#fic notes

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Brendon’s therapist told him to get a roommate.

He’s an orthopaedic surgeon on a six figure salary so it’s not like he needs the money. But his therapist says he’s lonely and that he shies away from emotional intimacy and meaningful connections.

Brendon thinks it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t pay the guy for nothing. Besides, the other option presented to him had been dating, which was never happening in a million years.

In comparison, the whole roommate schtick seemed to be the most low-effort, low-commitment of them all.

He works an easy 60 hours a week. He’s only ever really home to eat or sleep, and if he really hates the idea of having a roommate, he can just ask them to leave and return any unused rent back to them.

So, he puts out an ad online for a roommate. He lives close to the hospital — Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, or PTMC for short. He doesn’t really need the rent, so he advertises for well below market rate, and he specifies that he’ll only accept fellow a medical professional as a roommate. Ideally, they’ll also work at PTMC given he’s only a ten minute drive from the hospital, but he’s happy to take someone that works at UPMC Mercy or Presbyterian seeing as he lives relatively close to all three.

The important thing for Brendon is that they work as much as he does and that they appreciate the need for a quiet, calm home after the chaos of a 12 to 16 hour shift.

This is how he meets one Emma Nolan, a newly registered nurse set to start at PTMC in a few weeks.

She’s bright eyed, sweet, and bubbly. She tours the apartment with a keen eye that tells Brendon she’s lived in a shit hole or two whilst at college. She checks that his dryer works, which he tries not to be offended by, and she turns on all the lights and runs the water in the en-suite bathroom attached to what would become her bedroom.

She puts it all back meticulously, and Brendon makes a mental note to try and snag her for the surgical nursing team on his floor at the first chance he gets.

PTMC had decided long ago that newly registered nurses needed experience elsewhere in the hospital before being put in the pressure cooker of the operating room, where the stakes were higher and the doctors were less forgiving.

Brendon didn’t necessarily disagree with the policy, but now he’s starting to wish for a loop hole he can abuse to poach her early.

miles fairchild x reader

pt 2/5

warnings: kissing / making out, rainstorm scenes, sneaking around, mild angst, lots of fluff (maybe slight smut..????), teasing + flirting, chaotic behavior, in-character miles (soft for reader), found family vibes, flora being flora, ms. kate trying her best.

a/n: so… here’s part two. i actually already have this whole fic written out in my notes, i just kinda panicked before posting today and wasn’t sure if i should even share it 😭 the first part didn’t get a ton of attention, which is fine, but it made me feel a little weird about posting the rest.

i’m still figuring out how i want to put it all together on here, so i’m just taking it slow. this part ended up softer and rainier than i meant, and for some reason flora keeps catching them… like constantly. i guess that’s just her energy.

anyway, if anyone is reading this, thank you. i’m mostly just posting it because it’s been sitting in my notes forever and i kinda want it out in the world. <3

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the storm got worse as the night went on—rain hammering the windows now instead of tapping. the house felt too still, too awake somehow, like it was holding its breath. miles had been pacing a little, restless in that way he always was when something inside him felt too loud to keep contained.

i was still in his hoodie—he’d given up pretending he minded—and he kept glancing at me like i was the only solid thing in the house.

he stopped suddenly, eyes flicking toward the window, then back to me.

“come on,” he said quietly, that mischievous tilt to his voice. “let’s get out of here.”

“in this?” i asked, pointing toward the downpour.

he grinned, grabbing my hand. “exactly in this.”

we slipped out of his room and down the hall, quiet as we could. the house moaned under the wind, but otherwise it was silent. miles pushed open the back door, and the cold rain hit us immediately—sharp, wild, waking.

we stepped outside, and it felt like the world shrank to just darkness, rain, and him. his hair was already dripping, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, but he didn’t seem to care.

“you’re insane,” i laughed, though my voice was already softening around him.

“you like that about me,” he replied, stepping closer, rain running down his cheekbones. “don’t pretend you don’t.”

i rolled my eyes, even as my heart thumped harder. “maybe. a little.”

miles smirked, that slow, knowing one that always made my stomach flip. he lifted a hand to my cheek, thumb brushing away rain—or maybe he was pretending it was just rain so he didn’t have to admit he was touching me on purpose.

“you’re freezing,” he murmured.

“so are you.”

“yeah,” he said, leaning in, “but i don’t mind if it’s you.”

his forehead touched mine first, gentle despite the storm. the rain pattered against us, loud and wild, but his voice stayed low.

“i’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admitted.

before i could tease him about that, he kissed me—soft at first, barely there, just warm breath and cold rain. no rush, no push. just his lips moving against mine like he’d memorized the shape of them long before he got the courage to try.

his hands slid to my hips, pulling me a little closer, and i curled my fingers into the front of his soaked hoodie, tugging him down again. another kiss—firmer this time, but still slow. still careful. still him.

the storm felt distant. the house felt miles away. it was just us.

until—

“miles?”

we both froze.

flora stood under the doorway, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes wide but not frightened—more… confused. curious. the way she always looked at us when she caught something she wasn’t meant to see.

miles huffed a small laugh under his breath, pressing one last quick kiss to my cheek before pulling back.

“go back inside, flora,” he said gently, not sharp like he was with everyone else. “you’ll catch a cold.”

she looked between us, then smiled in that eerie almost-too-knowing way she sometimes had.

“you two are being very strange,” she said simply.

miles rolled his eyes. “yeah. that’s kind of our thing.”

i squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back—warm despite the rain, steady despite everything.

flora padded back inside, leaving the door cracked open. miles looked at me again, rain dripping off his lashes, breath warm against the cold air.

“where were we?” he asked, voice low.

i laughed, stepping closer, brushing a raindrop off his jaw.

“i think you remember.”

“good,” he whispered, leaning in once more, “because i’m not done with you yet.”

Basically, man was always a transmigrator but legitimately had no idea (possibly because of how he died but Im working out the minor details here)

He was a PIDW fanartist with a similarly evil uncle that's tried to kill him and is in prison for it, but because of one attempt when he was young he's an amputee

As a fanartist he was generally regarded as PIDW's most popular because of the passion he put in all his pieces, though people frequently questioned why he drew Shang Qinghua the rat traitor so damn much.

Spamton checked his watch for what must have been the fortieth time, wondering how much longer Vivienne intended to chat with that impossibly beautiful but severe woman. She was always frowning and impeccably dressed, but he could never remember her name. Something with a C, he was fairly certain.

Interesting taste the Queen had.

After fourteen hours of meetings, his eyes had given up any real hope of staying open, and he suspected he might simply fall asleep standing up, right there in the car park with his briefcase still in hand.

Being a big important person drained your soul, scooped it out with a tiny silver spoon and served it to people who wouldn't even remember your name. At least the spoon was nice. Pity about the soul, really.

A yawn overtook him so completely that the briefcase found its own way to the asphalt, freeing both hands to brace against the Cungadero, letting his faithful friend take the weight of his body without complaint. He'd been awake for twenty hours. Twenty hours of handshakes and small talk and remembering which fork to use.

Bodies did strange things when you pushed them past their limits, they forgot how to stand, how to think, how to keep the blood from rushing somewhere inconvenient the moment you pressed against something familiar. Entirely indifferent to his suffering, or so Spamton assumed until the Cungadero’s doorhandle caught the fabric of his trousers.

A finger hooking into his belt loop and tugging him closer. His body decided that still wasn't enough, pressed was better than leaning, friction was better than stillness, and he found himself rolling forward once, experimentally grinding against the door panel that sent a jolt through him so sharp he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

What the hell he thought he was doing, rutting against his own car while Vivienne could appear at any moment. Although, to be fair, she probably wouldn't be entirely surprised. She knew, from Spamton’s own mouth no less, that he’d given himself a hickey with a vacuum cleaner as a teenager.

It was pathetic, grinding against a door handle in darkness while his business partner chatted away inside. The knowledge of his own absurdity should have killed the arousal dead in its tracks but instead it seemed to feed it, because here he was, doing it again, much slower this time, letting the metal ridge drag along the length of him. Wishing the door handle would curl fingers around him and squeeze.

Look at you, Spamton told himself. Twenty hours in a boardroom and this is what you do with the first minute alone?

And the truly ridiculous thing was that he'd been meaning to see a doctor about this. Weeks now, he’d been telling himself it was stress, the insomnia, the shrimp cocktail dinners that passed for nutrition. Nothing had stirred below the belt in so long he'd started to blame the endless cortisol.

Yet here he was. Exhausted and starved. And hard as a gearshift.

The Cungadero finally released the lock for its owner. Spamton preferred to imagine the car was letting him in because it wanted him inside, had been waiting all day just like he had, patient and ready to receive him. Whether entering a vehicle could be compared to entering a cathedral was a difficult question, but the hush that greeted him felt holy enough to count.

Both left you alone with your sins in the dark.

“Eccomi, amore mio. I know, I know, I left you out here in the cold. Let me make it up to you.”

I’d drive you to the coast, Spamton thought, one hand drifting to his belt. I’d take you apart on an empty road where no one could hear us. Every bolt, every wire, every hidden thing inside you that no one else has ever touched. I’d push you until the speedometer begged.

His fingers found their target through the fabric and he groaned against the wheel.

Or I’d simply climb into your back seat and show you what a man can do with nothing but desperation and a very, very patient automobile.

Slowly, he slipped two fingers into the air vent, past the first knuckle, then the second, feeling the cool plastic grip him. “So tight,” he breathed. “you'd squeeze me just like this, wouldn't you? I'd have to work for it. I'd make it worth your while.”

You'd let me do anything. You're so good. So patient. So fucking beautiful just sitting here waiting for me to come back.

He let himself moan, imagining the Cungadero was the one touching him, the seatbelt tightening across his chest like a lover's arm. The car took every whimper he gave, swallowed them, asked for more, greedy thing that it was.

Spamton’s hips rolled forward against nothing. It’s alright. There would be so much time to think of all the other ways he could show his beloved thing exactly how devoted he was.

He'd barely begun to imagine what else his tesoro might let him do, how loudly it might purr, when his phone rang.

Mike’s name burned across the screen, forcing Spamton’s rhythm to stutter. Damn Mike who always sensed the exact moment Spamton was about to have something for himself.

His other hand, the one not currently occupied, twitched toward the phone on instinct, because you answered when Mike called. Mike had trained that into him, and the training didn't just vanish because your brain was foggy with want.

But the car’s leather creaked beneath him, and Spamton imagined it was protest. Jealousy. The Cungadero wanted him all to itself and resented every second his attention was elsewhere.

“Shh,” he breathed, pressing his palm flat against the dashboard, soothing. “Shh, I know, I know. He doesn't get to interrupt us. He doesn't get to have this. You're the only one who takes me this well, aren't you?”

A missed call was a conversation later, and conversations later were always worse.

“You're right... He can wait,” Spamton kissed the steering wheel's centre. “He can wait while I finish what I started with you. You've been so patient all day, haven't you? Sitting out here in the cold while I shook hands and pretended I wasn't counting the minutes until I could come back to you. You deserve my attention more than he does.”

His thumb, clumsy with haste, fumbled the phone. He was sure he didn't pick up.

After writing and working on HTML for 23 days straight, spending two months adding bells and whistles and tweets until this thing could fucking drive, and posting it for seven days, POP FEUD is finally done 😭 Realistically I have fics I’ve worked harder on writing, but this certainly felt like the most work I’ve ever put into a fic simply because HTML is not nearly as fun as writing lmao. This is my socmed magnus opus. If I ever say I want to do another socmed fic, Old Yeller me and I’m serious.

Anyway, these fic notes are beastly since the nature of the fic means a lot of things went unsaid, to the point I just could not keep track of things in one post, so this is the directory to the actual fic notes because yes, even these have to be complicated. I’m insane!! Anyway see all the fic notes posts as well as the credits for all the workskins and icons that I used and the links to the art!

This fic doesn’t have an epilogue section because I kind of already showed their epilogue is continuing to make music, climb the charts, and be gay for each other, and I’m also going to cover where the fic diverged from the original idea throughout the chapter notes this time instead of breaking it out to its own section.

Chapter 1 Notes & Playlist

Chapters 2, 3, and 4 Notes

Chapters 5, 6, 7, and 8 Notes

Credits (Workskins, Icons, and Art)

As always I had an absolute blast with the Big Bang and thank you to Tippen for all your work organizing <3

[A complete tale told in three panels]

(These are not, on their own, intended to be a coherent plot...but they will all make sense when I finally finish the fic...)

Dean makes a terrible blow job joke.

That night Dean can't sleep. Also he gets a dead animal.

& Dean's like "uh...OK.

Dean shuts down/freaks out because he's a bi disaster.

Dean manages to keep it together until Cas disappears before he collapses due to bisexuality.

Dean can't sleep again.

Dean's like "what." Gabriel's like "I was bored."

Dean deserves mashed potatoes.