of your corner. You press a button on the base of the ring, lighting up the scoreboard.

     “Each winner will press the button on their corner’s fencepost after they win a round,” you call. “Still wanna make a competition out of it?”

     He nods, echoing, “Best out of three.”

     “Deal.”

Hitting another button on the ring’s base, a bell tolls — and the first round begins. Blood rushes in your ears as Techno leaps towards you, rolling past you on the mat as you glide out of the way. He stands back at attention where you’d previously stood.

     “C’mon, Blood God ,” you taunt. “Catch me.”

He snarls , sending a jolt up your spine before bolting towards you again. You jump into a backflip as he draws close, bouncing off of a fence post and planting your palms on his shoulders. Using your combined momentum in your favor, you launch off of the hybrid, causing him to stumble. A roundhouse kick from you connects to the back of his bent knee, dropping him further with a grunt. You dance around him like a hummingbird taunting a lion, light on your feet yet sharp with your attacks.

     He stands, putting his fists up. “C’mon and fight, then. Quit avoiding.”

You simply smile, waiting for his first swing to arc close enough before you grab his bicep. His eyes widen in a flash as you flip around his torso, wrapping yourself around him like a python chokes its prey. His balance is ruined as you use his momentum against him once more, bringing him to the floor with his neck between your legs. Flipping around to grab his arm, while also keeping a knee between his shoulder blades, you press the side of his face into the floor.

     “One…”

He struggles below you, trying to use his weight to his advantage.

     “Two…”

But his muscles refuse to move, locked in place as your knee stays pressed against the pressure point.

     “Three.”

He growls in defeat, static-like pinpricks of feeling flooding back into his body as you prance over to your fencepost. Punching the button, a lamp glows golden-white on the scoreboard to announce your win.

     “Need a break, big guy?”

He snorts, sounding more piglin than man as he sets his stance.

     “No more dodging. I wanna see you land some hits.”

     You shrug. “All or nothing, then. Don’t pull your punches.”

The bell tolls again, an electric feeling coating your skin as the dance begins. You reel back as Techno immediately lands a hit, sharp pain blooming from your now bleeding nose. You snarl in return, catching his jaw with a firm left hook before slamming his sternum with the sole of your right foot. He catches your ankle as you retreat, sending you to the floor with a graceless thump . He leaves no time for you to recover; instead he tackles you, one arm around your waist with the other braced against your neck. The heat of his skin distracts you, the scent of him making you dizzy, until — 

     “Give up yet?”

The crack of your skull against his mouth hurts you both. You wince as a cut forms on the back of your head, hair snagging on the offending tusk. You rip away as Techno rears back.  The dark blood he spits faintly stands out from the tone of the wool, his hand coming up to cup his jaw while his eyes widen slightly.

     “I told you not to pull your punches,” you retort, “so I’m not pulling mine. You’d think with all the times you supposedly watched me fight, you’d remember that I fight dirty.”

     “Then I guess I need to clean you up.”

A vicious wave of butterflies take over your body as the hybrid sizes you up, sinking back into his stance once more. He launches without notice, a hoof crashing into your ribcage. 

     Your breath catches. “There he is.”

The two of you trade blows, blood staining the floor and ruby/violet-toned bruises forming under tough skin. A claw catches in your side. Your teeth sink into his shoulder. The second match ends with your throat in his large hand, the faintest pressure against your windpipe.

     “Now stay down,” he growls. “Three. Two. One. Done.”

You lay on the floor after he gets up to press his score button, watching the muscles in his back twitch as the adrenaline slows, the way his tail twitches with sharp flicks. He offers you a hand after punching his score button.

     “Need a break?”

His tone is mocking, yet soft. You scoff lightly, patting the side of his face.

     “I’ll drink when it’s my victory glass of wine in my hand, Techno.”

     A hum. “Then let’s go.”

       The last round, unfortunately, doesn’t end entirely in your favor — the taste of blood heavy on your tongue, a twisted ankle throbbing slowly — but you’re not one to complain when a seven foot hybrid has you pinned to the floor by your wrists, knees boxing in your hips.

     “I’ll be taking that victory wine, Firefly .”

You mull it over, then stifle a smirk as an idea slips into your head.

     “Fine, fine,” you say. “But.”

     “But?”

     “You have to kiss me first.”

     You admit defeat in this moment, giving up trying to deny the feelings that swarm like silverfish whenever the man interacts with you: whether it be a simple hand on your shoulder, the way he lingers more often in the mornings after his now-frequent overnight visits, or the time you caught him watching with rapt attention from the porch as you wrangled a rabid wolf out of a pen full of frightened sheep, sans casualties — you’re enamoured. So in a position like this, who were you to squander it?

     “Is that all?”

     “Easy peasy,” you reply, ribcage shivering at his willingness. “Just one little kiss, and you get the bottle.”

     He hums, then tangles his fingers in the hair on the back of your head. A huff, a pause, then the slow pull of your face to his, electrically magnetic. He’d been semi-predictable in the time you’d gotten to know him, but this was front-page fresh-broken news to you: Techno can kiss, and he’s scarily good at it . You’re enraptured the moment you meet, the smooth yet solid press of his tusks to the corners of your mouth playing a stark contrast to the chapped texture of his lips. The hand of yours that he’d released comes up to rest on his chest, fingertips tracing lines of sweat and faded scars.

     He breaks the kiss too soon for your liking, biting at your lip before pulling away. “So, about that wine?”

  Your kitchen is quiet as you pass Techno a healing potion, waiting until he drinks his to take your own. The pain subsides as golden flecks shimmer under the surface of your skin, clustering around the damaged areas. He sips the wine you’d promised straight from the bottle, his nails clinking against the glass.

     “You’re a better fighter than I imagined.”

     You turn to him. “Think about me a lot, then?”

He huffs, shifting to sit fully on the diorite countertop. You laugh to yourself, and poke at the tender spots that still linger over your ribs. The healing potion worked fast, but you can still feel the hoofprint under your fingertips.

     “Sorry if I was too rough.”

     “That’s the fun part,” you reply, laughing when he blushes. “Most people I spar with pull their punches. I’m glad you didn’t. We both know full well, if anything goes down, the opposing side certainly won’t.”

     He nods. “And it was… fun… sparring with you. I’m not used to opponents being so light on their feet. And…” He trails off, mumbling the last part.

     “And?”

     “It was cool to witness some of your moves first-hand. Especially the ones where you use your opponent’s momentum against them.”

     You wait until he moves to take a drink. “You just liked having my thighs around your head.”

     You can’t help the laughter that spills out of you when he spits wine across the kitchen.

       Morning brings blistering sunlight pouring through the east-facing window, curses spouting from you as you realize you forgot to close the curtains before falling asleep.

Then, last night hits you, and your face turns as red as Techno’s cape.

     “Oh my gods ,” you mutter, “what the hell was I thinking?”

You only have a few moments to mull over the details before the next big realization hits you. A morning of recollection, one could say.

     “ Techno! ” you shout, dressing in a simple loose t-shirt and sweatpants. “Are you up yet?”

You don’t wait for his response, opting to slide down the ladder to the main level — and nearly slam into the man in question.

     “Worried about something?”

     “Oh, it’s not like the Manberg Ball is taking place in…” you trail off, looking at the clock above your fireplace, “a little over twelve hours from now! That’s certainly no cause for concern—”

     Your voice cuts out when Techno rests a hand on your shoulder, steering you towards your couch.

     “I think you need to take a breather,” he says, and his morning voice suddenly stands out to you. “Look. I’m making breakfast. We’ll eat, take care of the farm, maybe work on that expansion you talked about the other day. If it comes time, we’ll eat lunch. Then we can worry about tonight.”

The way he rattles off the day plans, gentle ease with just a touch of domesticity, makes your head spin. You’re suddenly glad he made you sit down.

     He hands you a mug, reaching over your shoulder. “Hope you like spruce tea.”

You take the mug with a quiet ‘thank you’, watching the steam ebb from the mug as Techno returns to the smokers and stove-top. A lemon-like flavor hits your tongue when you take a sip, along with the sweetness of honey and a touch of sweet berry. Breakfast lands on the coffee table when you hit the half-way point in your mug, plate piled high with eggs, biscuits, and strips of steak.

     “Starting to think I should keep you around,” you say, waiting for Techno to sit before digging in. “Oh shit . Yeah. Definitely keeping you.”

     Techno laughs. “That good, huh?”

     “Dude, this makes eating breakfast worth it.”

     “Do you usually not eat in the morning?”

     “I usually grab some bread or an apple and head on my way — eating big meals in the morning tends to throw my body off.”

     “Probably because you’ve trained yourself that way,” he replies. “Guess I should stay in the area.”

     “I’m not against a roommate, you know,” you murmur into your tea. “It’s so quiet around here.”

You can feel Techno’s eyes on you, gaze heavy with something you can’t read without looking at him. The spell breaks when you fidget under his scrutiny.

     “You done?”

     “Yeah, I can —”

     “Head out to the farm, I can do dishes.”

     You furrow your brows. “But you cooked —”

     “Don’t be defiant,” he teases, smiling so soft, and something stirs in your chest. “I’ll be out in five.”

       The time to get ready for the night’s event arrives, after spending the day in the fields and building your new bedroom on the first level, and you’re reminded as to one of the reasons why you thanked the gods that Techno arrived way before the event.

     “Hey, Techno?”

A grunt of acknowledgement from the next room over.

     “Can you come tie me up?”

A choked cough follows your question, followed by a thump .

     “You want me to what ?”

Scratch that, actually.

     “Oh for gods’ sakes,” you mutter, adding the last touches to your makeup before storming over to the guest room down the hall. “The ribbon on the back of my dress, you dumbass, I need you to—”

Your angry rambling cuts short as you enter the guest room, taking in the loose-fitted burgundy tunic and leggings on Techno’s form. White and bronze armor lay across the bed, an unidentifiable brass-plated skull hung neatly on the bedpost, the familiar carmine cape and an unfamiliar carnation and faded cerise sash folded neatly below it. Fabric wrappings wind snugly around his wrists and the palm of his left hand, the remaining roll unwound across the floor. A pair of cedar brown gloves lay on the desk beside him.

     “Yeah, uhm,” he coughs again, long tail twitching, “let me finish wrapping my hands.”

     “Planning for a brawl, Tech?”

     “Heading into Manberg like this, we don't know what to expect. We need to stay on our toes.”

You nod, moving to sit on the edge of the bed while the room settles into a gentle quiet. He stands after rewrapping and fixing the ends of the off-white fabric, moving the armor aside to kneel behind you on the bed. You can’t help the shiver that runs through your muscles as hands brush over your shoulder blades, warm trails following the achingly slow trace of his calloused fingertips.

     “It’s just like lacing up a pair of boots,” you murmur. “Easy. Just start from the top.”

     “You got my gifts,” he says after a moment, touching the straps of the harness that held the sword’s sheath. “Leather looks good on you.”

     The room falls back into silence, but an familiar tensity strains between the two of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, choosing to focus on the pull of ribbon and the pressure of tightened fabric, rather than the faint rush of Techno’s breath on your neck and the press of his nimble fingers over your back. A large, warm hand settles palm down on your shoulder, the space between his thumb and forefinger flush with the side of your throat while fingertips graze your collarbone.

     “Tight enough?”

You reach behind yourself, running your fingers over the ribbon.

     “Perfect.”

He shuffles off of the bed, hooves clicking on the cool wood flooring as he sorts through the different pieces of the armor for the night. You turn to face him.

     “When was the last time you wore all this? And what was the occasion?”

     “A long time ago, Phil and I were…” he stalls, “Dictators. Working cooperatively to take over a world far different from this one. We were something to be feared, he and I. Wilbur himself — regardless of the fact he has no recollection of that era — said we were on route to become the most powerful. And we were.”

     “So this —”

     “— was my uniform,” he finishes, blood red eyes smoldering as he stares out of the far window. “I used to have … servants … that would dress me in it. It went on that way for so long — hell, since I’ve worn it — I’ve nearly forgotten how to do it myself.”

     You trace your fingers along the brilliant details. “So… would you say no to a helping hand?”

Something visceral flashes in his stare as he looks to you, a faint tremor shaking his ribs, his tail twitching.

     “I’ll guide you,” he decides, a commanding tone slipping into his voice. “The armor can be particular.”

You nod, quietly stepping back as he moves around the room. He steps into the bronze-toed boots with ease, reaching for the shin braces after clicking brass caps onto his dew claws. He passes one to you.

     “The part that looks like a sea shell connects to the knee guard,” he directs, “and the filigreed end lays over the top of the boots.” He turns it around, showing iron hooks and latches. “These four interconnect within the brace. Just line them up, and push down until they click.”

     You nod, sinking to your knees before aligning the brace to his leg. The ivory-toned armor fits like a glove, a muted click greeting the slight pressure from your grasp. You reach up blindly, repeating the task once the other brace is in your hands. He shifts away from you for a moment, picking up a similar pair of braces, along with the knee guards.

     “Thigh braces are the same concept,” he continues, “and the knee guards connect with the hinges on the back. Easy?”

     “Easy.”

He nods, standing still as you return to your work. His tail twitches again when your knuckles brush his inner thigh, a barely audible huff rumbling in his chest. More clicks echo in the room as you secure the braces, lock the knee guards into position. He takes your hand a moment later, helping you off of the floor.

     “The chestplate and pauldrons are next,” he gestures, laughing when you nearly drop the former. “What? Can’t handle solid quartz?”

     “How the hell can you wear all of this?”

     “The physical weight of armor is nothing compared to the mental weight of a crown. Now c’mere.”

You breathe out a sigh, the weight of his words somehow heavier than any of the armor you’d held. You refocus as he easily wrestles himself into the chestplate, the plating seamlessly snapping together at the touch of a hand. Locking the pauldrons over his shoulders, he gestures for the skull.

     “Nothing says intimidating like wearing the skull of your father,” he says, a smirk on his face as it locks into position. He laughs at your incredulous expression. “What? It’s tradition.”

     “You’re insane,” you reply. “Complete batshit.”

     “At least I look good while doing so. Now pass me the belts.”

A leather belt fits around his hips first — along with a large sheath — followed by curved bronze adornments overtop. The sash weaves into place under the belts, and you can feel the pride thrumming over his form as you drape his cape over his shoulders, moving in front of him to fasten the lapis lazuli clasps that keep the cape in place. He pulls on the vambraces last, allowing you to lock them onto his arms.

     You step back, taking him in. “How do you feel, Techno?”

     “Like it’s barely been a day since I wore this last,” he murmurs, and turns to study himself in the mirror. “Oh! One more favor, by the way.”

You hum in acknowledgement, watching him fix minute details in his uniform and clip brass bands around his tail.

     “I was hoping you’d help me with my hair. It’s just… it’s gotten unmanageable lately.”

     “Do you want me to cut it?”

     He thinks for a moment. “Could you? Actually… could you braid it?”

Your face brightens with excitement, and you hold up a finger before running from the room. Ducking into your own room, you pick up your favorite brush, and a ruby red strip of fabric before rushing back. Tossing a pillow onto the floor, you gesture for him to sit as you climb back onto the bed.

     “Now it’s, it’s kind of a mess,” he hesitates. “I’m not the best at taking care of it. Too busy.”

You snort, pulling the loose bun from the black ribbon before letting the matted mess fall into your lap.

     “Good gods, Techno,” you mutter. “How the hell do you wash your hair?”

     “Well, uh, I dunk my head in the water. Put in soap. Dunk my head back in the water. Then I’m done.”

     “And you wonder why your hair is as awful as it is.”

His chest rumbles with laughter, stifling when you begin brushing through the mess. You work through the ends first, picking patiently at the various snarls and knots. A smile forms on your face as the bubblegum pink hair begins to soften, vicious curls turning into gentle waves. Techno’s posture shifts the longer you work, shoulders and head slumping.

     “When was the last time you let someone take care of you, Tech?”

     “It’s been a long time.” His voice is slow, syrupy. “I don’t usually… trust people. Especially like this.”

     Your heart burns. “How many people?”

     “I’ve lost count.”

You swallow away the harsh sting in your throat, focusing on his hair as you draw closer to the crown of his head. Softly scratching your fingernails against his scalp, you can’t help the giggle that spills from you when his tail softly thumps against the floorboards.

     “Happy?”

Laughter bubbles in your ribs at the heat on his face, embarrassed grumbles spitting from him. Your fit tapers out slowly, and you begin the process of braiding his hair. The rhythm comes easy — left over middle, right over middle, pull through — and you hum softly, the notes of Tommy’s favorite disk ingrained into your memory. You lose yourself in the moment, the terror of the approaching evening falling away as you sink into the present. But all good things must come to an end, proven by the fragile euphoria breaking when the tips of his hair meet your fingers. You reluctantly loop the fabric into a fisherman's knot at the base of the braid.

     “There,” you murmur, “a braid for a king.”

He reaches, slowly, to trace his fingers along the winding lines of his hair. He stands without a moment’s notice, whirling around to face you with an excited gleam in his eyes.

     “Crown me.”

A pause shifts in the air before the two of you break down again, and you nearly drop the fragile diadem in your hands as you trip over your own feet. You steady yourself after a moment, standing on your toes to balance the crown on Techno’s head. He stills when your hands slowly trace down his face, palms stopping on the fine line of his jaw.

     “Why do I trust you so much?”

The sudden question hits you like the blast from a creeper. His pained tone burns through you like fire in a torrid forest, the emotions in his eyes too turbulent for you to decipher.

     “You’re still somewhat a stranger,” he continues, voice fainter than a whisper. “And yet, I’d lay down my life for you.”

You move to respond, but he blazes onward, a spark on a trail of unchecked gunpowder.

     “Phil told me so many things about you.” A large hand moves to cover one of your own. “The way your allegiance lies in the people, not in the power.”

     “I’m nothing but a woman trying to make things right,” you return, tone achingly soft. “I’d do anything to protect the ones I love. The ones that rely on me.”

     “Your actions since the beginning have screamed that louder than any word ever could.”

     “Since the day I arrived,” your voice shakes, “I told myself I would start something good. Or I’d help someone make something good. Watching L’Manberg become what it has, I… I feel lost.”

     “There’s still time.”

     “But how much time?” You can’t help the way your voice pitches up. “This land has been a ticking bomb since the moment Wilbur cried independence.”

You try to pull away, frantic energy flashing like lightning strikes under your skin, but Techno holds you down.

     “Then you make time,” he insists, his hand moving to the middle of your back. “Break and burn the hands of Father Time until the jurisdiction becomes yours to rule.”

The way he pulls you into him sinks into your bones like the strike of a wither: a rush of intoxicating, furious pain, slowly melting down tissue and cartilage until you’re nothing but a head and a heart. Your panicked breathing tangles with his, his face dangerously close to yours, and you wonder what it’d be like to kiss him again, to kiss the god before you until he melted into nothing.

     But dreamers have to awaken at some point. “Nomad?”

Techno withdraws immediately at the sound of Phil’s voice, his expression closing harshly, eyes narrowing. You run to the front entry.

     “Phil? Is everything okay?”

     “We’re fine, everything’s going to plan,” he soothes. “Tubbo just wanted me to give this to you.”

     You snort, looking over your shoulder at Techno. “The boy and his gifts…”

Your voice trails out as you turn back to Phil, eyes trained on the shimmering iron circlet in his hands.

     “He insisted that Techno was the one to put it on you.”

The man in question moved from behind you, taking the fragile coronet in his hands. He turns, looking down at you.

     “Crown me,” you murmur, a mirror of before.

But a fragile expression graces his face this time, far detached from the earlier laughter. Some kind of emotion — possession, need, fear, you couldn’t guess — flashes in his eyes, like the first blinding glimpse of sunlight after being in a cave for a week. The iron band sits perfectly on your head, the two ends meeting with a diamond in the middle of your forehead.

     You take his hand as he draws away. “Break and burn the hands.”

He nods, once, and awe settles over you in the way his perfectly stoic expression fits evenly back over his face as he turns to Phil.

     “Keep an eye on Pogtopia,” he says. “We’ll leave when the time is right.”

  Techno’s hand rests on your lower back as you stand on your front porch, watching the animals graze and the remaining crops turn into a golden sea.

     “Firefly.”

You hum, subconsciously leaning into the heat of his hand.

     “Let me see you with the sword.”

You break away reluctantly, and make your way down the path from your cabin to the new training field, Techno on your heels. Hiking up your skirt to keep it away from the dirt, you shift your boots into flats, and slowly draw the sword from the scabbard on your back. The hybrid stays near the control panel, and waits for your signal.

The wave begins when you swing the sword over your head, summoning a roaring halo of flame and embers. The sword cuts through the haybales Techno launches like a hot knife through butter, pieces of burning hay and soot twisting around you like wind in a wildfire. You catch the look on his face out of the corner of your eye, pride blooming in your chest at the wonder-filled glaze in his eyes. Your moves take a turn for the fantastical, back-flipping over stray bales and high-kicking others, flashing skin and flexing muscles you hadn’t used in a while.

It’s nice, you think, feeling like a god in the presence of a man who claims to be one.

The barrage ended after the last haybale was obliterated, your blade extinguished with a spin of the blade and a press of the golden button on the hilt. Twirling it a couple times to allow the netherite to cool to a comfortable heat, the hybrid meets you in the middle.

     “I made a good choice, I see,” he says, the same look from when you’d offer to help him into his armor, and when you asked him to crown you, flickering in his eyes. “It suits you well, Firefly.”

You jokingly curtsy, flashing the spare knife strapped to your thigh. Techno’s eyes linger as you stand.

     “Ready, my accomplice?”

     “Always.”

His hand returns to your lower back, guiding you back to the stable off to the side of the animal fields. Fixing Carl’s saddle, he places one hoof into the stirrup before swinging his leg over. Settling himself in the seat, he wastes no time in turning you around, and lifting you by your waist. He laughs — a low, chuffing sound —  as you squeak in surprise.

     “Forget, did you?”

     “Sometimes,” you murmur, heart racing as he shifts closer to you, wraps his arms around your waist to grab the reins. “Let’s get going. Sunset doesn’t last forever.”

     “Of course, your majesty,” he teases. “Off we go, into Dante’s Inferno. ”

  Manberg is just as you remember, but the label stings like a fresh wound.

     “Look at this…” you say. “What he’s created. It’s L’Manberg but… something’s just not quite right.”

Techno grunts, eyes flickering to and from every guard, daring them to strike.

     “What’ll happen when we reach the ballroom? Do you think they’re just doing this for niceties?”

     “We can only hope,” Techno replies, the low timbre of his voice rumbling in his chest. “Just look alive. Break and burn.”

     “Break and burn,” you echo, your hand moving to take his as you reach the border of Manberg. He stills, then relaxes in your hold.

     “State your business,” the guard demands.

     “Technoblade and Nomad, invited guests of the Manberg Ball.”

You hear pistons shifting within Manberg’s walls, opening the gates. You shudder.

     “Welcome to Manberg. And Technoblade? Best behavior is preferred.”

Techno growls in return, but urges Carl forward before a fight can begin. You let him stew for a moment, then squeeze his hand.

     “The lanterns are still just as beautiful as they were when I got exiled.”

     You smile when he laughs. “You always notice the little things, don’t you?”

     “Well of course. Things get so monotonous and sour if you don’t.”

The land around the two of you ebbs with soldiers, civilians, and guests. The sun simmers on the horizon when you reach the stable gates.

     “Nine iron nuggets for the night,” the manager says, catching the bag when Techno throws it to him. “Stalls ten, thirteen, and twenty-eight are open. Enjoy your time at the Ball!”

Techno nods politely, then dismounts Carl to lead him into one of the open stalls. He helps you down once Carl is settled in stall thirteen, his hands lingering on your hips.

     “Niki said she’d meet us near L’Mantree,” Techno says, idling by the stall. “She said it’s the closest place to the ballroom without straight-up being there.”

You spot the tree a few buildings away, and take his hand.

     “Lead the way, then.”

You keep your head high as the two of you begin your walk, your heels clicking on the walkway while your silver and indigo makeup shimmers in the dying sunlight. Murmurs from civilians about your reappearance drift across the wind, foul words and harsh remarks mostly unnoticed by the two of you. Niki’s face is nothing short of relieved upon your approach.

     “Nomad! Techno!” her voice is gentle, her smile bright. “I’ve never been happier to see the two of you. Was the journey okay?”

     “Smooth as butter, ‘specially with this big lug,” you joke. “Did the others make it?”

     “Phil’s surveying the ballroom, Tommy and Tubbo are… somewhere, presumably causing trouble, and Wilbur has yet to arrive.”

     “I need to make a grand entry, dear Niki Nihachu.”

     She spins on her heel, eyes sparkling. “Will!”

     “Welcome to Manberg,” Wilbur says. “Home of Schlatt’s biggest ego boost to date.”

The four of you melt into laughter at Wilbur’s snarled quip, tension easing from your shoulders.

     “Shall we head in?” you ask. “Or do we keep mingling out here, and make them nervous?”

     “I think it’d be best to enter now,” Techno replies. “I’d prefer to not get shot because of suspicion.”

     “Would you prefer a firefight?”

     “Honestly? Yes.”

Laughter bubbles from your group once more, and the four of you make the leap from the frying pan… and into the fire.

       The ballroom, as much as you hate to admit it, is gorgeous: main floors of quartz surround a spruce dancefloor, the walls of blackstone with red nether brick inlay. Soul lantern chandeliers sway above your heads, iron chains linking them to the ceiling. A large platform made of more blackstone and quartz stands at the other end, where a band plays a familiar jazz ballad you used to love. Various shouts and jolts of laughter travel over the room, along with the chiming of champagne glasses and the scent of the delicacy tables.

     “Wilbur and I are going to go dance, maybe reconnect with some people,” Niki says over the din of the room. “Grab us a table!”

You wave them off, laughing as the duo melts into the crowd with breathtaking ease, smiles on their faces to fight the uncertainty of the night.

     You turn to your date. “Shall we?”

     He returns his hand to your lower back. “Lead the way, Firefly.”

You beam, your chest feeling bubbly as you search for an empty table. Deciding on one close to the dancefloor, you can’t help but giggle as Techno pulls out your chair for you.

     “Thank you, your majesty,” you joke, smiling when he laughs.

     “Of course, your highness,” he replies, and sinks into the chair next to you. “Want a drink?”

You nod, and Techno flags down one of the many waiters fluttering around with trays full of drinks. Techno takes two, passing a flute to you.

     “To being war criminals invited to what’s most likely a trap,” Techno cheers, and you laugh.

     “To having the most handsome date in the room.”

Techno blushes, but clinks his glass against yours nevertheless. The bubbles within the champagne tickle and sting as you drink, painting the apples of your cheeks and the tips of your ears a gentle pink. The two of you watch the room as the music changes over and over, laughing at Tommy and Tubbo as they breakdance to an orchestral piece.

The gentle vibe can’t last forever, though.

     “Didn’t think you’d show, Nomad .”

     You stiffen, but don’t turn your head. “Schlatt.”

     “You could at least have the decency to look at me when I’m talking to you,” he snarls. “Or have you already gone feral from your short stint in the boonies?”

     “I don’t think she owes you anything,” Techno returns, your eyes widening at him as he visibly takes your hand. “Now, I know you’re the… what do you call yourself, ‘Big Guy?’, in charge here, but I’d at least like to enjoy a little of my time with my date before I have to start cracking skulls.”

     The recoil in Schlatt’s voice is clear, regardless of his ego. “Easy, Piggy. I’ve still got guests to entertain.”

     “Then get to it,” Techno finishes. “Give Quackity my regards. Ask him how that scar of his is healing.”

You can feel the anger radiating off of the ram hybrid behind you, but it’s nothing compared to the stone cold intimidation and unrelenting emotional trigger discipline of the hybrid sitting next to you. The former resigns, grumbling, and blends back into the crowd.

     You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m lucky I had you.”

     “Yeah? Why’s that?”

     “I probably would’ve killed him,” you snort, then down the last of your drink. “Should we wait for Niki and Wilbur to come back before we go dance?”

     “That’d be nice.”

And so you do, returning to people watching and drinking, which turns into sharing stories and greeting old friends as the night treks onwards. You’re about five drinks in when simmering drum beats travel through the floor, and Schlatt calls the room to attention.

     “Now, Manbergians and other guests,” he roars, “I trust you all have had a lovely evening thus far. As our party reaches its end, I’d like to share a dance with you that I learned many years ago. I give you… Tusk! ”

The rhythm picks up in volume as the attendees cheer, moving from their tables to the spruce plank dance floor. Techno squeezes your hand, catching your attention.

     “Let me lead,” he beams, and you take his hand. “This was a dance from my people.”

     “The piglins?”

He nods, and rushes towards the floor with you in tow. The wild grin on his face is both intoxicating and infectious as you join the crowd. Slipping into your respective places in the parallel lines, you look to the hybrid for guidance.

     “Just move opposite of me.”

You nod, readying yourself as the tempo picks up. A simple left-step right-follow, right-step left-follow pattern echoes down the lines, the steady thunder of footsteps chorusing with the drums. Haunting vocals float over the hall, sending chills down your body.

     Why don’t you ask him, if he’s gonna stay?

His right hand reaches out to you, prompting you to reach out your own. A quarter way through the phrase he pulls back, reaching above his head, and you follow. A simple right-back-step left-follow-through accompanies it, the pattern switching when the half-way point of the phrase follows.

     Why don’t you ask him, if he’s going away?

The pattern repeats as the song moves steadily onwards, a vocal and instrumental train flying over a human track. You can hear the guitars join the nomadic beat, warbling faintly.

     Why don't you ask him what's going wrong?

Brass instruments begin to pulse under the drumline, and you notice the line separating before the leaders pull their partners towards them, the lines becoming a hatchwork of pairs.

     “Do you trust me?” Techno murmurs. “It’s about to get wild.”

     Your heart catches in your throat as his vermillion eyes burn into yours. “Always.”

His tusks catch the lantern light — snow white and sharp as netherite — and a different kind of shiver runs through you.

     Why don't you ask him who's the latest on his throne?

The tempo lulls for a moment before the brass and woodwinds blare, followed by the drums somehow growing louder.

     Don’t say that you love me!

A shrill howl from the vocalists trigger the next set of movements, Techno easily spinning you out before pulling you to his chest, dropping you into a low dip that makes adrenaline flood your veins. You move with him at a wicked pace, splitting apart to stomp out a rhythm before meeting back in the middle. His face is intoxicatingly close to yours.

     Just tell me that you want me!

Another shriek follows, and you find yourself sinking into the dance with ease. The hybrid’s hands are warm as one holds your hips, the other locked with one of yours. The pattern moves to a familiar, swift tango, your skirt fanning out like a gasoline-stoked fire.

     Tusk!

The room goes wild as the brass and drums swing, rhythmic stomping and chants filling the warm air of the hall. The tango-like pattern continues through the song, occasionally broken by a jump or slide. Techno breaks from what seemed to be the normal choreography as the song trickles towards its end, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades while the other burns at your hip. His face drops towards the crook of your neck, tusks and teeth bared. You crane your head back as he draws close, waiting for him to just — 

Cheers for the performers break the dangerous spell that had captured both of you, rose-red heat blooming across Techno’s face as he pulls back from you.

     Your hand comes up to meet his jaw, fingers tracing his burning skin. “Find me.”

  The rest of the night idles smoothly, and you’re content to stay back at your table with Tubbo and Tommy. Guests come and go, ebbing and flowing through the party and across the dance floor.

     “What the hell is Techno’s deal?”

     You furrow your brows. “What do you mean, Tommy?”

     “What was that move he pulled during that dance with you?”

Oh. That . You don’t know if you’re the one that should be explaining that. Fate seems to look fondly upon you in that moment, as you catch the smoldering gaze of the man you’ve been playing cat and mouse with since that dance.

     You stand. “I’ll let Phil take the reins on that. I gotta jet, though. Someone’s looking for me.”

     “Are we okay?”

     You pat Tubbo’s shoulder. “All good. This one’s a solo mission.”

The duo nods, ignoring you as you run to a side hallway. You trace the various doors until a storage closet comes into view.

     “Gods, I’m cliché,” you mutter. “But I guess that’s the fun part.”

You scan the hallway one last time before ducking in, dodging various cleaning materials and tools before pressing yourself flat against the wall, hidden by a shelving unit. Shallow breaths enter and leave you, a natural instinct to keep yourself completely still. A chorus of footsteps passes by the door, clouded with drunken voices, until the single track click of hooves remains. Shit.

The iron handle twists, clicks, then allows the door to swing open, Techno’s broad form only allowing the tiniest slivers of sapphire-gold light to filter past him. The room swirls back to a stygian tone when he seals the two of you in, ink-like and all-encompassing. You can hear his breath, feel how close he is.

     “Degrading yourself to someone only worthy in a broom closet?” he purrs, and you find it hard to stand still. “And in such a beautiful dress too. Disappointing, really.”

You curse his impeccable night vision when his hand meets your face — he can see you perfectly, but you’re blind as an ancient prophet — and reluctantly lean into the touch.

     “You don’t understand what you do to me,” Techno continues, pressing further into your space. “I haven’t… I’ve never felt this way for someone. I feel like I’m starving when you’re not in my hands.”

     “Then eat,” you whisper, arching further into him when his hands skim your sides. “I’m on a silver platter, just for you.”

     “Tell me to stop,” he chokes, his voice low. “Or give me the chance to prove myself to you.”

     You reach for his face. “Strike, Protesilaus. Seal your fate.”

The kiss is bruising, tusks pressing against your face like before while Techno bites at your lips. You tangle your fingers in his hair, a rush of endorphins running wild when his hand grips your thigh, holding it against his hip. Cross-faded is one of the few ways to describe the way you feel, inebriated by the hybrid’s lips and strung out on his breathy groans. It’s cataclysmic, you think, how one man can send you spiraling and swimming in your own head, through your own blood stream. It’s detrimental how you let your thoughts slip away, forgetting that you’re making out with a war criminal in a land that would be overjoyed to have your two heads on pikes.

A cartoonish crash echoes in the hallway outside the broom closet, though, setting the both of you straight and sending fear through your veins.

     “Maybe a broom closet wasn’t my best choice,” you murmur, suddenly shy as you slip back into the hallway. “But whatever made the noise must’ve sounded off then dipped, because I don’t see anything that could’ve caused it.”

     Techno huffs. “Balcony, then?”

You take his hand when he reaches out, giggling as he whisks you down the hall to a tall spiral staircase. The glass doors open with a push of a hand, leading out to view the docks and the sprawling ocean. The midnight moon glows over the two of you, a spotlight on the leads of a beautifully complex stage-play. Techno’s hands are gentler now, his actions slow, weighted.

     “Am I a stranger now?” you murmur, watching the horizon. 

     He laughs. “You became familiar to me the moment you let me into your home.”

You raise a brow at him, so he continues.

     “Look, I… I know what I said earlier today. The whole, ‘still somewhat a stranger’ thing. I guess I… I’m rethinking that. When I said that to you, I was — well, I was afraid, if I’m honest with you — of the concept of growing close to you. I’m sure you know of my track record with allegiances.”

You nod silently, not wanting to ruin whatever breakthrough/crisis the hybrid was having in front of you.

     “And yet, the longer we knew one another, the more I felt drawn to you. Almost as if there’s some, thread , or something that ties us together.”

     “There’s always the concept of the red thread of fate,” you reply, carefully. “Ancient Chinese mythology states that the red string is tied around the ankles by Yuè Lǎo , the lunar god of courtship. It can stretch, tangle, but never break.”

     “Maybe the bloodshed was necessary then,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. “A visual representation of the ties that bind.”

     “Maybe so,” you echo, then, “and maybe you should kiss me again.”

His laugh feels like summer, warm and sugary, and he kisses you. This one holds a different weight, however — things unspoken now hover like sparks between you, golden and glowing and more honest than law itself — and you can’t help but yearn for more. More time with just the two of you. More time to learn him . His careful touch that he saves for you and the animals in your care. The weightlessness of his step when he sees you on the horizon. The twitches of his tail with excitement, with trepidation. The way you want to know every aspect of him that makes up the man you — 

     Love , you realize. This is love.

     “Techno?” your voice is soft when he retreats.

     “Yes?”

     You clear your throat, face warm. “Take me home.”

  Final pleasantries are exchanged as the two of you leave the event, promising to keep in touch with your close friends.

     Niki pulls you aside. “I think you’re in good hands, if you decide to keep him around.”

You watch him laugh with the boys, an arm slung over Phil’s shoulder while Tommy flails about.

     “Absolutely,” you smile, then turn back to Niki. “I… I trust him with my life.”

     Her eyes go wide. “That’s big stuff from you, Nomad.”

     “He hasn’t proven me wrong, Niki. And I have a feeling he never will. Techno is a man of humanity over regimentation — he’s made that perfectly clear over the time I’ve gotten to know him.”

     “Well, if he ever hurts you,” she replies, jokingly cracking her knuckles. “He’ll have to come through me.”

You both break down laughing after that, regardless of how many times Niki insists that she’s serious. She calms down, though, when she catches Techno’s sight.

     “I think someone’s ready to get you home,” she teases, laughing when you blush at Techno’s expression. “You better spill details when we meet up again.”

     “Oh my gods, Niki —”

     “Ready, Firefly?” Techno interrupts, a hand on your side making you jump. He turns to Niki. “It was nice to see you again.”

     “Same to you,” she smiles. “Take care of her, Technoblade.”

     “Always,” he responds, then takes your hand. “We’ll meet again soon.”

You wave one last goodbye to your former compatriots, giggling as Techno drags you along behind him.

     “Getting tired, big guy? Ready to go home?”

     “I’m more awake now than I’ve ever been,” he returns, and you shiver at his low tone. “And I’d like to finish what we started earlier.”

       The clock atop of your mantle chimes twice as you reenter your home, and you drink in the warmth of your home between kicking off your boots, shelving your sword, and adjusting your back. You sit on your couch while you wait for Techno to take care of Carl for the night, feeding the fire in front of you. The door opens as you place the last log, but you don’t turn, opting to listen to the sounds of the hybrid making himself comfortable in your home. He places a hand on your shoulder when he comes up behind you, moving around the couch to sit while drawing you onto his lap.

     “My Aphrodite,” he murmurs, smiling at the way you blush. “Did you enjoy your evening?”

     “All things considered, I think I did.”

     “And what was your favorite part, hmm?”

     “Oh, I’m not sure… maybe the part of the night where a handsome hybrid pinned me against a wall, told me how starved he’d become, and nearly begged to eat me alive.”

     His hand tangles in the hair at the base of your head. “Would you feed him again?”

     “Until the day I die.”

He grins, sated, and captures your lips with his once more. You meet like waves crashing on the shore, rolling and wild with a glimpse of something dangerous just below the surface. He moves to nip at your jaw, drawing downwards to graze his nose and tusks against the side of your neck. Featherlight kisses soon turn sharp, pleasant shivers running through you as he bites and laves over the fragile skin.

     “You know, as — hah — as handsome as you look in that armor,” you breathe, “I’d give anything to see it strewn across my bedroom floor.”

Oh, that gets his attention. His hands move to hook under your thighs, prompting you to wrap your legs over his hips as he stands. He pushes through the curtained doorway to the back hall, shoving into your room with a jolt of his shoulder against the door. You gasp when he drops you onto your bed, your hands moving the circlet off of your head and onto a bedside table. Techno’s crown follows, and you watch in blatant intrigue at how he easily discards the armor.

     “And you said you’d forgotten,” you quip, shivering when he looks in your eyes.

     “What? Not allowed an excuse to have you touch me?”

You shiver again, whining when he teasingly takes a little too long to discard the weighty garments. He simply rolls his eyes, kicking off the shin guards and boots with finality before hovering over you. You shift backwards, resting against the headboard to let him slink towards you, a hauntingly starved glint to malignant vermilion eyes. His ever-warm hands make contact first, barely tracing over the straps of the sword sheath.

     “I should make you more things out of leather,” he breathes. “Wrapped so perfectly, my little present.”

A subconscious shift of your thighs grants him room, draws him closer to you. His arms move to cage you in, his forehead bumping gently against yours as the feeling in the air grows softer.

     “Let me prove myself to you,” he whispers, an echo from before. “Let me be who you think I can be.”

     You accept his pleas, humming in quiet praise when he kisses you slowly. His palms slide down the headboard, one resting against the back of your neck while the other teases the ribbon on your dress. The soft press of lips turns to the curl of a tongue, whimpers and whines muffled by the weight of the kiss. The wind outside of the window rushes by, a chorus of gusts singing with the distant sound of rivers and crickets. The fire in the living room shifts as Techno’s mouth drops to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, crackling sharply, nearly in-time with the stinging kisses he leaves behind. Skilled hands quickly unravel the bindings of your corset, a sigh spilling from you as the pressure against your ribcage lessens. The fabric lingers on your skin, though, and an inquisitive look settles on your face as Techno pulls away.

��    “What are uh,” he stutters, then clears his throat. “What are boobs? I’m a visual learner by the way.”

You gawk at him, blinking slowly. Laughter then bursts from you, your smile widening when the man hovering above you breaks.

     “I can’t believe,” you snort, tipping your head back, “that you quoted a fucking meme . Is this what foreplay is to you?”

     He chuckles. “Wilbur told me —”

     “—oh my gods, I also can’t believe you listened to Wilbur of all people—”

     “—hear me out a second, wait—”

You cut him off by pushing him off of you, and slowly shimmy out of your dress. The hybrid’s eyes linger on your face, his own tinted pink with either nerves or embarrassment, and you giggle when his gaze trails downwards.

     “Those, uhm, those look heavy. Let me hold them for you.”

     “Technoblade my beloved, I’m going to kick your sorry ass out into the cold if you don’t shut the fu—”

     Your voice breaks as he suddenly worships your chest, hands holding your shivering ribs while his mouth paints silvery trails and harsh mauve bruises in haphazard patterns. The pride rolls off of him in waves, chest puffed and eyes glazed over with lust. The ever present weight of his tusks pricks needle-thin marks alongside the bruises as he works, blood slowly beading up against your heat-flushed skin. His tongue traces the metallic waste, thrills rolling down his spine at the taste. He pauses, strategic, once his hands find your hipbones; and locks eyes with you, blown pupils carving obsidian cores within the garnet of his irises. The moments tick, far from uncomfortable yet teasing the boundary, when Techno speaks again.

     “I thought tonight would be our last.”

     “W-what?”

     “I thought we’d lose our lives tonight,” he insists, calloused palms shifting and framing your skin. “I thought the Festival would be our end, our last great what-for in the face of everything we’d already lost. We’ve already… we’ve already lost so much, Firefly. Manberg could’ve been it.”

     “But it wasn’t,” you return, shifting up to take the hybrid’s face in your shivering hands. “ Technoblade never dies , right? And I’d said that if I stuck with you, maybe that luck would rub off on me. Gods, I love when I’m right.”

He laughs at you — a low, sweet sound that you could be high on forever — and carefully kisses the space just above your navel. You think back to your train of thought from before, of the dizzying love that lives within the heat of your heart where he resides, and pass the pad of your thumb under his left eye, down the scar that marrs his cheek.

     “And I love you .”

Your heart nearly ceases its ever-present beat when those simple words roll so easily from his tongue, and from him . Unprompted. The man who’d lost so much, who’d been betrayed by so many people. A smile breaks across your face, your lips meeting his as tears well hotly in your eyes.

     “I love you, I love you,” you murmur between kisses, “you’re the best thing to ever stumble across my little life.”

His smile glows like the brightest stars, and he discards your dress onto the floor, his hands and mouth returning to work in tandem down your torso. Barely-there bites sting the surface of your thighs, your heart-rate picking up as his head stops just above you. The reprieve is momentary, though, as his heated breath huffs over the fabric of your underwear. Strangled noises rumble in your throat when his tongue flattens against you, all wet heat and pressure. He stops again when he fingers the elastic of your waistband.

     “You’re sure about this, right?” His pupils are blown when he looks at you, lips cherry-red and swollen.

     “Techno, just —”

     “Words, Firefly,” he commands, hips rutting against the sheets when you whine at his tone. “Talk to me.”

     “I’m sure, I’m sure,” you keen. “ Please .”

The faint tearing of fabric cuts the heated air before Techno’s mouth is on you, teasing and lapping at your weeping core. He breathes you in slowly, feasting like the starved man ascended into kingship. The rush of pleasure is dizzying, mind-numbing to the point of disassociation, and your fingers tangle in the knitted braid of his hair. The noises that hum deep in your chest border on profane, high-pitched whines and whimpered moans of his name spilling off of your tongue like blasphemous prayer. Nimble fingers trade places with his tongue, stretching and teasing and petting so sweetly into you. You hiccup his name over and over, thoughtless and pleading as he works without mercy.

     “Look at you,” he purrs, mouth hovering over your heat as his fingers work. “Falling apart just from my hands. What do you have to say for yourself?”

You nearly howl in return, pressure settling low in your stomach as your body flashes with warmth . The familiar feeling runs rampant under your skin, a fuzzy weight you could never quite get with your own hand. Something snaps in the moment thereafter, a heady whine ringing in your own ears as you work through the warbling bliss on the palm of Techno’s hand.

     “That’s it, Firefly,” he praises, the pad of his thumb working you to near-overstimulation. “That’s my girl.”

You whimper as he pulls away, a whole new feeling in your stomach as he drags his tongue over his palm, down the length of his fingers. Your hand on the hem of his shirt breaks the spell of your taste on his skin, and you feel like you could drool as the familiar cords of muscle come into view, flexing and twisting as he pulls off his shirt and drops it alongside your dress. You sit up to meet him, one hand ghosting over his chest while the other slips into his pants. His eyes flick to your mouth as you bite your lip, watching your expression shift from confidence to worry.

     “I don’t… I don’t know if you’ll—”

     “I — we’ll make it work. C’mon.” His voice is strained in the moment, mind half focused on you, half on the slow glide of your hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”

A gentle nod of your head spurs him back into action, a delicate hand resting against the side of your neck, fingernails tracing your nape. The pace of the night grows languid, tepid growls and half-baked murmurs bleeding into chest-rumbling moans as your motions quicken. Techno stops you, though, panting open-mouthed while an enticing blush paints over his face, over his collarbones.

     “You gotta let me—” he starts, bucking into your grasp as you squeeze your hand a little tighter. “I’ll cum in my fucking pants if you don’t ease up, darlin’.”

     “What, wanna make a good first impression in my bed?” your tone is sultry, taunting. You shift to sit higher on your knees, bringing your face close to his. “Want me to give myself over to you? You gonna ruin every other man for me, Protesilaus ?”

     His hand meets the column of your throat, a warning. “I’ll make damn sure that no man besides me knows how you look in the moonlight, Nomad .” The pressure increases, pushing you down until your back meets the bed. “I’m the only man who’ll ever know how you feel.” One of his hands holds both of your wrists above your head. “I’ll make you scream my god damn name until it’s the only word you know.”

His mouth collides roughly with yours as he shoves his pants off of his waist, blood beading from the lip he bites open as he presses in, swallowing your moans. You meet the push of his hips with little hesitation, nails digging greedily into the meat of his shoulders, the wide planes of his back.

     “ Easy , girl,” he murmurs. “Breathe through it.”

     “Getting cocky now, huh?”

     He ticks his hips mockingly, smirking when you moan. “I think I have full right to be. Now, tell me when you want me to move.”

You let him take it in, the tight heat and the sting of your nails. The scent of the sweat already sparkling on your body, turning moonlight and the lambent candlelight into twinkling rivers and gems across your skin. The coppery tang of your blood that now stains the corner of his bottom lip. And, ultimately, the weight of the moment — an undying trust to an undying man.

     Then, “Now.”

He snarls , hips snapping sharply in retaliation, in domination, in possession . You can feel the weight of it already — in the way he holds your wrists so tight you’re sure they’ll bruise, his other hand resting on your stomach, eyes rolling back as he feels himself under his palm.  His rhythm is intoxicatingly unrelenting, the smell of him choking you in the best way possible.

     “Is this — fuck — everything you thought it’d be?” His voice is pulled taut with pleasure. “All those nights spent on the level above me, working yourself like the dirty little thing you are?”

The embarrassment filters into the pleasure, fueling the fire, the infernal storm within your chest, your stomach. The sharp retort on the tip of your tongue spills out as a moan.

     He scoffs, taunting. “All bark and no bite, Firefly. Thought you’d at least whimper a defense. ‘Oh, Techno, I would never!’ ‘Please, Sir, you must be mistaken!’” His voice pitches up as he mocks you, only to drop with “But you just want to be my good little thing, don’t you?”

     “ Sir ,” you test with a keen, loving the way his chest restricts, how his hips stutter. “ Please .”

He replies with a bruising kiss, breath hot against your skin while he licks into your mouth.

     “Gods, baby, so good for me,” he finally chokes out, shoulders shivering with pride, with ego. “My pretty little baby, spread out just for me. I wish you could see yourself.”

The praise is what does you in, voice cracking as the cry rips from your throat. Pleasure bubbles on the edge of overstimulation, Techno’s thrusts losing rhythm, his head tossed back with abandon as he chases his high

     “Please, c’mon, Tech-no,” your voice is broken, vocal chords beyond strained. “ C’mon .”

He pushes himself up again, hands moving to your waist, chest rumbling with a groan as he snaps his hips one last time. Your stomach somehow warms further as he pants, hips motionless while he catches his breath. Your face flushes as another waves rolls into you.

     “Are you still…?”

     “Yeah, it uhm... it goes on for a bit.” He moans, quiet, when you tense. “Stop that.”

     But you don’t play fair, like, ever. So you tick up your hips again, fighting the overstimulation just to fuck with the hybrid. Your antics stop, however, when the bruising grip on your hips turns into a well-calloused palm against your throat.

     “ Down , girl,” he grumbles. “ Behave .”

     “Yes, Sir.” Your reply slips, thoughtless.

     He keens , low and baying. “C’mon, I just —”

Laughter sits like the bubbling of champagne in your chest, bright and buzzing, your stomach tensing when he finally pulls out. He stops, laser-focused on your hips, of the mess spilling from you.

     “I should go get new sheets,” you blurt, limbs shifting awkwardly. “—Sorry—”

But he holds your thighs carefully, keeping your legs spread as he lowers his head.

     He looks to you. “Can I…?”

     “Sure? I mean you already —”

But the dialogue dies on your tongue as his wide tongue licks up the spill, eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself once more. The coil in your stomach snaps one last time as he nears the end, afterglow turning to a rush of fog between your ears, behind your eyes.

     “Still with me, Firefly?”

Y     ou nod slowly, blinking away tears and the daze in your bones. “I still gotta —”

He barks out a laugh when you nearly tumble from the bed, limbs refusing cooperation regardless of your mental state.

     You sigh in defeat, gently kicking the sole of your foot against his ribs. “Linen closet’s in the bathroom, get the dark blue sheets. Those’ll stay cool but still be comfy.”

     He nods, registering the directions, and presses a kiss to your ankle before rising from the bed. You watch — shamelessly — as he leaves, admiring the lithe yet powerful form of him, the scars that criss-cross his body. You’re half asleep when he returns, curling into his hold as he picks you up and settles you, boneless, into the plush reading chair near the mantle. He moves efficiently, piling the ruined sheets and blankets near the door before easily wrangling the new fitted sheet onto the bed. He layers on new blankets, thin enough to cool down while still staying comfortable in the cool autumn night. The pillowcases are last, and the pillows are plopped down at the head of the bed.

     He returns to you, finally. “Ready?”

The grabby hands you make at him, and the kisses you pepper over his face once he picks you up, solidify the irrational tripping of his rational heart.

     He loves you, he decides, as if he hadn’t from the day he’d first seen you. And he always will.  

       The call of the blue jays is what wakes you in the cool light of dawn, greys and blues premiering before the sunlight can break the horizon. The nightmares of the past laid dormant in the furthest recesses of your mind in that previous night of slumber, your reminder of why snoring contentedly beside you, his large arm tucked strongly against the softness of your stomach. When you shift he moves with you, a large hand moving to rest on your sternum while he pushes his face further into the crook of your neck. You know he’s awake when the huff of his breathing lightens, the press of his nose turning to slow, lazy kisses.

     “G’morning,” you mumble, vocal chords still waking up. “How’d you sleep?”

     He laughs, low. “So formal with me, Firefly. But I’m… good. Best I’ve slept in a while.”

You force your eyes open before turning to him, reaching to run your fingers through his hair. The two of you stay like that for a while, slowly rising like the yellow-orange sun barely breaking the horizon, your nimble fingers working to detangle the rats nest Techno’s hair had become. Ramblings about politics and the Ball flit between you two, weightless and soft against the down pillows.

     “About last night,” he begins, and your hands still. “You were great, I promise. I only…”

     “What, Tech?” The nickname comes easy. Too easy. Then the memories of last night wash over you. “You…”

     “I meant what I said to you. I just wanted to know if you… if you’d let me stay.”

     Your heart quickens in your chest. “Well, I did say I wouldn’t mind a roommate.”

His eyebrows quirk slightly, as if he didn’t expect to be welcomed in. You smile softly, smoothing the pad of your thumb over the crease in his brow.

     “Listen, Tech, I probably won’t be able to walk for a few more hours—” you laugh as he pushes his face into your chest, the skin warming with the blush spread across it, “—so can I con you into making me breakfast again? Maybe once we’re done you can show me some of the things you learned in the Arctic all that time ago.”

     “That’ll take a few weeks, y’know. I was an emperor after all.”

     “With you, I have all the time in the world.”

He smiles against your skin, moving again to kiss you slowly, sweetly. Heat pools in your stomach, distracting, and you reluctantly break away. Techno chases after you, nose bumping against your chin.

     “Well, in that case,” he murmurs. “Round two?”

       The two of you finally leave the bed around noon, skin slick with sweat and muscles tight yet loose. He sets you on the bathroom counter after gathering you easily in his arms, working methodically to draw a bath. The scent of rose and lily of the valley drifts towards you as the water steams the air, washes out the counter-length mirror, fogs the tall window at the end of the room. You lean against the wall while you watch the hybrid, a sleepy haze ebbing at the very edge of your vision going toe-to-toe with the rush of water into the quartz tub, with the muffled birdsong just outside the room.

     “Promise not to drown if I go make breakfast?”

His voice is warm. Safe. You revel in it.

     “I can try.” He laughs when your voice slurs at the end of the phrase. You clear your throat. “I love you.”

     You smile when he turns, his hands finding purchase on your hips. “I love you too,” He breathes your name, your true name. “You complete me, you know? I always had this faint feeling that something — some one — was missing. And now you…”

You let him trail off, content to watch his thoughts unravel and rebind in his head, gears turning easily yet catching every-so-often. He lets the end of the sentence go unspoken, finally, but you can complete it easily. Everything comes easy now.

He picks you up then, laying you in the tub.

     “I’ll make that sweet bread recipe Niki sent me a few months ago, and maybe some eggs. Anything else you want?”

     “Can you make more of that sweet berry jam?” your voice is quiet, somnolent. “S'my favorite.”

     “Anything for you.” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll be back in ten.”

The tapping of his hooves on the tile to the wood of the rest of the house is like music, and you can hear him hum an old Empire song as he clinks and clatters around the tiny kitchen.

     “Sweetheart?” He calls, and your stomach lovingly turns to butterflies. “When will you let me extend the kitchen?”

     Let me , you register, and blush all over again. “Whenever you want, babe.”

Your laugh reverberates around the room as you hear him trip at the pet name.

       The rest of the day passes slowly, molasses in speed but fiery in color. The late autumn air brings promise of something bigger than the two of you, but you let that hang quietly within the wind, opting to finally live in the moment, live in the now. You think back to the fragment of an old phrase you’d heard from a radio host years prior, long before this land, before this life you’d come to recognize as home — an old detail to a life you barely remember.

[...And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first and settles in as the gentle present. This now, this us? We can cope with that … you and I, drowsily, but comfortably.]

     It’s him and I against the world , you decide. And I’d take nothing less, so long as the heart in my chest and the brain in my skull is still mine, and mine alone.

#c!techno #techno x reader #outofthesuit #praise kink #size kink #minor blood warning

[americanaspacecadet]

stifled the choice, and the air in my lungs

posted: april 3rd, 2021

ship: none

fandom: Youtube RPF

rating: mature

desc: he is tired of bleeding. he is tired of drawing blood.

and yet, he chooses blood. he’ll always have to choose blood.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

executio divini sanguinis.

tags: DSMP Arc: Technoblade’s Execution | POV Third Person Limited | Poetic | The Tale of Technoblade The Never-Dying | Totem of Undying | Canon-Typical Violence | No Beta We Die Like Men

word count: 907

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

[notes]: hey folks.

big notes: i'm back!

i've been writing a few things in the background, working part-time, and i've been chugging through college things so i can start in the fall. this is why i've been absent! my bad :(

i have three works on the (back)burners at the moment: a multi-chapter (20+) dream/reader fic, a (so far) 15k word c!technoblade/reader fic [nsfw!], and a prequel/sequel to 'white winter hymnal' [fleshing out the memory mentioned within]. but burn-out is a vicious mistress, meaning that these fics are hibernating in my google drive -- festering and growing dust as we speak. at the moment i'm trying my best to finish the nsfw techno fic - since i started that one a little after the dream fic as a way to take a break from such a long-winded/plot-heavy piece - so i'm hoping to have that one out very very soon! after that i'll try to focus on the pre-sequel while also dedicating time to the dream fic.

thanks so much for sticking around. <3, space cadet.

technoblade’s execution.

[ executio divini sanguinis ]

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

the vicious light of the snow is blinding as he stares out across the frozen valley, mostly abandoned besides his cabin and the stables next door. his breath fogs the chilled glass, blurring the already fuzzy line of spruce trees along the horizon. the noise of shivering parchment breaks the hollow silence within the homestead, coated in ink and clutched dangerously tight in a shaking grasp.

    there’s a warrant out for your arrest, you know

    they won’t stop until they kill you

    they’ll paint the ground with your rotted blood, technoblade

the voices are violent in the late afternoon light, sharp and unforgiving. he closes his eyes, lets the words roll like impetuous waves tangled in an ocean storm, screaming and roiling and suffocating. the sounds filter away when his eyes blink open, blood-red irises locked onto something unseen.

the parchment flutters to the floor.

    they’ll come for you, technoblade, it reads, and they won’t stop until they kill you. bounty hunters. quackity, tubbo, ranboo, and fundy.

    they call themselves the butcher army.

the air is cold when he first steps outside, the chill sinking in and becoming a second skin as he stands on the porch.

night has fallen, and torchlight dances on the horizon.

the house is peaceful, yet netherite gleams in the full moon’s glow.

he is tired of bleeding. he is tired of drawing blood.

    and yet, he chooses blood. he’ll always have to choose blood.

the cuffs burn around his wrists, iron shackles clamped a hair too tight around his broad wrists. the weighty chains sing a cacophonous hymn as the bloodied quartet parade their prize down l’manberg’s streets.

    a fair trial, a worthy case, they squall, grins far too bright for a simple testimony, a worthy case, a fair trial!

he catches phil in the window of his home, eyes blanketed with guilt and ringed in indigo shadows. he calls out to him, wrestling against the bindings encircling his body, the mortal shell of an anarchist man who only wanted freedom from the bleeding.

the march to the podium is belittling. he knows this. and he knows they’re aware. this is their celebratory spit in his face; their chance to make a mockery of wilbur’s betrayal.

    technoblade has robbed our country… tubbo announces, and techno can see him shake, can see the way he fights to hold himself together, the way he fakes being his father.

    of everything that made it special.

    of everything that defines what it was.

the shadow of a cape flashes in techno’s peripheral, the fabric whipping away with the crashing of broken ender pearls and shattering potion flasks. chaos settles within the smoke that swirls around the seating area, screams of the butcher army and punz’s mirthful laughter billowing out.

    PULL THE LEVER, BIG Q!

techno’s grunt of disbelief rings in his own ears as he looks up.

he feels something foreign

dangerous

festering

fear.

but he shifts his hold, ripping the golden totem from his boot, nearly crushes it in his frantic grasp.

a flicker of ghostbur shivers along the wooden path.

and then,

the splitting of his skull

the blistering, agonizing burn of blunt force trauma

the weight of the anvil against his forsaken mortal bones

then,

shattering metal

flashes of green

of gold

of white

the bloody spin of muscle

the refining of bone

the ache of nerves

the tug of skin

finality.

he breathes again, the air rushing and carving away like rivers within a canyon. he chokes for a moment, relearning the talent of breathing without knowing how to breathe. the glass cage front splinters against his weight, the chains screaming until they split. he ignores the blood running rampant down his arms, gaze fixated on

    carl!

he runs, then.

hooves hitting the ground relentlessly, leaping and bounding towards dream.

towards freedom.

the man leaves him, voiceless yet commanding.

techno collects the armor, the pickaxe, the golden food.

    how did that anvil not kill you?

he sinks into a fighter’s stance, turning to face the head of the army.

    did you really think, quackity, that you could kill me that easily?

the man in question stands tall, eyes burning into techno’s own. the dialogue spirals, techno’s broken trust bleeding into his voice. quackity’s eyes never change — forever cold, forever vengeful.

    i just have one question, quackity.

    what do you have?

    do you think you're enough to kill me? even while i’m unarmed with iron armor? do you really think you can take me?

    oh, i do. you know what? let's fucking find out, you son of a bitch.

the pickaxe swings first, calculated but wild swings catching and blocking the blow’s from quackity’s axe. he finally hooks the handle, sending the axe to bury its own blade into the wall.

    i have a pickaxe! he growls, the voices howling in victory at the incoming blood. and i’ll put it THROUGH YOUR TEETH!

the ride home is quiet, techno’s labored breathing masked by the ocean’s waves and carl’s soft whinnying. the spruce trees that line the edge of his land bring weary tears to his eyes, emerald green monoliths awaiting the return of their watcher. his horse eagerly returns to his stable, techno escaping into his homestead soon after.

he returns to the window he’d stood guard at before, when everything changed.

and when an unruly head of blond hair appeared on the horizon, things changed again.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

#tw: blood #tw: death #sorta? #c: technoblade #Dream SMP #Technoblade's Execution

[americanaspacecadet]

i just wanna party with you

originally posted: january 18, 2021

ship: dream/reader

fandom: Youtube RPF

rating: teen

desc: “you’re crazy!” you shout above the racket. “my father was right!”

“i’m not crazy,” dream purrs, dipping his face close to yours. “I’m brilliant.”

—

in which you find yourself chasing shadows of a fairytale, and tangling yourself in the spider’s web.

—

written to:

funny thing - thundercat [main lyrics]

nice boys - temporex

i put a spell on you - creedence clearwater revival

homage - mile high club

—

also cross-posted to wattpad.

tags: Dream SMP | AU: The Great Gatsby [sorta] | Drinking | Recreational Drug Use | The 1920s | Fluff and Angst | Self-Indulgent | Power-Hungry Dream | But That’s Just Canon :) | Literally just showed off his god-complex in this one tbh

word count: 3.5k

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

do you mind if i wild out

a little?

the party swings like the great gatsby revived: drinks are flowing, various flavors of smoke paint the colored lights pastel red and gold, and the head of the party has yet to show his face. your body feels like a play on daisy buchanan — face styled like a doll’s while a little shimmery black dress displays your form like a painting’s frame — but your head feels like nick carraway, the outsider of the outside.

“hey mama!” sapnap shouts in greeting, startling you with the volume of his voice and the heavy arm on your shoulder. “where’s dream?”

“haven’t seen him,” you respond. “nick, why the hell was i even invited? this is barely my crowd.”

he raises his eyebrows. “george didn’t tell you?”

“tell me what?”

“he said dream —”

and suddenly the two of you are whisked away as the crowd surges, music and revelry cascading towards the cavernous ceilings of the castle-like mansion along the ocean. your eyes flash with panic as the wild child disappears from your view, the only trace of him being the scent of his cologne and traces of gunpowder where he’d grabbed your arm. a flute of champagne is pressed into your hand, foam tingling on your hand as the tiny bubbles effervesce out of the chilled glass. the funky synth of the songs that play over the loudspeakers speckled around the room stands as a stark contrast to the theme of the party, making your head spin. you startle when an arm wraps around your waist, pulling you out of the fray and into a quieter side room.

“jesus, broad, you look like you’ve never been to a party like this before.”

you blink, dumbfounded. “schlatt?”

“still stunned from the room?” he teases, parking you on a plush velveteen chaise lounge. “for such a secretive recluse, dream sure can hold black-out parties.”

“i’m just trying to figure out why i’m here,” you murmur. “i mean… yeah, we’re neighbors. but i moved here not that long ago! how does he know me?”

the businessman tsks. “dream doesn’t know anyone, kid. but he invites everyone . fills his house to drive the world mad, every single guest hungry for a glimpse of his face.”

you lean in, entranced. “have you… have you seen him?”

“me?” he laughs, nearly in your face. “look, i’ve been crawling the streets like a goddamn miscreant for years. i’m the lowest of the low. there’s no way in hell i’m getting close enough.”

you blink slowly, watching the familiar form of the brooklyn native mix up a mint julep and another unknown drink at the minibar across the cozy room. he parks himself in the armchair across from you a moment later, gently placing the mint julep in your empty hand.

“trying to get me drunk, old man?”

he snorts. “old? do i look like phil to you, minty?”

you giggle as you alternate between the tingle of the champagne and the bite of the julep, the singe of alcohol melting away your sense of self and any apprehension the first ten minutes of arrival had lain upon you.

'cause i'm just a little drunk

and i wanna come party with you

an hour later, you’ve stopped drinking.

you wouldn’t call yourself drunk per say — you’d only downed two flutes of champagne and three mint juleps via schlatt — but you know you’re a different shade of yourself than the woman that had walked through the front door on shivering knees and two left feet. the lights are just a little brighter, the music a little more enthralling and loud. you’re flitting around the dancefloor like a haywire firefly when a pair of hands grabs your hips, a kiss pressed to the apple of your cheek as they pick you up and away from your latest dance partner.

“hello darling,” the voice purrs, the strong accent a dead giveaway as he spins you to face him. “enjoying yourself?”

“wilbur!” you chirp in return, a blinding grin on your face. “god, am i happy to see you. did you see schlatt’s here?”

“is that so?” he replies, his long legs allowing him to easily lead the dance. “remind me to stop by the bar so i can give him shit for getting you drunk.”

“i’m barely tipsy,” you retort, nearly eating shit as you misjudge where wilbur’s next step would be. “and you did that on purpose.”

he gasps. “me? never. now, i’m escorting you to phil.”

you roll your eyes. “phil? really? i’m not tommy or tubbo. speaking of: why isn’t phil home with them?”

“he is,” wilbur confirms, and rolls his eyes when your brows furrow. “you’re in trouble for sneaking out to come here.”

“oh for — really? i’m not a kid anymore. why is he pulling the dad card?”

“because of the head of all of this,” wilbur fires back, gesturing to the wild room around the both of you. “phil doesn’t trust dream in the slightest, and i don’t blame him. now, we can do this one of two ways: you can come peacefully with me…” he trails off. “or i can grab techno.”

you pause, then grin. “better find the blade then.”

and you break from wilbur’s grasp, disappearing into the waves once more.

a little

breathless is the only word to describe you as you finally slip out a back door, the party a muffled memory behind you when you close the door. the ocean spreads across the horizon like a ruffled sheet, whitecaps dotting the deep blue. you drop your gaze to the pool just in front of you, the neon aquamarine of the chlorinated water a stark contrast to the wild waves at the shore. you pull your sore feet from your too-high heels, setting the golden shoes off to the side before sinking to the ground next to the pool. you barely have a chance to put in your feet when a glimpse of a shadow flashes in your vision. you blink, and another burst — something porcelain — disappears into the night.

you clamber to your feet, looking back at the party with wide eyes when a feral head of pink hair breaks from the crowd, right in front of an open window.

“ shit.”

his gaze snaps to yours, red-green eyes narrowing as he pushes his way through the ebbing crowd.

and you panic.

when i look into your eyes

ditching your shoes, you follow the path of porcelain and shadow on barefoot.

i can tell that you're high, too

barreling like a bull through the thickening underbrush around the outer perimeter of the mansion, you skid to a stop as a night-black suit appears in your vision. strong shoulders glint under the full moon, the porcelain from before glittering like a gemstone.

“dream,” you whisper, heart stuttering as the mask turns to look at you. “you’re not just a fairytale.”

a low chuckle. “hello, neighbor. glad you could make it.”

“but why me?” you beg, straining your ears for any sign of him . “why here? why now?”

“aren’t you just a curious thing,” he teases, “asking me so many questions. i’m supposed to be a mystery, yeah? can’t be a mystery if you know every little detail.”

you go to speak again, choking when techno calls your name through the underbrush.

“ugh, those l’manburgians ,” dream sneers, “always ruining my fun. say, are you trying to get away from him?”

you nod, not trusting your feeble heart and spinning mind to weave together a clever phrase in front of a man — nay, demigod — like this.

he holds out a hand. “then come get high with me, sweetheart.”

your skin buzzes with electricity when you take it.

that's okay baby

'cause i just wanna party with you

the two of you take off in a dead sprint without another word, stumbling like newborn foals until you reach a side door tucked between a hill and some shrubs. taking one last look behind the two of you, dream opens the door, and shoves you inside. inky blackness overtakes your vision when the door clicks shut behind him, a shiver running through you when a warm hand settles on your lower back.

“relax, dove,” he murmurs, leading you like he’s walked this dark path five hundred times over. “what have they told you about me?”

“that you’re a madman,” you return, the dark room making you feel big and small all at once, “and power hungry. that you wanted l’manburg gone from the beginning.”

“they make me out to be such a monster . childish, really. like they trusted tommy to weave a narrative about me.”

“hey,” you warn. the low tone stops him in his tracks, grip tightening on your back. “that’s my brother you speak of. watch your wording.”

dream’s hand slides to your hip. “my apologies. bad habits.”

your skin feels like fire wherever his hands go, even with your dress still draped around you. your brows furrow when your feet hit metal plating, somehow colder than the cool concrete you’d become accustomed to on your dark walk through the underbelly of the mansion.

“hold on tight,” he purrs, “it’s a dizzying ride.”

a golden light flickers on as he pushes a few buttons, illuminating the shallow corridor you’d walked through moments before, and casting heavy shadows over the cage-like lift dream had lured you into.

you shake as he closes the gate. “what’s your plan with me?”

“i said it already: getting high.”

'cause when we hit the peak, baby

i just wanna party with you

the lift jolts at that moment, roaring up the steel and iron cables like a rogue freight train. you cling to the masked man next to you in trepid fear while he simply beams , laughing like the madman your honorary father had deemed him to be.

“you’re crazy!” you shout above the racket. “my father was right!”

“i’m not crazy,” dream purrs, dipping his face close to yours. “i’m brilliant .”

sparks rain down from the cables at that moment, bouncing harmlessly around the cage like thousands of fireworks. dream straightens up seconds later, solid as a statue when the lift crashes to a halt. you nearly tumble forward, on the other hand, remnants of alcohol ruining your coordination. he solely laughs, fingertips digging into your hipbone as he rights you.

“easy, sweetheart,” he purrs. “we have a whole night ahead of us.”

all night

and he’s right, of course; you’re beginning to wonder if he’s ever been wrong in his life, because the grandfather clock against the far wall strikes midnight when you enter a dark oak and emerald green-carpeted lounge, eerily similar to the one you and schlatt had shared drinks in almost two hours ago. this one’s just as empty, but the view outside the glass double doors is far superior to the former. the ocean stretches across the width, the sky reaching down to meet it with silvery blackness and glittering stars.

“this is my personal lounge,” he says from behind you, drawing the paneling shut behind him to conceal the metal-gated lift. “and, lucky you — very few people get to come up here.”

“what makes this one so special?” you reply, watching the tall man move about the room. “and why the hell is it so dark in here? trying to get something out of me?”

he scoffs. “get over yourself, princess . ever thought of giving me a chance to show things off?”

“you already do a spectacular job of that. have you seen your parties?”

“i have, actually, but that’s not my doing. you see, i tell my close circle to invite random passerby, and to tell the random passerby to invite other random passerby, courtesy of me.” he turns towards you, a small remote in hand. “word of mouth has a marvelous effect, darling.”

someone hold my phone

he pushes a button then, drawing up the curtain behind him to reveal floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the entire party swelling through the largest room in the mansion. he raises his arms like the deity he pretends to be, and for a moment you feel enthralled enough to drop to your knees.

you shake your head, clearing the thought. “playing god?”

“play- boy ,” he insists. “i am no god, and i’ve never claimed to be so. the many down there may refer to me as so, but i’m more flawed than the many combined.”

“the complex flaws of a man who insists on existing within the confines of a mask.”

“like i said before: i can’t be a mystery if you know every little detail. ”

he tips his head at that, and you can feel his gaze burning on you, even past the stupid mask he insists on wearing. he moves past you, grazing his calloused fingertips against your bare arm before lingering at the doors on the other side of the tucked away room. you stay at the window, dread threading through your body as wilbur, techno, and — somehow — tommy muscle their way through the main crowd.

“they’re still looking for me,” you call, a thrill running up your spine when dream appears at your side. “why?”

“you’re the princess of l’manburg, in their eyes,” he purrs, breath fanning over your ear. “and i’m the dangerous ghost that spirited you away. kaonashi , if you will.”

“no-face.”

“that’s right.” a proud note in his voice, his hands wrapping protectively around your waist. “and a thief never gives up his prize.”

'cause i can't hold my tongue

he vanishes in a blink, back to the other side of the room to open the doors. a shimmering balcony greets the two of you, followed by seaside air tinged with the taste of salt and seafoam. a flick of his wrist procures a lighter.

“come on, then,” he beckons. “let me melt you.”

you meet him on the balcony, tilting your head back to greet the still-hot night with an eager grin. the click of a metal buckle catches your ear, and the porcelain mask is shifting in the night, changing from a shield to a symbol.

you don’t look at him. “bold of you to trust the princess.”

you can sense the grin on his face. “bold of you to trust the thief.”

the sound of a deep breath, the holding of smoke, the exhale. you turn your head.

a human man returns the strong gaze, evergreen eyes burning with something unknown. he blinks, momentary spell crumbling, and turns towards the sea while placing a lit joint back between his lips. he silently passes one, unlit, to you before flicking open the lighter, holding the flame out for you.

“so this is the man the whole world longs to see.”

he smirks. the simple expression holds a higher power now.

“a simple man with complex plans.”

he tsks. “i only want to see this city succeed.”

you hum, breathing in smoke. the chemicals sink into you, twisting and turning reality to a frosted window pane of idyllic peace and crystalline promises.

“nick said george was talking about me.”

the blond chuckles, smoke wisping from his mouth. “is that so?”

“when i first came in, i… i asked him why i was here. this isn’t my crowd, and i know now how the whole invitation system works,” you look to him, eyes glazed yet fiery, “and yet, i received a personalized invitation from you, printed on the finest cardstock with the rarest ink. and the strangest part? it was on my desk. and if there’s mail delivered to the residence, it stays in the mailbox until each recipient picks it up themselves.”

for the first time in the night, dream looks… afraid. you take another hit, blowing the smoke out towards the crashing waves.

'cause if i get too drunk baby

“now,” you demand, “why did you personally invite me, when the many are invited by word of mouth?”

then i'm gonna ruin the fun

he takes the last hit off his joint, flicking the butt down many stories to the cement below.

“you’re the last piece in my puzzle.”

it's not your problem

it's because i've seen too much, baby

you narrow your eyes, throwing what remains of your blunt to the floor. “puzzle?”

a paralyzing flash of teeth. “to put l’manburg into my hands.”

sorry if i give you ptsd

you back away slowly, your heart nearly collapsing in upon itself as your back presses against the wrought iron parapet.

“listen, darling,” he begins. “this is just the way the world turns.”

“you… you can’t,” you plead, fear overtaking both curiosity and the faint tinges of aphrodisia that had previously ran your inner workings. “phil… techno… wilbur… they’ll never allow it.”

you hate how good he looks as he saunters towards you.

“i can,” he breathes, “and they will. all i need is you.”

“they were right about you. the devil’s advocate.”

“wrong again ,” he taunts. “not the advocate. i am the devil. just because schlatt has the horns doesn’t mean he’s got the guts.”

the pot makes it harder and harder to think, but you claw for solutions nevertheless.

“what if i make a deal with you.”

his eyebrows raise, hands settling on the parapet behind you, boxing you in.

“go ahead, princess.”

“is it really the town that you want? or is it just a sliver that you know you can’t have, unless you move certain pawns out of the way?”

he looks at you, gaze burning with something indescribable. you keep pushing.

“ruling a city isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. there’s hundreds, hell, thousands of variables. l’manburg wasn’t built in one night, and everything in place now proves that point.”

he narrows his eyes at you. “how would you know?”

“i’m not the princess for nothing,” you hold your breath for a beat, “clay.”

you can see the fuse light behind his eyes.

“say it again.”

you breathe his name like a spell, embers awakening just beneath the surface of your skin. he blinks slow, like a cat, pupils dilating like a black hole.

“l’manburg can be yours in due time,” you insist. “but isn’t there something you’d much rather have?”

he dips his head. “yeah.” a breath, two. “you.”

you wrap your fingers around his tie. “how long?”

“the moment you moved in next door,” he murmurs. “i knew i had to have you. but time changes things, you know? and i thought —”

“— the way to the princess is through the kingdom,” you finish. “for a man that seems to cover every detail to the finest degree, you’re incredibly predictable in other fields.”

he purses his lips, breath catching with a quick head turn when a faint bang echoes from down the hallway.

“stay here,” he commands, slipping away.

you catch him by the wrist. “better idea. close the curtain, and stay here with me.”

confusion glazes his features, realization slowly ticking when your plan begins to come together in his mind. he grins.

but i just wanna party with you

all night

another bang echoes down the hall, closer this time. the curtain closes with a soft fwoomph , dousing the room in semi-darkness. dream tucks the signature mask between the wall of the mansion and a potted plant, and takes off his suit jacket, passing it to you.

“if we want this to work,” he whispers, eyes ticking towards the door as the banging draws nearer, “you need to blend in.”

you nod, familiar aphrodisia sinking into your stomach and veins as the warmly-scented jacket is draped over your shoulders.

because you make me happy

that's right

“you’re sure about this plan?”

the door to the next room over bangs open.

“we don’t have much of a choice,” you return. “kiss me, dipshit.”

a predatory grin breaks across his face, a warm hand bracing the back of your neck while the other buries itself in the fabric of your dress. the madman’s lips were on yours in a moment, stealing the breath from your lungs and any last coherent thought from your drug and alcohol addled brain. his chest presses against yours, trapping you against the parapet as the door busts open. you throw your arms over dream’s shoulders, whimpering into the kiss when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth. his thigh shifts to sit between your legs, an animal-like growl rumbling deep in his chest when you run your nails across the nape of his neck.

i only wanna party with you

tonight

“not this room,” you hear techno warn as he backs out of the room. “just a couple teenagers doing something i’d rather not see again in my lifetime.”

“was he—” dream murmurs against your lips, and you suppress a laugh.

“— on our side? yes. thank god for older brothers.”

because you make everything

dream grins at you, bold and bright, before diving back in for another kiss. politics and the ghost’s future reign be damned — if you could kiss a man like this until hellfire rained down, you’d risk it all. just like tonight.

alright.

#Dream SMP #Dream x Reader #Drinking #recreational drug use

[americanaspacecadet]

white winter hymnal

originally posted: december 14, 2020

ship: jschlatt/reader

fandom: Youtube RPF

rating: teen

desc: “december in new york city is a spectacle of unmatched levels — times square becomes a glittering winter wonderland almost overnight, the fire escapes and frosted windows dotting the large-scale buildings of the boroughs slowly begin to ooze a festive glow, and the scent of pine and cinnamon fills the confines of your brick-and-mortar bay ridge apartment that resides along the belt parkway ... the charm and principle of the thing is quickly broken, however, when you wake to your roommate’s vicious shouts from his office, his two-toned rasp traveling straight through the walls like a bullet.”

tags: Christmas Fluff | Christmas Decorations | Roommates | Friends to Lovers | Vinyls and Slowdancing | First Kiss | Go watch Schlatt’s cereal video and this’ll make more sense | Swearing | (Obviously it’s Schlatt we’re talking about here) | Reader is not a Brooklyn native | Nostalgia

word count: 2.4k

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

a/n: found out that schlatt’s name is apparently john?? so that’s why he goes by that in this instead of james lol // also he goes by an irl name because,, well,, they were roommates [oh my god they were roommates]

“how mad would you be if i kissed you?”

“horribly,” you murmur. “do it anyway.”

--

december in new york city is a spectacle of unmatched levels — times square becomes a glittering winter wonderland almost overnight, the fire escapes and frosted windows dotting the large-scale buildings of the boroughs slowly begin to ooze a festive glow, and the scent of pine and cinnamon fills the confines of your brick-and-mortar bay ridge apartment that resides along the belt parkway — and it makes it hard for you to miss home. you’d moved in with john just a few months after you’d said goodbye to everyone and everything you’d ever known in your home state, kicking off the cliff dive into adulthood by traveling umpteen hours to a strange borough inhabited by even stranger souls. and, even though you usually ached to return to your roots this time of year, some unknown force kept your wandering heart in place.

the charm and principle of the thing is quickly broken, however, when you wake to your roommate’s vicious shouts from his office, his two-toned rasp traveling straight through the walls like a bullet. bleary eyes scan over an alarm clock — mockingly reading 3:59am in neon red pixels — and you begrudgingly escape from the warm confines of your blanket cocoon.

snow falls heavily outside of your window, thickly blanketing the wrought-iron of your beloved fire escape. the serenity brings a wash of irony over your half-asleep state, and you can’t help the soft chuckle that rumbles in your chest. moving through the room, you wrap yourself in an oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his laundry, fuzzy pajama pants, and your favorite raccoon slippers a content creator had gifted you a few years back. the handle of your bedroom door is lukewarm at best when you slip from your room, feet shuffling across the dark wood floor. the shouts somehow gain volume as you draw closer to his office, and you snort as you hear a cardboard box launch across the room, laughing harder as his panicked shouts travel across the room with it. you rap your knuckles against the door, waiting for him to open it.

he does. “y/n?”

“done with recording at four in the morning, huh?” you tease, sleep still thick in your voice. “at least tell me what the hell you’re working on that requires…” you hesitate, peering around the gangly form of your halfwit roommate. “ cereal ... being spread like pigeon feed across your office.”

“well, ah, i’m filming a video where i rate cereal.”

“and you’re making this big of a commotion?”

he smiles gently. “after all this time, you’re still not used to me?”

“you’re my roommate, john, not my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to be used to anything.”

he clutches at his chest with the hand not holding both a box of wheaties and his gold-plated subscriber plaque, a look of faux hurt on his face.

“not even gonna give me a chance, are ya?”

“you’ve proven over the last two years that i definitely shouldn’t,” you retort, slipping into his office. “and i hope to god you plan on cleaning this up at some point.”

“yes, dear, i do,” he quips. “i’ll do it after i finish filming.”

“are you done with the lucky charms?”

“yep. do you want them?”

you laugh. “always. gimme.”

he laughs, passing you the box before settling back into his cobbled together desk chair. you close the door behind you, chest bubbling with laughter when his wild voice rumbles through the walls once more.

following the familiar path to the kitchen from his office, you flip the switch on the power strip, lighting the kitchen with a warm fairy light glow and bringing the kettle to life. leaving the cereal box on the scuffed granite counter, you busy the kettle with making two cups of instant coffee — one with a teaspoon of sugar and no creamer for john, and one with more sugar and creamer than coffee for you — and turn back to the lucky charms. cereal tumbles into the faded ceramic bowl first, followed by a shallow pool of milk. your ears perk up when the shouts come to an end, followed by the office door opening and closing down the hall. socked feet pad down the hallway, delivering a now weary and messy-haired john into the small kitchen.

“my hero,” he murmurs, voice raspy from the constant strain of his bullshit brand of comedy. “how do you manage to make instant coffee good?”

“it's a combination of you being sleep deprived, picky about how you like your coffee made, and how needy you are for caffeine.”

he hums, sipping on the still-hot brew. “this is true. i might buy a keurig soon though.”

“and ruin the tradition of us drinking shitty coffee at four in the morning?”

“shit, you’re right, i can't ruin tradition,” he snorts. “plus i might become too much of a lush if i finally cave.”

you point at him with the business end of your spoon, milk dripping from the end. “as if you aren't one already, mr. ‘i bought a shit ton of cereal for one video’.”

“listen, y/n, that was science happening in there,” he retorts. “i’m doing important experiments.”

“was the name of this one ‘how many boxes of cereal do i need to throw around my office before i wake up my roommate’?”

he laughs, voice layered with hints of exhaustion. he takes another sip, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen. blissful silence seeps across the room, boxed in by the hum of the radiator and the wall of snow still tumbling down outside the frosted windowpanes. you let your mind wander as the rare quiet stretches on, thoughts of past christmases swirling in your head. your mind catches on a specific memory of mistletoe and one too many beers, and you can almost relive the moment when —

“hey.”

you turn to him, your train of thought abruptly derailed. “what are you thinking in that head of yours?”

“i’m thinking... we should put up the christmas decorations.”

“john…” you trail off. “i think you need to go to bed.”

“no no, c’mon, hear me out,” he pleads. “it’ll be so nice to watch the sun come up while decorating. i promise we can go to bed right after.”

you debate it for a moment — relinquish precious hours of cozy winter sleep, just to stay up with your delirious roommate to decorate, which you absolutely could do several hours later? — and make your decision.

“yeah, yeah, fine. but you have to get the boxes out of the closet.”

he grins a genuine thousand kilowatt smile, all pearly teeth and crinkled eyes, and runs to the storage closet. a cacophonous tumble of noises follows soon after, accompanied by the sound of stray strands of christmas lights skittering across the floor. the brunet darts back and forth from the living room to the storage closet, his manic rush coming to a halt once he drags a tied up christmas tree into the living room.

you blink. “motherfucker… you… how fucking long have you had that real christmas tree in our apartment? and why the hell have i not noticed it?!”

“i bought it when you were running errands in manhattan,” he states. “it was a bitch to get up here, though.”

you sit down on the couch, dumbfounded. “you’re fucking insane.”

“i am invested in christmas.”

you shake your head, watching as he pulls the tree skirt and stand from one of the many boxes. planting said combination in front of the living room windows, he settles the tree into the holder, pulls a knife from god knows where, and frees the tree from its netting — only to send a torrential downpour of pine needles onto the blue-grey carpet.

john looks at the tree in utter desolation, eyebrows raised in a combination of disbelief and disappointment. giggles travel subtly over your frame, cheeks turning red from withholding your amusement when his temper begins to flare.

“i’m sorry? ” he barks suddenly, making you snort. “what the fuck?”

“dude... what did you expect? it's a live tree you’ve had sitting in — most likely — your office closet, and you expected it to not make a mess?”

he pauses for a moment. you think he's done with the bit, and then —

“this motherfucker comes into my home,” he starts again, oblivious to your building laughter. “and shits his little needles all over my fucking carpet! this is the payment for me showing basic sympathy and allowing him to reside here for the winter! i cannot believe the absolutely planetoid-sized balls this shitty little tree has under its ever falling curtain of fucking NEEDLES! ”

you can barely speak with a straight tone. “john, please, go easy -”

“go easy on this coniferous cretin who has made a mockery of my living room? blasphemy, y/n, really.”

you howl with laughter after that line, all sense of control flying out the third story window of your shared apartment. john slumps onto the couch, caramel eyes staring forlornly at the mess strewn wildly around the culprit.

“i told you, we should’ve just gone with a fake tree.”

“but the christmas spirit chokes on those things!”

“are you… are you insinuating the christmas spirit eats christmas trees?”

john looks delirious. “is that how that sounded?”

“oh my god, we both need to go to bed.”

“i think we just need to power through this.”

and so the two of you do; taking turns winding strands of multicolored lights and pinning glittery ornaments onto the ever-shedding tree, hanging stockings to the fake fireplace’s mantle, and throwing random bits of tinsel around the rest of the apartment. john disappears into his office for a moment, allowing you to sneak his neatly wrapped christmas presents under the christmas tree — two vintage sweatshirts you stumbled upon while drunk-scrolling ebay at three in the morning, his favorite cologne, a signed vinyl of dr. dog’s shame, shame , and a framed picture of the day the two of you moved in with each other. the picture still remained its place as your favorite of the two of you; sweaty, messy, slightly blurry, but still perfectly capturing the beginnings of a powerful and caring friendship. you roll the word around in your head now — friendship — and let it wash over the changes you’d noticed over the last few months of living with john.

you hadn’t been sure how to describe said subtle changes — him making both of you breakfast and coffee in the mornings, offering to cover nights out more often, changing movie nights from once a month to once a week (which, more often than not, ended with one of you sprawled across the other) — but the more you thought about it, the more you realized you’d fallen for your wild child of a roommate.

what scared you the most is that, all things considered, you were okay with falling for him. regardless of the midnight wake-ups, terrible humor, wild temper, and general catastrophe, you adore the man.

so in his absence, you slide the couch and coffee table to the sides of the living room, flick on the turntable stationed in the corner of the room, and search through the overflowing box of vinyls next to the table. on the waters finally slips into your hands, and you busy yourself with helping the vinyl play. skipping to the second song on the disc, you let the warm guitar fill the apartment, and wait for john to come back.

he enters the room after a moment. “what’s going on?”

“dance with me?”

“well, of course,” he laughs. “this is bread playing, after all.”

he sweeps into the room, setting his hands on your waist. your heart skips when he smiles down at you, his cheek pressing against your forearm when your hands settle behind his head. the two of you sway slowly to the song, lyrics tumbling easily from your mouths.

“ dreams are for those who sleep,” he laughs at that line, fingers tapping the rhythm on your hip.

“ life is for us to keep, ”

“ and if you're wondering what this song is leading to, ”

“ i want to make it with you. ” you sing gently, eyes peering hopefully at the man in your arms.

his gaze softens.

“thought you said i didn’t have a chance,” he whispers, leaning towards you.

“i changed my mind.”

the crooning guitars of make it with you fade out in that moment, smoothly replaced by the seductive guitar line of blue satin pillow . one of his hands moves to cup your face, his forehead nearly pressing against yours.

“how mad would you be if i kissed you?”

“horribly,” you murmur. “do it anyway.”

he grins like a wolf, hungrily pressing his lips against yours. the kiss isn’t perfect by any stretch of the word — you’re both drunk off of dopamine and melatonin deprivation, john’s lips are chapped, and you think you’re stepping on his toes — but you drink it in like desiccated soil drowns itself in a downpour, tangling your fingers in his snarled locks. thrills travel up your spine when his free hand presses into your lower back, heat radiating from the calloused skin and sinking into the stolen hoodie.

“is this the reason,” he breathes between kisses. “you kept stealing my clothes?”

you grin. “mhmm. wanted to keep you on your toes, keep your eyes on me.”

“is this also why you kept bitching about being single?”

“wanted to see if i was right.”

“well,” he purrs, laying the deep tone on thick. “were you?”

“yes. and thank fuck i was.”

a breathy groan slips from him, and he kisses you again.

“i’d say we did a good job with the apartment.”

you nod in agreement, eyes wandering over the well-decorated living room. your heart flutters when john wraps his arm just a little tighter around you, shifting the heavy quilt to cover your shoulders.

“i think i’d be content to sleep right here,” he adds. “the fireplace is on, the radiator’s actually working, and i’ve got a gorgeous girl in my arms.”

“but we’ve only got…” you check the clock on the cable box, just below the television. “fifteen minutes before sunrise. don’t you want to cap off how great tonight-slash-this morning has been with a pretty sunrise?”

a hum rumbles low in his chest, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “sleep now, sunrises later. i’m sure we’ll have plenty more opportunities in the future.”

you cave, falling asleep with your head against his warm chest.

and when you dream of the memory again, you make sure to kiss him this time around.

#jschlatt x reader #christmas fluff #Friends to Lovers #first kiss #nostalgia

[americanaspacecadet]

tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

originally posted: july 15, 2020

ship: tednivison/cscoop

fandom: Youtube RPF, Lunch Club [rip]

rating: teen

desc: heaven /ˈhevən/

noun

"a place, state, or experience of supreme bliss."

--

song used:

EASE (Lontalius Remix) - Troye Sivan ft. Broods

tags: Friends to Lovers, Songfic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Motels and Caves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Vivid Imagery, Internalized Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content

word count: 6.1k

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

i'm down to my skin and bone

and my mommy, she can't put down the phone

and stop asking how i'm doing all alone, alone

“i’m sorry i didn’t pick up sooner - ”

he winces when he pulls the phone from his ear, his mother’s anger still audible from a distance.

“look, momma, i’ve been driving for the last seventeen hours. i barely reached the border of california from colorado without passing out at the wheel. can i please call you back later? i’m exhausted.”

his mother sighs. “fine, teddy. but don’t you dare forget!”

“yes momma. i love you.”

she replies, and he hangs up afterwards. tossing his phone in the passenger seat, he flicks on his signal before switching to the exit lane, and follows the trail to los angeles.

but the truth is the stars are falling, ma

and the wolves are out calling, ma

and my home has never felt this far

cooper fidgets nervously in his room, pacing back at forth between his bed, his desk, and the door.

“you’re making too big of a deal about this, dude.”

the blond jumps when travis appears in his door, eyebrows raised.

“ted’s just coming to live in the house, just like the rest of us. what’s the issue?”

cooper rolls the phrase around in his head, drawing the sleeves of his hoodie up over his hands.

“well, y’know,” cooper starts, a too-sharp joking tone to his voice. “if i told you, i’d have to kill you!”

travis finally enters the room, shutting cooper’s door behind himself. he sits down at cooper’s desk, and motions for cooper to sit on his bed.

“seriously, dude,” travis murmurs, locking eyes with cooper. “i’m your best friend. please don’t hide anything from me.”

cooper’s eyes fill with tears, and travis is hugging him before he can blink.

“you like ted, don’t you?”

the blond nods, burying his face in the brunet’s neck and wrapping his arms around the latter’s shoulders.

“what gave it away?” he murmurs, voice muffled by travis’ hoodie.

“do you want me to really call you out?”

cooper laughs, pulling away from his best friend and wiping his eyes. he messes with the strings of his own hoodie, thinking for a moment.

“how am i gonna do this?”

“just be yourself, dude,” travis teases. “ted’s kinda dumb when it comes to romantic stuff. i think you’ll be okay.”

but all this driving

is driving me crazy

and all this moving

is proving to get the best of me

“ted!”

the tall brunet turns quickly, narrowing his eyes to shield them from the glittering california sun. he grins when carson finally comes into view, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulders and squeezing.

“how was the drive?”

ted groans. “i have never wanted to get out of a car more, dude. although, there were a few places i stopped at along the way i wouldn’t mind stopping at again.”

carson nods, peeking around ted to look into his car.

“wanna go get the others? it’ll make moving stuff easier.”

ted nods, sharing one more hug with carson before jogging into the house. he takes a look around, following the sounds of shouts and insults.

“you motherfucker ! i had b covered!”

“covered with your thick dumpy, maybe,” noah snorts, elbowing cooper’s side. “quit daydreaming and start shooting, crackass.”

“you’re one to talk, garden state,” cooper retorts, flicking his hair from his eyes with a simple flip of his head. “legend says you were born in a crack den under the turnpike.”

noah snarls playfully, tossing his controller before tacking cooper into the couch.

“how dare you insult the pot-holed beauty of new jersey!”

“you do it all the time!”

“ i lived there, it’s my privilege! ”

ted clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. noah and cooper peek up from the back of the couch, two very different expressions on their faces.

“ted’s here!” noah shouts, pushing off of cooper before launching over the back of the couch. “how was the drive?”

“i hated it,” ted grumbles, a smiling worming onto his face when noah hugs him. “you wanna help me move in?”

“surely,” noah says, and looks back towards cooper, who is still very much frozen in place. “c’mon, scoop! quit gawking! big man’s prolly exhausted.”

cooper swallows roughly, nodding meekly before clambering off of the couch. he fights the urge to melt into ted’s side when ted wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a warm hug.

“so, mr. golden state,” ted starts, leading cooper towards the front door. “tell me what i should look forward to in this so-called, cally-for-knee-ah .”

cooper laughs, pushing against ted as they walk. “well, you got your big cities, skateparks, boardwalks, hollywood, the walk of fame, redwoods, deserts, beaches - ”

“okay okay, but do you have the fun kind of beaches?”

cooper raises an eyebrow. “fun kind?”

“yeah,” ted smiles, dropping his voice to a purr. “ nude beaches.”

were it not for ted’s arm over cooper’s shoulders, he probably would’ve missed the last step on the front landing.

and i've been trying to hide it

but lately

every time i think i'm better

pickin' my head up, getting nowhere

“i think ted’s flirting with me.”

noah raises an eyebrow, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth.

“explain?”

cooper puts his face in his hands, inhaling deeply before releasing a strangled scream-groan.

“right, right, okay. and tell me how you’re going to deal with this?”

“i can’t!” cooper snaps, eyes widening at how loud his voice had become. he reins himself in after a moment.  “it’s bullshit, and i hate it. ted knows i’m gay. and i know he’s straight. he’s just doing it because he likes fucking with me.”

“how can you be sure he’s straight?”

“dating history, his personality - ”

“oh, come on ,” noah groans, pushing his bowl away. “dude has good fashion taste, brags about his milk knowledge, was in theatre and an a cappella group, has a scarily good taste in music, and is a photographer? are you fucking kidding me?”

“and you say you’re straight.”

“i am, but my so-called gaydar is a hell of a lot better than yours,” noah retorts. “i think you should try and get back at him.”

“you mean…?”

“flirt back, you meathead. jesus, how many times have you smacked your head after biffing a trick?”

take me back to the basics and the simple life

tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

noah discovers, quite quickly, that cooper is absolutely shit at flirting. he tries to help - really! he does - but the fact that cooper nearly melts when ted even looks in his general direction really doesn’t make matters better.

the first experiment was the worst - and noah was convinced it couldn’t go more south - but cooper really has a knack for digging himself into holes he can’t get out of.

for example: last night’s party.

noah counted over the times cooper had tried to flirt - this would be number twenty - and watched warily as cooper hovered in the corner of the room, eyes flickering around the room like the strobes on the wall. cooper’s heart pounded in time with the bass of the song - it has to be charlie’s playlist, he thinks. i don’t know any of these songs - and takes a sip of his white claw, the shitty half-there taste of tangerine making him wince.

“you’re such a beta, cooper.”

cooper flinches at the sound of ted’s voice, looking at the brunet with a mixed expression. he eyes the stereotypical red solo cup in ted’s hand - beer from the keg outside, he guesses - and tries to avoid ted’s piercing gaze.

“okay beer boy.”

“that’s beer man to you,” ted retorts, knocking his cup against cooper’s can. “and you can’t say shit, claw guzzler.”

cooper laughs, face flushing at the volume. ted shakes it off, opting to wrap an arm around cooper’s shoulder.

“you seem like you’d rather be anywhere other than this party, coop.”

the blond sighs. “yeah, but i promised the guys - ”

“promise, shmomise,” ted replies, leading cooper towards the stairs. “fresh air is good for growing boys.”

“i’m five-nine! fuck you!”

ted laughs, clear and bold, and cooper decides he’d die happily in this moment.

noah sees the two sneak out, watching proudly from the bar.

your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby

rose-gold rays of sunset light filter through the sapphire toned clouds lingering over the city, a warm breeze carrying the scent of sea salt, distant parties, and scattered flowers; ted hadn’t learned the name of them yet, but cooper knew them by heart - california poppies, bush sunflowers, indian paintbrushes, and bush mallows. the duo settles into a far corner of the roof set-up, drinks still clutched in loose grips. they linger in silence, curled up on opposite sides of the couch.

ted breaks first. “are you okay?”

cooper hesitates. “yeah. just, um, needed some air. it’s just … y’know … kinda loud - ”

“since when is a party too loud for you?” ted teases, looking over his glasses at the blond. “i mean, c’mon, you’re cooper . you’re always the loudest motherfucker there - ”

he pauses when the boy sniffles, his heart burning when tears glisten in the blond’s eyes. the former leaves his beer on the coffee table, quickly moving to sit beside the latter.

“hey, hey, i’m sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around cooper. “i was just trying to distract you, i didn’t mean - ”

“can we get out of here?”

ted’s heart skips. “y-yeah. we can take my car. anywhere you wanna go?”

“the seven-eleven down the road,” cooper murmurs. “then i wanna show you my favorite beach.”

“yeah. yeah, we can do that,” ted agrees, absentmindedly taking the blond’s hand. “c’mon, scoop.”

--

the sun slowly begins to drink the ocean swells when the duo pulls into the seven-eleven parking lot. ted puts his truck in park, but lets the engine idle.

“what do you want?”

“i can get it - ”

“my treat,” ted interjects, taking cooper’s hand. “seriously.”

cooper flushes, squirming under ted’s intense gaze. he reluctantly pulls his hand from ted’s, heart pounding as he stares down at his chewed nails.

“blue raspberry slurpee,” he decides. “and skittles.”

ted beams, ruffling cooper’s hair before slipping out of the driver’s seat. cooper watches him disappear into the stereotypical convenience store, catching glimpses of his god-awful eighties-esque windbreaker every so often. cooper checks his phone for a moment, his head flicking up at the sound of the driver’s side door opening.

“ooooone bloop razzle and skittles for the handsome blond next door, with a side of fuego takis,” ted announces, sliding into the driver’s seat before handing cooper the bag. “and a cherrysthebomb.com, apple livewires, and kettle corn for me.”

cooper blushes at the compliment, taking a sip of his slurpee once ted passes it to him. the former shyly admires the latter as he shifts the truck into drive, smoothly guiding the vehicle out of the parking lot and back onto the busy freeway. his eyes slowly trail the semi-sharp edge of ted’s jaw, gaze lingering on his lips before he snaps back to attention.

“like what you see?” ted purrs, his sight seemingly focused on the road before them.

cooper swallows roughly. “maybe.”

the blond’s heart warms at the smile on ted’s face, and returns to giving directions to his favorite place in california.

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

“crystal cove?”

“the tides are low right now,” cooper replies, climbing out of the truck once ted parks. “so we could hike out to the hidden islands.”

“that sounds so cryptic, dude.”

“it really isn’t - it’s just the way the cycle works. and the stone should be dry, since the tides have been down for the last few days. i can grab the blanket i brought so we aren’t putting our asses right on the stone.”

ted nods, picking up the plastic bag of snacks from the floor of the passenger side. cooper peeks into the back of the truck, picking up the blanket before eyeing something else.

“you have hammocks back here?”

“oh, yeah,” ted says, hiking himself up into the truck bed. “i used to do a ton of camping back home - since maine is literally all forests - and i guess i forgot these back here.”

“well, if you want,” cooper adds, dragging out the ‘a’. “we could camp out here? there’s some caves on the other side of the seawall that are accessible at both high and low tide - but you have to swim at high tide.”

“consider me intrigued,” ted confirms, and picks up the hammocks. “lead the way, goldie.”

--

“okay, when you said the stone would be dry - ”

“y’know, i thought it would be,” cooper retorts, looking forlornly at his soaked form. “but, hey, i’m like a weatherman; ninety-nine percent wrong, but i still keep my job.”

ted snorts, half-assedly wringing out the blanket before giving up and throwing it over his shoulders. he ties the seven-eleven bag to his belt loop, and retrieves the somehow bone-dry hammocks, and the slurpees.

“let’s just find the caves, yeah?”

cooper nods. “some of them have freshwater pools in them - which, not sure how that works - but we could dunk the blanket in there and maybe find a way to hang it and let it dry?”

ted agrees, and the duo begins their trek to the caves. they face dead-end cave after dead-end cave, until cooper finally stumbles upon a cave with a pool. sea glass stalagmites and stalactites litter the mouth, glimmering  green, teal, and ice blue in the late twilight sun.

“welcome to casa de los cristales ,” cooper declares, grinning as ted ducks into the cave. “i love these caves more than weed - which says a lot, if i’m honest.”

“i thought you couldn’t speak spanish,” ted murmurs, eyes wide with awe at his surroundings. “what else are you hiding, goldie?”

“well, i can’t tell you all of my secrets,” cooper replies, slipping past ted and into the grotto. “i gotta have something for myself at the end of the day.”

the brunet laughs, but grows distracted once more by the beauty of the crystalized cave. cooper steals a hammock from his grasp, and hunts for a spot by the pool to set up camp. once the deep red hammock sits a comfortable distance from the ground - supported by two large stalagmites - he lets himself get lost in the glitz of the cave. a few small holes pepper the roof, allowing the now citrine-stained rays of sunlight to seep light into the green-blue glass of the walls and parts of the floor. cool grey stone patches the rest of the cave together, but the rim of the freshwater pond is lined with smooth beige and sable-toned sand. by the time he comes back to his surroundings, he’s greeted with ted stripping down to his boxer briefs and leaping into the pool. the brunet resurfaces with a flourish, shaking his hair from his eyes with a dramatic flip of his head. cooper watches in near-awe, admiring the way the glass of the cave refracts golden light onto ted’s form, the shivering rivulets of water like streams of diamonds on his pale skin. he shakes himself from his delirium a moment later, opting to ditch his own clothes at the foot of his hammock before careening into the pool.

“cowabunga, motherfucker!”

ted howls with laughter, shielding his face as cooper cannonballs into the clear, clean water. he watches as cooper swims circles around him, seemingly unbothered by having his eyes open underwater. the blond resurfaces after a moment, breathing like he’d never even gone under in the first place.

“how do you hold your breath for so long?” “when you grow up two seconds from literally any beach, you learn fast,” he replies. “never know when you’ll get stuck in a current.” ted nods. “record?” “two minutes, forty-seven seconds.”

“crazy,” ted murmurs, desperately trying to distract himself from the warmth radiating off of cooper’s warm, toned and tan chest. “you really are a fish, huh?”

“nah baby, i’m a shark,” cooper teases, eyes glowing with mischief as he slowly floats behind ted, drinking in the way the brunet shivers as the blond trails his fingers over the former’s back. “always waiting for the moment to strike .”

he dunks ted in that moment, giggling when he resurfaces with a gasp. ted leaps towards the blond, tackling him into the water in a flurry of limbs and waves. the duo wrestles wildly, laughter and shouts intertwining with the crashing of waves both inside and outside of the grotto.

now i'm down to my skin and bones

my baby listens to me on the phone

but i can't help feeling like i'm all alone, all alone

“i’ll be back after the weekend.”

cooper’s head ticks up at the sound of ted’s voice. travis watches his friend’s face fall, the blond fidgeting anxiously with the switch controller gripped tightly in his hands.

“is everything okay, ted?”

“family issues,” he replies, his voice clipped. “i really don’t want to talk about it, carson, okay?”

the group flinches when the door slams, and cooper can’t help but long for the boy he’d snuck off with just a few weeks prior - warm, loud, suave, and connected - and he leaps over the back of the couch, and bolts out of the front door.

“ted!”

the tall brunet curses, drawing his face closed with a breath before turning towards the blond. cooper flinches at the cold wall ted’s face had become, stepping backward in response.

“ted, i just needed to - ”

“don’t you know when to quit, cooper?” ted snarls, fists clenched at his sides. “don’t any of you know? i ask to be left alone, ask to work through this in isolation, and yet you follow me like a fucking dog after it’s master? jesus, it’s like you’re in love with me or something!”

cooper freezes, throat clenching as his eyes became the sea. ted’s stone face drops, realization clicking on his face when cooper begins to cry.

“cooper, i - ”

“ don’t! ” he howls, pacing further backwards, eyes flicking towards the street. “you got what you wanted, didn’t you? so go! get the fuck out of here!”

ted watches helplessly as cooper bolts down the road, heart breaking as travis runs out after him.

“ coopie! ”

but the blond keeps running, disappearing down the hill towards the coves. travis turns to ted, a vicious, depressed fury on his face that the latter had never seen, but had already grown to fear.

“you really had to do that, huh?” travis cries. “he cares so much about you, and you tear him apart? i hate to say it like this, but i can’t think of anything else. you’re a shitty friend.”

and on that last note, travis races after cooper, screaming his name until his throat went raw.

the truth is, the stars are falling, babe

and i'd never ever thought that i would say

i'm afraid of the life that i've made, i've made

“shouldn’t cooper be back by now?”

travis looks forlornly at cooper’s normal spot at the table, and pokes his dinner listlessly. the house is quieter without cooper and ted, and the air is emptier without their incessant flirting.

“i think we should go look for him,” schlatt offers, tossing his fork onto his plate. “ and figure out where ted went.”

carson’s brows furrow. “he’s heading back home.”

“nope,” charlie replies, settling at the end of the table with a notepad, phone, and pen. “he’s at a motel in santa monica.”

the boys whirl to look at him, confusion and disbelief laid plainly on their faces.

“carson,” charlie starts, pointing his pen at the boy. “remember that off-character joke ted made during that round of uno?”

carson thinks for a moment. “the one like ‘if i lose this chance, i’m dropping everything’ ?”

“yes! okay, travis, what about when you, him, and cooper were playing csgo?”

“he barely said anything,” travis murmurs. “except for stuff that didn’t really fit with the jokes we were making. or just the game itself.”

“like?”

“wanting to escape,” travis says. “and like he made a wrong decision.”

charlie hums, writing down the details. the rest of the club huddles around him as he scribbles frantically, flying back to their seats once charlie shouts “ eureka! ”

“yesterday, ted had ‘santa monica dream’ by angus & julia stone on loop for four hours,” he says, pointing to random spits of information on the notepad. “i also saw him looking into motels in that area. when i asked him about it, he nearly ripped off my head and shouted ‘i need time to think!’. i think …  i think something happened between him and cooper when they left that night of the party.”

schlatt raises a brow. “they left?”

“i saw them go up to the roof,” noah adds, taking the notepad and pen from charlie before scribbling down the detail. “i thought i heard cooper crying when i went up there.”

“did anyone see them leave? or see where they went?”

“cooper tweeted while they were gone,” travis says, flicking through twitter. “yeah, right here! ‘parties are overrated’. location … the seven-eleven on dyer avenue.”

charlie quickly scratches that down. “where else could they have gone? we didn’t see them until the next morning.”

travis thinks for a moment. “well … when cooper gets stressed out, he likes to go to the crystal cove park, which isn’t super far from here or the seven-eleven. sometimes he’ll hide out in the caves on the bottom of the bluffs. but he said that’s his place. that he wouldn’t let anyone else come with him, not even me.”

“circumstances change when love is involved,” schlatt says, and grabs the notepad. “so if you take cooper … add the caves … and ted … with emotions running high …” he trails off for a moment, focused on scribbling wildy on the paper. “cooper’s in love with ted, and terrified that he doesn’t reciprocate.”

“and how the fuck do you figure that out?” noah blurts, looking over the paper. “you just wrote a bunch of bullshit.”

“when you fall for the wrong type too many times, you see the patterns.”

“are you saying ted isn’t right for cooper?”

“what i am saying is, if you’d let me finish,” schlatt sneers. “is that ted does like cooper back. but he isn’t sure where he is on the spectrum, how his fans will react, and if cooper even likes him.”

carson snorts. “how can he not know?”

“rose-colored lenses can make you question anything when they turn green.”

“you mean …”

“ted is jealous of noah and travis.”

“ what?! ” the duo exclaims, nearly bowling schlatt over.

“you two spend the most time with cooper. ted probably thinks one of you has more of a chance than he does.”

“well … i’m not into cooper,” noah says. “and travis is … travis.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?!”

“focus!” charlie shouts. “travis, noah, i’m assigning you to operation bring cooper home . carson, schlatt, you’re coming with me to santa monica. when travis and noah get cooper, they’ll drive him up to santa monica, meet us at ted’s motel, and drop him off. we leave in my car, leave cooper and ted together to sort their shit out, and let them come back on their own terms. are we clear?”

the rest of the group shouts in agreement, splitting off into their separate vehicles.

“hey, remember!” charlie calls, alerting the rest of the group. “we’re mending hearts, not breaking them!”

but all this driving

is driving me crazy

and all this moving

is proving to get the best of me

“cooper!”

noah runs after travis, boots thumping on the wooden pathway. travis tears down the shoreline, sand flying wildly as he calls out for his best friend. he disappears around the corner of the bluff, ignoring noah’s curses as he fights to keep up. he skids to a stop when travis stops in his tracks, eyes scanning the various cave openings.

“how the hell are we supposed to know which cave is the right one?” noah wheezes, defeat weighing in his voice. “there’s dozens of them here!”

“cooper spilled the story to me when he came home the next morning,” travis admits. “he said something about the cave mouth looking like it was made out of glass.”

“sea glass!” noah shouts, running ahead. “what colors?”

“green, teal, and ice blue!”

“here!”

travis catches up quickly, and the two of them linger at the mouth of the picturesque cave. they hesitate, straining to see if they can catch a glimpse of the lovelorn blond.

“it’s almost nine,” travis says quietly. “the sun’ll be setting around ten-thirty.”

“let’s go get our friend back, then.”

and i've been trying to hide it

but lately

every time i think i'm better

pickin' my head up, getting nowhere

“do you really think ted is gonna let any of us, especially cooper, just waltz into his motel room?”

charlie flicks schlatt’s ear, barely looking up from the directions. the two bicker for a moment, broken up by carson taking a corner just a little too sharp.

“are you trying to kill us?!”

“i’m trying to mediate as best as i can while also driving!” carson retorts, stabilizing the car. “charlie, where am i going next?”

“exit one-a,” he says. “then hit olympic drive, and it should be on our right.”

“ ocean lodge . this place has ted vibes.”

“how is that, schlatt?”

he deadpans, raising an eyebrow. “it literally looks like it was dragged out of a fifties teen beach movie.”

the trio looks over the building, the white paint turning a pastel orange in the light of the sunset.

“so … which room is ted’s?”

“room 127.”

the boys slowly turn around, wincing at the sound of ted’s voice.

“why the hell are you guys here?” he snaps, holding up a hand when they begin. “actually, i don’t really care. i told you guys to leave me alone, you were too stubborn to listen, and now - ”

“we can’t find cooper.”

ted freezes, eyes locking onto schlatt’s determined face.

“what?”

“cooper’s fucking gone,” schlatt growls, poking ted’s chest with his finger. “and who saw him last? you . you were so concerned about the improbable consequences for yourself that you failed to think about the effects on anyone else involved.”

“noah and travis are looking for him as we speak,” charlie adds, a - rare - serious expression on his face. “as soon as they find him - if they can - they’re driving him up here, and you two are going to be left alone so you can work this out. you know, like the adults you are .”

carson’s phone rings a moment later, noah’s picture filling the screen.

“yeah. yeah, he’s here. he’s being stubborn too,” carson adds, narrowing his eyes at ted. “how’s cooper? he’s okay? good. get up here. we’ll keep ted planted until you guys get here.” the line is quiet for a moment. “fifteen minutes? okay. bye.”

“do i get a say in this?”

“you had your chance at a say when you blew cooper off and sent him crying to the coves.” schlatt spits.

the group is quiet for a while, leaving carson to anxiously watch the road.

take me back to the basics and the simple life

tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

“where are we going, noah.” cooper demands, his voice still choked. “we passed the house ages ago. spill.”

“carson told us not to say anything,” travis replies. “i’m sorry.”

cooper curls up in the backseat, resting his head against the window. he hears the dial of noah’s phone, and perks his ears to the conversation.

“we found him. is ted there?”

cooper flinches, but continues to listen anyways.

“why am i not surprised. cooper?” noah looks at the blond through the rearview, catching his eyes. “he’s alright.” noah stops for a moment as carson’s muffled voice slips from the speakers. “we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. yeah. see you then.”

noah hangs up soon after, dropping his phone into the cupholder. the turn signal clicks as noah hits the exit ramp, and cooper suddenly becomes familiar with the surroundings.

“santa monica?”

your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

cooper seethes with quiet resentment as the car pulls into the parking lot of the motel, his face darkening further when his eyes land on ted. the trio exit the car, noah and travis boxing cooper in so he can’t bolt.

“why the hell am i here,” cooper snarls, his voice weak. “did you all want a grand re-enactment of what happened back at the house? is that it?”

“no,” carson retorts. “we want the two of you to talk like the adults that you are. something’s off between the two of you - it has been for a while. all of us - myself included - want it figured out. for friendships sakes, and the channel’s sake.”

“it’s all about what you want, isn’t it.”

“this isn’t about me, and you know it. you’re backpedaling.”

“i think i should get a say in this,” ted demands. “i’m apparently a key point in this, so -”

“yeah, your say is that you and cooper are going to work out your shit,” charlie says. “get in the hotel room. we’ll give you five minutes. that’s it.”

i've been lyin' to them all

i don't need it anymore

the room is silent once the door shuts, spare for the simmering static on the retro television and the distant crash of the ocean.

neither of the men want the first word.

cooper picks at his nails at the dining table in the far corner, while ted sits on the bed in the other corner of the room, facing the wall.

he breaks.

“what the fuck are you so afraid of?”

don't you worry about me

i'll be fine if i can breathe

ted stays silent, the stone-like mask of indifference still snug on his face.

“this is it, huh? after how many years of friendship, this is your breaking point?” cooper stands up, moving closer to ted. “you refuse to talk, so you stare at the wall like a fucking child that isn’t getting the toy he wants? is this the pathetic low you’ve decided to settle at? didn’t wanna play with my heart anymore, so you moved on to bigger and better things?”

the blond stands directly in ted’s peripheral now, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“i guess i get it,” he mutters, voice fading as his fight fades. “once you get the prize, it isn’t fun anymore.”

he stands steady when ted turns to face him, but his heart twinges at the tears that break the facade.

“you don’t understand - ”

“i don’t understand? i don’t understand?!” cooper roars, his temper flaring. “what in this situation is there for me to not get? fill me in, theodore. since you seem to have a perfect grasp on every little fucking piece of information around you.”

i've been hidin' for too long

taking shit for how i'm wrong

“ i’m in love with you, okay?! i have been since the day we met,” ted shouts, dropping to his knees in front of cooper. “i drove up here so i could think of the perfect way to tell you. for the longest time i thought - no, i convinced myself - that it was strictly platonic, because i was convinced you were straight. when you came out, it all clicked. that night in the caves kicked it all into place, too. but as time went on i talked myself into thinking i was full of shit. that i was straight, and i just needed to stop baiting my friend. i was mad at myself for what happened. i’m sorry, cooper. i really am.”

cooper drops to his level, the carpet scratching his knees. “then why did you run?”

“i was … i was scared,” ted murmurs, eyes focused on the blond in front of him. “you made it look so easy, but i - i felt like that wasn’t meant for me. that freedom. that … love. i never felt like i deserved anything. especially you.”

“so all the flirting, all the playing around …”

“... was me testing my limits,” ted finishes. “i’m sorry i made you feel like a pawn, cooper.”

how i'm wrong

always wrong

cooper sits back on his heels, staring at the floor while his thoughts race wildly around his head.

“so you actually like me?”

“yeah,” ted breathes. “i do.”

cooper laughs. “thank fucking god, i was starting to feel like an idiot.”

“what?”

“did you never notice how much of an idiot i am around you? i act like a fuckin’ high schooler when you’re around.”

“well it’s not like i did much to help you avoid that,” the brunet snorts, a grin on his face. “nicknames and shit just came naturally with you around.”

“so the whole ‘nude beaches thing’ …?”

“i was really hoping you wouldn’t remember that.”

“i dunno man, i’m down if you are.”

take me back to the basics and the simple life

tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

the two pause for a moment, breaking into wild laughter immediately after. ted stands from the floor, and helps cooper up. peeking out of the window, he laughs again.

“what?”

“they ditched you, man. you’re stuck with me.”

“well, it can’t be that bad, can it? it’s getting late anyway.”

“you want the bed?”

“we can share it, dumbass.”

“what is this, a fanfiction?”

“it’s me being nice, and …” cooper trails off, staring at his feet.

“and?”

cooper murmurs an answer under his breath.

your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

“what?”

the blond takes a breath. “maybe i want to cuddle with the guy i love?”

ted winks. “i think i can work with that.”

cooper smiles, grin growing wider when ted pulls him into a warm hug. the two part at the last moment, and quickly get ready for bed, crawling under the cool blankets.

“wait, you sleep with socks on?” cooper teases.

“of course. don’t need the demons stealing my toes.”

cooper snorts, letting his head rest in the crook of ted’s neck, his nose against his collarbone. the two shift quietly, getting comfortable for the night.

“hey.”

“hmm,” cooper replies, smiling at the rumble of ted’s voice against his skin.

“what made you fall for me, out of all the people in the world?”

“well,” he says, shivering when ted’s thumb brushes over his side. “the first thing was your voice. something about the low tone just hit different.”

“okay bottom.”

“fuck you.”

“maybe another time,” he purrs, laughing when cooper blushes. “what else?”

“your humor. and how much of a dad you are - there’s just something really endearing about that.”

“you just like that i can cook.”

cooper laughs. “maybe. what about you?”

“i liked watching your skate tricks - your focus and skill is really admirable. and your laugh is cute.”

“cheeseball.”

“hey, you’re the one that called me a dad.”

“papi~”

“don’t make me shove you off this bed.”

the blond cackles, snaking his arms around ted’s chest. his heart skips when ted kisses his forehead gently, and pulls him closer.

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

“goodnight, cooper.”

“g’night, ted.”

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

(take me back to the basics and the simple life)

the two boys returned to the clubhouse the following monday, hands linked and faces aglow. cooper couldn’t escape noah after he’d taken off his hoodie.

“so ted’s a biter, huh?”

cooper chokes on his cereal, face nearly glowing with a blush.

noah laughs. “you asked for it, man.”

“he’s also got claws,” ted adds, strolling into the kitchen. “better watch out.”

the blond swings at his - his - boyfriend, and buries his face in his hands. the brunet laughs, picking up his breakfast before sitting down next to cooper.

“c’mon, it’s cute,” ted teases. “when you aren’t drawing blood, of course.”

noah cringes. “okay, okay, i can tell when i need to go.”

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

(tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease)

cooper faces ted once noah leaves. “you’re terrible.”

“what? i can’t want time alone with my boyfriend?”

“you had all weekend with me!”

“yeah? well, we’re making up for lost time.”

cooper shakes his head, but melts when ted kisses him nevertheless.

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

(your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby)

“you think they’re gonna be okay?”

schlatt looks into the kitchen, scrunching his nose at the steadily heating up kiss.

“i think so.”

“and what about us, my friend?”

the new yorker looks at the garden state native, and smiles.

“we have a road trip to plan.”

holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night

#Friends to Lovers #Songfic #Angst with a Happy Ending #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #Love Confessions #Internalized Homophobia #Implied Sexual Content

[americanaspacecadet]

blessed be the mystery of love

originally posted: april 30, 2020

ship: jschlatt/reader

fandom: Youtube RPF

rating: general audiences

desc: he awoke when the baby started crying.

he was afraid to hold her - he’d always been considered such a brute, a whirlwind, a disaster waiting to happen - he didn’t think he’d be able to handle having someone so fragile, someone that depended on him so much.

but he forced himself from the cocoon of blankets and the warmth of his lover, and crept down the hallway into the nursery.

tags: dad!schlatt | literally only wrote this because of the babysitting mama video | go watch!! it’s chaos | Established Relationship | Married Couple | Domestic Fluff

word count: 947

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

translations:

> папа - papa/dad

> маленькая утка - little duck

> я люблю тебя - i love you

schlatt would be a good dad. i do not care what anyone else says.

he awoke when the baby started crying.

he was afraid to hold her - he’d always been considered such a brute, a whirlwind, a disaster waiting to happen - he didn’t think he’d be able to handle having someone so fragile, someone that depended on him so much.

but he forced himself from the cocoon of blankets and the warmth of his lover, and crept down the hallway into the nursery.

    “catherine?” his voice is barely a whisper in the dimly lit room. “it’s okay, папа’s here.”

his heart pounds as he approaches the crib, tears bubbling in his eyes as he looks down at a near mirror image of a younger self he once was. thinking back to what the midwife had told him - how to hold her, what cries meant what - he carefully lifts the wailing girl, settling her gently against his chest.

    “shh, маленькая утка,” he murmurs, patting her back. “you’ll be okay. you wanna go look at the city with me?”

he picks up the baby monitor from the bedside table, clipping it to the waistband of his sweatpants. catherine’s cries taper out when the sliding door opens, a hiccup of surprise slipping from her when the lukewarm night air tickles her cheek. he settles into the rocking chair on the balcony, slowly rocking back and forth to the off-tempo calls of engines and sirens rolling around in the boroughs of brooklyn. he kisses the top of her head, giggling at the soft wisps of hair that greet him.

    “y’see the bright lights up there? those are called stars,” he says. “and a long, long time ago, people just like us saw shapes in them, like dogs and bears and birds.”

    “dog.”

his breath catches.

    “what was that, утка?”

    “dog!”

tears slip from his eyes as she rolls the simple word around in her mouth. her first word - dog! a dog ! - and he was able to hear it, all by himself.

    “that’s right, cath. dogs! there’s a shape called canis major - that’s a big wolf, or maybe even a big dog.”

    “big dog.”

he sniffles again, throat clenching as he tries to hold in his tears.

    “james?”

he jumps when y/n appears at the sliding door.

    “honey, why are you crying?”

    “two words.”

    “what?”

    he chokes. “she said two words. big dog . i was telling her about the stars and she said dog , and then i said ‘yeah, and there’s one called big dog’ and she said big dog !”

she gasps, running to his side.

    “cath, baby, tell mommy about the stars,” she says. “tell me what daddy said.”

    “big dog!”

she covers her mouth, looking at james with tears in her eyes. they grin excitedly, and she carefully picks catherine up from james’ chest.

    “god, i can’t believe…” y/n murmurs, softly stroking cath’s head. “her first words… and i missed them!”

    “no no no, it’s okay,” james coos, standing up before embracing her. “i had the baby monitor on my hip if you needed anything - that’s why i always leave the other one in the bedroom.”

y/n sniffles, a soft smile on her face as she snuggles into james’ side. catherine tugs at the collar of her sleep shirt, and mouths at the soft fabric.

    “i think she’s hungry,” y/n jokes, bouncing the cooing baby. “you gonna be okay, papa bear?”

    “with my two beautiful girls? i’ve never felt better in my life.”

y/n smiles, kissing his cheek before heading back into the apartment, whispering warmly to the baby in her arms.

james lingers on the balcony, fiddling with the titanium band on his left hand. taking one last deep breath of the briney-gasoline tinged air of his borough, he ducks back into the apartment, closing the sliding door and locking it tight. drawing the curtains, he sets the monitor back on the bedside table before heading into the living room.

    “you remember that babysitting video you made when we first started going out?”

james laughs softly, settling next to his wife on the worn sofa.

    “yeah. what about it?”

    “i’m so glad you’re not that terrible of a father.”

    he sighs. “me too. do you know how scared i was when you first offered her to me?”

    “i do! i thought you’d shake right out of your boots. and your face got so pale, i was convinced you’d pass out on the spot.”

    “i didn’t think i’d be able to do it right,” he admits. “i was always so stubborn, such a meathead. i thought if i even breathed on her wrong, i’d shatter her.”

    “now look at you, honey: sharing the bathtub, dancing with her, singing all your dorky seventies white dad hits when you think i’m not looking - ”

    “wait, you saw that?”

    y/n laughs. “my favorite will always be brandy . you were so happy too - you looked like a kid at christmas. remind me to show you the video, okay?”

    “you filmed me?” he laughs. “you’re a treasure, darling.”

she smiles, kissing him softly. she pulls away when catherine hiccups.

    “can you burp her? i have to pee.”

    “will you at least get me the bib?”

    y/n ducks down the hall. “it’s in the bag!”

    “where’s the bag?”

    “can’t talk! gotta pee!”

james snorts, and hoists catherine back to a comfortable spot on his chest.

    “well, if mommy can’t tell me where the cloth is,” he teases, speaking just loud enough so y/n can hear him. “maybe we should use her sweatshirt.”

    “oh no no no, don’t you get smart! the bag’s next to the dining table!”

    he silently cheers. “thank you! я люблю тебя!”

    “you’re lucky i love you too, pea brain!”

#dad!schlatt #established relationship #married couple #domestic fluff

[americanaspacecadet]

oh, i am not quite sleeping

originally posted: april 2, 2020

ship: cscoop/joko | sasschan/joko [background]

fandom: Youtube RPF, Lunch Club [rip]

rating: teen

desc: soulmate /ˈsōl ˌmāt/

noun

“a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.”

--

song used:

The Predatory Wasp of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us - Sufjan Stevens

tags: Songfic | Fluff and Angst | Angst with a Happy Ending | vivid imagery | Internalized Homophobia | A Couple In-Character Slurs Are Used | Developing Relationship | Relationship Struggles | Friends to Lovers | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Wasps | It’s All Connected, Baby!

word count: 3.1k

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

GET YER TISSUES FOR THIS ONE, FELLAS.

fr tho i cried a LOT writing this

pls enjoy :,)

<3

soulmate /ˈsōl ˌmāt/

noun

   “a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.”

thinking outrageously, i write in cursive

i hide in my bed with the lights on the floor

he’d given up hopes of sleeping hours ago - even though the rest of the house had already shut down for the night - he is wide awake, blue and black and red ink smearing on his hands as he frantically writes letter after letter to a boy - pure and vulgar, warm and cold, sweet and sour - who will never read them. his back aches from the hours spent hunched over hundreds of sheets of lined paper, each one growing more and more illegible from mania and teardrops running down the boy’s nose. candles and lanterns glow golden on the floor in the early hours, a small blip from his alarm clock reminding him that he was another hour closer to daylight, to realization, to recognition.

wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers

i see my own breath on the face of the door

he remembers that day as if it was yesterday - hunkered together around a bong, fierce boston winds whipping and roaring against the fragile windows. they laughed maniacally when one boy had been locked outside, doubling over when he crawled through the window, recoiling from the midwinter bites of snow. the boy smiled as the scent of the sea snuck in, sea salt mixing with the scent of weed and sweat and yerba mate.

   “pass it to me.”

   “no! you’re the one that got locked outside!”

his favorite boy took it from the bickering pair, breathing in the milky-grey smoke before letting it drift from his mouth like the fog that covered the harbor. he looked to the blond with hooded eyes, a lazy smile on his face that sent the latter’s blood and butterflies to all the wrong-yet-right places.

oh, i am not quite sleeping

oh, i am fast in bed

he blinks, and the image is gone, replaced with another favorite memory - the days before she had taken his place on his romeo’s side, taking his attention and his time. they’d been driving somewhere, laughing and screaming along to the radio.

   “whatchu starin’ at, headass?”

   he blushes. “your dsl, bro. no straight boy got a mouth like yours.”

the boy laughs, eyes crinkling just right in the corners, canines just peeking out from his lips. the blond laughed with him, gripping the edge of the seat to pull himself just enough out of the moment, to keep himself sober. he couldn’t kiss him. not yet.

there on the wall, in the bedroom creeping

i see a wasp with her wings outstretched

he jumps when his phone chimes, heart skipping when his name rolls onto the screen.

   ‘diner. pancakes and bacon. coffee with whipped cream. getcho ass over here.’

he debates the invitation for a moment, eyes flicking back to the screen when it chimes again.

   ‘not an option. u got 2 minutes to respond. lesgo.’

   he curses. ‘fine. be there in 10.’

a kissing-face emoji blinks back in return, putting the blond’s heart in his throat as he rolls out of bed. a movement in the corner of his eye pulls his attention, and he flinches at the wasp that shivers on the wall. he picks up a spare shoe, and wanders over.

   “quit reminding me of that summer,” he snarls, slapping his shoe against the wall, against the wasp. “he doesn’t love me.”

the pest tumbles to the floor, fluttering its wings weakly before fading away. he scoffs, shoving his foot in his shoe, and pulls a hoodie over his head. grabbing his skateboard, he runs out of his bedroom, out of the group house, and into the shockingly starry l.a. night. he drops the board, steps on, and rides off towards the diner.

north of savanna, we swim in the palisades

i come out wearing my brother's red hat

his mind wanders back to the road trip as he flies down the pavement, absentmindedly guiding himself over the broken sidewalk. they’d taken it for fun, quitting their jobs with a bird and a laugh before sprinting to their shared car.

   “goodbye, freak of a boss,” he sighed, laughing to himself. “ child birthing hips my ass.”

   “i dunno man, she might’ve had a point,” the boy teases, sneakily poking at the other’s hips. “you do got a dumpy.”

   “shut up you fag,” he snorts, pushing at the boy’s hands. “you’re just jealous.”

   “that the boss had the hots for you instead of me? totally.”

he laughs, starting the engine before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway. he picks absentmindedly at his thumb, heart catching when the boy grabs his hand.

   “what did i tell you about that?” the boy teases, a soft smile on his face. “no good for your skin, bro.”

   he laughs. “yeah, yeah. hey, how much money you got saved?”

   “uhh… probably somewhere in the thousands. why? you forget to pay rent again?”

   “no,” he wrinkles his nose. “i wanna take a roadtrip.”

   the boy grins. “why didn’t you say so? i’ve been bothering you for months about taking one! why now? why the change?”

   “lack of funds, dude,” he says. “and we still had the job. we couldn’t just leave l.a. whenever we wanted.”

   “well now we can!” the boy yells, a blinding grin on his face. “you and me, yeetin’ along the country, doin’ whatever we want.”

   he grins. “i love it. da boys, fear and loathing style, tearin’ it up.”

   the former nods. “hell yeah. hey, speaking of thinking about things.”

   he tenses. “what’s up man?”

   “you’ve just seemed …  distant, lately. i might be reading the scene wrong, but i feel like i did something.”

   he freezes. “no no no, you haven’t done anything! i swear,” he says, nerves creeping into his voice. “just … thinking about quitting the job, y’know?”

   joko the boy joko shakes his head. “pull over.”

he cooper he grips the wheel just a little tighter, faltering with the realization that his hands are shaking just enough to stop him. he pulls into the carpool lot, parking suddenly. he watches each individual finger on the wheel twitch out of place, tumbling out of line from their rightful places - he focuses on trying to get them back to normal, just to avoid looking at the boy watching him expectantly from the passenger seat. his mind races as he realizes joko the boy is still holding his hand.

   “what are you not telling me, man? did something happen? who do i need to kill?”

he cooper grits his teeth, nausea rising and head spinning. he takes his hand from joko’s the boy’s grasp, curling in on himself.

   “cooper!”

   “i’m gay, okay!” cooper screams, tears streaming down his face as he whirls to face joko. “i’m fucking gay, okay? i like dick. i like dudes. gonna run for the fucking hills now? gonna call someone to get you away from the fucking fag - ”

cooper stalls as joko wraps his arms tightly around him, pulling the former’s head into the crook of his neck. the blond sobs, hands fisting in the latter’s hoodie.

   “cooper,” joko murmurs. “i’m not running. i’m staying right here.”

there on his shoulder, my best friend is bit seven times

he runs, washing his face in his hands

the more cooper thought about it, the more he realized nothing really changed. he and joko still made the same jokes, still went out for late night food runs and shitty diner stops, and still went on the road trip. they’d driven all along the west coast, stopping at the palisades park to stretch and swim for a while before finally driving home.

   “hey, coop,” joko calls, wandering up to a tree. “you see that?”

   the blond runs up to him. “that’s a fuckin’ wasp’s nest, dumbass. leave it alone.”

   joko laughs, absentmindedly grabbing cooper’s forearm in one hand, and a rock in another.

   “don’t - ”

   “dubs!” he shouts, throwing the rock at the nest and bolting, tugging cooper along with him. “c’mon, dude!”

cooper yelps, the sound of angry wasps buzzing in his ears. he flinches when a stinger makes contact, diving into and under the ocean waves.

   “joko!” he calls as he resurfaces. “get in the fucking water!”

the brunet dives in next to him, pulling the other boy under.

oh, how i meant to tease him

oh, how i meant no harm

cooper opens his eyes, ignoring the burn of the salt. he taps joko’s hand, prompting him to open his eyes. he obliges, grinning like a maniac at cooper’s bewildered and frustrated expression. he takes his hand, and pulls him up.

   “are you stupid?” cooper shouts. “what if one of us was allergic?”

   joko flushes. “i wanted to see what would happen.”

   cooper bristles. “you got stung seven times. i got stung twice. you should’ve known better, dude.”

   “i’m sorry, okay! is that what you wanted?”

   “i want you to stop being so reckless!” he retorts, gritting his teeth. tears bubble in his eyes. “i care about you, jackass!”

touching his back with my hand, i kiss him

i see the wasp on the length of my arm

joko’s mouth snaps shut, and he drifts to where his feet can touch the cool sand. cooper follows.

   “i hate when you pull shit like that,” cooper murmurs.

   “what do you want from me, man?” joko challenges. “i’ve already apologized.”

cooper can feel his heart crumble, fear coming in to fill the cracks. he grabs the back of joko’s neck, kissing him roughly. he nearly splashes back under the waves as joko shoves him away.

   “are you fucking joking?” joko shouts. “first you get pissed at me for doing stupid shit like i always do, then you turn around and kiss me when you know i’m straight? are you fucking kidding me, cooper? i accepted you because you’re my friend, and that’s what friends are supposed to fucking do! now you’re coming onto me when you know i’m talking to someone?”

   cooper’s heart falls to his feet. “what?”

   “yeah. amanda? remember her? we’re supposed to go on a date on friday? do you even fucking listen to me anymore? or are you too absorbed in you to hear me?”

venom fills cooper’s veins, dragging him down under the waves, under the sand, under the crust of the earth.

   “let’s just go home, cooper,” joko grumbles. “i’m getting cold anyway.”

oh great sights upon this state! hallelujah!

wonders bright, and rivers, lake. hallelujah!

joko grips the steering wheel with white knuckles, his other arm resting on the windowsill of the driver’s side door. he looks away when cooper climbs into the car, still not starting the engine even when he’s buckled in. the car is silent - cooper never turned the radio on - and joko takes a deep breath. he moves to speak, but cooper beats him.

   “just drop me off at the lunch house,” he murmurs, facing the window. “i’m sure your date with amanda will go well enough that you won’t want me at the house.”

   joko bristles. “no.”

he starts the car, tearing from the parking lot. cooper’s leg bounces, his thumbnail scraping against the skin of his index finger. joko hates how much he can still see the boy next to him, and still see the road at the same time. they pull into the lot of their shared apartment faster than he would’ve liked, having spent the ride home in silence when it should’ve been full of shitty music and too-loud laughter.

we were in love, we were in love / palisades! palisades!

i can wait, i can wait / trail of tears and horseshoe lake. hallelujah!

   “joko?”

   “go inside,” joko murmurs. “i’ll be inside in a minute.”

cooper flinches, but leaves, taking his bag into the house. he scratches at the bites littering his skin.

he can feel the weight of joko’s stare all the way into the stairwell.

we were in love, we were in love / palisades! palisades!

i can wait, i can wait / trusting things beyond mistake. hallelujah!

joko’s heart pounds, fingers flexing and relaxing against the faux leather of the steering wheel. he grits his teeth, the force of his jaw enough to shatter the fragile bones in his mouth. curling in on himself, tears slip weakly from his eyes while his fingers tug roughly at his hair. the pain from the bites shoots along his too-warm skin; it’s all too much. a choked sob leaves him, a breath of regret and pain and misfortune, of fear and indecision. he can’t do this on his own.

he calls her.

we were in love, we were in love

palisades! palisades! i can wait, i can wait

   “hey!”

   “amanda?”

she stops in her tracks, tasks at hand momentarily forgotten as his broken tone filters through the phone.

   “hey, joko, what’s wrong?”

   “he kissed me, amanda. he knows i’ve been talking with you, he knows i’m straight, he knows - ”

   “joko, joko, breathe ,” amanda soothes. “what doesn’t he know?”

   the brunet freezes. “what?”

   “what doesn’t he know, joko? is there anything you’re not telling him?”

the boy thinks for a moment. too-long, lingering stares. holding his hand. movie nights. diner dates at four in the morning. sharing joints. splitting chores. dancing contests. sharing the bed after nightmares. one boy in the shower, the other at the sink. he blinks once. twice.

   the silence is telling enough. “joko?”

   “i’m so fucking stupid,” joko breathes. “i’ve been killing him.”

   amanda smiles into the phone. “no you haven’t. does he love you? yes. do you love him too? i’m sure, but in your own way. tell him. what he doesn’t know will kill him in the end.”

we were in love, we were in love / palisades! palisades!

i can wait, i can wait / lamb of god, we sound the horn. hallelujah!

cooper flinches when his bedroom door opens, sea salt and freshwater salt mixing and blurring and staining his ruby red face. he sniffles.

   “cooper? buddy?”

he scoots over out of habit when the bed dips with joko’s weight. the thump of the brunet’s sneakers hitting the floor meets his ears, joko’s breath brushing the back of his neck when his head meets the pillow.

   “look at me.”

cooper refuses to move, clinging tighter to the old wool blanket that still smelled of hot chocolate and sandalwood, of the boy he’d clung to so tightly.

   “ please. ”

the blond finally submits, flipping slowly. joko’s heart tears sharply, regret and remorse stinging the backs of his eyes. he reaches out carefully, waiting for cooper to push him away, to scream at him, to call him a monster.

it hurt more that he crawled into his arms without hesitation.

it hurt the most that he fit perfectly against him.

   “joko?”

the weakness in cooper’s voice - the weakness that joko had caused - stung. just like the wasps on the beach.

   “yeah, coop?”

   he hiccups. “can i kiss you? one last time? i don’t care if you say no, i just need the cl - ”

the blond jumps when joko sits up, pulling him into his lap. he frames cooper’s face with his hands like binding on a priceless painting, his thumb skimming over the boy’s cheekbone.

   “i’d be an idiot to say no.”

we were in love, we were in love / palisades! palisades!

i can wait, i can wait / unto us your ghost is born. hallel -

cooper glides up to the diner, kicking the board into his hand and ducking in the door. the warm smell of fresh cinnamon bread and hashbrowns greets him, along with the old woman who’s owned the place for as long has cooper can remember.

   “hey, diane,” cooper smiles. “where is he?”

   she laughs. “back booth, like usual. and leave that board by the door, you critter.”

he snorts, dropping the board before moving to the back of the diner, heart panging at the sight of the brunet’s head. it’s not too late to turn back, he thinks, heart still stinging at the memories of that summer. you can still make it out alive.

i can't explain the state that i'm in

the state of my heart, he was my best friend

he takes a deep breath. sits down.

joko takes his hand across the table. gives him a grin.

   “there’s something i gotta tell you, coop.”

into the car, from the back seat

oh, admiration in falling asleep

mornings lit with strings of christmas lights. nights lined with silver threads of smoke. dawns of waking up in each other’s arms. evenings of dinners and movies. bitter diner coffee with just a little too much creamer and not enough sugar. runs along the coast. trips to the pier. scraped hands and knees on concrete ramps. snaps of camera shutters and the echo of microphones.

   “i’m in love with you, cooper.”

all of my powers, day after day

i can tell you, we swaggered and swayed

dancing in the living room. stuffy suits at meetings. loosened ties and energy drinks afterwards. rooftop dinners. highrise hotel rooms. convention halls. vinyls crackling after playing just a bit too long. chocolate voices and sea salt laughter.

   “what about amanda?”

deep in the tower, the prairies below

i can tell you — the telling gets old

redwood forests and stinging deserts.

   “we decided it was better this way.”

freshwater rivers and worn down asphalt.

   “what way?”

too much skin under a searing california sun.

   “you and i.”

terrible sting and terrible storm

i can tell you the day we were born

cooper takes joko’s other hand, squeezing it tightly. he can see diane in the corner of his eye, her daughter quietly cheering him on from the kitchen window.

he leans across the table, bumping his forehead on the brunet’s.

my friend is gone, he ran away

i can tell you, i love him each day

   “ kiss me, jackass ,” joko whispers, a teasing smile on his face.

though we have sparred, wrestled and raged

i can tell you, i love him each day

and he does; grinning into the kiss, barely dodging the long forgotten coffee joko had ordered an hour before cooper showed up. he couldn’t care less about the slightly burnt taste barely hidden by watered down creamer - not when he could taste the love of his life right then.

like the ocean on a stormy day.

like the wind brushing through a redwood’s branches.

like home.

we were in love, we were in love

palisades! palisades! i can wait, i can wait.

#Songfic #Fluff and Angst #Angst with a Happy Ending #Internalized Homophobia #Friends to Lovers #Wasps

[americanaspacecadet]

oh, may all god’s children come to this

originally posted: march 26, 2020

ship: jschlatt/reader [slight]

fandom: Youtube RPF, Local58

rating: explicit

desc: you know what you’ve done. you’ve gone against Them. and now you pay the price.

tags: Blood and Gore | Paranoia | Local58 Inspired | Dead Dove: Do Not Eat | please be careful when reading this | seriously… pay attention to the tags and the beginning note | this is really fucking dark | anxiety inducing

word count: 615

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

please. i'm serious. if you're susceptible to being triggered by ANY of these warnings, PLEASE turn back. i'm just warning you now - this is being used to cope with what's happening in the world around us. READER DISCRETION IS SERIOUSLY FUCKING ADVISED. thank you. now, read at your own discretion. stay safe out there.

a shadow flashes by the window, blocking the red lamp on the neighbor’s garden for a moment. it catches your vision from the corner of your eye, but you shrug it off as late-night paranoia.

until a fist pounds on the window.

you jump, screaming at the man in your window as your dogs bark around you. you rush to the front door, flicking on the outdoor light and picking up the bat you keep by the door. you fling the door open, raising the bat to swing -

    “stop!”

the voice is startlingly familiar, but fear and nausea still pump through your veins at the speed of sound, your heart nearly coming out of your ribs.

    “just …  let me in. help me out. please.”

you can see him more clearly now - torn clothing, blood staining the ripped fabric. dried blood shines crimson-brown in the weak porch light. you nearly drop the bat at the black eye slowly swelling on his face.

    “fuck, shit, get in here,” you mutter, grabbing his arm. “i don’t need the cops roaming this bullshit neighborhood more than they already do.”

he grunts at the jostling movement, stumbling into your house. the dogs rush him, angrily growling - you snap at them to back off before slamming the door shut, locking it and cranking the deadbolt. you curse as blood drips onto the white carpet in the living room, and you quickly shoo the dogs into the porch before getting the boy into the bathroom. you gasp as you flick on the lights - the swaths of shadows in the night had hidden what real damage there’d been.

    “what the fuck happened to you?”

the boy goes to talk, but can only gasp as another bolt of pain flashes through his body. he drops to the edge of the bathtub, blood flicking from the soaked fabric. you kneel down in front of him.

    “you gotta ditch the clothes if i can do anything.”

he whimpers, teeth gritting as he peels off the nypd hoodie, and the black t-shirt underneath. he wiggles out of his sweatpants, and you can’t help the fear that floods your veins.

    “They tried to warn us.”

    “They’re full of shit!”

    “ They fucking told us this would happen! ” the boy shrieks, nearly falling back into the rapidly filling tub as he grows lightheaded. “They told us not to look at the moon. They told us to stay inside. They told us to ignore the gps.” he grows frantic. “but i fought my way out. fought my way to you. and look where that fucking got me!”

your heart stops for a moment, ice cold fear freezing your limbs. They couldn’t be here yet. not now.

the tv blares to life with the infamous smpte bars. my country tis of thee begins to wearily crank from the speakers.

    “we’re too late,” he says weakly, pulling your attention while taking your hand in his own, his blood turning the water a disgusting rusty tone. “They know what we’ve done. we can’t escape Them anymore.”

your heart shatters.

    “james, there has to be something - ”

    the boy coughs up blood. “there … is … nothing.”

you scream as he slips from you, head sinking below the copper-scented water. you flinch as the porch door slams open, crying as the gurgling yelps of your dogs travel through the house, their blood on yours and Their hands. you pull the gun from your waistband, lying on the floor, parallel with him. victory position , They called it. front lawn. face up. feet together.

you obeyed, in the end.

after all,

you had nothing left to lose.

you press the muzzle to the roof of your mouth.

you give in.

#Blood and Gore #Paranoia #Local58 Inspired #Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

[americanaspacecadet]

i was a loner, unloved.

originally posted: january 22, 2020

ship: jschlatt/noahhugbox

fandom: Youtube RPF, Lunch Club [rip]

rating: teen

desc: prompt from my homie: "maybe sometime while they were in la recently while they were getting a little high together and just talking the romantic/sexual tension became a bit too much and one of them proposes the idea that like.. MAYBE they should make out a little. just to try it. because like how do you even know if you're not gay if you've never been intimate with another guy before? and then the other is like that seems rational so they do it and after that they both just dive headfirst into falling for each other..."

tags: Fluff and Angst | Angst with a Happy Ending | Implied Sexual Content | Recreational Drug Use | Weed! | Schlatt Gets Drunk Because He's Sad | This Is NOT A Recommended Therapy Method | Internalized Homophobia | Implied/Referenced Child Abuse | Sad Backstory | Vomiting | Shotgunning | First Kiss sorta? | Bisexual Schlatt!

word count: 3.5k

the original can be read HERE, on AO3

yeah ik this fic aged poorly but i’m still proud of it so... enjoy :)

Schlatt wasn’t surprised when Noah joined him on the patio couch.

He wasn’t surprised when Noah asked to share a joint.

He still wasn’t surprised when he leaned in close.

The kiss woke him up, though.

But let’s not start there - we’ll get context first.

One week of the ‘Lunch Club Invades L.A.’ trip had already passed, and Schlatt was already mourning the day he’d have to return to his too-empty/too-cold/too-small New York apartment. He’d grown quite used to how expansive the AirBnB was - and the joys of being able to freely smoke pot on the roof of said rental.

“I got the stash, boys!”

Speak of the Devil and it shall appear, Schlatt thinks, looking over his shoulder to see Cooper stroll in with an impressively large bag of weed.

“What the fuck are we gonna do with all of that?”

The rest of the boys laugh at Schlatt’s outburst, laughing harder when Cooper shouts back a muffled ‘smoke big doinks, coward!’ Travis trails after him, following him the kitchen to most likely make pot brownies with a good chunk of the stash.

“You wanna grab a smoke?”

Schlatt shivers as Noah drops down on the couch next to him, breaking him from his thoughts.

Schlatt raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t it only, like, five o’clock?”

Noah snorts. “Dude, it’s eight. Where have you been?”

Schlatt shakes his head, not wanting to admit that he had been vehemently watching Noah go against Charlie at the pool table, eyes tracing his form with every little move he made.

He settles for a shrug. “Physically? Here. Mentally? I dunno, probably Saturn.”

Noah laughs, making Schlatt’s heart skip - just for a moment. He wills the wild organ back into sober submission, praying that Noah didn’t notice the goosebumps running along his arms.

He didn’t.

“Well, let me know when you come back, Space Cowboy. Can’t have you double spacing when we’re on the roof, y’know?”

Schlatt nods, a small smile on his face when Noah ruffles his hair before joining the others in the kitchen. Schlatt faintly registers a shout of ‘not that much sugar!’ before wedging himself further into the couch, vaguely watching whatever Carson had pulled up on the too-large flatscreen to watch. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to linger, and his gaze is back on Noah before he can stop himself.

Noah’s lean - tall, lanky, easy on Schlatt’s tired eyes. And he’s confident - somehow managing to look hot in a fucking Nerf vest of all things. The well-kept beard is a nice touch too, and Schlatt’s mind wanders once more, thinking about how soft it must be, how it would feel against his neck, against his -

“Yo, Schlatt, you coming?”

Schlatt startles as Mason calls his name, a faint pink flush kissing his face as he realizes the other boy had caught him staring. He nods before pulling his hoodie onto his body - a gift from Ryan when they had visited Melbourne just a few months prior. Catching up to the rest of the group, he trails behind with Mason .

“I won’t say anything,” Mason murmurs as they hike up the stairs, and Schlatt lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “It’s your business, man, not mine.”

His Timbs make quiet thumps as he walks across the cement patio, the lukewarm California wind ruffling his already messy hair. The boys all collapse onto various chairs and outdoor couches, and Schlatt nearly jumps out of his skin when Noah drops down next to him.

“Care to share, partner?” Noah teases. “Cooper doesn’t trust me after I dropped the last few.”

Schlatt snorts. “You only drop them ‘cause you hold them like a 1920’s flapper girl, dude.”

“I feel called out!”

“Good,” Schlatt grins, sticking the joint between his lips. “You’re lucky I share, doll, or you’d have to be the babysitter.”

“I wouldn’t mind watching you,” Noah murmurs, the slight purr in his voice enough to make Schlatt fumble the lighter. Noah laughs. “C’mon butterfingers! You don’t have an excuse, you aren’t even stoned yet.”

Schlatt smiles, drawing a flame from his lighter before holding it to the end of the joint. He faintly recognizes Noah’s eyes on him, but chooses to pin it on the idea that he’s just waiting for a hit. His eyes slide closed as the smoke slips from his mouth, a smile on his face as Noah takes the joint from his grasp. He opens his eyes just enough to catch Noah’s hit, heart fluttering as the boy blows rings instead of a plain cloud.

“You’re such a tryhard, bro,” Cooper teases.

Noah snorts, mocking his skater boy act before passing the ciggy back to Schlatt and leaping from the couch, Cooper hot on his heels. Travis cranks the music, giggling when marlboro nights pours from the rooftop’s sound system. Schlatt smiles, eyes slipping closed once more while the chaotic and comforting vibes wash over him like a wave. He jumps when a body - all flailing limbs and screaming laughter - lands roughly back on the couch a few moments later, nearly making him choke on the drink that had appeared in his hand minutes before. His heart catches as his eyes roam over the wild boy next to him - heaving chest, flushed face, sparkling eyes with blown pupils, an all-teeth-no-lip grin - and he knows damn well he’s in trouble.

But Noah’s always been trouble.

But the night thunders on, as it always does. Beer pong and dance battles and shitty food; swimming pools and living big and barely-there airplanes streaking across the smoggy/stary/smoky night sky. Most of the party moves inside once it hits 2:00AM.

Most.

Two boys still sit side-by-side on a patio couch, the faint sound of late-night traffic and rooftop pool water clipping with cricketsong and muffled music from the rager below. Schlatt lost track of everything - how much he’d smoked, who had left - but he was still painfully aware of who occupied the body next to him. Chills run down his spine when a hand lands on his knee.

“Still with me, Space Cowboy?”

The velvet voice drapes over him like sickly-sweet syrup, mixing and melting and melding with all the other sounds floating and swirling around him like the smoke that drifts from his lips.

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.” Curses when his voice cracks. “What’s up, Box Boy?”

Noah laughs, bold and clear, and Schlatt’s brain short-circuits when the other boy takes Schlatt’s jaw in a too-warm hand.

“I have a proposition.”

“And I’m terrified,” Schlatt jokes, grinning at the offended look on Noah’s face. “I’m kidding, doll. Spill.”

“Ever tried shotgunning, Schlatt?”

“If you’re suggesting we get cross-faded, I’m going to politely and insistently decli-”

Noah shakes his head. “Nah nah nah, with weed. Y’know, the shit we have in front of us?”

It’s Schlatt’s turn to stare dumbly at the stupidly attractive man in front of him, eyebrows furrowing with confusion.

Noah rolls his eyes. “Pass me the blunt, dumbass.”

Schlatt numbly agrees, skin tingling where Noah’s fingertips still gently hold his jaw, hold his face in place. Noah takes a long drag, and uses his thumb to carefully tug Schlatt’s mouth open. The latter leans in instinctively, hands fisted in his own hoodie as a desperate measure to not claw or cling at the man just inches away from him. He breathes in what Noah passes, electricity running over his skin when Noah’s lips barely brush his own. He leans back, a smug grin on his face as Schlatt’s turns a gentle pink.

“That’s what it is,” Noah murmurs, his voice low from the smoke. “No cross-fading tonight, dollface.”

Schlatt swallows roughly. His skin feels like it’s melting where Noah’s touching him, and words are tumbling and tripping out of his mouth before his brain can catch up.

“My turn for a proposition.”

Noah grins, raising an eyebrow. “Hit me, llanero.”

“Kiss me.”

Noah blinks - once. Twice. Schlatt’s ready to laugh it off, to jump off the couch with a broken-hearted ‘just kidding! sorry for being too gay! i’ll go die now!’ - but there’s no chance for him to escape.

Not when Noah drops the blunt, grabs the back of his neck and presses his lips to Schlatt’s.

It’s a little awful at first - bumped noses, all teeth, and Schlatt’s bleeding heart in his throat. But Noah pulls back, laughs, takes Schlatt’s face in both too-hot hands, and kisses him again.

I have to be dreaming, Schlatt thinks, fighting the urge to pinch himself. There’s no fucking way Noah’s kissing me, nevertheless for the second fucking time!

But he’s there, hands in Noah’s hair, Noah’s hands on his jaw, his lower lip caught between the other boy’s teeth, and Schlatt swears to whatever God is out there that he won’t forget how this feels. Schlatt shivers when Noah’s hands leave his face, his grip tightening on the latter’s hair while he slips his hands down the former’s torso, teasing the hem of his sweatshirt with his thumbs. Noah’s nails are barely scraping his side when the rooftop access door bangs open, prompting the duo to hurriedly pull away before the mystery intruder guest can stumble upon them.

Noah’s eyes are wide. “Don’t mention this to anyone. Ever.” 

The warning fails to make its mark though - Noah’s blown pupils and heaving chest and fidgeting hands are a dead giveaway - but Schlatt knows better than to push.

“My lips are sealed,” he murmurs, heart panging when Noah subconsciously watches his lips move. “I swear.”

Noah goes to speak again when the mystery guest walks over, and Schlatt takes over the conversation.

“Noah, dammit, you dropped the blunt again!”

Cooper’s familiar laugh hits his ears, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he realizes that the lie worked in their favor. Picking up the near-empty red cup on the table next to him, he throws back the dregs of whatever had been in there - he really didn’t care, at this rate - and disappeared into the roaring house, Noah’s eyes glued to his back.

Schlatt grits his teeth when he reenters the house, his ears assaulted by the wall of noise that slams against him once the door swings open, the raucous cheers announcing his arrival only cutting further at his already splintering nerves. But he smiles anyway, through the burning pain of the flashing lights against his tired eyes, against the thrum of poisoned emotions pumping in his bloodstream. He takes whatever drinks people hand him, losing count after the fourth or fifth or was it sixth? red cup pressed into his hand, sharp jolts of laughter slicing out of his loose-lipped mouth when he stumbles through the party. 

“Schlatt?”

The voice is liquid over his cross-faded brain, melting like a fine liquor set on fire.

“James!”

The ground isn’t as hard as he remembers it being when he falls down, head barely missing the floor as someone catches him.

“Jesus, James, how much did you drink?”

“Thefuck are you, a cop?” He slurs, rose-red eyes narrowing harshly. “I’m fuckingfine, thank you very so muchful.”

“Dude, c’mon, you gotta slow down.”

“Get the fuckoff of me then, dick!”

The chatter dies down when he pushes the body away from him - veins buzzing as Noah’s face swims in his vision.

“I don’tneed help,” Schlatt sneers. “Especiallyfrom you! ”

Noah falters as Schlatt’s balance wavers, holding his place when Schlatt’s tearfilled eyes meet his.

“I think you’vedone enough damage tonight, Noah.”

The venom in Schlatt’s voice cuts at him, sharpened fractals of sound digging into his bones.

“Schlatt - ”

“I’ll see you allin the morning,” Schlatt breathes, face turning green. “Goodnight.”

He pukes on the floor.

Leaves.

Noah sinks to the ground.

Schlatt feels like he could puke again.

Yeah, okay, he knows it’s because of the alcohol mixed with more alcohol mixed with weed, but he pushes it aside to stare out at the blinding beacon of L.A. through the open window next to him.

Which he stumbles over to and throws up out of - unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be the only time he’s done that. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he trudges into the bathroom, eyes glued to the sink. Tears fill his eyes when he finally steels himself enough to look at his reflection.

His eyes are bloodshot, multi-colored vomit crusted on his face and neck. Remnants of tear tracks cut through the grime, itchy and shimmery and sad. He sniffles. Turns on the sink. Splashes water in his face, scrubbing at the not-so-glamorous remnants of the party.

“Look at you,” He murmurs, eyes back on the mirror. “A goddamn fucking fool. A jester in the world of kings. Who were you to think you could make it out of here alive?”

He turns off the sink, opting for a shower. The water burns hot when he steps in, last night’s clothes in a pile just outside the ensuite door. He doesn’t move for a moment, opting to watch the water roll down his skin, over the bruises from falling, old scars from childhood and adulthood alike. He rubs his thumb over a faded stick-and-poke on his hip, a small forever bi-myself with three familiarly colored dots below that didn’t ever heal quite right.

“Guess you’re coming true, aren’t you?” He laughs, voice cracking. “Telling my own future since senior year.”

He sighs, finishing his shower in silence. Turning the water off, he quickly ruffles his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his waist. He quietly brushes his teeth, puts on deodorant, and walks back into the bedroom -

Noah’s on his bed.

His back is facing him, so he can’t laugh when Schlatt nearly drops his towel. He didn’t even bother getting dressed - he’s shirtless, dressed in only boxers and stupidly tall socks. His hair is matted and unruly, and Schlatt can only guess what his expression is, how sleep deprived or how well rested he is. So, instead of getting dressed (seeing that his suitcase is in Noah’s line of vision), he sits on the other side, his back facing Noah’s. Noah jumps when the bed sinks.

“What the hell do you want, Noah?”

Noah flinches. “Good morning to you too - ”

“I’m being serious, jackass,” Schlatt snaps, but the anger isn’t there. “What do you want from me?”

“I - um - I wanted to talk to you. About last night.”

“Really? ‘Cause I think you made it pretty clear where your priorities and feelings lie when you nearly shoved me off the couch just so no one could see us together!”

He can hear the next breath Noah takes - sharp and pained - and he almost feels proud of himself for getting back at him, for cutting him like he had been cut.

Almost.

Instead, he stays silent, picking at his nails. The room is cold, making goosebumps cover his skin like some kind of armor. Yet, he’s never felt more exposed. More defenseless. More broken over a sharp rock blood pouring out the other boys laughing as they kept knocking him down -

“Schlatt?”

When did he start crying?

“James, hey, are you - ”

Schlatt shouts, pushing himself off of the bed and into the corner of the room, ignoring the jostle of landing on hardwood on his already sore and battered frame. The towel barely stays on, slipping down his hips just a little as he curls into a ball, fingers tugging on his hair, hands covering his head.

“James!”

Schlatt vaguely registers Noah dropping to his side, can feel the worry rolling off of him in waves - but he stays hands-off.

He needs hands-on.

“Noah?”

Jesus, he hates sounding this weak.

“Hey, I’m here. I’m always here. I’ve got you, James.”

Schlatt grits his teeth, diving into Noah’s open arms before he can second-guess himself. The other boy’s skin is warm compared to his own, and he can’t help but press his face into Noah’s chest, fingertips shakily pressing into his back. He sobs, again, shivering and shaking just like he did back in high school.

He always hated high school.

But right here? Now? He thinks living through that hell was worth it. Just a little. Because Noah’s so warm against his cold skin, his slow breathing an anchor, the brush of his fingertips an easy distraction from the screams of the past rocketing around in his already pounding head.

“What’s going on in there, James?”

He laughs softly, sadly. He can’t do this again.

“James, c’mon, I’m your friend.”

“That’s half of the problem.”

Noah’s voice is painfully quiet. “What?”

“Jesus, Noah, I’m in love with you!” Schlatt sobs, breaking from Noah’s hold to look him in the eye. “I have been since the day I met you. You and your stupid beard, your clothes, the way you hold whatever you smoke like some dainty fuckin’ twenties sweetheart waiting for her husband to return from the store. I love everything about you, and it’s been killing me because I know there’s nothing I can do, nothing I could say, that could ever make you love me back - ”

He stops when he sees the tears in Noah’s eyes.

“I guess we’re both idiots, huh?”

“Wh-what?”

Noah sniffs. Starts to laugh. He takes Schlatt’s face in his hands.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life, James. Your smile, your bright eyes, the way you dance - and, God, don’t get me started on that mouth of yours - ”

Schlatt blushes, a soft pink color staining his cheeks and his neck. He hangs his head, blushing more when Noah lifts it with just a finger under his chin.

“Hey,” Noah murmurs, smiling at the shiver that runs down Schlatt’s back at his low tone. “I wasn’t done looking yet. Pink’s a good color for you, by the way.”

Schlatt grins, his smile somehow growing wider as Noah lifts him into his lap, laughing when Noah struggles with Schlatt’s gangly legs.

“God, no wonder you walk like a fucking goblin.”

“Hey!”

“You,” Schlatt breathes. “Are a bitch.”

Noah pouts. “You’re so mean to me.”

Schlatt laughs, trying to wiggle out of Noah’s iron-bar hold on him. But Noah just accommodates, wrapping his legs around Schlatt’s waist and his arms around the other boy’s ribs, holding the former’s back to his chest.

“This isn’t fair.”

“It’s totally fair,” Noah murmurs, kissing the top of Schlatt’s head. “You can’t escape the love, doll.”

He just laughs again, turning in Noah’s hold to curl around him. The grin on Noah’s face spells trouble.

“You’re scheming.”

“I am,” He agrees. “How would you like it if we scared everyone out of the house?”

Schlatt quirks a brow. “How would we do that?”

Noah drops his voice. “I think I have an idea, if you’re up for it.”

“Oh, fuck yes.”

---

The rest of the club clusters around the kitchen, nursing hangovers or coffee mugs or both.

“How do you guys think Schlatt’s doing?” Madi murmurs. “He did drink a lot last night.”

“I think he’ll be okay,” Ted replies, leaning on the counter next to her. “I just want to know why he flipped out on Noah.”

Cooper nods slowly, squinting when his headache catches up.

“Something’s off with those two.”

Carson’s eyebrows raise. “Dude. You were the last one up there when it was just the two of them on the roof. What were they doing?”

Everyone else leans in, curiosity pooling in their postures.

Cooper snorts. “Dude, I was cooked. I don’t remember shit from last night.”

The group groans, irritated that they couldn’t get a scoop from Cooper.

Travis pipes up. “Has anyone seen either of them this morning?”

Mason shakes his head. “Schlatt usually sleeps in. Noah’s probably working on something, knowing him.”

A loud laugh echoes from the end of the hall, followed by a ‘Fuck!’

Josh turns to Carson. “You couldn’t have found a place that was soundproof?”

Carson’s too busy laughing to hear him. Josh just leads the rest of the club to the roof.

The last day of the ‘Lunch Club Invades L.A.’ trip arrives right on schedule, and Schlatt is already excitedly looking towards the flight he’d take to return to his too-empty/too-cold/too-small New York apartment. Because now, it’d become a perfectly-full/comfortably-warm/still-too-small New York apartment.

Noah’s hand is warm in his, their fingers tangled together snugly. Sure, the group ragged on them for fucking loud enough to hear through the whole AirBnB, but the couple didn’t really give two shits.

Noah’s lease was ending in a month, so he decided to follow Schlatt back to The City That Never Sleeps, to his little apartment nestled in Queens.

“I’m gonna miss you shitheads,” Schlatt said on the last night, raising a piece of New York style pizza (which he said was definitely a poor excuse for said style). “And, oddly enough, I’ll miss L.A.”

Carson rolled his eyes. “We’ll all be together again soon, dumbass. Can’t keep a group like this apart for long, right guys?”

The rest of the Lunch Club cheered, raising their own slices before chowing down.

Now, as Schlatt and Noah relax on the plane, Schlatt takes a minute to breathe, to recollect, to remember.

And to take an embarrassing picture of his gorgeous sleeping boyfriend on the shittiest camera he’s ever seen. ‘Cause this is his new home. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. 

#fluff and angst #angst with a happy ending #implied sexual content #recreational drug use #internalized homophobia #implied/referenced child abuse #vomiting #shotgunning #first kiss

[americanaspacecadet]

Good Morning!

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