#and there was a goodwill like half a mile away

[wlfpet]

(Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader)

 — PAPI BONES

A/N: Hi, this is the formerly scrapped, 3x longer, 2 months writing project that I had because I wanted to fuck abby in a closet! this was actually supposed to be my first post on tumblr, but i got mad at it and sent it to the dungeon for two months :/ but yall wanted it, so I'm super happy i got to finish it, even though it took multiple days and cups of coffee to power through. sorry for the wait, hope you fuck wit her.

content tags (can you tell i don't want to write anymore ;w;): college au, childish antics at a big age, drinking, cool, ellie and dina are in this! kind of abstract sexual descriptions, assplay, cunnilingus (r!receiving), boob... touching? small mention of drugs because dealer!ellie, drunk sex, enthusiastic consent! :D, reader is kind of annoying sorry, men being assholes, reader catching feelings for a girl she fucked once, real.

wc: 7.6k ;w; (send help)

proofread?; barely.

tl : @clearheartgreyflowers, @oatmilkchaii, @ghostfacebunny, @ellsbclls (thank you to the sweetest deb @ellsbclls for helping beta read this, i appreciate your suggestions and encouragement and this would probably have been scrapped TWICE without your help ;w; )

synopsis: your best friend dina drags you to a college frat party. you hate shit like this, and you're painfully shy but when she does those puppy dog eyes you can't say no, so in a cruel twist of fate you end up in the closet with abby Anderson, and lose your virginity. yay college! (apart of the 'jackson university' thematic!)

Your idea of a Saturday night well spent wasn’t squeezing through a sea of sweaty backs; but like many things in your life, it wasn’t up to you, because you were easily swayed. Everything was overstimulating, the waves of bodies on bodies that pulsated and threw you between different poses and balances to keep on your feet, the ringing of laughter, of music, of every sound echoing in your head, around your body, vibrating through your very core. The smell of liquor and drunken antics and that one guy puking in the corner made you sick. But somehow, you were here, spurred on by peer pressure friendship and goodwill, trudging through the blackened room to your target; the snack table. 

Dina, your roommate, and determinant best friend held a firm hand on the small of your back, pushing you through the crowd and causing a small jolt to run down your body as she steered you around every obstacle and corner in the room. She was a woman on a mission, and the one who dragged you out of bed, convincing you - against your better judgment- that it was fatal that you accompanied her to a frat party. You knew she was good-natured, and your first friend when you moved 500 miles away from home to college. It was an instant click, but you were opposite best friends. 

Dina, ever the social butterfly, had connections in all different spaces; she could party with the sorority girls –hold the coke, please,– out-cram everyone, even the National Honor Society kids, all the way to the top of the class, hell, she was on the damn debate team, which was probably why it wasn’t a struggle to get a ‘yes’ out of you. You, on the other hand, were uncomfortable at bars, school sporting events, and parties, and one time you even thre– fuck, never mind. It was all effortless to her, in almost an enviable way. Dina loved to go clubbing, loved to hang, out, and she had been near-begging you to come out with her and her cool friends for months, not that you’re not cool, I mean. 

And somehow, despite everything, it worked. 

You could almost remember how you got there if you put away the sticky crunch of coke sticking to your shoes with each step, and reached back into the recesses of your mind. Or at least, back three-and-a-half hours ago. 

“They’re all great people, no weirdos, promise!” 

It was the emphatic plea made to you as you lay on your bed, queuing up the next episode of the apocalypse show you watched each week, watching her make Dina list off every reason why you just had to follow her out tonight. It was clearly very life-or-death shit to her, but you were unconvinced. It was just a party but there was going to be a smaller, more intimate kickback in a friend-of-a-friend’s basement. She was in the middle of getting ready, sitting at her school-issue desk and looking at herself in the mirror, dark hair coned over her head in a bun as she sat in deep concentration, words slurred and simple as she applied mascara, her mouth slacked into an O position.

“So you’re gonna like, fucking go, yeah?”

She said it as though it was obvious, like it wasn’t a question, but one look at you, –curled up in covers, laptop on chest, martini glass pajama pants and teddy bear teeshirt ON, unbothered– showed her that it would be a tall order, and that big guns would be needed. 

“Not interested, sorry.” 

“Not even a tinyyyyy bit?” Dina squeezed her fingers together for emphasis, throwing her head back in mock exhaust, a theatric groan rumbling out of her throat. “Not even a little bit.” You echoed, your roommate cutting her eye at you through her handheld mirror, but it was what it was. You weren’t into all of that stuff; the bump and grind of sweaty bodies wasn’t alluring, listening to someone else’s shitty music at ear-bleeding levels felt like hell, and if you wanted to get pitifully drunk and throw up all over yourself, there was a garbage can right under your bed. But your friend really, really, wanted your company and it made you feel, really, really bad to always blow her off. 

“Why are you going so hard on this?” You bemused as you propped up on your elbows, watching as she stalked around the room in her newly painted face, quickly rummaging through her drawer for a spare outfit. 

“Maybe because it bums me out to see my super cool roommate wasting away in her dorm every weekend?” In Dina’s mind, she was making a lot of sense. She was waiting for you to chime in, to say you know what, Dee? You’re right, I get it. But instead, you stared blankly, and she threw down her arms in exasperation. “You’re in fucking college, man! You don’t even wanna have one night of fun?”  She punctuated the ‘fucking’ with a wild gesture around her head, which made you chuckle to yourself.

“I mean, I was planning on wa–”

Your body was jostled by an insane amount of weight, almost turned completely over by two roughhousing dudes– a mess of limbs and arms, who looked at you and then at each other, as though they had spontaneously sobered up. You didn’t even have the time to start to be angry when they prattled off a blended, slurred apology and thrashed somewhere away through the mass of hands and faces in the dark room.

Fucking assholes, ruining the flashback sequence. 

The room was lit only by haphazard mood lights; soft LEDs and gaudy, flickering Christmas baubles, a solitary television, camped by stoners who laughed madly, and the dim auburn glow of the odd ceiling lamp nestled in the far back of the house. You were out of your element; you couldn’t dance, weren’t the most social, and even though you were with a friend, all of this made you feel very alone.

Dina cut through the crowd with her elbow, bellowing out “Ex–cuse me!” while she pushed you through gaps as they formed. Her voice fell to mutter again, barely audible, chunked and cut by the music bouncing from wall to wall, grumbling that she had places to be, and if E*&^$ didn’t get her off at least once, there would be hell to pay.  She was determined to get to the other side of the room, where it was arranged that by the chips, as smokers usually are, she would find her current fuckbuddy and her friends, waiting to hotbox and pregame a bit more before the room peaked. She was driven by horniness and selfishness, as one typically is after four shots of Tito’s vodka, and getting smoked out and ‘taken care of’ upstairs was half the reason she even came.

You’d never met her most recent suitor, and the question of her girlfriend was always met with a ‘no, she’s just my sneaky link.’ but you didn’t question it enough to know more. She was just the girl who Dina would go off campus to meet, and as long as she wasn’t a slasher, and her pre-rolls knocked you on your ass, it would be what it was. You were carried away by your friend’s excitement, by her heavy hand nearly lifting you off of your feet as she beelined to the kitchen, wrangling your twin bodies every which way. 

“Ellie! Ellie!” She yelled, jumping up and down a bit to compensate for her voice being swallowed by the bass. She burrowed through the wave, pushing you towards a girl leaning against the sink, nursing a red cup and low, hazy eyes. Her auburn hair was swallowed by a black docker, and a dark-coloured backpack jutted out from behind her as she smiled and waved the two of you –mostly Dina, into her orbit. She looped her head under your shoulder to be pulled into the strong hug of firm biceps, and Arms looked you over, offering a friendly nod. 

–

“It’s on streaming. You can watch ‘Many of Them’ literally whenever!”

“Live tweeting is a part of the experience.” You chided matter-of-factly, sitting up cross-legged. It wasn’t like the brunette was wrong, exactly, but you couldn’t give up too much at once. Going soft was not a part of the plan.

“Fuck, whatever– You know the girl I’ve been hooking up with, right?” Her eyebrow raised at your dispassionate ‘not really.’ “Well you know her fucking joints, she sells– weed, shrooms… pills?” Dina listed off with her finger, mulling over the last detail for a second, then confirming in her head with a nod. It’s fine, you’re cool, and the two of you had always bonded over your love of recreational joy anyways. “So, if you wanna smoke orsomething– I got you, all you have to do is show up.” Her hands were up almost sheepishly as she tested the waters, but you weren’t super convinced, and your idea of fun wasn’t exactly playing wingman while she got tongue-fucked by a drug dealer, and the pregnant pause was enough to cue her into having to bring out the big guns. 

“-And, and!  I'll wash all our dishes, and cleanyoursideoftheroomforaweek.” 

Damn, she practically ran through that last part, so under her breath you knew she was hoping that you didn’t hear. But you did, and for a second you could almost see a smirk play on her face as your eyes lit up. She was always up for a good bribe, and even though she would act annoyed, it was great for breaking you out of your shell. She would offer to watch the zombie show if you came out to the bars in your college town with her, pizza if you confessed to your crush instead of instastalking them three times a day, even though it didn’t work, –oh well, shooters shoot– and tonight? A week free from chores if you just spent a couple of hours in your own personal hell. Yeah, you would give her this one. 

“Now we’re talking. If you want someone to be the lookout while you and Jesse Pinkman go at it, who am I to deny?” You teased, kicking your legs over the edge of the bed. 

Your roommate craned her head up, momentarily stopping her mission of rifling through her clothes. “Who said that?”

“You’re in your ‘good panty’ drawer.” You whispered cheekily. 

“Well, you got me. Someone has to get fucked around here.”

“Oh fuck you, bitch!” You laughed, throwing your pillow, hitting smack in the center of her chest. 

Dina bounced around the room, practically billowing with glee. There was a descending, barely audible ‘fuck yeah’ as she traipsed down the hall towards the bathroom, rounding the corner and disappearing from your periphery. 

“By the way, you know Jesse’s last name is Huang, right, not Pinkman? And we’re uh– not together anymore.” Dina shouted through the silence.

“That’s a character from Breaking Bad. It was a joke– because he’s a drug de–” You stopped yourself midway. “Never mind. It’s not funny if I explain it.”

“Oh– I never watched Breaking Bad. Too Long.” She deadpanned. You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head as you slid your way off the bed. 

That’s how you found yourself in a dimly lit bathroom, missing the comfort of your memories as ‘Ellie’ rolled a blunt. You stood leaning against the door and Dina sat on the closed toilet seat. The dealer sealed the last of the leaf with a flick of the tongue and a lick of spit, maintaining direct eye contact with Dina so she could not-so-subtly show off. She passed it to the brunette first, who mimed a cheeky, ‘why thank you’ and drew poutily. You three sat there for a while, smoking and talking, steam from the hot shower wafting above your heads as music pumped through the foundation of the house. 

There was laughter outside of the door and it soon became awkward for you, Ellie and Dina finishing the blunt, –you were a lightweight– and chatting idly as Dina traced a fingertip against the outline of the tattoo Ellie was showing off. 

The temperature of the tiny room ran hotter between their reddened eyes, and it was as though you were being banished by a galactic force. You couldn’t mistake how the red-haired girl’s glance caught an extra second or so at the way Dina’s body was hugged just right in her party dress, cleavage strained against the fuchsia PVC of her neckline, and how she bit the corner of her lip when her eyes hooked on a dark mole on Dina’s breast that was framed by the feathers of her black hair.  

It was time to go, unless you were interested in seeing your best friend get dug out on the countertop.

You were already a little bit wobbly, hearing a giggle that slipped from Dina’s lips morph into a squeak as you slipped out of the crack you pulled in the door and into the fray, getting carried down the stairs and back over to the drinks. You crossed over a kissing couple, cutting into their makeout and heavy petting session, and through a huddled together group of girls whispering something about seeing an ex across the room. 

You gripped onto the countertop for stability when you finally broke free from the pulsating wave of bodies. There was a bit of everything surfing in deep bowls of ice and water, open bags of chips and snacks bunched up together on the island. You could not be sober for this shit. You wedged up the pop cap on a hard seltzer and brought it to your lips, the spirit coating your tongue and boiling its way into your stomach. There it was again, the familiar warm feeling in your hands and feet, the soft pressure already creeping across the flat of your face. Yeah, now that was it. The anxiety began to melt away, and you leaned against the countertop, flexing your legs. 

Wow, they’re inviting giants to the shindig too. You laughed to yourself as the scarlet-lit ocean parted, and a tall, wide figure walked through and into the darkness of a descending flight of stairs. If only it was that easy when you needed to piss, notwithstanding that you had already been in the bathroom.

 It’s fun being sardonic sometimes. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your roommate coming down the stairs, the dealer’s deft fingers pulling down part of her dress that rode up her ass.  She arched her head up, straining left and right like the eye of a submarine as she looked for you; her eyes lit up, waving to you as she fisted her companion’s belt loop, bouldering through the sea of people. She was high as fuck, if her bright pink eyes were enough to speak to it, and your gaze lingered over the new expanse of a deep purplish hickey on her neck, small indents from teeth glimmering with saliva in the light.  

There was that hotness again that burned in the pit of your stomach, not from drunkenness or anxiety, but the can of fruity liquor in your hand covered up for the embarrassing flush of your wild cherry-coloured cheeks. You peeled your eyes back up to her face and smiled dumbly. You’d never had *that* before. You’ve watched things before at least, and obviously, touched yourself to the thought, but you’ve never had someone to fool around with in bathrooms or hold your skirt when it rode up.

There was your first kiss, but it was in middle school, so it didn't count. It was all clammy lips, two noses that couldn’t get the space between them *quite* right, and an overzealous set of chompers that left you with a bloody lip. Actual horseshit, but somehow, a core memory. It was annoying in a way, how it just didn’t come to you, but you wanted to be wanted. To be lusted over, desired even in that casual touchy way that simmered between your best friend and the girl you didn’t know very well.  Dina was making grabby hands at you, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Your drink bobbed as she whisked you to her will, you and Ellie sharing a knowing look as she pushed your bodies through the hall and down the darkness of the stairwell. 

– 

“RULES ARE SIMPLE,” some asshole in a hat bellowed as he stood over all of you who sat in the circle, mildly drunk off your asses and looking for easy fun. He held up a black beer bottle, carrying it like a trophy and swishing it around your noses for a closer look. “You kids might know seven minutes in heaven.” You didn’t know him, but according to Dina, this was his house, his party, and his very annoying rules. A light patch of raised skin played against his nose as he scrunched his nose over and over again, hands on hips, clearly trying to steal back whatever thought the liquor took from him. Jason, right? 

Whatever. 

“But we’re all grown-ups here, so I present to you–” He rolled the bottle in hand, clearly soft-launching his bright idea. “Fifteen minutes in purgatory!” There was a deep groan radiating from some, but there was a small minority that exploded in cheers, and whoops. “Pretty self-explanatory, two adventurers venture deep into purgatory, and come out forever changed.

“Two adventurers go deep into purgatory,” He gestured his head at the foreboding broom closet in the back of the room. “And return forever changed.” 

“We’ll use the bottle to choose our unlucky voyagers, and you’ll spend fifteen minutes in the closet.” He explained, dropping the mystique in the second half. “Alright kids, let’s start; and just for the record– If you’re a pussy, get the fuck out of the circle!”

The drunken cast of partiers whooped and cheered, hyping each other up, spilling beer out of red cups as they gestured wildly, entirely too grown for this. The room played ‘not it’ to pick who got the first spin, and the unfortunate soul was a blonde who sat cross-legged, blank-eyed at the black glass handed to her, nodding her head tersely. 

“We got our very own Abigail Anderson– !” Her eyes narrowed. “Andddd….” Hat praised, cueing her to spin. She took the bottle, pointing the tip towards herself and then spinning it, the glass doubling, tripling the circle, making you dizzy chasing it with your eyes, and everyone sat with bated breath. It slowed and slowed and slowed, until, like ugly fate, it stopped at your feet.

“Our newbie!” He got up to cheese, leaning over you, placing his hands over your shoulders, and rocking you from side to side. You laughed awkwardly, putting your palms up defensively at nothing. 

“Um– uh…” You were at a loss for words, only cut off as his head shot into your field of view, hot, hopsy breath tanging your nostrils. “What, you scared?” He taunted, all eyes on you, watching as you nursed a deep discomfort about the whole thing behind an uneasy smile.  

“You’re a fucking asshole, Jordan.” The girl, Abby, groaned. She looked up at you from her downward pointing head, swishing her bottle of hard cider in the hand propped over her knee. Jordan, that was the name of this dickhead. Yeah, fuck him. “If she doesn’t want to get in the closet, she doesn’t want to get in the closet. I’ll just spin again.”

Dina cut in, the redhead still leaning lazily against her. “Yeah, don’t–dont be a dick, Jordan.” Her face was tight, and Ellie was annoyed because Dina was annoyed, and the room held a pregnant silence, and even though it wasn’t your fault, you felt all too responsible and all too uncomfortable with all of the eyes watching you.

“It’s fine, guys. Let’s all– eh, chill out, okay? I’m going to take the dare.” You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, trying to steal back the vibe, trying to replace the tension with playful drama as you circled your head around, wiggling the fingers slightly of your held-up palms. “Because I’m not a little bitch.”

The crowd exploded in raucous laughter, each voice clashing together and mimicking the sound of a pipe bursting. You looked over at your partner, who seemed pleasantly surprised, a smirk playing on her peach lips. She placed down her bottle and stood, and as she towered over you, you realised that maybe you were playing with fire. She was scary and nonchalant, but the outer workings of her face were soft and gentle. She didn’t look like the girls in the videos you watched at night; she was something different, uncharted, and before you knew it, a nervousness, and something lower, darker, ran through your body. 

Then it was time to go, you piling in first, looking around at some of the half-darkness in the room, barely enough to fit two people in. 

The asshole patted the girl’s back, corralling her into the closet behind you. Blood rushed to your head, the pressure was too great, like getting skullfucked through your ears. show her a good time, you could hear him say, and then something that you couldn’t quite understand over the bass. The mountain’s eyes narrowed, but before she could shoot back, her large body crashed into yours and the space became tighter and tighter, just enough for the two of you to put your arms out to either side or turn around. For a split second, you could see Dina’s face from over Jordan’s shoulder, tightened in concern, a timid thumbs up at the side of her head. Then, he closed the door, and the last of the light slipped out through the crack in the wall. 

There was a deep silence, and somehow, like the hazy feeling you get right before you wake from a dream, you were chest to chest in the darkness with her blue eyes staring back at you, damn-near bioluminescent. You’d seen her around, because everyone sees her around, but it hadn’t registered that the giant who had parted all of those people in the crowd like they were just water, was standing right in front of you. Outside you could hear the rumble of the music, vibrations of the bass wrapping around you and shaking you from the inside out. The closet was too tight, too warm, too filled with smells from towels and coats and folded blankets and dusty boxes of light bulbs and two cramped, awkward bodies. 

Suddenly, you felt all too intimidated.

“You’re Abigail, right?” You questioned. “Off the rugby team?”

“Abby.” You couldn’t read her face in the dark, and though she spoke pointedly she didn’t seem angry, but the accidental overstep was enough to make you want to dig a hole through the floor with your bare hands and die in it. “And yeah– captain, of the rugby team.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” You yielded. “So… what are we supposed to do? In here, I mean.” You gestured at nothing, knocking some washcloths from a top shelf down in the dark. “Ah, damn it.” You cursed under your breath, bending down to pick up the small stack. You could hear Abby behind you, sucking her teeth with a judgy hum.  Her brows were almost touching her eyelids, captured in secondhand embarrassment, and she almost felt bad for how awkward you were, scrambling to pick them up from the floor.

  If you could see her face, you’d be able to tell how her eyes flicked up and down her body, taking everything in. Your black skirt slid slightly to bunch at the front, uncovering portions of your doughy thigh and the ever-so-tiniest range of fabric hiding your prettiest secret. She had to tear her eyes away, almost. She jumped, even, glad you couldn’t see as you popped back up. 

You were cute, holding the disheveled stack in your hands, a look of sheer pride on your face. You looked over to the side, tossing them unceremoniously on a free shelf, gravity taking a couple back to the ground. Your sated chuckle, the way your tits pushed up slightly, illuminated, almost framed like art by the neckline of your cream cardigan made her hungry. She pushed the ideas of what she wanted to do with them out of her mind, but damn, she could think about some things that would make the devil embarrassed. She stomped down her desire, stoicism crossing her for a second, only for her to open it back up on second thought.

“They want us to fool around, fuck, ideally.” She started, analysing your expressions for any hint of discomfort at the conversation. “But– we don’t have to do anything.” She tried to cut some of the thick discomforts with a placating smile, almost lost in detail in the low light. She was huge, more so than you, or most anyone else you knew, the jutting-out edge of a shelf knocking the back of her head every time she leaned her head back in the tight space. The hard washboard of her torso was framed by an opening of a grey hoodie and barely much else, just the thick band of her boxers peeking from her sweatpants, and the black of a cropped tank top that stopped right below her bra line. 

“Jordan… is typically a good guy, but when he gets drunk he’s a total POS.” Abby was sallow-faced, pursing her lips, tension running through her jawline. “I shouldn’t have let him put you on the spot like that. So… I’m sorry that you got pressured to get in here.”

“It’s fine, I just.” You started, ready to say that big phrase, the one that slightly burned your back to admit. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“What, played seven minutes in heaven? Yeah, kind of a jackass thing to suggest in your twenties.”

Shit. She was going to make you say it. 

“No. I mean I’ve never–” and you thought your tiny voice couldn’t get any tinier. “had sex before.” 

Abby breathed in the deepest sigh, pure anxiety crossing her face for a split second, before she was feeding you apologies. “It’s fine, we don’t have to do anything we can just sit here and talk. Or be in silence if you want it’s alr–”

“I want to do it.” You said doggedly, pressing yourself into a tiny corner. Her brow perched, and there was something in those narrowing blue eyes that said she didn’t believe you. You were pigeontoed, legs shifting against one another, declaring in your firmest voice that you wanted her to take your virginity. 

“Are you sure?” She breathed out, stepping a bit closer. “You don’t have to feel pressured to do anything because you think they want a show.”

“Oh, my god.” You were pouting, annoyed. “I can choose if I want to have sex you know, and I want to have sex right here right n–”

She kissed you, softly as possible, testing your waters to see how far you were willing to go. Her hands were patient, one lightly knotted in the woolen knit of your cardigan to lightly pet your lower back, the other making gentle grips on your sweatered arm. Her fingers were barely bruising, gripping around your wrist almost tight enough, and a tiny shockwave coursed between your thighs and convinced you that you wanted more. In this low light, in this dark room, in this place between space and time, you wanted to be her conquest. To be taken, touched, manhandled, to be made to weather the storm of her overwhelming strength against you, lost in the middle of the ocean.

It was perverted, almost, how the idea of her showing restraint raised hairs on your skin, how you deepened the kiss like you were being overcome with an insatiable, bloody hunger. You had to take back the moment, to steal her attention in a way she couldn’t deny before she thought you were all talk; you stepped closer, positioning yourself so that her thigh hovered right below the heated space under your skirt. Her hand was warm, soft as you grabbed it, moving it lower, deeper down the divot of your back and where the fat of your ass connected. She caught on, groaning into your lips as she kneaded around your body, her tongue sweeter and heavier against yours, working that one damned hand up your skirt to cup bare skin. 

You jumped. 

As fast as it had come, her hand slipped back from under your skirt and the touch was lost completely, awkwardly hovering for a second until Abby pulled it back into her pocket and stepped back. You were miserable, eyes welling up in frustration like a lost dog at the lack of feeling. She was pulling you into insanity but was too chivalrous to drown you in it, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly as she looked down at you.

“Fuck– didn’t mean to be aggressive like that. I–” The redness bled across her cheeks, freckles on full display as her fingers met the wet spot that you were hiding, your hands guiding hers to the space between your thighs. There was a pause, a knowing, a challenge between the two of you as an unknown heat spread throughout your bodies, and you collided once more. The blonde’s mouth sucked a nasty pressure into your throat, agitating it with bites and licks as her head traveled deeper, hands playing at the front of your sweatered torso to undo the buttons that held your breasts hostage. 

Her entrance was assured as she popped the loops open, fingers gripping the fabric of your camisole and lifting up, taking your bra with it. She nipped at the exposed flesh, heat from her mouth traveling directly to your vagina, clit throbbing hard with need. Abby engulfed a nipple with the wetness of her tongue, closing her lips around the rapidly hardening bud to pull it to full attention, chuckling as she scraped the flesh with her teeth. The wet head was replaced with her palms, each thumb and forefinger rolling one or the other. The sensitivity of the tiny flesh was insane, enough to make you whine out loud as she continued, better than anything you had ever done to yourself. 

You were biting your lip, eyes big and doe-like as you waded through your pleasure, soft pants heaving your chest. She fished it out from between your teeth and hooked it within her own, popping the plump flesh into her mouth as she pared yours with her tongue. You swore the room was spinning, a wetness slicking between your thighs, a drip positioned between two pairs of hungry lips. You could’ve spent all fifteen minutes– or an eternity, in this beautiful hell, giving and taking and relishing in a different, sort of strange type of want.

“Don’t stop.” You moaned in between stolen breaths, the blonde chasing your mouth each time you pulled away.

“For you, pretty?” Gripping you tighter for emphasis, pressing you closer into the wall, angling further between your spread legs. “Never.” 

It was like you were some weird intoxication to her, a drug that she couldn’t get enough of. How your ass molded right into the divots of her palms, those tiny moans that rang through the cage you two were in, the rapid beating of your heart rippling through your body. She wanted to peel your cardigan from your shoulders, wanted to shred your clothes from your body and take you however she liked, and make you feel better than you knew what to do with. Needed to make you scream and fuck you until you cried. But it was your first time, so she resigned to being gentle and soft, like you were a little deer in the forest, and she was trying to get close without scaring you off. so she would give you only what you needed. 

She didn’t have a lot of strong feelings about that nickname she had earned in sophomore year, War Machine, from all of the pretty girls she ran through and left unable to walk, unable to talk for a couple of days or more. but when Jordan said it, in front of you, in front of sweet and innocent, pretty and tiny *you* she could’ve reeled back and torn him apart. But she still didn’t want to scare you. So she had forced an alright, the one a child forces when they get scolded, and hid the burning in her palms that made her want to fight in the pocket of her pants. 

Your eyes bored x-rays through her formidable thighs as she bent her knees to squad before you, strong hands rubbing up and down your thighs with contrasting gentleness to the hard angles of her face, the brow that was crooked down slightly in concentration, the slightly parted lips playing with mischief as they took you in. You were frightened for just a second, until Abby looked up at you with sympathetic eyes, a hand leaving your thigh and linking with your fingers, guiding you to the base of her skull to envelop her honeyed strands. 

She was back at you, the darkness in your stomach leaking out as you palmed her head, and she ran her hands upward, more upward, until the ruffles of your cotton skirt were overturned in her palms. From the waist down, you were completely exposed, a wet spot working itself into your panties from your innermost recesses and a musky scent betraying your shyness. 

Abby pressed herself gently into the fabric, her fat lips creating a cool pressure against the hot flesh, her nose itching lightly into your pubis. You bucked your hips unconsciously, nearly fucking her face in your abandon. A vibration from her laugh traveled through you, nestled inside of you, and more wetness began to slick your channel. That friendly ache formed in your rapidly hardening clit, and a similar pain throbbed in your pinkie and middle finger. Her other hand moved up, gripping fistfuls of your ass, less forgiving now, and forcing a squeak from your lips. 

You were dumbstruck; a stranger’s hands all over you, mouth nearly on top of your sacred place, nearly leaking from sheer lust. She had barely done anything. Your jaw slacked, and in your mind you felt like a fool, lamenting how you thought your first time would be special. Soft circles rubbed into your inner thigh as she pulled your legs apart, peppering angel kisses throughout the little divots. 

“S’okay, baby.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a tiny encouragement that calmed the buzzing in your mind. “Tell me how you want me. I’m yours.” 

and you thought that declaration would destroy you,’ I’m yours.’ and it felt very, very real. 

“I want you to touch me.” You said, barely a whisper, nodding as she pressed her face to your thigh, sliding down your panties to about knee-level. It was as though she had seen heaven’s gate open, awestruck at the blood rushing to engorge your lips, how your clit stood on end without even being touched. The thatch of hair curling between your thighs and around your depths. She had to have a taste, and there wasn’t much room for second-guessing as she pressed her mouth to the hot spot and flattened her tongue directly against the wettest space.

Juicy noises slid from her mouth as she rolled your clit between her tongue and sucked sharply with her lips, and it was as though you could’ve sunk to the floor, the way your legs became distinctly not yours. It was enough, enough, not enough, then too much. It was like you were an endlessly gushing fountain as Abby’s wet, firm tongue parted your lips, dipping ever so lightly into your hole as she licked out a string of nectar from your drooling cunt. It was as though you were animated, possessed even, as your hands flew into her hair, pushing her head down further and further, to that release you chased violently and madly. 

Abby was humble, letting you guide her where you needed her; she was soft at first, but you didn’t want soft, you wanted more. 

She obliged. 

The blonde slipped her fingers between your thighs and parted your slit, opening up an endless, waiting tightness. She was intrepid, pressing through your clenching muscle and opening you up more than you had ever done; thick digits tearing through you, fucking your pussy at an unforgiving pace, concentration forming in the muscles of her neck. You hid an inhuman growl in the pit of your throat, in the crook of your sweatered elbow, and she moaned out, satisfied with that which she had created inside of you. You were fucking her face in a tight, dirty closet, calf propped over a muscled shoulder for support, the heel of your booties pressing into the wall, locking her in.

 It was as though the two of you were fighting, every roll of your hips she chased with her head, every time you shied away from the pleasure she held you harder, taking you even hungrier, diving deeper to a spot you didn’t know was there; every taut pull at her scalp met with an even tighter grip into the flesh of your plush ass. The pads of her fingers violated the sopping warmth of your cunt, and you clenched your stomach unwittingly, walls flexing, holding her hand there. Drool dripped from between her lips, pooling and soaking down into the fibres of an old shag rug, caked with dust and whatever else. 

Your own slipped between your lips before you could suck it back in, and the silver trail bounced, the way it does when it breaks, and the thick drop cascaded down her temple, getting lost in your brow. The piece that was yours snaked down your collarbone and between your breasts and somehow, you felt a connection. 

Abby snorted, sucked in a breath as her fingers left you empty. Fuck. She didn’t go for her face, wiping them on the skin of your pussy, they traveled upwards, firm grips on your ass. She rubbed the flesh as though she was throwing clay, stretching the skin between her rough fingers, calluses on her palms coasting over every bump and groove. She had found what she had wanted, craning her neck lower, lower, until you could just barely see her eyes. Her fingertips prodded, greedy, opening your lips, tongue leching against your soft fruit as though she was funneling the juices directly into her mouth. You thought your thighs would give out but she held you, stronger, and you fed her willingly. 

Her middle finger dipped down into the slit, collecting juices, stealing a breath from your lungs, you wanted to scream her name but it was caught inside of you, so you stood slack-jawed, fuck drunk as she abused your walls, fucking every ridge painfully slow. The tight hole stretched around the meatiness of her finger, and she hooked it as though she was searching, retreating from the warmth, slick with your nastiest of liquids. Again, she split your ass with one hand, and you clenched your tightest hole without thinking about it. 

“Don’t worry,” She said, muffled against your mound as she latched against it once more, “gonna help you so fucking good.” You were confused, but you trusted her, a complete stranger. For a second you began to ask what there was to worry about, but your mind was pried away from you as you felt the pressure of her coated fingertip tracing around your asshole. A gentle kiss played at the head of your pussy, comforting you as you nodded your head wildly, something of a ‘yes’ flying from your throat as her middle finger parted that threshold. 

Your mind exploded, head shooting straight up into the air, a small yelp burning into a silent open-mouthed cry. You were spinning, the room was spinning, your body heated up instantly. Then, the wet warmth traveled back to your clit, her opposite hand nestling two fingers into your aching, needy twat, her tongue lapping as her fingers resumed digging and that one damned finger fucked in and out of your tightest hole painfully slow. 

She fucked you like an animal; you cried out like a bitch in heat. The music trembled through your ears, and you were afraid it wouldn’t be enough, that everyone would hear, everyone would know. You were both drunk and this didn’t matter, didn’t mean anything, but she was bottoming her tongue out in you and you wanted it to mean a lot. Girls talked and you fucking hated them all. She was loose, she got around, and you wanted to be hers. 

You wanted to capture her and be interesting to her and walk with her hand on your lower back around campus. Wanted her callused fist in your hair, around your neck as she took you every night. Wanted badly to fucking cum, to open the portal, to wash her face with this unholy water, wanted to kiss wet lips and taste everything. Wanted to know if she could ever like you, after you gave it up, quickly, bellowing like a foghorn against a rack of coats. You wanted to be kept, to keep her spit inside of you like a keepsake but she sucked it back in a quick second, before you could even feel her cheeks hollow between your thighs, and felt dirty for even thinking of it. 

A sweet pain formed between your thighs and you couldn’t stop the groan that rose from your throat, every muscle in your face clenching and unclenching, your eyes crossing as your orgasm came quickly into view. Abby fucked you through it, fingers slow and forgiving. It was as though a stream of slowly descending tidal waves were crashing against you, and you needed more, it hurt but you needed more. Something deep burned inside of you, endlessly hot, and you wondered how she could stand the heat as she hit it over and over again.  You sobbed, and swore that you could feel a tear roll down your cheek, feeling the need to rub your eyes for good measure.  

She looked up, entranced, face softening for a second, watching as you gave up your mind to your body. There was a hard knock at the door, the music lowered a decibel, silence filling the two of you, her fingers still deep inside of your two holes. A sing-song voice bellowed out ‘five minutes!’ and the darkness ridged her eyes. 

For the first time, her voice was hard, removing her hand from your cunt, making sure to curl the one in your ass tighter in compensation. She slammed the door twice with her fist, the frame bulging in a way that made you fear the whole thing would just fall down. “Fuck off.” Her voice was loud enough to tear through the uncomfortable tension. There was an apprehensive, ‘woah man,’ that you could barely hear, and the music regained, the party rejoiced, and hopefully, the fear of God being struck enough in your host to leave well enough alone. 

Her lips were still slick, soft, kissable with your juices. She flashed you a genuine, pretty smile.  Her hands gripped a little too tight but you wanted it all. She looked down at the mess between your trembling thighs, then at your heavy, panting face. She leaned back on her heels as a wide smile played on her face, satisfied with herself. A windy chuckle passed through her glistening lips, wiping her mouth and chin on the inside of her hoodie. “Fuckin’ insane.” She breathed out in between pants. 

“Abby.” She said, as though the strength of your orgasm traveled through your brain and made you forget the events of the last 15 minutes. “Constance Hall. Dorm 425 on the second floor.” It was as though your heart skipped a beat, but you punched it down, a weak smile playing against your lips. 

She was fucking disheveled, almost inhaling the last sweet smells of your pussy, creating a memory of the flavour and filing it away in her mind for safekeeping. She was delicate, pulling your white panties up to your thighs again, soothing a finger where those soft, curly pussy hairs were hidden again. She let down her hands, skirt furling down, covering the marks of dark possession that she left behind. “Come see me again sometime, ‘kay?” She chuckled, giggled even, and that glint in her eyes was enough to make you faint. 

She stood up, waiting for you to compose yourself and straighten everything out before she pushed open the now-unlocked door and peeked her head out.

Jordan was already on her as the door flew open, and you could hear his hushed nosiness as you hugged the wall and tried to act casual, eyes locked on her retreating back as she reentered the room, light haloing her. ‘So what happened?’ you swore his lips read, and your stomach dropped. But she cut through his questions, loud enough for you to hear, convincing enough that he wouldn’t have anything to run his mouth about later on. 

“Nothing man, we were just talking.”

Maybe she was actually just that charming. 

Yeah.

#tiki writes #abby x reader #abby anderson x fem reader #abby anderson ff #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #abby tlou smut #abby smut #abby anderson x female reader

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

Paz lives modern au part 4

part 1 part 2 part 3

The Quaritch-Socorro household has money. They are firmly upper middle class. You wouldn’t know it though from how the family looks and acts.

They are cheap asses. Not like extreme cheapskate levels of penny pinching but if they can save a buck they will.

Clothes from Goodwill with a few holes that Paz can easily patch up? Hell yeah she got three bags of “new” clothes for her family for $7!

Miles is taking his family for a “fancy” night out? They’re going to the all you can eat Chinese buffet in the Walmart strip mall. Adults eat for $10, kids $6. 

If you think Paz is disappointed that this is what her husband considers fancy then think again. For her this is the lap of luxury 

They don’t leave until everyone’s had at least three plates because the kids grow like weeds and “mama and papa are getting our money’s worth”

Miles goes hunting with his squad mates and loads up their deep freezer with deer meat. 

Paz gardens not as a hobby but because growing food yourself is cheaper than buying it. 

She cuts everyone’s hair too, including her own because “why the hell would I pay for that. I can cut a straight line.” (She’s completely unaware that her own curly hair would look like a hack job if she ever straightened it out. Luckily curly hair can hide a lot of mistakes)

Miles has her cut his at the end of every month like clockwork but one time they skipped it.

One of their kids had been born a few days earlier so Miles just let it go for the first time in years. 

He was on leave too and helping his wife manage the household so what did he care.

He grew a beard during that time too and Paz was shook.

She didn’t even know her man could look that good, with his curls starting to come in and his mountain man beard.

She pouted for days when Miles went back to work and had to be all “clean cut” again.

We all already know that Spider likes to keep his hair long.

His mom doesn’t care but his dad isn’t a fan.

 He blames his wife for it.

When Spider was a toddler, with his long blond curls, he started getting mistaken for a girl

Miles didn’t like that so he started insisting that his wife cut it.

Paz couldn’t bring herself to do it though. Spider’s curls were so pretty. Just like her’s and Miles’ if he’d ever let it grow out just a little.

“It’s not like it won’t grow back” 

“Yeah but it’s baby’s first haircut”

“So what! We’re having another baby right now.”

“But he’s my first baby!”

Miles eventually convinces her and they get all set up in the kitchen only for Paz to not be able to go through with it.

She was five months pregnant and overly emotional so can you blame her.

Miles rolled his eyes, took the scissors and just started cutting away himself 

Spider was completely unbothered until mama started crying 

“He looks like a little man!” Miles just ignored her

But then Spider started crying because mama was crying, which made papa get frustrated, which made them both cry harder.

Miles told Paz to just leave, which she did because she could see how she was affecting her son.

But that only made things even worse because Spider screamed for his mama, trying to wiggle out of his seat, making grabby hands in the direction she’d gone. 

Until Spider was five getting his haircut would result in a tantrum.

“It’s because you traumatized him,” Miles would half jokingly half seriously tell Paz. She’d just roll her eyes because yeah he was right but it’s not like she was going to admit that.

No matter how old Spider got he just didn’t like getting his haircut for some reason. He wasn’t sure why. He just liked it long.

To Miles' chagrin his other sons emulated their big brother.

So he’s this gruff clean cut military man, with a wife who despite being ex-military herself wears her curly hair long and wild, dressing like a hippy (loose flowy, comfortable clothes, in fun colors because she had to wear neutrals for too long in the military) his oldest son dresses similarly to his mom, but more skater style. When he gets a little older he starts doing his hair in impressively elaborate braids. Spider's younger brothers more or less copy his style (they also don’t have much of a choice because they get Spider’s hand me downs) and his little sister is mommy and daddy’s little princess and dresses kinda like a nature fairy, all flower patterns, pinks, greens, blues and glitter. So much glitter. 

 All this to say Miles looks boring while his family looks kinda excentrique.

Some of Miles' work colleagues have caught him out and about with his family a couple of times and if they weren’t scared shitless of the man then they’d probably roast him for having such a “sloppy looking” family.

Miles has more or less made his piece with it though. He might tisk disapprovingly at one of his children's styling choices every once in a while when he’s in a bad mood but after four kids you learn to be less of a control freak

Paz and Miles are low key doomsday preppers 

It’s not that they believe the world is actually going to end in some biblical plague or something.

They are just extremely prepared for natural disasters (and terrorist attacks, or World War III)

There basement is loaded with enough food rations and bottled water to keep the entire family going for about twenty years give or take

They run preparedness drills for every scenario they can think of once every three months

The kids hate it

Mom and Dad even ran one while Spider was in school, picking up the ten year old in the middle of the day and taking the entire family on a “camping trip” to a cabin in the woods six hours away 

When he was twelve his dad told him that was practice for what they’d do if there was a nuclear attack on major cities. 

When Spider was four and really started climbing on things Miles took it upon himself to build his son a “jungle gym” in the backyard 

It was really a baby version of an American ninja warrior obstacle course.

Low key Miles was doing military training on his son but Spider fucking loved that obstacle course so it was really a win win.

Miles has a lot of way of “low key” instilling his kids with a military mindset and physical prowess 

As a punishment he’ll make the kids do things like fifty push-ups or ten laps around the house

Both parents run the house on a fairly strict schedule, breakfast at 7, dinner at 6, then all the kids do their homework, twenty minutes of the kids cleaning up after themselves, then it’s off to bed.

On the weekends Miles and Paz teach their kids “practical skills” which are really just survivalist skills

During the summer the kids go to “wilderness camp”

Which is really just a rotating cast of their parents' old squad mates taking them into the woods and showing them stuff.

Miles joins in on the weekends or if he can take the days off to teach his kids things like hunting, tracking, fishing all that jazz

Needless to say the Quaritch-Socorro kids are kinda scary because of this.

When Spider was like seven he told a classmate in detail how to shoot and skin a squirrel with a sunny smile on his face. As if he was talking about a cool dinosaur fact or something 

The kid cried, the teacher got involved, Spider was sent to the office and his parents were called.

Paz was basically like “yeah his dad taught him that. So what? It’s a good skill to have.”

When dad picked him up from school that day he took Spider out for ice cream as a reward for remembering everything so well.

#miles spider socorro #spider socorro #miles quaritch #paz socorro #colonel miles quaritch #avatar fanfiction

[granulesofsand]

So I was in the city today? Yesterday? Time’s not real. And usually when we’re train hopping, we dress pretty so it looks like we been clubbing instead of shivering like a chihuahua.

And I don’t dress up the body like the others like, cause my job is to be invisible. I wear my blacks and hood and I don’t do no makeup unless I got something needs covering.

And people still stopped me to go “I ain’t gay” and “why you out here lookin like that” like I ain’t wearing my crusty ass jeans and my dad’s old hoodie. Lookin like what? Unless I just exuding hoe vibes from a mile away, ain’t nothin on me worth them wandering eyes.

I did wear a bra, ain’t got a clean binder for rompin in the woods. I got the bra five-finger discount at the Goodwill, they charging $3 for somebody’s used underwear on half price.

I dunno if I’m feeling pretty or offended. But you is gay, you came up over here, both sexes, just to tell me you ain’t interested in what I ain’t offering. Wasn’t even lookin at em, doin my Duolingo in the corner.

One day someone gonna act on that and I ain’t gonna be so happy bout it, but now I’m wondering why so many of em clocking me minding my business.

[thesebodiesfiction]

Chapter 2A

This chapter discusses a toxic relationship, unwanted sexual contact, body image issues, abuse, masturbation and sex. This chapter is almost entirely a flashback which gives context to the character of James but is not strictly necessary to read in order to continue reading the series. Please proceed with caution.

Thursday morning was not a tolerable day to have a body for James. He had woken up at 9AM intending to work out but had instead stayed in bed, mostly looking at hot guys and thinking about jerking off. He’d attempted half-heartedly but his pity party was putting a damper on things. James knew he had better things to do than flog himself with a beauty standard he would never achieve but he couldn’t remember what they were.

Over the summer, James had worked at a plant nursery. In theory, he helped customers find the right plant for their space. In practice, he watered hydrangeas all day while both he and the plants wilted in the 102 degree heat and scorching sun. Some time in July, he’d snuck away from the sad sack shrubs and was scrolling through his phone. Seventeen snapchat videos from his ex-boyfriend Luke awaited him. Checking that no one was around, weekday afternoons were usually dead, James opened the videos expecting a dramatic apology, maybe a laundry list of complaints and past wrongs. Instead, here was the boy he had lost his virginity to, a boy he hadn’t seen in person in over three years, masturbating in a silk robe. James should have just put his phone away and blocked him but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t interested.

He had never, not on their first date, not during their first kiss, felt anything but polite fondness for Luke and fear. He had acquiesced to a second date only because Luke had thrown himself, literally thrown himself, between James and the James’ car and wept until James agreed to see him again. Obvious red flag, James should’ve decked him and run, but sixteen-year-olds are unknowable creatures. Instead, James had seen him again. When Luke drove the two of them out into the dark beyond the city limits, the speedometer racing above 90 miles an hour, James felt a lump in his throat but swallowed it. He willed himself to be kind and quiet and brave. When Luke pulled into an empty parking lot, completely deserted and made a joke about murdering James, laughed, and then pulled out a purple-hilted bowie knife, James stopped feeling anything. Luke looked angry and James slowly shifted his hand to the car doorhandle, the boy yelled at James to lighten up and take a joke. James smiled weakly, not moving, and the boy apologized. As quickly as they’d come to the parking lot, he whisked them away and dropped James off at his parents’ front door without a word. James often replayed these events in his memory and questioned how he ever looked at Luke again, let alone dated him for another two months.

At some point, Luke had taken him to his basement bedroom and locked the door. They kissed and James thought only of how wet and thick the boy’s tongue felt stabbing into his mouth. He grabbed James’ cock through his jeans and rubbed ferociously, it didn’t feel good but James did get hard. James ground into the boy, maybe this would help him to make sense of why he was here. They stripped their clothes off, Luke wasn’t bad looking. His cock was small and hard, James buried his nose in the boy’s pubic hair as he sucked his cock, he smelled like sulfur and sweat. James tried his best but the boy annoyedly pushed him off before sucking James’ cock. It felt fine, not the mind-blowing experience he’d heard about from his straight friends who compared notes over lunch in the high school cafeteria. When James came, he again reached for Luke’s cock, still hard and small, to caresse, not exactly out of desire but goodwill. Luke grabbed James’ hand from his cock, kissed it sloppily in a gesture of chivalry that made James’ skin crawl, and placed it back on James. Shortly after, James had asked to use the bathroom and quietly wept while pretending to wash his face.

They had sex a few more times, each time James ended up in the bathroom, crying. James never said no, sometimes he even initiated it, hoping that it would improve, maybe he’d feel something for the boy. One day, locked in Luke’s bedroom, the boy had started crying.

“James, you saved me. You saved my life. You’re the only reason I don’t kill myself.”

James was flabbergasted, they had never spoken of anything particularly serious, James certainly didn’t know Luke had been suicidal. How had James saved him? James felt like he barely knew him. James tried to think of something to say but couldn’t.

“James, you are my life. You’re everything. I love you.”

Again, James couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t love this boy, he was certain this boy didn’t love him. Luke had hardly ever asked him anything about himself, James was pretty sure the boy didn’t even know his favorite color.

Suddenly, Luke lunged at James. James fell backward, surprised, and Luke held his arms above his head on the bed. The boy was crying and kissing James and screaming.

“SAY SOMETHING! SAY YOU LOVE ME, PROMISE YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE ME. YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE ME. IF YOU LEAVE ME I’LL KILL MYSELF JAMES. DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH? DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE?”

James was numb, he couldn’t look at the boy who had him pinned to the bed as he mashed his mouth into James’ between words. James could taste tears falling into his mouth and wasn’t sure if they were his or Luke’s. All James could think of was how quickly he might be able to run out the bedroom door, up the stairs, and down the block. He was pretty sure the boy only had the one knife, the purple-hilted bowie knife in his car. But James' limbs wouldn’t move, they felt paralyzed the way they did when he lay on his bedroom floor and couldn’t breathe.

“SAY YOU LOVE ME, DAMN IT. SAY YOU LOVE ME. SAY YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE ME.”

“I won’t leave you,” James whispered hoarsely. “Please, I won’t leave you.”

Luke fell on James, his curly hair would’ve tickled James’ chin if James could feel anything. James kept murmuring, he might’ve been crying. At some point, the boy fell asleep, his heavy body pressing down on James. James’ entire body felt like a phantom limb, tingling with an unscratchable itch. James did not fall asleep, he counted seconds and tried to breathe. 

Eventually Luke woke up, “I’ll take you home.”

James nodded.

In the car, the boy held James’ hand so tightly it felt like the bones would crack. James couldn’t have squeezed back if he’d wanted to. The next day, James didn’t respond to any of Luke’s texts. The day after, knowing the boy would show up at his house if he didn’t say something, James set up a meeting at a parking lot. James dressed in a white tee shirt and jeans despite the snow still on the ground. He went to the backyard and found the ashes of a bonfire from last October, stuck his finger in the soot, and dabbed it behind his ears in the spot Luke always sniffed. If Luke smelled like brimstone, James would smell like fire. James had met him in the parking lot, handed him a bag of everything Luke had given him. A few pins, rings, and bracelets, little ways the boy had tried to mark James as his property. James had cut him off, right then and there, gotten in his car, and left.

Why, James wondered, was he interested in seeing a video of a man he’d never felt anything for rubbing a cock that had never made him feel anything either? Luke had lost weight, a lot of weight. He’d finally gotten the gastric bypass he’d suggested James and he both get as a couple’s activity when they turned eighteen. He looked good, not that the fat had ever been the problem for James. Luke looked more like himself, angular and sharp, maybe even dangerous. James watched every video, neither turned on or disgusted, interested in an anthropological way. The videos were all silent but each had a caption that read some variation of “I’m back in town, when are you going to get over it and let me suck your cock again?”

That was months ago, nothing had come of it, why was James thinking of that this morning before class? Why was he wishing he looked more like the man who had terrified him? Why was he trying to remember if he’d ever felt anything, anything but fear and heat when he’d been around him?

#these bodies #james #fiction #short story #short fiction #abuse #toxic relationship #body image #body dysmorphia

[nyborgmorton]

Finding A Low-Cost Rim Or Inexpensive Tire For Your Automobile

Provide the car away and take a tax reduction. There are many deserving companies like Goodwill Industries here in Florida. M.A.D.D., Cars for Kids and others who will happily come pick up your secondhand automobile and utilize the funds to improve the lives of others. They will provide you a receipt to use when doing your taxes. used cars are constructed better today than they were in the past and last a lot longer now. It used to be when a vehicle had fifty thousand miles you began looking at changing the engine and whatever else on it. Today lots of vehicles are going well over 100,000 miles and more. Without needing to stress over replacing the engine or transmission. All you have to do is login on the internet and search for an automobile salvage company that runs near you. On the business website you will find a kind which you need to fill providing total information of your vehicle in its current condition. Quickly enough you will have among the team member from the business calling you in order to fix a rate. Various cars and truck salvage companies will offer you different costs. The reality that they run online provides you a possibility to get a quote for your car from various companies and choose the one that provides you the very best rate. It was then that she altered. An overlookedresponsibility resurfaced from a forgotten cell. A minute we buy junk cara later she returned from the reception. She had another brown envelope for Sandra, who smiled as she took it. The word 'bonus' might be heard, but there was an enigma of sorts. Already we hadchosen to go to bed and, as we left our bar stools, we just had time to bid her goodnight. You will also love it since its top is hydraulically triggered plus its has a huge integrated sunroof which is operated by little lever in between the front seats, which makes the roofing system's front half moves up and back like a routine sunroof. And by pulling another little lever puts the whole roofing down. The whole operation took about 20 seconds. The Eos is likewise geared up with high quality VW car parts such as the popular vw belt which is renowned for quality and sturdiness. Online auctions such as eBay are yet another tool in the aftermarket arsenal. You can run a search on Evo parts and pull upnumerous eBay ads. Utilizing eBay is relatively safe as it allows for seller evaluations and even returns. Another approach is to look through online classifieds like Craigslist or your local paper. The only issue with purchasing fromindividuals is that they usuallywish tosell you the entirevehicle versus just salvage yards near me an engine or simply the exhaust, still it is wortha look. It's not as tough as it sounds. An engine hoist can be leased from most rental stores. Utilize it to support the engine as you eliminate all of the bolts and elements holding it in location. Assistance the transmission as you detach the engine from it. Small blocks of wood work fine. Consider selling cash 4 all cars to recover a few of the expenses from your electrical job. Empty the fluids and bring it down to a metal recycler if you can not offer it.

#cash for junkcars #sell your car #we buy cars #junk your car

[livingwithlosingyou]

Living with Losing You - 9/18/2022

That damn storage unit. 

This morning I started off my day with a very lovely 2.75 mile run at a great pace. It’s been cooling down a little bit which has been nice. It was VERY hot the last week and a half. 

After my run I quickly walked Sadie, ordered my PS, and then made my way to storage to start our very busy day. 

Cassidy, her kids, and I spend about 4 hours just at storage. You and I did not do the best job with putting everything in there. it also didn’t help that the last time we moved, you had just gone into rehab and I was alone trying to finish it up. Besides grabbing a few things here and there, James and I never really went in there. Well, Cassidy and I took EVERYTHING out. I went through so many boxes and bags today. There were some items that I came across that I had been personally looking for, and others that I don’t even think I realized that you owned. You had SO much stuff, James. About 90% of the storage unit was yours. It did feel so strange to have to create a Goodwill pile, and take pictures of your larger items to start the posting / selling process. Part of me felt frustrated today that I am having to go through this. Why couldn’t we just have lived happily ever after? 

I may try and get some of your nice jackets tailored and altered so I can keep them. We were honestly pretty similarly sized, so I so not think it would be too expensive to try and keep some of those for myself. I brought some button downs for your cousins and brother to have as well. It was hard to look through it all and reminisce on the times you’d wear certain shirts on dates, how we’d eat meals together at that dining room table, watch movies and play Uno on that couch, etc. I am shocked I didn’t cry, but it was likely because I felt so numb about it. I am just as devastated as I was the moment your dad called me. i don’t think that pain ever goes away. It just becomes manageable. 

There were a couple items in particular that were very triggering, but I did my best to try and work through that today. All in all this put me in such a strange mood. Not to mention that a friend who I was supposed to meet up with today’s mom suddenly passed away. I feel so terrible for her. Death is so strange for me to think about now. I feel like I have been made numb to it. God’s got me. Whatever is meant to happen will happen. That is with everyone. 

I did struggle with my depression today more severely than I have in a little while. Just those “super fun” intrusive thoughts, etc. It was just overwhelming, overall. 

When we left the storage unit, I went to go grab myself lunch (Cassidy was grabbing her kids and her lunch separately) and wanted to grab everyone Jamba Juice as a thank you. This ended up taking significantly longer than I thought, and I got home almost an hour later from leaving the storage unit. 

At storage, Cassidy and I packed some things in the car for me to bring back here. Luckily I was able to get through most of it. There are still a few bags I need to organize, and also now a mound of boxes that I want to try and drop off at storage tomorrow since I don’t want them sitting in my apartment for the next week (we have plans to go back this coming Saturday evening). Once I finally got the food and Jamba, I rushed home to find that Cassidy and her kiddos were already there and she just started unloading her car / eating. 

She helped my unload the rest of the stuff in my car once she was done with hers, and even helped with a little decor. About 20 minutes after I arrived, her and the kiddos headed out. Again, I was SO impressed at how well behaved they were. Kudos to Cassidy for being an amazing mom! 

After she left I finally ate my food and then started to take things out of boxes. It was emotional and overwhelming all over again. It does feel good that this is mostly done (for now). I still have some boxes that need a little more organization and sorting, but that is future Madison’s problem. 

I decided that it might help to try and get out of the house, so I briefly left and watched some of Logan’s soccer game. Like I said earlier, my mood has been interesting today with all things considered. I think it would be more strange if I acted like everything was “all good”. I got too tired and decided to leave a little after the half. I ordered from the sushi place that was right next door to the sports complex. This was a great choice. 

I went home, at sushi, and then worked on some music. I have still been writing a fair amount. I ended up finding an old box filled with lyrics and recorded one of the first songs I wrote on my phone as a joke (my friend said that we should share back and forth old music so I kicked it off). I ate some of my bundt cake after that, talked to Bri, relived some of the “glory days” from my awards box, showered, and now I am typing this in bed. 

i definitely need to go to bed soon considering it is 11pm. my toxic trait recently has been staying up way too late and still waking up at 6am. Honestly sometimes I can’t help it. I even try to sleep in. 

Anyway, I love you and miss you. You had so much left on this earth, literally and metaphorically. 

Oh - it was crazy because the first time you ever came over, you brought over this wine called “19 crimes” and I definitely still have that original bottle that you brought all those years ago. Feels like yesterday and forever ago all at the same time. 

Rest in Peace, James Burton Nichols

10/1/1993 - 7/16/2022

[specialshoesclub]

I don’t engage with posts that wear me out so I’m making my own post to say that if you’re middle class and you go to a thrift store to get clothes to cut up for your crafts and sewing or support your purse collecting habit that’s fine.

You’re not a gentrifier. You’re not taking resources away from less fortunate people who need them more because thrift stores are businesses, not services, so the more you patronize them the more they expand. I used to work at a thrift store and my boss told me we threw away about half of our donations from the street because they were too damaged or dirty and we threw away another half of the merchandise on the floor that didn’t sell. And that was before Marie Kondo got popular.

So yeah those sheets would look better on somebody’s bed than as a tablecloth you made but they look better as your craft project than getting thrown away. You don’t know. And you’re paying the store to stay open and put another set of sheets out tomorrow. So feel free to shop at thrift stores especially if you donate to them.

#my post #punk #solarpunk #diy #thrift #cottagecore #sustainability #repurposed #gentrification #2 b fair the thrift store I worked at was in Flagstaff AZ #a fairly gentrified town #but it was on the poorer side #away from the university #case in point actually there are like 17 thrift stores in flagstaff due to all the hipsters supporting them #it was a Savers and we kinda prided ourselves in being like better than Goodwill #and there was a goodwill like half a mile away

[zarya-zaryanitsa]

Medieval bells

“The loudest of these sacred sounds – in fact, probably some of the loudest man-made sounds a person was likely to encounter in the Middle Ages – were the chimes that regularly rang out from medieval belfries. Bells and their ringing were an important part of life, regulating the working day, and they were particularly important for Christianity from its very earliest origins. 

By the ninth and tenth centuries large cast-bronze bells became more and more common, carrying their sound for miles around and calling people to worship. These were complex objects and required a significant level of technological ability to successfully melt, shape and tune their metal. They were often cast on-site during a building’s construction, sometimes in sunken pits symbolically located at the very centre of a half-completed religious site, and from this auspicious birth an institution’s bell would continue to play a keen role in both promoting its faith and literally protecting its faithful. Loud, cacophonous sounds were thought to have an apotropaic effect, helping to drive away unwelcome spirits. As a result the names of saints were sometimes cast into a church bell’s rim, extending a sonic aura of goodwill and protection from the heavenly individual to anyone who heard its distant peal. 

One bell from the mid-1200s, donated to a church in the Italian town of Assisi by Pope Gregory IX, proudly proclaimed its multiple purposes in first-person poetic verses cast into its side, its efficacy intoned in repetitious lines like the slow chiming of the bell itself:

SABBATHA PANGO FUNEREA PLANGO FULGURA FRANGO EXCITO LENTOS DOMO CRUENTOS DISSIPO VENTOS

I DETERMINE THE SABBATH I LAMENT FUNERALS I BREAK LIGHTNING I ROUSE THE LAZY I TAME THE CRUEL I DISPERSE THE WINDS

Even without their resonating holy sound, bells were potent objects. If broken or cracked, they might be interred in holy ground like the dead. And they could be taken prisoner, used as political pawns in larger cultural clashes. In the year 997 the Muslim ruler of the southern Spanish caliphate of Córdoba raided and destroyed the major Christian pilgrimage centre of Santiago de Compostela. But instead of melting down the grand church’s bells for their valuable raw metal, they were held captive, hung as symbolic booty in Córdoba’s own Great Mosque.”

Medieval Bodies by Jack Hartnell

#middle ages #medieval #history #medieval history #my notes

[sleeplessangelsgame]

If you dont mind ask about the prompy you posted on the other blog how about chest with Aris ? ❤🥺👉👈

I don't mind at all! I definitely got carried away by this prompt, but I don't think anyone will mind! ❤

“Tell me you aren’t serious,” Aris said, distinctly unimpressed.

At first glance, the situation was unbelievable. The pack had close ties - every single one of the wolves shared feasts and failures in equal fervor - but this wasn’t a gala or a hunt. It was only Aris and me, and one sleeping bag. Temperatures would dip into near-freezing single-digits this high into the mountains, which didn’t leave us much choice.

“For warmth,” I insisted, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I had hoped we would grow out of this phase: the rejection of crossing the boundary line of Ascendant and protector. We couldn’t control our roles in the pack, but we could try and be familiar with each other at the very least.

Not for Aris Sarantelli, though. There was no gray area, just black and white. Ascendant and enforcer. No more, no less.

Aris still looked unconvinced, regarding the sleeping bag on the cave floor skeptically, so I added, “Unless you want to explain to the Alpha why you let me freeze to death?”

They clenched their jaw at that, hesitated, then nodded. The tense line of their shoulders didn’t ease, but acceptance was a start, at least. I could save the bonding board games for when we were safely back in the packhouse.

For a moment, we both stood there, watching one another. We were both determining who would make the first move, who would settle in, and who would have to climb in next.

When Aris didn’t even utter a breath, too tense to move, I sighed. I started kicking off my boots, shivering when my socked feet met the cold stone floor. I shed my outermost jacket and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor next to my discarded shoes. The cold crept in like seawater, unforgiving as a riptide, and I quickly wiggled into the sleeping back.

I pushed myself into the farthest corner only to leave little free space for Aris. Despite my gesture of goodwill, it would be inevitable that we would end up side-by-side, our bodies touching.

I focused on burying my face in half of the sleeping bag’s built-in pillow, mentally shoving those thoughts into a closet, and locking the door. Aris and I touched each other often, especially in training. It was only a sleeping bag, and it was to survive.

No more, no less.

I listened to the rustle of Aris carefully toeing off their boots and pulling off their jacket - I even recognized the sound of them folding it with composed diligence - before, cautiously, they slid in next to me. I waited until they fully settled before I pulled my face free, catching the impassive expression on their face as they settled in beside me.

As they zipped up the sleeping bag, the warmth of their body swept over me immediately, chasing away the aching cold that stubbornly lingered in the tips of my fingers. I flexed the feeling back into them, sighing with relief when the numbness faded.

“I think that last mile almost gave me frostbite,” I said mildly, trying to dispel the sudden tension choking the air. Aris raised an eyebrow incredulously, deterred by my nonchalance, so I tucked my defrosted fingers under the covers to gently prod their arm. At the faintest touch, they barely repressed a flinch, and I quickly retreated.

“Goddess,” Aris frowned, and to my surprise, they reached over to take my hand in theirs. “Weren’t you wearing gloves? What were you doing?”

“Gloves?” I repeated. “Weren’t you the one that gave me the speech that gloves slowed my shifting time?”

“Your hands shift first,” they agreed, tucking my hand in both of theirs. The warmth of their palms were scorching, and it sparked an echoing flame in the pit of my stomach. Aris didn’t even seem to notice. “But you know when you’re going to shift, and your gloves are removable.”

I made a face at them. “Don’t try to explain how gloves work, Aris.”

Their expression was serious, but there was the smallest ember glittering in their eyes, lively in a way I couldn’t quite recognize. Aris Sarantelli, the prominent second-hand enforcer of the Keating werewolves and my stoic bodyguard for life, was teasing me about gloves.

“Use them, and I would have nothing to explain,” Aris replied as if it were that simple. They released my hand, and I missed that touch so fiercely that my fingers ached. I curled my fingers into a fist, killing any instinct to reach out and take their hand again, and hoped Aris couldn’t hear the faint skip in my traitorous heartbeat.

“Yes, sir,” I deadpanned. Aris quirked a brow at that, and I knew they heard it, anyway. I fumbled to cover with, “Goodnight!”

I shuffled in place and rolled over to my other side, ignoring the way Aris cleared their throat, covering what would be a laugh.

“Goodnight.”

The night faded into darkness, crawling by in long strokes. I faded in and out of sleep, restless, my inner instincts feeling trapped in the sleeping bag with Aris just as much as I felt secure in their presence. I was always told that werewolves have a delicate balance: half wild and half civil, the instincts of the wolf intricately interwoven with the intelligence of the human.

But I was wolf and mountain lion and human, and even my simple instincts were overrun with conflicting feelings.

Those thoughts kept turning in my head, over and over, and I hadn’t even realized Aris was awake until I felt the faintest press of their hand against my back, catching my attention.

I stiffened, and their hand retreated instantly.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“What’s wrong?” Aris murmured, ignoring my apology entirely. I swallowed and turned over again, facing them, my breath catching in my throat when I saw the look on their face. I could see near-perfectly in the dark, even in human form, and there was no mistaking the concern on their face, not when we were so close that I could feel the soft brush of their breath mingling with mine.

Aris looked like they expected an honest answer, so I shrugged, “I can’t sleep in new places. I can’t relax.”

“I’m here,” Aris said simply. I stared at them, but they didn’t seem keen to elucidate that, and so we watched each other in pitch darkness, our every emotion visible as if it were broad daylight. They couldn’t hide from my night vision just as I couldn’t hide from theirs, but nothing on their face revealed the implications of that single statement.

Aris was here, like always, but why did my heart still race like it was the very first time?

“You make it sound simple,” I finally admitted quietly. “It’s not like I want to toss and turn all night. I’m tired after walking all day but I can’t just switch my brain off.”

Aris’s expression softened. “Instincts don’t always listen to reason. Or exhaustion.”

I nodded, just once, and by the look on their face, I knew they had the same conflicting emotions I had about our sleeping arrangement. It was an advantage to be together, where we knew the other one was alive and safe, but it was just as debilitating to be so close.

“You need sleep,” Aris finally said, and I shot them an exasperated look. Hadn’t I just explained why I struggled to sleep? At my expression, they opened their arms as much as they could within the confines of the sleeping bag, inviting me closer with a silent, weighted look.

I hesitated, just for a single fleeting moment, and then I wiggled closer, tucking myself into the security of their embrace. I rested my head on their chest, their frenetic heartbeat echoing under my ear. They wrapped their arms around me, holding me tight, enveloping me in a warmth that finally, finally loosened that tightness in my spine.

I let out a soft breath, and Aris rested their chin on the crown of my head, their arms holding me fast, their heartbeat still running rampant at the closeness.

“Go to sleep,” Aris told me, their words rumbling in their chest. “I will protect you with my life.”

“You need sleep, too,” I mumbled back, my voice already heavy with sleep. My eyes slid closed while my breathing evened out, but I didn’t miss the final whisper above my head.

“I just need you to be safe.”

#ask #prompts #aris #oh no. my inner simp is showing. 😔 #BUT seriously feel free to send in prompts!! keep me motivated skdlghksgh

[shelby-love]

JAY HALSTEAD

The Freeing Bliss of Adrenaline

Requested: yes

Prompts: none

Warning(s): angsty, happy ending

Author's note: Haven't written for Jay in a while! This will be the last one shot of the year. I've been working on imagines the entire day. Now I'll take some time off since New Year is in less than a hour! p.s. I just added some more spice to Jay’s fight! How’d you like it?

Happy New Near!!!!!

Note: It's important that you guys read my newest Hank Voight one shot to not be confused further into this one. Click here!

~

"Relax babe I'll be fine," You smiled impishly at Jay and leaned against your newest child. The large two-wheeled beauty was the highlight of your day.

But Jay eyed your Yamaha r6 skeptically. He saw a fair number of criminals die from crashing motorcycles less intimidating than the one behind you. He trusted you to be careful, but it didn't help him sleep at night any better than he did before. The damned matte black motorcycle was the cause of his nightmares.

"Just," He sighed. "Be careful."

You chuckled in adoration and kissed him. The two of you were aesthetically pleasing to see. Especially next to your large motorcycle.

"I'll see you at 7?" He nodded in confirmation and helped you with your helmet.

For effect, he slapped the top of it and didn't leave until you were out of his line of vision.

Jay rolled his eyes when you purred the engine for effect.

***

The motorcycle ride through the tunnel was freeing, especially upon exiting it.

Jay didn't understand how freeing the rides you've had felt. You left your worries behind in the dust whenever you roared the engine. You felt like you could do anything.

Your left hand is working the clutch and the turn signal, your right hand is working the front brake, your right foot is working the rear brake, and your left foot is working the gears up & down. The ride was a physical & emotional pleasure, with a layer of anxiety & adrenaline.

For a moment you wanted to close your eyes. To enjoy the feeling of freedom.

But you snapped out of it, just like every time; Jay's words rung in your mind. Be careful.

You were.

But the car that slammed into you wasn't.

***

The members of firehouse 51 arrived on scene in recod time. People were watching on the side next to their cars; the whole road was blocked with cars.

"I didn't know what to do," The officer on scene told Matt. "The motorcycle's crushing her, but I didn't want to do anything until you guys got here."

"Her?" He asked, surprised to hear it. "It's a good thing you didn't move her." That cop did exactly the right thing by not moving the weight off you until they had facility to adequately treat any injuries.

"She looks experienced," The man  sighed with anxiety, looking as if he aged 20 years in a span of 15 minutes. "The motorcycle's a Yamaha r6. Definitely not a beginner's bike."

The smoke that came from the bike was enough to quicken their pace. "All hands-on deck." Matt announced and proceeded to give out orders.

"Otis get the backboard."

"On it."

The rest of the men appeared around you. Severide at the front. It only took him a glance at your custom-made helmet to know that it was you. "Holy shit..."

"What's wrong Severide?" Cruz asked him.

"That's Y/N."

"Who's she?" The team asked him.

"Jay's girlfriend." Severide whispered. "Hey you!"

The cop turned to him, trauma in his eyes. "Call Intelligence."

"Why? This isn't a crime scene."

"That's Jay Halstead's girlfriend on the ground. Get him here now!"

Back where you were, truck was discussing your situation.

"We need to get this bike off her," Gabby said hurriedly.

"81 watch for the hot pipes," The team was working on getting it off you. "This thing's a beast, got to weight 500 lbs." Matt said.

"Okay easy guys," Sylvie had your helmet in her hands. "Possible spinal injury and head trauma."

"Okay let's get this off," All hands were truly on deck as Casey counted down to three. They took your demolished motorcycle and placed it away from you.

"Jay's gonna freak," Severide commented when his eyes fell on your leg. It was completely crushed. Red with blood and completely split in half.

"We need to get the helmet off of her." Sylvie instructed, changing places.

"Alright Mouch."

It was hard for you to decipher the voices because little did they know...

You were conscious under there.

You barely recognized Severide as he barked out commands left and right.

You felt the strap of your custom-made helmet being cut off. The pain that shot through your leg when they secured it had you wincing to the pint your lip started to bleed.

When they took it off it took several seconds for the light to push through to you. You could barely breathe, let alone move your neck to look at the firefighters credited as your lifesavers. Severide cupped the back of your neck and you could only look at him.

"Kelly..." You murmured, tears gathering in your eyes. The times he and Jay had told you to be careful...

You should have listened.

"Y/N don't move. You're okay," He reassured you but you only widened your eyes. "You've been in an accident."

Tears started to fall. "Kelly..."

"No don't speak," He said quietly.

You coughed, "The...other..."

"The other?" He repeated.

"Collision..."

They were losing you. "Hey! Y/N stay with me! What collision?"

A few meters away, Matt and Boden inspected the road and the remains of your bike. "It's dented. Like someone crashed into her."

Kelly's screams brought them back to reality and Matt ran to get you.

He crouched down, his face hovering over you and blocking the sun. "Y/N did someone else crash into you?"

More tears started to fall. "They fell...off."

Boden looked around until he noticed several aggressive lines from tires scattered around the road.

He stepped closer to the edge and looked.

Until he saw.

"This is Battalion Chief 25," He radioed. "We need another ambulance to our location. This was a vehicle collision. I repeat a vehicle collision!"

***

"She still hasn't woken up," Will told his younger brother. "The injuries she sustained were more dangerous than we thought."

"Will what the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

"There were some complications with the surgery," Will tried to reason calmly. "She started hemorrhaging. They got the bleeding under control, but they had to put her in a medically induced coma. Hey! Jay wait- "

The detective stormed outside. The ringing in his head was getting louder and the voices around him became a distant callout.

Two arms stopped him from raging out.

He pushed and pulled but the man before him didn't move.

Kelly didn't move.

"Jay man, you need to stop!"

He didn't stop. Not even when Sharon Goodwill came to break them apart herself. Jay pushed through and disappeared outside, not daring to enter a car because of what had happened to you.

Kelly and Will found him in a bar eventually.

They took him home, watched over his place as he showered the alcohol off. They helped him in bed, even pulled the covers over him like you used to.

Jay's body was warm under the covers, but deep within he was anything but.

He missed your presence in the bed, your body against his in the shower…

Even your jokes during dinner.

It wasn't the same without you. He wasn't the same.

But no one understood him.

Only you did.

But you were in a coma. Unreachable.

He hugged your pillow on which traces of your perfume still lingered and cried like a baby.

***

The man rushed at Jay, his fist pulled back by a mile to punch him. Jay ducked but the man growled and started swinging punches at him. It came to a point of giving up for the man. Jay was ducking, backing up, sliding to the side; doing all the things needed to slip right through his fingers. He moved quickly, confident in his abilities.

Jay sidestepped before thrusting his fist against the man's face, reeling the man back so he staggered on his feet. A stray of blood fell out of his mouth, but not even that was stopping Jay from doing more damage.

Whatever force had him possessed, it wasn't letting go.

Jay slammed his fist into the man's face like the impact didn't bother him at all. The man smashed into a wall, fell to his knees, and clutched his face and trembled as his head fell forward. Jay placed a foot on the back of his head and slammed his face on the ground without thinking twice. The man groaned but didn't give up.

He twisted his body under the pressure of Jay's boot and grabbed his ankle.

It really didn't take long before Jay had him completely pinned to the ground again. He started throwing punches to his face until there was nothing but blood coating his hands.

He broke his nose, knocked out his teeth and broke his jaw.

Maybe even more.

He couldn't take a better look because he was taken away.

"What the hell is your problem Halstead!?" His sergeant barked.

"He deserved it." Jay mumbled. It really was his only excuse.

"If you're not fit to work," Voight neared his face to Jay's. "I'll take you off the case."

"You can't."

Hank only shook his head, "I can, and I will. Listen… You're a good kid Halstead and I'm sorry for what happened to Y/N but that's not an excuse for what you just did, and you know it."

"Get yourself together." Was the last thing Hank told him before he disappeared.

His girlfriend and the newest member of Intelligence took pity and came to his side. "She's going to be fine, Jay."

"You don't know that" Jay mumbled.

She only smiled sadly, "I've been there."

"You ride motorcycles?"

She shook her head with a roll of her eyes, "No. I was shot while working for the FBI. Hostage situation. I was one of them. A part of the reason why I joined special operations but that's a story for another day."

She leaned against the car with him, "As I was saying... I was badly injured, Jay. The doctors had to put me in a medically induced coma too."

"How'd you get through it?" He asked. She shone in a completely different light to him now.

"The people that mean the most to me were by my side. For me it was family that helped me push through and fight," she sighed, her hands twined together. "You're her anchor Jay. And if you're not being strong for her... Who will she lean onto? Who will help her push through and fight?"

"Doctors believe hearing stories in parents' and siblings' voices exercises the parts of the brain responsible for long-term memories." She recalled what was once told to her.

 "Hey detective! Sergeant Voight is asking for you," A police officer yelled a couple yards away. Voight's girlfriend smiled and Jay could swear that he could see blush taint her cheeks. Jay and you won 20 bucks a few months back thanks to her and her blush.

"Be what your sergeant is to me."

Jay nodded smiling.

Before she was out of his line of vision she turned back and yelled to him, "Maybe take a shower too! I heard that helps!"

He rolled his eyes at her.

***

When he sat at your hospital bed, he didn't know what to say. Every word mattered to him. It's been weeks since the last time you opened your eyes.

And in those weeks a lot of things happened to him.

He hoped that now, after all that had happened, he was good enough of an anchor for you to hold onto.

He grabbed your small hand in his bigger one and kissed the back of it. You looked peaceful. Not your usual bubbly self; the version of yourself that lived for adrenaline and everything life had to offer.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," He started, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I didn't know what to do…"

"I had your bike fixed," He informed quietly. "Although I don't think you'll ever want to sit on one again."

He paused. "But then again… You're batshit crazy."

Jay spent a long time talking to you about a million things. He made up for the times he failed to be there with you.

"Detective Halstead?" A nurse had joined him in the room. "Visiting hours are over."

"Oh," Was all he said. "I guess I should get going?"

She smiled sadly.

With a torturous sigh, he leaned down and kissed you. A tiny piece of his heart broke at the lack of response your once warm, now cold lips gave him. "It's not the same without you."

***

Chicago's cold wisps of air hit him without mercy the moment he stepped out. No one really payed him much mind. Occasional glances from girls that were passing by was something he was used to.

He was searching for his car when a figure jumped in front of him.

"Geez Will," Jay sighed. "The hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," He was beaming like a madman.

"Whatever it is you came here to tell me, just say it." He grumbled.

"Y/N labs came back."

Jay stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother. For the first time in weeks he had hope shining within his irises.

"And?"

"She pulled through. They'll wake her up tomorrow."

Before another word could leave his mouth, Jay hugged him like his life depended on it.

It did in a way.

He broke down at the parking lot in the arms of his brother having gotten the best news ever.

"Let's get you home bro. You'll see Y/N tomorrow."

Tags: @lorenakaspersen​​ @fofisstilinski​ @short-potato​​ @miranda0102​​  @saracabbage​​

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MASTERLIST

#chicago fire #chicago fire fanfiction #chicago fire imagine #chicago pd #chicago pd fanfiction #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd x reader #jay halstead masterlist #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead fanfiction #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead #Jay Halstead one shot

[overnightoats-and-theradio]

Sleep

words: 893 / rating T / read on ao3

Summary: Sammy moves in with Ben after the radio tower is knocked down. What is the first month like? (aka, a Sammy has nightmares fic)

tw: one line mentioning suicide, not explicit

Here's something that happens when you tell your best friend that you've just tried to kill yourself: (and that you almost got abducted, and that your mutual place of work just got razed to the ground:) he asks you to move in with him.

Which feels like a hell of a non sequitur honestly. It's almost the first words out of his mouth once you get to the new auditorium, the second new auditorium, after he hugs you, after the town finishes cheering (which is unnecessary, really, and kind of tacky, but you digress). He says "the lease is up on your apartment, right? Move in with me."

So you do. There's no broadcast to finish, no literal time clock to punch out of ("really Merv? It's like we're working in a coal mine") so you go back to your apartment, where things have been scattered and half packed -- well really that's a lie, they haven't been packed at all. You didn't really intend to come back. But he helps you drag your tiny goodwill couch out to the curb, and you break down your bed frame together, and he doesn't let you pay for the U-Haul that you rent to take the mattress, the TV, the two boxes of kitchen stuff, and your one duffel bag of clothes to his apartment.

"I got a two bedroom a long time ago," he's telling you, in the U-Haul. Your car is still at the auditorium. You think it was smoking from how fast you'd been speeding to get away from the rainbow lights, followed by getting out of perdition wood . "I've been using the second bedroom as an office space. And sometimes my mom stays over, too, so it's nice to have a place to put the blow up mattress that isn't in the living room."

You don't say what you feel like you would have said under any other circumstance, which is: "your mom stays over at your apartment? Why? You live barely five miles from each other," and instead you stay quiet.

"Hey, man," he says, awkwardly patting your knee as he takes his hand off the steering wheel. He doesn't make eye contact, too busy signaling to take a right turn. "It's okay. You can stay for as long as you like." You can stay forever goes unspoken, but you have a feeling that's what he means.

It takes you thirty seconds to unpack but twenty long minutes to put the fucking bed frame back together as Ben goes to return the U-Haul, and then you crash hard, sleeping the sleep of the dead, of the damned. You don't think you're dreaming about anything until you wake up at 8am screaming and sobbing.

Ben, for his part, doesn't say anything. He just hands you a coffee as you stumble out of his guest bedroom. Not your bedroom, not yet. And he won't say anything until it happens nightly, sometimes multiple times a night. Both of your sleep schedules are shot to hell to begin with -- score one for working the night shift every single night for three years, or longer in Ben's case -- and it almost becomes routine for the two of you to go down at a little after 7am and then be up not two hours later from the intensity of your nightmares. The bags under your eyes go from yellow to purple to black and Ben constantly looks like he's going to say something and then doesn't. After a month, you finally have a good solid four hours of sleep, but it's because you're too exhausted to even dream.

Ben's mom keeps dropping by with food that she refuses to let you pay for. Ben keeps refusing to take rent money: you finally drove to the bank to take out some cash and slip it into his jacket pocket when you thought he wasn't looking.

You feel like you're grieving all over again, but you'll be damned what you're grieving for. It's as if every single wall you've built up in your last three years; in your last close to four years, since Jack was taken, has completely busted down and you don't know how to handle the onslaught. But days pass by, and then weeks, and you're still here. You're still alive. Still in this mountain town. It's felt like borrowed time, but it's your time all the same.

You go to sleep early one day and wake up two hours later knowing that you've been crying in your sleep yet again and when you open your eyes Ben is standing in the doorway.

"Tell me to leave and I will," he says, looking exhausted, and it breaks your heart, it breaks your heart all over again because you're a burden on him again, but he just throws the pillow he's holding onto your bed and climbs on top of the mattress, basically half asleep. "Look, I'm not trying to be -- him. To be Jack. But I thought you'd get some better sleep if someone was here with you."

You don't cuddle or anything, it's not like that. Besides, he's a one woman man. But he falls asleep and you just look at him, blown away all over again at what an amazing friend you've made. And that night, you sleep better than you have in years.

#kfam #king falls am #ao3 #fanfiction #sammy stevens #ben arnold #sammy & ben are in a qpr change my mind

[mordoriscalling]

Secret pt.3, 1/6

5 times Geralt and Jaskier use the “secret” language and get away with it, and 1 time someone understands them

I’ll try to post each part of this 5+1 story daily. Once again, shout out to @artistsfuneral for coming up with this idea and to blue_midnight on AO3 for inspiring me to write this. <3 

1.

“We agreed on 300,” Geralt growls, exhaustion weighing down upon him more and more. It has been a day since he killed the leshen. The damn thing had been extremely unwilling to die and the walk back from the woods was miles long. He’s returned to town an hour ago only to find that the alderman wants to cheat him out of half the pay. The whole situation turns his temper rather foul.

Geralt’s irritation makes the alderman cower but he still stammers out, “I know, witcher, but I only have 150 now. Unforeseen circumstances had me spend the rest on important expenses.”

The lie is so blatant that Geralt doesn’t even have to look at Jaskier to know how much his bard restrains himself from rolling his eyes (at the very least). Jaskier, for his part, has to use all his willpower to stop himself from throttling the rotund, well-dressed man before them.

“Kłamie.” He’s lying, Jaskier says. “Nieprzewidziane wydatki.” Unforseen expenses, he parrots mockingly, his voice positively dripping with disdain. “Żebyś widział jego dom i rodzinę.” You should see his house and family, the bard goes on, staring the man down, “Tyle złota dawno nie widziałem.” I haven’t seen so much gold in a while.

The alderman huffs, indignant. “I thought we’re in polite company, master bard,” he says, returning Jaskier’s glare with a defensive look. “Talking in a language other participants of the conversation don’t understand is definitely impolite.”

Jaskier smiles. It’s more of baring teeth. “Indeed,” he agrees, “This time, however, my bad manners were a gesture of goodwill, my good sir.”

The alderman frowns in confusion. Geralt has to fight down a gleeful, nasty grin that threatens to twist his lips – the man has no idea what he’s in for.

“You see,” Jaskier carries on, his posture straight and confident, his voice lowered and so biting, “I simply wanted to spare you the embarrassment of uncovering your greed.” The alderman gapes and the bard continues, “After all, does a man of such well-guarded wealth truly not have 300 coins to spare, no matter the circumstances?” Jaskier makes a pause, which the alderman fails to fill, no matter how much his mouth works to form a retort. 

“What would the people of this town think,” Jaskier goes on, “if they were reminded of your greed, I wonder? A good song can anger them about it very well . Am I not wrong, my good sir?”

Heavy silence hangs in the air for only a moment. Then, the alderman hastens to answer, “Not wrong in any way, master bard. A song like that would be unfortunate indeed.”

They leave the alderman’s office with a sack of coin filled with much more money than it was agreed upon. Geralt is weary, down to his very bones, and gratitude overwhelms him. He can’t help but catch Jaskier by the wrist as they’re about to walk into the town’s inn.

“So fierce,” he murmurs, brushing the back of his hand against his bard’s cheek.

Jaskier cherishes the touch, smiling warmly. “Only fitting for a companion of the White Wolf,” he replies.

“No one fits the role better than you,” Geralt answers, stepping so close to Jaskier that their proximity can be mistaken for nothing else than what it is.

Jaskier’s pupils dilate. “Gods above, Geralt,” he breathes out, “Don’t just say things like that.”

The witcher kisses his bard right there and then, in bright daylight for all to see.

Much later, they lay together in bed, too content to say or do anything. The room is warm, the fire crackling merrily, and their stomachs are full. They laze in between the clean sheets after a bath and a round of love-making.  

“How did you know?” Geralt breaks the pleasant silence, just when they’re both close to dozing off.

“About what?” Jaskier mumbles drowsily.

“About how rich the alderman is.”

“Oh, I paid him a visit when you hunted,” Jaskier answers, all nonchalant, “I met one of his sons at the inn and, well. I happened to make some... suggestions. The lad graciously invited me to a family dinner. The temptation of a free performance given by Jaskier the bard is too strong, it appears, no matter how rarely guests are allowed to cross the threshold of their house.”

Geralt chuckles. “Fierce and clever.”

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier replies in a murmur, quiet and solemn.

Geralt’s chest swells with such warmth that there’s no air left in his lungs. Words fail him so he kisses Jaskier instead, again and again, until he’s sure that his bard understands what he can’t say.

Some time passes before Jaskier is able to form a coherent sentence. When he does, he remarks, “I could be a spy.”

Geralt lets out a small laugh. “To bądź szpiegiem.” Then be a spy.

Jaskier grins at him in that feral way, which Geralt knows bodes trouble. “Dla ciebie? Chętnie.” For you? Gladly.

Next

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfiction #canon divergence

[gryfon-spanish-werewolf]

Frozen(elsanna)x Prey au Snippet 2

Because I’m insatiable here’s another

(And here’s Part 1, for those who missed it)

Context: This is before containment break, before the events that take place during Prey canon. Anna gets downtime every once in a while between bouts of testing, and this would be an example of time off. Restful and relaxing.... not ;-; This is the early days of Anna’s memory loss, and Elsa’s burgeoning guilt

Similar characters to last time, but three new ones (also in Prey canon): Dr. Igwe, chief neuroscientist assigned to Psychotronics, Head Nurse Goldcrest, and Dr. DeVries, Chief Surgeon, who both work in the Trauma Center

Slight content warning for blood and injury, specifically regarding the eye. No graphic description, but it’s in there

——————— 

There is something here with her.

Anna presses her bare fingers against tempered glass. The translucent substance ripples under her touch, vibrating slightly in purples and reds and yellows before accommodating, and slipping back to it’s sleek, clear form. This glass, this… barrier, has been tested against wrench swings and shotgun blasts and bunker busters - engineered to self-heal and withstand the vacuum of space for decades if necessary. It’s all over Talos I, beautiful and secure. It keeps everyone safe and sound.

But the shape in the dark is already inside.

Or it… wants to be.

Anna strains her eyes, trying to see beyond the billions of stars that pinprick the black, endless cosmos. She ducks her head and puts a hand over her brow, trying to block out the outline of her reflection. She tries not to blink, lest she miss something, some wisp or shift in that massive vastness. There’s a presence. It lurks and hums in her mind, roiling like ink dark waves.

It’s hungry. It’s so hungry.

The effort of looking too hard for too long catches up to Anna. Her eyes hurt. She’s only human.

She blinks.

She blinks and all the stars are teeth and all the teeth are stars and they bare down on her with the weight of the universe.

—

Anna gasps as she bolts upright in bed. It’s dark here too, but warm instead of cold. Not stars but stained wood paneling and soft carpet. Not endless space but walls, a dimmed desk light, and a tangible sense of scale. Anna swallows, breathing harshly in the night, half under the covers of the bed in her sister’s personal quarters. Sweat covers her skin and gooseflesh shivers across her body from head to toe in waves. Anna’s body shakes, trembles, her arms on the verge of collapsing her backwards.

Back to the dark. To the dream.

There is… movement, beside her.

Adrenaline crashes into Anna’s system again as the bed dips. Something moves closer.

It’s… Elsa. Rolling over in her sleep.

Her sister’s arm falls across the space Anna should be. Her fingers splay out, and in the dim light, Anna sees Elsa’s brow furrow slightly, even asleep. She murmurs, and after a moment her eyes open, hazy with fatigue.

“Anna?” She asks into the room, quiet and small. Anna takes a breath and puts a hand out towards Elsa, letting herself be found. Her sister takes it immediately, grip tightening when Anna can’t stop the shaking. “Was it that nightmare again?”

“...Again?”

Elsa tilts her head, slow in her stupor. Anna hears her shift and her free hand comes into view. Her thumb brushes the pads of her fingers and a blue glow emerges, floating gently between them. Elsa’s snow glitters in it’s own aura, illuminating their faces like an incandescent bulb under water. In this wavering light, Elsa searches Anna’s face. “The one about the stars.”

Anna bites her lip. The dream still wraps it’s tendrils around her, brushing against the back of her brain. Surely she would remember a nightmare like that, yet she can’t recall having it before, much less telling Elsa. When Anna was little it was the endless hallways that narrowed and choked her young mind until she burst into tears and ran to their parents’ room - but as she’d gotten older, and moved away, those nightmares had faded into more mundane things, if she dreamed at all.

But the terror of that open night sky in her mind. The one that looks back at her.

No. That is horrifyingly new.

Maybe her mind is playing tricks on her, still mired in the black. She would remember telling Elsa about this later, when she was calm. For now, she simply nods.

Elsa hugs Anna’s arm to her, pulling her down, back into bed. “You never used to have nightmares,” she says softly. “You used to sleep so soundly, here with me.” She combs sweat soaked bangs back, her hands warm against Anna’s chilled skin. “And you used to love the stars.”

Anna exhales, grounding herself with Elsa’s touch. “They’re unsettling.”

“You always thought they watched over us.”

“Now they just watch us.”

Elsa’s hand stops. “They’re just balls of gas, Anna,” she states, though her tone is patient. “Burning millions or billions of miles away. As fascinating as they are, there’s nothing more intelligent about them.”

Anna remembers the universe of  teeth and doesn't answer.

“These tests are taking their toll on you,” Elsa says finally. “Maybe you should stop.”

“I can’t.” Elsa knows this. Anna can’t give up. Won’t. The technology they're bringing into the world, the discoveries made - all of this is for something greater. These neuromods are going to change people’s lives, they just need some fine tuning.

And if more people could do the extraordinary things Elsa could, what more might humanity be capable of?

Anna --powerless, human-- has to try.

Elsa sighs before she replies, cupping Anna’s jaw with both hands and looking into her eyes in the darkness of their room. “I’ll ask Bellamy and Dr. Igwe to slow down, then. Just a little,” she adds before Anna can protest. “You’ll burn out, Anna, and then who will you be helping?”

Anna huffs;  Elsa has a point. But before she can speak a stinging pain lances through her right eye and she flinches. She rubs the spot as Elsa makes a concerned noise. “And I think I’ll email nurse Goldcrest about that. The redness is getting worse.”

Her eye.

It’s been bothering Anna for a while now. At first they thought she was developing an allergy. “An allergy,” she’d laughed with Elsa over coffee in the Lobby, overlooking the incredible, blue and green sphere that was Earth. Close enough to fill any person with awe, but far enough away to cover with one hand. “An allergy, in space!” It was funny.

Then it got worse.

Itchy, irritated, dry, but above all, sore. Painful. It throbbed during her tests and in her sleep, keeping her awake, sometimes for hours. Sweeping past Anna’s stubbornness, Elsa had scheduled a consultation with none other than Dr. DeVries, the head surgeon, but even he had come back with inconclusive results. “Stress might be a factor,” he’d said, “but we’ll need to monitor her to be sure. For now, we’ll put in a request for medicated eye-drops to help with the more common symptoms.”

Those had worked. For a week.

It was strange though. Sometimes Anna would forget the redness was there at all - in fact, sometimes it wasn’t. She’d look in the mirror and her eye would be perfectly fine, and she’d think maybe it was just a passing illness or bad reaction. But other times the pain would spread from her eye to her temple to the base of her skull and just press, like her head was in a vice. Worse than a migraine or a hangover because it squeezed, and left Anna short of attention and breath.

And then one morning she woke up alone, a note from Elsa on the bedside table, wishing her good morning and good luck on a new slew of tests…

...and on the paper fell a single, red blot.

Bellamy barred Anna at the door to Psychotronics and sent her home. Elsa was back from the labs within the hour.

Anna had spent the rest of the day in a blur of check ups and people talking over her, her head buzzing with heat and white noise, her vision speckled with black dots. Goldcrest had prescribed medicine and recommended two weeks off work. Despite the circumstances, and Anna’s state, Elsa had been relieved by that decision.

Now, a few months later, Elsa draws Anna close, pressing a kiss to her temple. She wraps her arms around Anna’s head, pulling her love to her chest, feeling as well as hearing the deep rhythmic breaths of slumber washing over Anna. She’d fallen back asleep fitfully, though it seemed true rest had stolen over her at last. Her hands clutch loosely to Elsa’s nightgown, and her exhales ghost over her sister’s collarbone.

Elsa’s eyes remain open, gaze on the far wall as the clock hands tick the night away.

This time, it was she who cannot sleep.

Trepidation churns in her stomach. She knows Anna would move the Earth, moon, and stars for her if she asked. That Anna has a heart of gold and hope, and a determination to put all of that to use.

Elsa just worries that someone.... or something… is taking advantage of that goodwill.

Not that Elsa suspects any of her co-workers in particular. While they may work in many different fields, everyone aboard Talos I’s goals are the same: the betterment of humanity through their research. These neuromods, with their ability to teach any skill provided they can find someone to model and copy, could change everything. They could give people abilities that they’d only dreamed of before. Elsa looks up at her glowing snow sphere, twinkling as it spins.

Neuromods could even make more people like her.

The thought puts a crease in her brow and she waves her hand, dispelling the magic and drenching the room in darkness once more.

Because the truth is: Elsa hadn’t asked Anna to do this. Anna had volunteered, knowing TranStar wanted what Elsa had, but that the risk of researching on the only person they knew of to have such a gift was too great. Anna, already a talented and intelligent scientist in her own right, had sacrificed her own job for Elsa’s sake, without hesitation.

And it is hurting her.

Elsa’s heart pangs with remorse. She buries her fingers in Anna’s hair and cradles her close. “It’s for the greater good,” she whispers to herself. “It’s for the greater good.”

When Anna had returned from Psychotronics that fateful day, Elsa had found her curled on her side, clutching her head and sweating bullets. Blood in her hand and blood on the sheets.

After the medical review, Anna had slept.

And slept.

And slept.

For two days Elsa could barely rouse Anna long enough to eat or drink, and when she finally recovered it was as though a pall had been cast over her. Grey and listing, muted as though through a screen.

“It’s for the greater good…” Sorrow wells in Elsa’s throat. Anna breathes deep against her and Elsa wishes that her powers were something else. Something to keep Anna here, safe and sound. To keep her... hers.

Anna’s spark had tempered those two days, and Elsa isn’t sure that it fully returned. She fears that it never will. Her sister is chipper and bright, but like a gas stove with a faltering igniter, Anna’s flame is struggling to catch.

“Greater good,” Elsa’s voice breaks, tears tracking down her face to fall on Anna’s head. “It’s for the greater… good…”

Sleep comes for Elsa too, jagged and broken and troubled. She dreams of a star in her sister’s chest.

She dreams of that star going out.

#Prey au #elsanna #sci fi #my writing #Anna #Elsa #Bellamy #Dr. Igwe #Anna Goldcrest #Dr. DeVries #current relationsip #memory loss #nightmare #tw: blood and injury #tw: eye injury #again not in great detail but yes it's there #so if that's a squick or legit trigger for you #this is your warning #but anyway yeah here I am - still on this train #my GDoc is not 19 pages and almost 8k words #help x'D #*now.... *now 19 pages lol

[no6secretsanta]

Stay

Stay

From @pigeonsimba to @crowmunculus

The winter chill bites into Nezumi’s skin, tugging his hood back with icy fingers and nipping at his nose and ears until his whole head aches.

Well, aches more, as Nezumi already has a tension headache from clenching his teeth all throughout play practice. Why is it so hard for them to get it?

He knows No. 6 has never been a hub for the arts—that, in fact, until eight years ago, the arts and any other form of self-expression was illegal—but since the wall was torn down and the citizens of No. 6 and West Block were encouraged to mingle, Nezumi would have thought at least some talent might have managed to slip through.

But no. The whole group is a pile of steaming shit.

Nezumi has been working with the troupe for a little over half a year, and they are still as miserable as when he first stepped through the door and ripped their run-through of Into the Woods to shreds. He barely managed to whip them into shape before showtime, and he only deigned to intercede because he could not bear to see a musical butchered so thoroughly in front of a live audience. The end result was passable, but apparently so improved from the group’s prior performances that the actors begged Nezumi to stay on as their director.

Nezumi had been steadfastly against it, but Shion insinuated it might be good for him, and Karan started making obvious comments about how great Nezumi was at theater, and finally Inukashi cracked and told him to fucking agree to the job already so he could stop mooching off of Karan’s goodwill.

Nezumi viciously regrets letting himself be bullied into taking the position. The worst of the volunteers act with all the charisma of wooden dolls; the best are sycophantic hams who howl their lines into the audience and throw themselves upon the stage props like “drama” means “dramatics.” Nezumi wants to cull the whole theater, but he’s already invested so much time into it that he’s loath to start over with a fresh crop of amateurs.

It seems No. 6 will always be a seat of disappointment and frustration for him, no matter how nicely the city functioned now under the Restructural Committee. It’s nights like this when Nezumi wishes he was still on the road.

 When he was traveling the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and his knife at his hip, he only had nature and his thoughts to contend with. The land never disappointed him the way people did; though it tested him almost as much.

He had staggered, starving, over endless yellowing plains; been bitten and stung by animals and insects he hadn’t known the names of; his skin had blistered from trekking over golden hills of sand under the relentless sun; he had hallucinated from hypothermia and nearly died in the mountains outside No. 4.

But Nezumi had always been a survivor, and for every time he skirted death, he gained a little more appreciation for the world around him. It had power he could never wield, power the human race would never possess nor fully understand. Elyurias had shown him his first taste of the wonder of the unknown, however bitter that lesson had been.

 Alone in the wilderness, there is no one to blame but yourself if things go wrong. The elements are punishing, but they are impartial. The sun doesn’t burn him to show its might; the rivers’ currents don’t snatch at his ankles to bring him to his knees; the trees don’t shed their leaves to rob him of shelter and food. The elements don’t care whether he lived or died. Nezumi means nothing to them and they have nothing to prove.

Nezumi had traveled the world for seven years, and even though he knew there was more to see, there had come a morning when he woke and the stillness in his chest said that it was enough; it was time to make good on his promise and attempt to put down roots.

So far, Nezumi has done well to keep the wanderlust to a low murmur in his chest, but sometimes, the roots still feel like choking tethers. He misses the days when he only had himself to rely on, the freedom of knowing that if someone’s company no longer suited him, or a job grew stagnant, he could simply pick up and move on.

Nezumi’s pocket vibrates and the reverie slips away in an exasperated cloud of breath when he checks his phone’s lit-up screen. It’s Midori, the most veteran actor in the troupe and resident thorn in Nezumi’s side. The woman is a prima donna in every sense of the word, but that’s not why she’s on Nezumi’s shit list: prima donnas he could deal with, but Midori is a frustrating mix of loudly entitled and deeply self-conscious. She demands starring roles, only to repeatedly ask for praise and reassurance of her abilities.

He presses the silence button and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He’s already late and he’s almost to Shion’s house, and he doesn’t want to exacerbate his headache or Midori’s fragile self-worth by spitting venom into a receiver.

Yet another thing to miss about wandering through the wilderness: no phones. Every mile walked in blessed silence.

Nezumi mounts the stairs to Shion’s apartment and fumbles to pull the spare key Shion gave him out of his pocket and shove it into the lock. The brass door knob is so cold the metal burns in his hand as he turns it and slips inside.

Only the lamp beside the couch is on, but the apartment is small enough that the soft light is enough to illuminate the whole space. The front door opens onto a neat little kitchen, and beyond that is the living room, outfitted with a small dining table, an armchair, and a couch and coffee table. Two long bookcases span the length of the back wall, their shelves and tops stacked with novels half pilfered from the underground room and half collected by Shion over the years. The heaps atop the bookcases are high enough that they block the windows behind, so in the afternoons, the sunlight has to steal through the crevices of the towers like a thief, painting irregular patterns on the laminate floors and over the thick-fibered rug that lays beneath the coffee table. The bedroom and bathroom lay off to the right, completing the tour of Shion’s humble abode.

It’s odd to enter the house and realize that it’s Shion’s home. It’s a far step up from the underground room, and certainly much nicer than any of the places Nezumi has lived in since.

Nezumi makes a cursory glance around the quiet living space, but he doesn’t see Shion. He frowns and checks his phone for missed texts or calls, but there’s only the ones from Midori.

Maybe he stepped out? Nezumi is more than a half an hour late, after all, but it would be very out of character for Shion to walk out when he is expecting guests.

The bedroom door is shut and silent, and Nezumi wonders whether Shion is changing. Or possibly he’s asleep, Nezumi considers drily. It wouldn’t be the first time Shion invited him over, only to pass out in the middle of the visit.

Well, if Shion did forget he invited Nezumi over, or accidently fell asleep in his room, Nezumi isn’t going to just turn around and return to his room at Karan’s bakery. It’s too freaking cold out and his stomach is growling like a wild animal, so Nezumi removes his shoes and pads into the kitchen in search of something small and quiet to eat.

A snatch of deep blue fabric catches his eye as he moves toward the cabinet to grab a bowl: a tie thrown over the back of the dining room table chair. Shion’s leather briefcase lays splayed over the table, its papers peeking out of the lip where the buckle isn’t fastened properly.

The corner of Nezumi’s mouth quirks up. He had always thought of Shion as a neat person—after all, Shion threw a fit about the state of the underground room and systematically organized the whole space, and only a neat freak would do something so pointless when they knew full well Nezumi was just going to come back and muck it up again. But after returning to No. 6 and reacquainting himself with Shion, Nezumi discovered that Shion isn’t quite as uptight as he thought.

Shion is by no means untidy, but he has habitual ways of making messes: clothes strewn over his bed, cartons left on countertops, reading glasses and mugs and paperwork abandoned on the coffee table for days before Shion remembers to put them away.

Maybe Shion had been more Type A when he was sixteen, and his time working in the real world has forced him to bend in the interest of saving time, but Nezumi has a different theory: Shion had been on his best behavior in the underground room because he had always thought of it as Nezumi’s home and himself a guest staying there.

Nezumi knows he hadn’t been an easy person to live with, and he can’t say with certainty that if Shion had left messes around the underground room that he wouldn’t have used them as ammunition to threaten and criticize Shion when he felt they were getting too close.

Nezumi presses his lips together as every slight, and scowl, and unkindness he’d shown Shion when they were kids flits through his memory. No, he hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, and despite Shion’s constant probing and declarations of affection, there had always been a wall between them—mostly of Nezumi’s making, but at least part of the distance between them came from Shion’s stubborn misjudgments of his character.

Neither of them understood themselves well then, and that had made it impossible for them to understand each other.

But that was the past, and Nezumi has learned not to hold onto the things he can’t change. He and Shion aren’t the same people now, and they have agreed to start from scratch. Still, he can’t help the surprise he feels when Shion acts contrary to his perceptions, or the pangs of guilt when memories of his past conduct rise unbidden to his mind.

Nezumi peers over the countertop and finds Shion’s shiny dress shoes kicked off against the side of the heavy coffee table. A fogged-up plate cover rests atop the table, laid upon a dish towel to protect the lacquer, and Nezumi abandons foraging for a bowl to investigate. He spots a tuft of white against the dark gray of the couch and realizes that Shion is not sleeping in the bedroom after all.

The couch isn’t long enough for him to stretch out, so Shion is curled on his side in the fetal position, half of his face pressed so snugly into one of the throw pillows that Nezumi suspects he’ll have the lines and seams imprinted on his cheek when he wakes. The top few buttons of Shion’s shirt are undone, as are the buttons at his wrists, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the pale skin of his arms. Nezumi’s gaze traces the edges of the red scar wending its way around Shion’s neck, following its path until it slips beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks peaceful, and Nezumi feels some of the tension ebb out of his head and shoulders as he studies the sleeping man.

It’s odd to think of him—them—that way, as a “man.” On the road, Nezumi always remembered Shion as he had been: cute and heartbreakingly earnest, with his fluffy white hair, big brown eyes, and even bigger ideas. Nezumi had found him equal parts endearing and maddening. But the years have shaped Shion into a man of consequence and elegance.

When he walks into a room, the gravity shifts in his direction; Nezumi’s seen it on televised programs and in person. People are drawn to Shion like bees to a brilliant flower, and Nezumi has never seen someone who’s able to resist Shion’s easy charm; everyone caught in conversation with him leaves smiling and murmuring praises, no exceptions.

Nezumi always joked about Shion being royalty, but he never imagined Shion might actually become No. 6’s new era prince. Calling him Your Highness and Your Majesty seem less like teases now than his actual titles.

But Nezumi doesn’t call Shion those nicknames anymore. The first time he slipped into his old habit, Shion had given him such a look that Nezumi almost excused himself from Karan’s bakery and skipped town again. Apparently, being part of the Restructural Committee has made Shion painfully conscious of how tyrannical governments can be, and he will no longer tolerate Nezumi referring to him as No. 6’s ruler, even in jest.

That’s new: being deferential to Shion. Nezumi isn’t sure whether he’s so cautious because he’s changed enough that he cares about getting into—and staying in—Shion’s good graces, or if it’s that Shion has just become that much more intense.

Shion’s always been too much for him to handle: too warm, too stubborn, too bright, too naive. Too human. The winter they spent together in the underground room was the happiest and most terrifying winter of Nezumi’s life. West Block taught him never to get attached to anything, because he never knew when it would be snatched from him. Nezumi didn’t know how to throw Shion away, and he didn’t know how to keep him safe, so every moment they spent together was like slowly drowning.

The time away from each other has worked wonders on Nezumi’s emotional growth, and he had thought he was ready to come back and face Shion as equals, but Shion is still too much for him. The important difference between now and then, however, is that Nezumi doesn’t want to run from the challenge. He doesn’t need to fight to live anymore and Shion certainly doesn’t need his protection, so that leaves them free to be human together.

Only, Nezumi is still learning how to fully be himself in front of someone he actually wants to see every day. A transient life doesn’t give one much practice on building lasting relationships. But he’s working on it, and this new, grown-up Shion doesn’t seem to be in a rush to prise him apart.

A yellow sticky note is stuck to the top of the plate cover, and when Nezumi cranes his head to read the cramped script, a smile steals over his face. The note says, “Wake me up before you eat!” The words “wake me up” are darkened and underlined several times, a warning that this isn’t a request; it’s an order.

Nezumi has ignored Shion’s verbal instructions to wake him many times before, so he’s not sure why Shion thinks emphatic notes are going to have more weight. God knows Shion needs the sleep. He’s up at 5:00 a.m., works until the sun is far below the horizon, only to come home and continue working. If he passes out on the couch from exhaustion, Nezumi figures he shouldn’t mess with the natural order of things.

But, well… Shion did invite him over, and tonight Nezumi is feeling like a little company.

So, he muses to himself, how should I go about this?

One time, he woke Shion by dropping a stack of books on the table. He thought it would be funny to see him jump at the loud noise, but Shion screamed instead, scaring the shit out of them both. Shion was surly with him for the rest of the afternoon, but he paid Nezumi back the next morning by sneaking into his room at the bakery at the ass-crack of dawn and dumping an armful of paperbacks onto Nezumi’s head before he skipped off to work. That was some cold-served revenge Nezumi hadn’t expected and wouldn’t soon forget.

Tonight, Nezumi decides he’d rather wake Shion gently, so as to avoid any vengeful repercussions.

He reaches for Shion’s shoulder and gives him a light shake. A low groan of resistance rumbles in Shion’s throat and Nezumi gives him another nudge. “Shion. You asked for this, remember?”

Shion’s brow creases and he burrows his face deeper into the pillow, until all Nezumi can see is the mess of his sleep-mussed hair. Nezumi’s mouth twitches. Cute.

The mischievous part of his brain tells him to blow in Shion’s ear, but the rational side knows better. Nezumi slips his fingers into the soft strands of Shion’s hair and gives it a ruffle. It’s criminally soft and warm against his winter-chilled fingers.

“Wake up, Shion,” Nezumi whispers, combing the snowy locks behind his ear. “I’m hungry.”

Finally, Shion lifts his head and squints at him. “Mm. Hey. Did you just get here?” he manages, just before a huge yawn claims him.

Nezumi slides his fingers once more through Shion’s downy hair while he’s too sleepy to really notice, then folds his arms over his chest.

Shion sits up and stretches his legs out in front of him, bumping his feet against the base of the coffee table. “How was work?”

Nezumi screws his mouth to the side, but his headache has dissipated and he can’t drum up the level of annoyance he felt on the walk over, so he answers with a blasé, “Fine. Everyone still sucks.”

Shion flashes him a quick, sleepy smile and nods at the table. “I made dinner.”

Nezumi plucks the fogged-up plate cover off the dish and discovers dinner is chili. “Finally got around to using that crockpot, huh?”

“It was really easy to make. You just throw the ingredients in there and time does the rest.”

“Mhm…. You know you’re supposed to refrigerate this, or keep it in the pot until it’s ready to be served?”

Shion shrugs. “It hasn’t been out that long.”

“It’s gone cold. How long have you been sleeping on the couch? Do you even know what time it is?” Nezumi glances over at the microwave clock.

Shion slants a look at him. “Time to stop being mean to me. I just woke up from a nap, and you know how I get when I’m woken up from a nap.”

Nezumi feigns a cringe. “Yes. All too well.” He takes the bowl and crosses the room to pop it in the microwave. 

When he turns back around, he finds Shion tidying the living room, heaping the dish towel, the plate cover, and his fancy work shoes into his arms before moving to the kitchen table for his tie and bag. He still looks half asleep. Nezumi leans back against the counter and watches Shion stumble around in the half light, his hands full of his mess.

For all that Shion has grown, he’s still very much the boy Nezumi remembers: soft and effortless and searching. Teenaged Nezumi had been a fortress, but Shion’s goodness always fleet-footed its way up the ramparts.

Shion’s quiet tenacity used to scare him. Now it feels like a blessing that someone cares enough to try to breach his walls. If Nezumi hadn’t had the memories of Shion’s warmth through the lonely nights of travel, he wasn’t sure what paths he would have taken, or if the journey would ever have led him back to No. 6.

Shion catches him staring and pauses on the other side of the island counter. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I haven’t made a sound.”

“Your eyes are laughing at me.”

Nezumi snorts. “My, we really are in a bad mood, aren’t we?”

Shion’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Today was…long.” He shifts the heap he has collected in his arms and turns to the dining table, weighing his chances of success should he try to add the paper-laden briefcase to his horde.

“You should go to bed,” Nezumi says. “You look one object away from crumpling to the floor. I’ll clean up and leave once I’m done with eating.”

“No, I want to have dinner with you tonight. That’s why I invited you over. I just…” Shion hums in thought, still sizing up the briefcase. He clicks his tongue. “Oh, never mind. I give up,” Shion huffs, and dumps the collection in his arms onto the far end of the table to be fussed over at a time when he has more brain power to deal with it.

Nezumi chuckles, and turns to the beeping microwave to retrieve his food.

Shion settles himself in his designated chair, and Nezumi takes up the seat across from him.

“Where’s your bowl?” Nezumi asks. “You said you wanted to eat dinner with me.”

“Hm? Oh…” Shion colors slightly. “Right, well… I was hungry when I got home, and it was a while before you were supposed to come over, so I already ate.”

Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “And you were asleep before I even got here. I wonder why I came over at all. These are not the actions of a host looking forward to his guest.”

“I was looking forward to you coming over,” Shion insists. “I would have called you to cancel, if I wasn’t. And falling asleep was not on purpose.”

“It was on purpose enough that you had the forethought to leave a note to wake you up.”

Shion has no defense for that, apparently, and drops his gaze to the steam rising from the chili bowl. Nezumi bites down on a smile.

“I can make a small bowl for myself, if you want to eat together,” Shion offers, but Nezumi waves him off.

“Just keep me company and I’ll consider you forgiven.”

The chili is delicious, the perfect balance of spices and liquid consistency. But then, it’s Karan’s recipe, so of course it’s perfect.

When Nezumi first arrived in No. 6, he stayed in a room on the cusp between what used to be West Block territory and Lost Town. He remained there, alone, for a week, fussing over when and where and how he would announce to Shion he was back. He finally resolved upon visiting Karan first, since she was the mini boss in this situation.

Karan hugged him before he even finished reintroducing himself, and things snowballed from there. A month later, Nezumi found himself moved into Shion’s old room in the Lost Town bakery and having family dinners with Karan, Shion, Inukashi, baby Shionn, and occasionally Rikiga. The warm family atmosphere is at once disorienting, uncomfortable, and deeply satisfying. Being part of a greater whole appeals to a part of himself that Nezumi hadn’t even realized he had been missing.

The biggest perk of living with Karan, however, is that Nezumi has his pick of the most delicious foods and pastries imaginable. Nezumi has experienced some extremely novel, odd, and mouth-watering cuisines while traveling abroad, but Karan’s cooking could compete with the best of them. She makes simple things, comfort food, but every recipe is executed perfectly, and Nezumi would take common food made well over fancy dishes any day.

Shion rests his chin in his hand and says nothing as Nezumi eats. He looks more alert now. The glossy film of sleep has faded from his eyes, and Shion’s gaze is back to its usual level of penetrating. Shion’s ability to stare like he can see past all your bullshit directly into your soul hasn’t changed one bit. In fact, being a member of No. 6’s governing body seems to have made his perceptions more astute.

This is both a comfort and a cause of deep uneasiness.

“You must like it,” Shion says, “because you’re not saying anything.”

Nezumi spoons another bite into his mouth and chews on that comment. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating. It sounds like you think I only talk to criticize.”

Shion straightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fishing for compliments, then?” Nezumi shrugs a shoulder. “Alright. Karan’s recipe is really delicious. You must give her my praises.”

Shion turns face away and shakes his head, but Nezumi still catches the curve of his incredulous smirk. Nighttime sparring is Nezumi’s preferred type, because Shion is usually too tired to win.

“Deliver the praises yourself,” Shion says. “You live there, not me.”

“I compliment Karan all the time. But I don’t think it means as much coming from me.”

“It means a lot. Mom loves you.”

Nezumi hums a sound of assent and decides to be civil and ask, “How was your day, then?”

“Fine.” Shion leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Everyone still sucks.”

Nezumi points his spoon at him. “Touché.”

Shion laughs lightly, but a moment later his face sours and he sighs. “Talking about work after work is depressing. Can we talk about something better?”

“I would love to, but I don’t think either of us do much else but work and read, Shion. And last time I tried to discuss literature with you over dinner, you told me to stop.”

Shion leans his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together, his expression serious. “You were playing devil’s advocate too much. I don’t get why people do that. If we’re having a discussion about something, I want to know your opinion, not an opposing opinion for opposition’s sake. And if it is actually your opinion, then don’t hide behind ‘playing devil’s advocate.’ Just be honest about it; otherwise, you come off as an uppity snob, parroting views that aren’t even yours just to pick a fight.” 

“…I feel like you’ve been sitting on that diatribe for quite some time.”

“I was thinking about it all week,” Shion admits. “People in the office do it, too, all the time, and it drives me crazy.”

Nezumi nods his head slowly. “Duly noted. Anything else you’ve been stewing on that you want to share?”

Shion’s expression goes quiet. His interlaced fingers tense, but he holds Nezumi’s gaze and says lightly, “No. That’s it.” 

The temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Okay… That’s concerning. Nezumi focuses on scraping the last remnants of chili from his bowl to mask his confusion. What did Shion have on his mind that he didn’t want to share?

Did I offend him?

Shion hasn’t seemed irritated or guarded around him lately, but then Nezumi doesn’t know him as well as he used to. Shion’s basically a politician now and is well-versed in evading uncomfortable questions and bending truths. But even though Shion has gained some important networking skills, he hasn’t changed that much in essentials; he’s still straightforward and fiercely opinionated. If Nezumi pisses him off, Shion lets him have it right then and there. So whatever it is, it’s a touchy enough subject that even Shion balks at mentioning it.

Does he want me to back off?

Nezumi’s stomach twists, and his appetite shrinks in the shadow of his thoughts. It’s barely been any time at all since Shion welcomed him back. He couldn’t be sick of him yet… Right?

Nezumi knew reuniting with Shion wouldn’t be seamless. They would have to relearn each other; they’re different now, and there’s no pretending that difference away when they’re in close quarters with one another. He had expected anger and hurt when he and Shion finally faced each other again, but Shion has shown him nothing but warmth. Shion’s emotions are more muted at twenty-four years old than they were at sixteen, but he is no less gracious or willing to throw open his home to Nezumi again.

Nezumi had been grateful for the warm welcome. It was proof that Shion still wanted him around, but he also recognizes that Shion’s willingness to try again merely meant Nezumi had gotten his foot in the door.

Nezumi knows very well he’s on probation.

The seven years of separation that had brought Nezumi so much clarity had apparently caused Shion a lot of pain. Nezumi has picked up enough from Karan and Inukashi to piece together the broken picture of Shion’s life in the first four years of their separation: anxiety, depression, periods of simmering misdirected anger. As happy as Shion’s friends and family are that Nezumi made good on his promise and returned—as happy as Shion claims to be—they have reservations about letting him slip back into Shion’s life. They want definitive proof that he’s here to stay, and will not make a ruin of Shion’s feelings a second time.

Nezumi thought he gave Shion that proof when he agreed to move in with Karan. He thought he’s shown his dedication through the family dinners, and casual conversations, and solicitude for Shion’s personal space over the last few months, but maybe he’s growing too slowly for it to work. Maybe for all the progress Nezumi has made he isn’t enough for Shion anymore.

In West Block, Shion needed him; he was marooned and uncertain, and Nezumi was his only support and source of information. But Nezumi isn’t Shion’s whole world now. Shion has work, and friends, and a mother who loves him, and he’s gotten by just fine while they were apart. Maybe he’s realized that Nezumi no longer fits into his life the way he used to.

“Nezumi? What’re you thinking about?”

Nezumi glares down into his empty bowl. He never wants to return to the angry, caged person he had been, but sometimes he remembers what a bitter hell it is to care about another person, and he wishes he could push away the feelings instead of letting them burn through him.

“Nezumi?” Shion reaches across the table and pokes his bowl with the tip of his pointer finger. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just thinking about what you said earlier, about being honest.” Nezumi pushes out his chair and stands. “Easier said than done sometimes.”

He takes the bowl to the kitchen sink and begins to wash it. Midway through soaping the spoon with the sponge, he hears Shion’s soft footfalls on the tile behind him. His presence pricks at the back of Nezumi’s neck like heat, but he keeps his attention on the sink.

“You can use the dishwasher, you know….”

“Old habit,” Nezumi answers. He rinses the spoon off, places it in the drying rack, and moves on to the bowl.

Stupid, Nezumi curses himself. Old habits indeed. He’s too old to be covering his insecurity with fits of pique.

And what is he so upset about, anyway? Shion hasn’t said he’s unhappy or he wants him to leave. He could be hiding something entirely different—he could be hiding nothing at all. Maybe Shion’s just tired. Maybe they’re both very tired and being weird for no reason and everything will settle itself in the morning.

Nezumi scrubs the bowl until the brilliant blue of the glass is completely eclipsed by soap.

“I made you mad,” Shion says like a revelation. “Why?”

Why? Nezumi doesn’t have to do any deep meditation on the question. He’s upset because he has feelings now and everything is inconvenient. Every one of Shion’s smiles makes him hopeful, and every frown and cautious reply sends his mind into a paranoid spiral. And although he’s in tune enough with his emotions now to acknowledge what he’s feeling, his stubborn pride is still an obstacle to expressing them.

So here he is, acting like a spoiled child about something that isn’t even confirmed.

Nezumi splashes a bit of water over the bowl and drops it onto the bottom of the sink with suds still clinging to the rim. He scrubs the water from his hands with a cloth and faces Shion.

“I’m not mad,” Nezumi mutters. “I’m…” Off balance. Terrified. Utterly inept. “Confused,” he hedges.

Shion bites his lip, his dark eyes wide and searching, and Nezumi tries not to sound like too much of an insecure fool when he says, “You lied to me just now. There’s something on your mind.”

Annnnd, now I sound accusatory. Nice. Shion doesn’t answer immediately and it makes the moment so much worse. 

Why did he have to be a masochist and call him out? He should have ignored the awkwardness and enjoyed Shion’s company instead. If Shion is uncertain of their relationship, he could have used tonight to convince him it’s worth giving them another chance. Instead, he’s forced Shion to tip his hand.

With every silent second that passes, Shion looks more uncomfortable and Nezumi wants to crawl out of his skin. He can’t stand the nervous tilt to Shion’s expression. Nezumi turns back toward the sink and runs the water over the bowl again, just to have a reason to escape Shion’s gaze, no matter how transparent.

“I didn’t want to bring it up yet,” Shion says softly behind him. The words trace a line of cold down Nezumi’s spine. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and I didn’t—” Shion pauses and clears his throat.

The bowl is clean, but Nezumi keeps the water running, staring down at the stream and dissociating while he waits for Shion to deliver the critical blow.

“It’s only been a few months, and I know you’re still settling in at Mom’s,” Shion continues. “I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”

Pressure? Nezumi’s racing heart makes it very difficult to think properly, but he vaguely realizes Shion’s words are a strange lead up to telling him to hit the road.

Nezumi flicks the faucet off and half turns to peer at him. Shion straightens when their eyes meet and a combination of relief and agitation flits over his face before falling into a guilty sort of apprehension.

“I was afraid,” Shion says. “I didn’t want to scare you away when things have been going so well.”

“Scare me away…how?” Nezumi is thankful he’s such an accomplished actor, because it allows him to deliver the question with completely calm curiosity. Internally, he is a mess of electricity. Shion doesn’t want to scare him away, which means Shion wants to keep him close. His heart is pounding so hard his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Shion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then turns his burning face aside and fixes his eyes on the front door. He’s raking his thumbnail so deeply and incessantly against the second knuckle of his pointer finger that he seems in danger of rubbing the skin raw.

“I wanted to ask…” Shion mumbles to the door, “whether you might consider…staying here.”

Nezumi drums his fingers quietly on the counter but otherwise stays very still as he probes, “Here as in…?”

“Here. My house.”

The faucet releases an errant drop into the sink; the faint plop is thunderous in the silence stretched taut between them. Nezumi clears his throat and turns his body the rest of the way to face Shion straight on. Shion glances at him sidewise, probably trying to read his expression, but as Nezumi is keeping his face carefully devoid of emotion, Shion will get nothing.

Nezumi leans back, crosses his arms across his chest, and asks as casually as humanly possible, “You want me to stay over tonight?”

He’s pretty sure Shion doesn’t mean anything suggestive by it, considering they are not romantically involved anymore—yet?—but even as a platonic invitation it makes Nezumi’s breath catch in his throat.

Shion eyes Nezumi up and down, and although he knows Shion’s probably just trying to get a read on him, a flash of heat skitters over Nezumi’s skin. He shifts fractionally and Shion’s eyebrows twitch up in equal measure. Shion stops pretending to be fascinated with the door, and Nezumi has a sense that he’s given something crucial away.

“No. Well—not exactly,” Shion says. “I want you to move in with me.”

Nezumi’s mind sticks.

Move in. Shion isn’t trying to get rid of him. In fact, Shion isn’t tired of him at all. He wants to live with him again.

Which is…terrifying? Exciting? Baffling and blessed and wholly unexpected. Nezumi isn’t sure how to feel about this sudden invitation, because he hasn’t belonged somewhere in years. He had never thought he was the type to stay put.

Until Shion.

His whole impetus for slowing down and returning was Shion. They’ve been stuck in each other’s orbits since they were twelve years old, and Nezumi has finally reached the point where he’s ready to submit to the gravity of them. But that’s a two-way street, and Nezumi expected he would have to match Shion’s patience if he ever had a chance of winning him back. If he and Shion ended up together, this time it wouldn’t be an arrangement of convenience or necessity; it would be because they had chosen to build a life side by side.

And Shion is asking me to live with him again.

Nezumi realizes he’s been silent too long when Shion starts twitch and flutter, a telltale sign he’s about to launch into a nervous ramble. God, Nezumi is so grateful time hasn’t trained that quirk out of him.

“I know it’s kind of… Kind of quick, maybe?” Shion babbles. “And maybe it’s a little backwards, since we’re not…together anymore, yet, and people usually move in after they’re already together, but…” He flushes, but pushes through the stumble quickly. “But we’ve done it before, and it worked then, and I think it will work just as well now. Better, even. We’re older, and we both know what we want out of life—and each other.”

Not the most coherent speech, but Nezumi agrees with all the sentiments. Even so, he finds himself asking, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Maybe it’s a dumb question in light of Shion’s confession, but Nezumi has to ask it. He has to hear the answer in order to quell the doubts bubbling up from the darkest parts of his mind, the parts that have grown quieter as he’s grown, but still whisper he’s not worth it, that he’s twisted and broken and taints any goodness that comes his way.

“I’m sure,” Shion says. “I’ve thought a lot about it and I realized something.” He takes a deep breath and stares directly into Nezumi’s eyes as he says, “I don’t need you anymore, Nezumi. I can get on just fine without you; I know that. But I want you in my life. And it seems like you want that too?”

“Yes.” Nezumi’s answer lacks Shion’s conviction, but it’s alright; Shion knows him well enough to realize he wouldn’t agree to something so serious if he isn’t committed. “I would like that.”

Shion releases a small breath. “So it’s a yes?” He slides a bit closer along the counter. “You’ll move in? You don’t have to. I know it’s fast and you’re used to being alone. I won’t be offended if you need more time.”

“I don’t. I’ve had plenty of time to think too, you know.”

“Right,” Shion laughs lightly. “Okay. Good.”

Nezumi and Shion smile at each other in the wake of their new understanding. Despite the wintry draft slipping in under the front door, the kitchen feels warm.

Too warm.

“I’m not as clean as you,” Nezumi blurts. Moving in together is fun in theory and Nezumi definitely wants to, but it’s only fair he be upfront about what Shion’s about to get stuck with.

Shion’s smile is incandescent. “I know. It’s fine.”

“And I’m told I still kick in my sleep.”

“I have a queen bed now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I shower in the mornings, and it takes at least twenty minutes, so you’ll have to factor that in when you get up for work.”

“I shower at night, so I think it’ll be fine.” Shion pauses. “But twenty minutes is a long time. What do you do in there for so long?”

Nezumi ignores the question and launches into his next point. “You’re going to need more bookcases. At least two more. I have a shit ton of books; they barely fit in my room as it is.”

Shion glances at his back wall. “I’ve been meaning to buy more anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

A million other things, but Nezumi decides that’s enough for the moment. Shion’s eyes are wide and full of laughter and the bit of scar peeking out from his unbuttoned collar is all of a sudden very distracting.

“You better not change your mind about this,” warns Nezumi. “Once I move in, I’m not leaving again.”

Shion’s eyes flash. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Nezumi can’t help but smile when he answers, “A promise.”

Shion lifts his chin and nods, evidently pleased. They regard each other shyly for a moment before Shion decides to diffuse the tension by announcing they’re going to watch a movie.

Ten minutes in and Nezumi pretends not to notice when Shion’s head starts to nod. Twenty minutes in, and Shion is back to being face-down on the throw pillow. Nezumi abandons the movie-watching farce and watches Shion sleep instead.

This is what I’m signing up for, Nezumi thinks, shaking his head. Night after night of Shion asleep and defenseless on the couch. He cards his fingers through the fluffy white hair at the nape of Shion’s neck.

He can hardly wait.

#no6 #no.6 #no. 6 #no 6 #pigeonsimba #crowmunculus #no6secretsanta #fanfiction #submission