“Bro, we should do something for our birthday.”
Kris frowns at Jan. “Our birthday?”
“Yeah, like—” Jan takes an inconveniently timed sip of his beer, “—like our band birthday. Anniversary.”
“Bro, that’s almost two years away.” Kris takes a drink of his own beer. The party is dying down. People are leaving. They’re both so fucking drunk they’ve lost all energy.
“Hmm, you gotta plan early.”
“What’s your plan then.”
Jan sinks deeper into the couch next to Kris. “Like, huge.”
“Hm, how huge?”
“Kardeljeva huge.”
“Heh,” Kris makes, “yeah right.”
“And with like, a theme. Sci-Fi. Or Karneval.”
Kris pushes Jan’s head away from his shoulder. He’s getting too warm. “That’s so dumb.”
“I know.” Jan slumps into the other direction. “I’m still workshopping it.”
@latinposeidon said this, I said "bet" (to myself), here we go.
Willex. 800 words. Rated T (for language).
It's—kinda become a thing. Willie pulling Alex in to kiss him by whatever he can grab of him.
At first it had just been his hand, when they were walking and Willie was getting tired, they'd gently tug at his hand, Alex would turn, and Willie would pull a little more to get him to press his lips to theirs.
Then there were obviously times where Alex had been out of reach, for whatever reason, where Willie would reach out a hand until he had been able to grab Alex's sleeve and tug at it like a toddler to get his attention, and then some more for Alex go get what Willie wanted (to be smooched, if that wasn't clear).
One time, when they were getting more comfortable in their relationship and both ultimately bolder, Willie had slipped a finger through Alex's beltloop and twisted him into his arms before pressing their lips together. If Alex wasn't so distracted by Willie kissing him senseless, he'd have melted right into the floor by the action. In the back of his mind he remembers Reggie and Julie giggling somewhere in the background.
Alex's favourite way for Willie to pull him in (until now at least) was when Willie had grabbed a handful of the front of Alex's hoodie the second they reached each other after a great gig. The kiss had been crushing, urgent (incredibly hot, if Alex could say so himself) and he thought about it for weeks. Especially because a few minutes later, when they were talking, nerves calmed a little, Willie had hooked a finger through Alex's necklace and used that to get him closer again (neither worried about breaking the necklace because there wasn't much tugging needed to get Alex to kiss Willie again).
Now there's a new competitor for "favourite way Willie uses to pull Alex in."
It's at band practice. Willie is sitting on the couch, vibing, being their biggest fan, clapping loudly after every song. They're having a small break before focusing on their newest song, and Alex walks over to the couch because he knows Willie has to leave soon to get to something. Willie is already getting up, ready to tell him their goodbyes.
"You really can't stay until the end of practice?" Alex asks with a small pout.
"You'll literally see each other tomorrow," Luke chimes in from somewhere by the piano.
"Shut up!" Alex calls back and suppresses a roll of his eyes.
Willie in front of him giggles and it immediately pulls Alex's attention back to him.
"I'll literally see you again tomorrow," Willie repeats teasingly. Their hands find Alex's waist, slowly sliding down to his hips.
This time Alex does roll his eyes, although very fondly. "God forbid I wanna spend time with my boyfriend."
"Well, the boyfriend is very sorry he has to leave now, but they promise to be back for practice tomorrow." Willie's thumb dips underneath the waistband of Alex's sweats and it's only mildly distracting. (Very mildly.)
"That is acceptable," Alex manages to respond.
"Are you gonna play Long Weekend for me tomorrow?" Willie asks. He's blinking up at Alex like he sometimes does when they're trying to convince him to do something illegal with them. Their hands slide to Alex's front and begin fiddling with the strings of his sweats. Now it's getting really distracting.
"I—I'm sure that can be arranged." Alex swallows. "I'll suggest it."
Willie smiles. "Thanks, baby."
Alex doesn't get to respond anything, just feels the tug at the strings where Willie pulls at them to pull him in. They kiss him, slow and innocently sweet, and before Alex can consider reciprocating, Willie is already pulling back.
"See you tomorrow," he says, ties a bow into the strings, pecks Alex's cheek, and then turns and exits the garage.
Alex stares after them. He feels like he left his brain somewhere around "Long Weekend".
The entire garage is silent around him.
"What did I just witness?" Luke asks.
Alex responds by slowly lowering himself to the ground.
"Gimme—gimme a sec," he announces before he's fully lying down on his back, eyes towards the ceiling.
It takes him too long to fully comprehend what just happened.
Reggie doesn't hesitate to drop down on his stomach next to him, propped up on his elbows, chin in his palms, legs kicking.
"So, how are we feeling about that?" he asks cheekily.
"I need to process this," Alex responds weakly.
Behind his eyes runs the scene he just experienced, Willie's expression, the petname, them pulling at his fucking pants' strings of all things.
"Can we expect this to be done before the end of practice?" Luke pipes up.
"Let the boy suffer," Julie says, "he just got knocked out cold by his own boyfriend."
"Do you wanna plan a revenge attack?" Reggie asks Alex, entirely too invested.
"I don't—I can't—" Alex says uselessly, still not recovered.
Have a snippet from my wip I've lovingly called "the artists's muse and his lucky star (working title)". I know one rose is supposed to be for one sentence but you'll get three paragraphs instead, who's gonna stop me??
“So you are an artist!” Jesper said triumphantly.
Wylan frowned at him. “What?”
“I—just thought you look like one,” Jesper said. He was not about to confess that he’d been comparing his freckles to the night sky and thought about kissing his eyelids.
Send me roses and I'll share snippets from this wip 👀
I'm Linden, 23, any pronouns, and here for a fun time, not a long time.
This will mostly be me reblogging things I enjoy, sometimes fandom related, or things I care about and think are important. Not always sfw but nothing explicit.
Feel free to join me :)
Follow @ljubitelj-sonca for Joker Out content (mostly sfw)
Follow @michelangelinden for Julie and the Phantoms and writing content (sfw)
Follow @stroopwafel-enthusiast for Grishaverse content (mostly sfw)
Follow @croissant-enthusiast for Tatort Saarbrücken content (sfw so far)
Read my fics on AO3 under michelangelinden (currently only for registered users until the AI shit stops)
Any racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, xenophobia or hate in general will be blocked and deleted so don't even try! If you are queer, jewish, muslim, disabled, neurodivergent, or a person of colour, I will protect you here!
Kris and Nace realise there are noises you wouldn't want to hear through hotel walls (cw: suggestive)
Kris wakes to the sound of a bed squeaking. He squints into the night, trying to locate the sound. Nace next to him is sleeping soundly—he can’t be the one causing it—but with the next loud sigh of a bedframe, he stirs awake as well.
Nace turns around. “What is that?”
“A bed?” Kris shares his guess.
“From next door?”
They both listen. It happens again. Their bed is pushed to the hotel wall and the noise seems so close.
“Probably. The rooms are mirrored.”
It had been fun to figure that out when they had gotten here—Kris stepping through the room in his first investigation and opening the balcony door at the same time as Jure to discover they’re sharing it.
Now there’s a loud swear coming from through the wall, and the bed-squeaking continues.
In the low light Kris notices Nace’s jaw fall open in sync with his own. “Are they…” Nace begins.
“I don’t know??”
The squeaking starts to get more rhythmic.
“Oh my god,” Kris exclaims quietly, “they must!”
They both laugh in disbelief.
“This is ridiculous, I can’t believe they woke us up by fucking!”
***
Jure groans. He holds tight onto the mattress with one hand while the other is fisted into the sheet.
“Fuck, more!” Jan grunts. He’s in a similar position.
Jure bends the mattress backwards a bit more. “It has to fit! It has to!”
It doesn’t take much longer for the two to let out twin shouts of relief and they let the mattress fall back down into the frame.
“My god,” Jan sighs, “that was crazy.”
Jure nods, still panting.
“I can’t be-believe it just slipped off.”
Now Jure shakes his head. “I don’t get it. Wha-why would a hotel have fitted sheets?”
Jan snorts. “Clearly not fitted enough, because they don’t fucking fit.”
“I wonder how the housekeepers do this by themselves.”
Bojan isn’t doing well. Igor had gathered that much even before the man in question had stepped into the apartment. He’s not doing well, and that’s why he’s staying with Jan for a couple days.
Igor doesn’t have a reason to complain, so he’s not going to. Bojan may be more tired than Igor is used to seeing, quieter too and somehow always on edge, but he’s still always delighted to see the cat, and still loves to cuddle him on the couch, and if anything, his pets are even more indulgent now. Maybe he hopes Igor can seep up some of the anxiety he and Jan keep talking about by petting him. Igor isn’t sure he’s able to do that, but if thinking that helps, he’ll gladly leave them in this belief.
“I wish I was a cat sometimes,” Bojan says one afternoon, his hand buried in the fluffy fur of Igor’s chest. He’s still calming down from the anxiety attack he had minutes earlier. Igor nuzzles his face into Bojan’s hand, makes himself extra heavy on his lap.
Being a cat really is nice, always. He doesn’t have to deal with all this anxiety stuff himself. And if his mere presence is enough to help calm a person down after a breakdown, then truly, what else is there to wish for?
Inspired by Nace's lovely response to who the biggest sleepyhead is from a recent interview.
Jan doesn’t let out much more than a groan before he turns over and tucks himself completely under the duvet until only a tuft of dark hair peeks out.
Jure expected this reaction to his alarm, so he ignores Jan’s lack of motivation to wake up and simply gets up to step into the bathroom. Showered and shaved, Jure approaches Jan’s bed.
“I’m done in the bathroom, it’s your turn.”
“Hrmgh.”
Jure gives what he assumes is Jan’s shoulder a little shove, before he kneels down in front of his suitcase to pick out an outfit for the day. A few tour-dates in, and it already looks a mess. Two pairs of socks have separated somehow. He should maybe invest some energy on their free day tomorrow to take care of this so he doesn’t lose anything.
Five minutes later, Jan still hasn’t moved an inch. Jure yawns. He pushes at his hotel-roommate’s ass with his socked foot. It doesn’t give him more than a grunt.
“We’re meeting for breakfast in ten minutes.”
That is followed by the longest sigh. Jure sits at the edge of his own bed to check his phone but instead watches Jan peel himself from the blankets at snail’s speed .
“What day is it?” Jan asks blearily once he has emerged from his cocoon.
“Tuesday,” Jure responds.
“We have a show today?”
“You bet we do.”
Jan nods slowly. Then he seems to have charged enough energy to get up.
By the time Jan is done in the bathroom—five minutes after they’re supposed to leave but with his eyes fully opened and a cloud of steam following him—Jure is ready to curl up in bed again. Sleepiness is pushing at the back of his eyelids.
“C’mon, Muca,” Jan announces, patting his head. All tiredness has vanished from his voice. “Before you fall asleep again.”
