#'DO NOT SCUFF THIS OR ELSE. WE DO NOT HAVE TOUCH UP PAINT FOR THIS. CUSTOMER IS EXTREMELY ANTSY TO GET THIS THING.'

[bearballing]

how difficult is it to find something to hang a sign with 2 holes to a bracket with 2 identical holes jesus christ.

[fett-djarin]

I posted this on the wrong blog omfg and i didnt realize til this morning but HI ITS PAZ TIME

Paz Vizsla x f!reader

Rating: 18+

Length: 3k Tags: Brief description of injury/blood, thigh riding, fingering, riding, multiple orgasms, creampies, cockwarming, please tell me if i missed anything!!!

NSFW under the cut!

When Paz visited, you knew you were in for a long night.

Usually a long night of steamy, messy sex that left you unable to walk straight the next day.

Tonight was a little different.

There was a heavy rap on your door that startled you awake from where you had been dozing on and off while watching holodramas. You pushed yourself up, nearly running to the door at the knock again. You pulled it open, expecting Paz, but you were surprised--it was Paz, but he had a hand pressed to his side, over the thick leather and padded cloth that covered where the beskar didn’t, and he leaned heavily against the doorframe to your apartment.

“Hey, mesh’la,” Paz greeted you, voice strained. Dark red seeped around his gloves.

“Paz!”  You grabbed his elbow, wiggling under his arm in an attempt to support some of his weight. Like you could do much for a heavy artillery Mandalorian warrior easily weighing 300 pounds with the armor on, but you would try.

You stumbled into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind you. Paz’s massive frame dwarfed your own and he leaned heavily on you, which never happened even when the big  Mandalorian showed up injured. Then again, no injury before seemed as serious as this one. He collapsed on to your couch with a groan, hand still pressed tight to the wound on his side.

You scrambled to your fresher, pulling out the medkit you kept stocked for cases like this--albeit, it was only a medkit, and you weren’t a medic or properly prepared to deal with an injury more than a shallow blaster burn. You knelt on the floor next to the couch, encouraging him to let you remove the blue-painted beskar plates, laying them aside on the floor. You frowned the blaster residue and new scuffs on them.

"Let me see." You placed your hand over his, pressed against his side.

He grunted in response.

"Let me see," you repeated, urging him to move his hand and you sucked in a tight breath at the ragged wound in the flesh of his side. "What happened?" You couldn't stop your horrified whisper.

"Vibroblade. Didn't--" he huffed. "Didn't see him behind me." His voice was raspy.

You cut away what you could of the fabric--the less damaged sections proving too thick for your little scissors. Stars, how was he still standing? It wasn't too long, but it was deep.

Paz breathed a deep sigh, seemingly relaxing into your couch.

"Hey, hey, stay awake. Paz, stay with me," you shook his arm, making him groan. "I know. But you can't sleep. Not yet."

The medkit tipped, spilling its contents across the ground. A bacta shot. It was small, not enough to close the whole wound, but enough to help. At the very least, slow the bleeding and ease the pain. It was your best starting point.

"Paz, I'm gonna give you a shot, okay? Don't punch me," you said, trying to be as gentle as possible. He hissed, large fists clenching as you administered the shot. When you smeared bacta gel along the raw edges, his heavy hand landed on your shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make you wince. The shot had slowed the bleeding like you had hoped, so the remaining gel should do the trick for the rest...so you laid a patch over it, and now all you could do was wait. A wound of that size would take a few days to heal without stronger bacta or a professional medic's care, but as long as Paz didn't die--in your apartment!--you knew he would be okay.

He better be, because how in the hells would you explain the corpse of a Mandalorian hunter on your couch.

“Fierfek,” Paz grumbled. You nudged the spilled medkit supplies out of the way with your leg, scooting closer on your knees and laying your head on his thigh, beskar cool against your cheek. Paz murmured your name. His hand came up, stroking over your hair and cheek, helmet rolled to the side so he could look at you. “Thank you.”

You caught his hand, twining your fingers together. “Of course.” You shuffled closer, so you could press your forehead to his helmet in a gentle Keldabe kiss. “Feeling better?”

“Now that the imminent threat of death has passed, yes.” Good, he must not be lying if his sarcastic dry humor was already making a reappearance. “You look good on your knees for me, mesh’la.”

“Paz.”

He chuckled, then winced as his side ached. You tutted, smoothing your hand across his chest in a soothing gesture. You could feel his eyes on you through the dark T-visor of his helmet.

“Can you blame me?” He tapped you under the chin with his forefinger, thumb rolling over your lower lip. You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, pushing to your feet and planting a kiss on his helmet. He caught you around the hips, tugging you down on top of him. You squawked in indignation, terrified of hurting him, but he maneuvered you in a way that you fell on his uninjured side, half on top of his broad body and sandwiched between him and the back of your couch.

“Don’t hurt yourself!”

“Don’t insult me, cyar’ika,” Paz chuckled. His touch swept down your spine and he palmed a handful of your ass. “Was looking forward to seeing you...not exactly like this.” You were no match for the strength of the heavy artillery Mandalorian, so you resigned yourself to your fate of cuddling. Not that you minded, but you also couldn’t help but worry over the freshly-dressed wound on his side. Instead, you settled into his side, laying your head on his chest, which was currently free of beskar--a rare occurrence outside of your bed.

He continued to massage your asscheek, occasionally dipping dangerously lower and brushing against your clothed pussy from behind. You couldn’t help but squirm against him, feeling the spark of arousal flutter to life in your belly. He hummed, pulling you tighter against him, and you were practically sprawled across his chest. One of his thick thighs pressed between yours and you bit your lip to smother your sharp gasp. Your hands curled into fists in his undershirt.

Paz hummed, adjusting his body--probably would give the excuse of getting more comfortable--but it pressed the firm muscle of his thigh harder against you. It drew a little whine from you and he chuckled darkly. He used his hold on your hips to press you down, dragging your cunt against his thigh.

“Something you like there, mesh’la?” You could hear the grin in his voice.

Paz had been so serious when you first met. Gruff, intimidating...he towered over you, and honestly scared you half to death with his looming silent warrior persona, but once you two had worked together for a bit and you grew more comfortable with each other, he turned into a giant goofball. Sometimes when he put on his serious-scary-Mandalorian front when dealing with a quarry you forgot that that was how most people knew Paz. Nobody got to see the warmth underneath.

Right now, though, the way the muscle of his thigh dragged against your clit through your pants sent sparks dancing up your spine.

“Y-you’re hurt...don’t--” your breath left you and you stuttered as he rocked your hips down.

“Guess you’ll have to be on top, then, huh?”

You felt heat fill your face, wetness pooling in your underwear. You tugged the cloth covering his neck to the side so you could suck a mark into his skin, feeling the rumble of his groan under your lips. He smelled good, something earthy and the tang of plasma and something uniquely Paz. His thick arousal pressed into your thigh as you rocked against him.

“Kiss me?” Your voice was high, far needier than you wanted to seem. You pressed your nose into his neck, rubbing your thigh against his erection, which made him buck and growl. He paused, focusing on your face, and you obediently, deliberately shut your eyes, holding still. After a few moments you felt him shift around, and then warm breath was ghosting across your face and a hot tongue traced your lower lip.

You opened for him with a whimper, and Paz immediately turned it filthy, his tongue sliding into your mouth and tasting yours, swallowing all of the sweet little noises you made. His hand curled into your hair, guiding your head to where he wanted it, lips caressing yours and deepening the kiss. It was wet, hot, and made your core ache for more.

“Please,” you whispered.

He broke away from you with a huff of laughter. He lowers his helmet back in place and taps your chin, telling you you could open your eyes. “What was that, pretty thing? You’re beggin’ already and we just got started.”

He worked his hands under the waistband of your shorts, running down the front of your panties and brushing over your clit. You moaned as he began stroking soft circles over the cloth. You whined his name when he nudged your panties to the side and ran his thick fingers through your dripping slit, teasing lightly at your entrance.

You groaned at the loss of his fingers, but he tipped them up under his helmet and your eyes snapped shut out of instinct. You knew he was licking them clean and you shuddered on top of him. He was suddenly encouraging you to lift your hips and tugged your pants and panties down in one motion. You straddled his waist, his erection now pressed right to your weeping slit and giving you some much needed friction, but still nearly not enough.

You squirmed on top of him, rocking your hips down, the cold beskar of his codpiece sending a shock through you. He chuckled at your neediness.

“Calm down, baby. Gotta get you ready first.” His deep voice purring underneath you made you clench around nothing. He pulled his gloves off, fingers returning to your cunt, dipping down to your entrance. Paz slid two knuckle-deep into your wet heat, making you whine at the stretch. Fuck, his fingers were thick. Nothing in comparison to his cock though. He always took time to get you ready for him. He would be rough anywhere else you wanted him to be, but sometimes you wished he would just sink you down on his cock and make you take it, make that stretch bite and ache that much more brightly.

You tipped forward onto his chest, mouthing at his neck as the heel of his palm ground against your clit, his fingers curling into that bright spot inside you that made your legs tremble around him.

“You’re needy. So wet for me, cyar’ika.”

Your voice wavered as you answered, “Yeah, I’m the needy one, when you came here hurt and practically pulled me on top of you as soon as--” you yelped as his large hand laid a sharp smack on your ass, massaging the sting into a radiating warmth that made you want more. His fingers pressed into you faster, your nails digging in through his undershirt. Oh, that tightness was building inside you, shivers dancing up your spine as Paz brought you higher and higher. The way the heel of his palm rolled just right against your clit was driving you towards the edge, mouth falling open with a desperate whimper.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His voice was gruff, dropped even lower and you felt the rumble of it bones-deep.

“More, more, please--” You wiggled on top of him, trying to grind your hips down just so in time with the movement of his hand. He stopped altogether and you let out a frustrated noise.

“Please, Paz, please make me cum,” you whined into his neck, biting lightly and soothing it over with your tongue. “Let me cum on your hand.”

He clicked his tongue at you, and your pussy clenched around his fingers, still inside you. “You beg so prettily. Should I let you? Or should I make you beg some more?”

You let out a desperate moan, shaking your head where your face was buried at the juncture of his shoulder. “Been good, Paz, please….”

He hummed, seemingly mulling it over. “You have been good, sweet girl.” His fingers began moving again, thrusting in and out of you at a languid pace. It wasn’t fast, but it hit that spot deep inside you that made you see stars. “Go on then. Cum on my fingers.” You let out a relieved groan, which quickly turned into a high-pitched noise when he abruptly thrust his fingers deep, grinding his hand against your clit. Oh, fuck.

He did it again, and again, picking up speed each time, until you were quivering around him. His voice was rough, low and dark in your ear, and it felt like he reached in your body and grabbed your orgasm right out of you when he demanded that you cum, now.

It spread warmth from your core, down your legs and up your back, toes curling and legs shaking. His fingers continued moving in and out of you slowly, gently working you through the waves of pleasure while you clenched around him, until you jolted, riding the fine razor’s edge of overstimulation. The obscene slick noise as he pulled his fingers from you made you whimper, core clenching around nothing.

His fingers prodded at your lips, and it was his turn to let out a moan when you took them in your mouth, licking them clean and tasting yourself. You sucked on his fingers, running your tongue along every ridge and dip like it was his cock in your mouth instead. He pulled his spit-soaked fingers from your mouth, moving down to undo his codpiece and fling it aside. “Filthy girl.”

His thick erection slid through your folds. You sighed, rolling your hips, coating him in your slick. Shit, he was big. He always made sure you were prepared beforehand, but were you ever really completely prepared? You braced yourself on your knees and lifted your hips. Paz guided himself to your soaked entrance and you sucked in a harsh breath at the first stretch around the head of his cock. You’ve taken him before, dozens of times, but each time it felt like he would never fit completely. The push of his cock through your cunt, inch by inch, made your legs begin to shake as you took him deeper. He reached that spot deep inside of you, pressed right against the patch of nerves that sent raw electricity through you. You sank down on him slowly, little fretful noises pulled from your throat, as his hands ran up and down your sides in a soothing motion.

“There you go, baby, look at that,” he breathed out as your hips came flush with his. He ran his hand down your tummy, pressing lightly just above your pubic bone, making the tight fit of his cock in you even sharper, pulling a wrecked moan from you. “Yeah? Feel me right here?” His thumb stroked teasing lines below your bellybutton, and you clenched around him, making another noise at the feeling of him so deep inside you. “Take me so well, mesh’la, fuck.”

You tentatively rocked your hips, lifting up an inch and slowly coming back down. Fuck, that feeling was devastating. You wouldn’t last long. Paz’s hands settled on your hips, encouraging you to rise up on your knees and drop back down. It started slow, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside you, but his grip became more demanding. You may have been on top, but Paz was in control; lifting and pulling you down like you weighed nothing. You leaned forward slightly, now thrusting back into him, and you almost shrieked at the new angle.

This way, each thrust of his cock in your wet heat drilled that sensitive spot inside you with deadly precision. His touch was greedy, working you faster and harder, the slick sounds of your wetness dripping out of you and coating his cock only easing the way he filled you. The sound of skin meeting skin made you pulse around him and he bit out a rough groan at a particularly tight squeeze of your pussy around him. His breathing was coming faster and you were nearly boneless in his arms, head tipped back in pleasure.

“Fuck, you gonna cum again, pretty baby?” One of his large palms gripped your ass, pressing tight enough you knew you would have five fingertip-sized circular bruises tomorrow. You nodded wordlessly, and he took the opportunity to thrust up into you, wrenching a loud moan from your throat. His other hand dipped down to rub fast little circles over your clit, pulling you roughly down into him. Sparks of electricity ran though you and you seized up tight, reaching that high and being thrown right off it. Your orgasm wracked through your entire body, pulling a sound from Paz like he had been punched as you pulsed around him, impossibly tighter.

The debilitating waves of ecstasy washed over you, making you tremble in his grasp. Paz pulled you down to his chest and wrapped his arms around you, holding you while you squirmed and shook. You bit down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and he thrust into you hard, cumming deep with a gravelly growl of your name. His warm release in you made you shudder again, clinging tightly to him. Your chest heaved, catching your breath, eyes closed with exhaustion.

“Keep your eyes closed, cyare.” Paz murmured in your ear. You nodded, cheek squished against his chest, tucked under his chin. You felt his soft lips caress your hairline, then your cheeks, and you tilted your head up for a sweet kiss to your lips. Paz shifted under you and you made a noise of discontent, clinging closer to him.

“Lay with me,” he said. His voice came filtered through the modulator, helmet back in place.

You sighed, settling in, hitching a breath at the way it shifted his cock still inside your sensitive core. “Like I could move anyway.” Good thing he was a space heater.

Paz just chuckled, wrapping his big arms around you, holding you to his chest. “Get some rest.”

“You should too,” you mumbled, closing your eyes, pressing a final kiss into his skin.

[meat--grindr]

I can request a story of Yandere Brahms with his reader, where Brahms kidnaps the reader by taking her inside the walls of the Mansion to be loved and protected. How did you come to this situation, maybe you can have a little NFSW?

Ahh, Brahms. How I love him so. I just wanted to let you know before we get into anything too serious, that this might be a little different than you were expecting, and for that I’m going to apologize right off the bat. I’ll admit I’m a massive weeb, but I never really saw the appeal of yanderes. Cringe, I know. So, I’m going to do my best here and take yandere more as ‘possessive’ if that’s alright? Also, I took some liberties with ‘kidnapping’ as you’ll see, just because I don’t want to walk too far into non-consensual territory when there’s NSFW involved. I don’t want to write anything explicitly non-consensual here, so it was a fine line to walk, but I think I found an okay solution. If this isn’t at all what you’re looking for, maybe drop me a PM and we can try to work something out? Anyway have like 5000-ish words of Brahms smut :)

Possessive (Yandere [?] Brahms (Female Reader) – NSFW

·       Standing at the foot of the stairs, you are struck, though certainly not for the first time, by the beauty of the house in which you find yourself. The golden hue of the wood which panels the walls reflect and amplify the soft glow emanating from beneath frosted glass lampshades. The diffused amber glow is cast about the room, throwing elongated shadows against the walls and into the far corners. From your place at the very bottom of the stairwell, the ceiling, now several floors above you, is lost to the early darkness of a winter evening.

·       Through the window, you can see the first soft flakes of snow drifting through the air. But here, inside, with your back braced against the newel post, you are warm. Tipping your head back, you gaze up into the yawning void above and cast your mind into it, losing yourself in daydreams of the beautiful rooms it conceals; your bedroom with its fourposter bed, all draped in velvet and silk—the dark, lacquered wood of the study, which still smells of cigar smoke, though as far as you can tell one hasn’t been lit in there for years—and, of course, the library.

·       Dark shelves line the walls, so tall they stretch from the wooden floor to the moulded ceiling. They stand, filled nearly past capacity with volumes of every shape and size, from encyclopedias so large you can lift only one at a time, to pocket novellas no bigger than your palm. Pages and spines alike, embossed with gold and silver shimmer from both the shelves and the tables set beside each of the overstuffed armchairs. The plush rug which lies beneath those tables and chairs makes even the floor a comfortable place to stretch out and lose oneself in a book. And the smell. Old leather and paper, printing ink and glue, dust and the very passage of time itself. It’s like every crooked old bookstore you’ve ever entered tucked away in a cozy corner of your own home. Whether or not you remember having dreamt of owning a private library, you were quite sure you could never go back to life without one and find yourself contented.

·       Even now, you long to curl up in one of those plush chairs and sink into another world until bedtime. You knew a soft blanket and a half-finished novel waited for you there, begging you to come back and see to them. And why shouldn’t you? What else was there to do on a chilly night such as this? The day’s chores were completed—the rat traps were checked (empty as always), the laundry was done, wood for the fire was stacked in the shed, and the supper dishes had been washed and put away. There is very little else that requires your attention. So why not?

·       Your socked feet sink into the plush, green carpeting as you mount the stairs. The banister is pleasantly cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. As you ascend, the light from below begins to dim, unable to reach any further into the darkness above. The difference made by the two flights of stairs between the lighted foyer and the dark second floor leaves you light-blinded and blinking in the shadows.

·       When again you regain your sight enough to behold it, even in partial darkness, the hallway that stretches before you is beautiful—the wooden paneling on the lower half of the walls takes on a sleek shine, while the deep green wallpaper above it fades into a stately and sober black. The paintings and portraits that line the walls are somber; muted without the proper lighting to show their colours, but they are no less impressive or imposing. A ship, barely visible, save for the canvas sails, is tossed on a rapidly darkening sea, lighting flashing far in the distance—a bright brushstroke of pure white, clear even in deep shadow. An old woman, her name rendered illegible in the gloom, stares down her nose at you in deep disapproval. Her eyes, like the rest of her, are severe and grey, and they seem, through either a trick of the light or the mastery of the painter, to follow you down the hall.

·       It is very dark. A thin, watery light filters through a small window at the end of the hall, but it does little to help guide you. You suppose you could turn on one of the many lamps that line the long and ponderous hall, but you know you can find your way just find without one. You’d spent several adventurous afternoons and many restless nights exploring the house and grounds. Though in the beginning you could barely follow the straight hall from the front door to the kitchen without getting lost, these days, you rarely, if ever, found yourself wandering the halls with no idea where you were.

·       You reach out, brushing the wallpaper with the tips of your fingers as you walk, grounding yourself in the darkness. It’s almost rough to the touch, stiff with age, though it’s clearly been well taken care of. In the daylight, there is little sign of aging at all - no scuffs or faded sections. You knew the house itself was well over a hundred years old, but it showed its age in astonishingly few places. Sure, the phones were ancient and the lack of wi-fi was irritating but—

·       Thump.

·       You freeze in place. You’re sure the sound had come from within the wall, just to the left of where you stood. There is something in there. The blood roars in your ear as you press it up against the wallpaper, straining to hear even a hint of movement, be it the shifting of the wood as the house settles, or the pitter-patter of something living. The seconds stretch on into minutes, but no further sounds come. You scrunch up your nose, feeling rather silly. It’s probably just a mouse…or maybe a rat. It sounded big. Perhaps those traps were good for something after all.

·       Your gaze lingers on the spot for a moment longer, but still, there is nothing but silence. Maybe it had been the house creaking in the wind. Old houses were prone to groaning after all. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to move some of the traps further up into the house for a little bit, just to be on the safe side.

·       You turn and continue down the hall, mind once again turning to the blanket, the book, and the comfy glow of the library. You press your palm flat against the wall as you walk, the whisper of your skin sliding over the wallpaper barely audible, even in the quiet that envelops the house at night.

·       Then your fingers catch against something—an indentation in the wallpaper. It’s subtle, but definitely there. You stop to inspect it closer, worried that perhaps your assessment about the house not showing its age may have come a little hastily. Your fingers explore the seam with care, and you decide it’s not a crack—it’s too regular, too straight. It feels intentional in its design. And it’s practically invisible in the darkness—likely just as difficult to spot in daylight considering how frequently you find yourself in this hall and your failure to take notice of it before now.

·       You crouch down, following the seam with your fingers. It stretches all the way down to the floor. Why…it’s almost like…a little door…

·       Almost at the same moment this thought trickles into your mind, the little section of wall gives way beneath your touch, swinging inward on silent hinges.

·       From within the inky darkness beyond, a pair of long, thin arms surge forth, snaking around your waist. The grip in which they envelop you is bruising as you are pulled back into the darkness beyond the secret door.

·       It slams behind you hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hall. You scream, long and hard, struggling against the arms that cage you. You flail your limbs, lashing out blindly with fists and feet and nails, hoping desperately to strike your attacker, or at least wriggle enough to squirm from their crushing grasp. But the grip around your midsection only tightens, squeezing the very air from your lungs.

·       You lurch into motion, the figure in the darkness half-carrying, half-dragging you along a narrow passageway. You try to scream again but find you can’t get enough air to do so. Instead, you lash out, legs kicking against the walls, knees and shins colliding painfully with rough, wooden support beams and sharp corners.

·       While rounding a particularly tight corner, you manage to kick the opposite wall hard enough to throw your attacker off balance. A hissing shower of dust and plaster rains down on the pair of you. The figure stumbles, grip relaxing for only a moment, but it’s enough. You wriggle from their crushing grasp and dart back the way you came.

·       The figure recovers quickly, and you can hear them bolting after you in the darkness. It doesn’t take long before they’re on you again, one large hand fisted deep in your hair, wrenching your head back. You cry out in pain, stumbling back against the intruder. The hand in your hair doesn’t relinquish it’s hold as their other arm wraps around your chest, locking in place like an iron bar. You struggle uselessly, hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you’re dragged back the way you’d come, seemingly with even less regard for your physical well-being.

·       Not far beyond the corner where you’d made your escape, you’re shoved to the ground unceremoniously. As you make to crawl away, the figure circles around you, blocking your path of escape. Even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can’t see much more than an outline. Even so, you can tell they’re much bigger than you. You feel a large hand sliding beneath your knees, and another on the small of your back and suddenly, the floor beneath you drops away. Instinctively, your arms shoot out, fumbling in the darkness for something solid to grab hold of. Your grasping hands find a fist-full of the intruder’s shirt. It’s soft and well-worn in your hands, and you clutch so tightly to it that you can feel your fingers beginning to cramp almost immediately. A soft rumble rolls through the figure, and after a moment, you realize they’re laughing at you. You want to let go, but the fear of tumbling backward into the darkness stills your hands.

·       With the way you’re being jostled about, you get the distinct impression that you’re ascending a flight of stairs. Secret tunnels and staircases in the walls? Under any other circumstance, you would be ecstatic, ready to drop everything and explore them. But caught as you were, in the arms of a stranger, there is nothing but panic within you. Taking advantage of your new position, you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intention to scream, though you’re sure there’s no one around to hear you.

·       “Don’t.” So, it’s a man? His voice is soft, a half-whisper that thrums through your body where it’s pressed up against his chest. There is a distinctly British tilt to his voice, and it’s oddly muffled, as though something was covering his mouth. You’re reminded of those old cartoon bandits who wore bandanas across their mouths. He doesn’t want to be identified. The though sends a cold chill through you. This isn’t good. “Scream and I’ll drop you.”

·       The scream dies in your throat. While you certainly don’t like being caught in a strange man’s grip, the thought of lying broken at the bottom of a secret staircase no one else seems to know about hammers a worse kind of fear into your gut. You could die…or not and that might be the worse option: injured and completely at a stranger’s mercy. No. As it stands, if you follow his instructions, you remain unharmed, and the longer you remain unharmed, the better your chances of finding a way out.

·       At the top of the steps, you find yourself in front of a rough wooden door. Here he readjusts his grip on you, bracing your weight against his hips as he taps the door open with a gentle kick.

·       Suddenly, you’re bathed in a soft, golden light cast by the dozens of candles that lay scattered about the room. After so much time spent in the dark, the burst of light dazzles your eyes. In spite of your fear, you curl up against the strange man’s chest, turning away from the light that blinds and burns your eyes. It’s too much too soon.

·       The man laughs again, bouncing you gently in his arms, like one would a small child, “No hiding.”

·       His tone is light, but it is still a command. Sensing scant room for disobedience, you turn your face up towards his, cracking one eye open, then the other. You had been told not to, but in the flickering light, as you blink up at the face of your kidnapper, you can do nothing to stop the scream that builds in your throat.

·       His face is hidden, not behind a bandana, but a porcelain mask. The pale white surface is littered with a spider’s web of thin cracks and what looks to be dried blood. Your eyes sweep over the soft curve of the mouth, the delicate nose which turns up at the end, and the empty spaces behind which dark, human eyes burn into your own.

·       The moment the scream leaves you, ringing loud in the enclosed space, the man snarls, striding into the room with purpose. As he weaves through the maze of dusty old furniture, you beat your fists against his chest, squirming in his grip, trying with renewed desperation to escape his clutches. “Let me go! Let me go!!”

·       Ignoring your pleas, he stalks to the far corner of the room, where a low-slung cot waits, tucked close against a rough brick wall. He dumps you none too gently onto it, and you scrabble backward, knocking your head against the wall behind you. Your ears ring with the force of the blow, but your eyes remain trained on the masked man as he clambers onto the cot with you.

·       You jam yourself back into the corner, as far from the menacing figure as possible. He comes toward you slowly, laughing, as though this were all some silly game the pair of you were enjoying. You kick at him, and he swats your leg away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. His eyes, however, aren’t laughing. Where they peak out from beneath the mask, they blaze with only one thing: hunger.

·       You kick out at him again, catching him, this time, on the jaw, just beneath the edge of his mask. And just like that he’s not laughing anymore. He goes frighteningly still, and there’s a change in the air. You know he’s done playing.

·       He lunges for you, and you shriek, cowering back against the wall, the rough bricks digging into the flesh of your arms. His hands close around your ankles and he pulls you down toward him.

·       He slots himself between your legs, pinning your thighs down with boney knees. You squirm beneath him, but he’s too heavy for you to shake off. He looms above you in the candlelight, breathing hard, his eyes flashing behind the mask. With a jolt, you realize he’s going to hurt you. You’re so sure, you flinch, cringing away from him as much as is possible, bracing for the pain that’s sure to come.

·       But, when his knuckles brush against your cheek, it’s not in anger. It’s a gentle caress that jolts through you like an electric current. You turn to look at him, as he brushes the damp hair back from your forehead. He stares at you for a long moment, drinking in your shock, before leaning down to press cool porcelain lips against yours.

·       The kindness of his gestures surprises you almost more than any blow he could have delivered. When he promised to play rough, he usually meant it. With shaking hands, you reach up to touch his face. Your fingers slip beneath the mask, brushing the hair and skin beneath with feather-light touches. You want to see his face, want kisses from his real lips, want—

·       But the man’s fingers curl around your wrists, wrenching your hands from his face. “No.” There is force behind the word equal to the force with which he pins your wrists against the sheets, indenting the mattress beneath them. His voice, in that same soft whisper from before, rasps in your ear, “Not even when we’re playing, Love.”

·       You swallow hard, all the pretenses of your little experiment dropping away in an instant. You realize you came dangerously close to crossing a line. “Okay. Brahms. I-I’m sorry.”

·       You expect that he’ll want to stop now, and you wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he surprises you by nuzzling against your neck, “Not ‘Brahms.’”

·       So, he still wants to play. You smile up at him. “Oh, right! Sorry.”

·       He bends over your neck again, pressing porcelain kisses against your neck. You crane your head back, eager to make up for your misstep with the mask. There’s something about these kisses that makes your heart flutter—perhaps it’s simply the rush of a new sensation against sensitive flesh, or maybe it’s the knowledge that his real lips lay just beneath that hard surface, so close and yet completely out of reach.

·       When he lets go of your left wrist, you’re so caught up in these kisses, that you barely register it. That is until you feel the mask slide in an unnatural direction against your skin, and you feel Brahms’ real lips against your neck for the first time. Your whole body jerks forward, pressing against him with a soft sigh on your lips. His mouth is softer and warmer than you ever could have imagined. Even his beard feels good where it scratches against you.

·       His teeth scrape over your pulse, drawing another sound from you. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down on top of you. His laugh rasps out against your throat, as he stamps warm kisses all across your collarbone.

·       You roll your hips against his and he groans, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. He surges upward fixing his teeth into the meat of your neck as he grinds down against you, letting you feel just how badly he wants you. His name slips between your teeth as a hiss and you feel him smile against your neck. His tongue flickers over the mark he’s left, though it’s more to lay further claim than to soothe the ache his teeth pushed into your flesh.

·       When he pulls back, he’s already pushing the mask back into place, though you catch a quick flash of the smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

·       He looks down at you, eyes sliding slow down your body, head cocked to the side like he’s thinking. He has that hungry look about him again and it lights a white-hot bolt of desire in your gut. You lift your hips, rolling them against his, relishing both the spark of pleasure that shoots through your stomach, and the shiver that rolls down his spine. A little whine escapes his lips, and you feel your heart leap. God, you’d do anything to hear that sound again. He meets the roll of your body with a stuttering jolt of his own.

·       You can’t help but beam up at him. “What are you thinking about Brah—Mister?”

·       He sighs deeply, running his hands down your chest, his fingers tracing along your ribs. “About all the things I could do to you…”

·       A breathless puff of laughter escapes you, “Oh, yeah?” You guide his hands down to your hips, hoping he’ll take the hint. “Like what?”

·       “Hm…let’s see. I could, hold you down,” His hands, still resting beneath yours tighten against your hips, pushing you down against the mattress. You try to buck up against him, but he holds you fast, “I don’t think so, Love.” He grips you hard, dipping his head to whisper into your ear, “I could just hold you here, and you’d have to take whatever I decide to give you.” His thumbs trace the seams of your hips. Even through your jeans it makes you shudder.

·       “Or, I could give you very little at all,” He lets go of your hips in favour of ghosting a hand down your thigh. His other hand presses gently against your zipper. His fingers trail down the seam, until you feel the pressure against your clit and jerk against his hand. He pulls away, “Just enough to keep you interested, but not enough to satisfy you.”

·       You whine, feeling a damp patch growing in your underwear. You know he’d get such a charge from dragging this out, teasing you until your arousal had soaked through the denim of your jeans. You could hear him now, ‘A few kisses and some dirty words…it’s that easy?' While you’d usually be willing to indulge him, you weren’t willing to give him that satisfaction today. He was already so uppity as it was. “Or you could just toss my legs over your shoulders and take what you want.” You toss an arm over your forehead in an attempt at playing toward his flair for the dramatic, “Look at me, baby. I’m defenseless.” You roll your hips against him again, nice and slow. You can tell by the hitch in his breathing that you’ve almost got him convinced. You can barely keep the smirk from your face as you arch your back, and whimper for him, “Please?”

·       That one word is all it takes to break him. In a flash he’s slipped out of his cardigan and tossed it off into the darkness of the attic. His suspenders follow suit with a metallic clinking. It isn’t until he’s unbuttoning his trousers that you realize you have mere seconds to undo your own before Brahms falls upon you and tears them off himself. You’ve lost more than one good pair of jeans this way and you don’t intend to lose another if you can help it.

·       Your shaking hands fumble with the button, managing to pop it only after a few tries. Taking them off from your position underneath Brahms is no small feat, especially considering his reluctance to move, now that his trousers rest about his knees and he’s rolling his hips against your still clothed thigh, his cock already leaking against the denim.

·       “Want you now.” His voice is rough, breaking in time with the thrusting of his hips.

·       “I know, baby. But you’ve gotta wait.”

·       Brahms huffs in irritation. ‘Wait’ is not a word he likes to hear at the best of times, let alone when his dick is this hard.

·       You tap his hip gently. “C’mon, up.”

·       He drops his head against your shoulder with a petulant whimper, his hips stuttering against your thigh.

·       “Brahms…” You sigh, half-frustrated, half-amused. You would be lying if you said you didn’t find it incredibly sexy when Brahms acted like a brat, but your pleasure was at stake here as well. “You can’t fuck me properly with my jeans on.”

·       His hips slow for a moment, and he whines again.

·       “C’mon, be a good boy for me.” You feel his cock pulse against your thigh, and he relents. He scoots back just enough for you to push your jeans and underwear down your thighs. Brahms takes care of the rest, tearing the offending fabric from your legs and tossing it from the bed to join his cardigan on the floor.

·       His hands are on your shoulders in an instant, shoving you back against the mattress, all patience spent. You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and barely have a time to take a breath before he’s pushing inside with a single, smooth stroke.

·       “F-Fuuuck…”

·       “Yeah, that’s the idea, baby.” Your hands are fisted tightly in the sheets, your voice tight as your body grows accustomed to the stretch once again. You’ve taken Brahms with little preparation before. You know you can handle it, but somehow the girth of him almost always comes as a surprise.

·       To his credit, he does his best to keep still until you give him the ‘okay,’ though you can feel his hips shaking with the effort. He’s mouthy while he waits though, any trace of the gentleman within him his gone, replaced by a cursing, dirty-talking stranger, “Gonna pound you into this mattress, gonna fuck you like—fuck you’re so wet—like your my whore…mine, mine, ah fuck! Mine.”

·       You roll your hips, testing the water, and he bites back a string of curses. His hips stutter forward unbidden, and you moan low in your throat.

·       Behind the mask, you see his eyes roll back. He starts to beg then, changing his tune entirely, “Please, Love, let me fuck you, please, please, please. I promise I’ll be good. I will, just please!”

·       You reach up, carding your fingers through his hair, “Show me what a good boy you are, make us feel good, baby.”

·       Without missing a beat, Brahms’ hips take up a frantic rhythm, tearing a litany of pretty sounds from your throat. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair as he drops his head to press doll’s mouth kisses against your throat.

·       Your hand slips between your bodies, spreading your lips to circle your clit. You buck against him, gasping his name as the pleasure courses through you two-fold.

·       A strong hand grasps your wrist again pulling it away from your clit. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.” You nearly whine in frustration, but your displeasure is quickly forgotten when you feel the soft pads of Brahms’ fingers against your sensitive flesh.

·       “You,” he groans in pleasure, angling his hips to push deeper inside of you, “You belong to me.” He punctuates the sentiment with a sharp snap of his hips. “That means I am the only one who can make you feel good.” He presses his fingers hard against your clit, and your thighs begin to shake. “Tell me who you belong to.”

·       It takes you a second to find your voice. “Y-You, Brahms.”

·       “Yesss,” the rhythm of his thrusts is beginning to fall by the wayside as his hips buck and stutter. “Say it again.” His fingers circle your clit faster, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm.

·       “Fuck, Brahms! I’m yours! A-All yours! You’re gonna make me cum.”

·       “Mine.” You feel the mask slide to the side again and his lips are on your neck. You feel his teeth graze the bite mark he’d left. His teeth are in your throat, his fingers on your clit, his cock in your cunt, and you’re cumming. His name tumbles from your lips, the only coherent thought in your mind.

·       He groans against your neck, trying to fuck you through it, but you’re too tight around him, forcing him into an agitated stillness. His fingers work your clit feverishly until you push his hand away, too oversensitive to stand another second of it.

·       You’re still almost painfully tight around him when the rhythmic pulsing of your own orgasm begins to push him over the edge. He thrusts into you once, twice, thrice more, before pulling out and shaking apart, his cum painting your thighs and stomach. He whimpers and trembles, fisting his cock through the aftershocks of his orgasm, desperate to chase every last ounce of pleasure.

·       Only when he’s well and truly spent, nearly sobbing from the agony of the overstimulation does he flop down on the cot beside you, panting heavily, cock still twitching against his thighs.

·       He kicks off his trousers, and curls up by your side, throwing an arm around you. For the longest time, the only sound in the room is that of your breathing slowing in tandem as you each come down from your high.

·       Brahms’ voice is small when he speaks up at last, “Did I do okay?”

·       You turn to face him, laying on your side. You reach out a hand and readjust his mask, before pressing a soft kiss against the delicate bow of his lips. “You were perfect. Thank you, Brahms.”

·       He nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced. There’s tension in his shoulders, and he won’t look you in the eyes.

·       “What’s wrong, honey?”

·       He shakes his head, burrowing against your side. “Nothing…”

·       “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. It’s okay to talk to me about things like this, you know.”

·       He’s silent for a little while longer, and you wonder if he needs a little more prodding to use his words. But then, he speaks, “I wasn’t…too rough? In the passages?”

·       “No, baby. No. It was exactly like we talked about.”

·       “Okay.” There’s a little touch of a frown in his voice, like he’s trying to puzzle something through in his mind. “I didn’t expect you to fight me so hard. It felt…real.”

·       “I wanted to make it seem real. Did I upset you?”

·       There’s a long pause, but when he speaks, he sounds genuine. “I don’t think so. It was a little…thrilling.”

·       You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, “It was, wasn’t it? Where did you get an idea like that? Pretending to kidnap me and all that?”

·       He’s quiet for a moment, as he remembers a time not so long ago, when the idea was meant to be more reality than fantasy. He was supposed to have that girl. He should have done better, should have fought for her harder, should have killed her and buried her in the yard with the others. He should have done a lot of things. The scar on his stomach burns with the memory of all the things he should have done. But they don’t matter now. She doesn’t matter now. He has you.

·       He presses another kiss against your neck and lies, “Recreation of a scene from 'Jane Eyre.' You know how I adore that novel. And you being such a pretty lady, simply had to fill the role of the damsel in distress.”

·       “If you say so.” You snuggle closer against his chest. He really was a very strange man. A yawn blossoms in the base of your jaw, but you do your best to fight it off. You know you’ll be sore later, but for now you’re happy and sated and perfectly content to doze in the arms of the man you love.

·       Then a thought hits you, “Hold on, Jane Eyre doesn’t get kidnapped, Brahms.”

·       He chuckles softly against your shoulder, “So you have been reading my books after all.”

[foodieforthoughts]

Sand and Stars - Chapter Two

Series Summary: After the water pump being blown up, the insurgents in Baqubah are taking a hold of the food supply to the village. Camp Warhorse is in dire need of reinforcements. It has been eight months of submitting countless requests when the High Command commissions Sergeant Olivia Ross to take her group of men and women and help Captain Syverson and his team to restore a semblance of normalcy. But with the war raging, does it get two hearts closer too?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC x OMC

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+, Mentions of war, military technicalities, smut in future chapters

A/N: Hello peeps! I hope you are enjoying this series. Please comment and reblog if you like it. It’s always good to hear that your work it appreciated. And massive thanks to @thelastsock for being my beta, who is immensely talented and the sweetest person ever! ❤️

<Chapter One

Title: Chapter Two

As the golden rays of the sun peered from the horizon, the living quarters came to life. Olivia was the first to jump into the shower, with Sloan and Sierra joining in by occupying the other booth, sometime after.

They had the food truck retrieval on their agenda today. But before that, the ladies, and everyone else in their unit had to carry out their scheduled morning workout. 

Olivia walked to the gym downstairs feeling fresh after the much needed shower. Everyone had retreated to their quarters last night, matted with sand and sweat, only cleaning themselves with a wet towel owing to water scarcity in the camp. As she reached the open doorway to the gym, she instantly spotted Schmidt lifting weights with the other men. A boombox sat on a table on one corner, blasting rock music from its speakers.

“The level of testosterone in this place is maddening,” Sloan groaned from beside her.

Olivia whinced as the song played a displeasing high note of an electric guitar. The gruff laughter of the men, along with the loud music was not the first thing she wanted to wake up to. “How about we go to the roof instead?” Olivia suggested, shrugging her shoulders. 

Half an hour into their workout, Sloan groaned under the heat. She pulled her blond hair up in a bun and sat on the ledge of the rooftop. Olivia got a couple more of her crunches done, the back of her t-shirt sticking to her body with her sweat. Sierra was staying put in a plank, Olivia always admired how this woman, even after bearing two kids, had an excellent core strength.

“Look at these guys,” Sloan commented, looking down from the roof. “They so bulky and unkempt.”

Olivia sat up, crossing her legs and grabbing her bottle of water. “You checking out the SF guys?”

“Yeah. Yesterday one of them, BJ was he? Was staring at my ass as I walked past him.”

Sierra stood up from her plank position and walked up to where Sloan sat. She ran a hand through her brown bob and looked down at the men. “I don’t know, they look rough and tough. Like, come on, they aren’t exactly Abercrombie & Fitch, but some of them are easy on the eyes.”

“Syverson, you mean?” Sloan nudged her friend. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you let out that low whistle when he spoke.”

“You know I am weak for the southern twang. And has a buzz cut ever looked that sexy on anyone?”

Olivia rolled her eyes watching Sierra fan herself while Sloan shook her head in disbelief. Pushing herself off of the floor, Olivia stretched her arms above her head. “Tell that to your British husband.” She poked the tip of her empty bottle in Sierra’s belly.

“Come on, Sarge. Tell me you didn’t find the Captain sexy.” Sierra wiggled her eyebrows at Olivia, giving her shoulders a shake too.

“Maybe she’s missing Captain Coop,” It was now Sloan’s turn to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. She jumped down from the ledge and grabbed her own bottle. “Tell us, Sarge. Is he good in bed?”

“I think he’s so vanilla. Syverson seems like hot chocolate. Yum.” Sierra content with her comment, laughed along with Sloan. With her arm perched on Sloan’s shoulder, Sierra waited for an answer from their Sergeant.

“Guys, we have important work to do today.” Olivia let out her braid, letting her sweaty hair dry. “Come on,” she tilted her head towards the broken door of the roof.

Both women rolled their eyes at her, not stretching the topic further. Although when they were walking away, Sierra added a cheeky “I bet Syverson is an ass-man,” making Olivia shake her head.

But now that she was alone, she allowed herself a moment to think. She wouldn’t lie to herself, she found Sy to be very appealing to the eyes. The command he had over his men was also palpable. He hadn’t addressed them in front of her, but even in a laid-back manner, they seemed to be respectful of him.

With a warmth creeping on her already flushed skin, Olivia's thoughts turned to how he had checked her out. He was trying to be discreet, but she had noticed how his gaze had washed over hers when she had stood in front of him in the office. But, she was no innocent maiden either. Like for instance, when he had been looking down towards the map, pointing out the routes and places to hit for the food truck, she had noticed a few details about him. They were subtle attributes like the bridge of his nose, how his lashes looked thicker than hers, how his scruffy beard concealed most of his face, making her fingers tickle with the urge to touch it.

Olivia let out a slow breath, turning to look beyond the compound. It was not the time, or the place to be thinking about the physical features of her captain. They were in the middle of a war and she was here for a particular mission. Besides, she wasn't sure they were on good terms right now.

Shouldn’t have lashed out at him about being checked out when I was doing the same to him.

Her eyes fell towards the Humvees getting prepped with ammo and men getting ready to head out. She was bunching up her damp hair, to tie it up in an army regulated 'bun' to avoid violation of the dress code, when she caught sight of the Captain.

Sy stood in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts, holding a cup in his hand. A green spray-painted German Shepherd stood near his feet, wagging it’s tail and tongue lolling out of it’s mouth. The more Olivia looked at Sy the more she leaned towards agreeing that Sierra was right. Buzz cut hair never looked so good on anyone she had ever met.

Olivia’s mouth fell open when Sy looked up towards the roof, directly at her. Her hands fell down to her sides as they both stared back at each other. She watched as a smirk appeared on his bearded face while he brought his cup up to his mouth. Even from this distance she could notice how after taking a sip he licked his lips, darting only the tip of his tongue out.

“Yo, Red!” The sudden call from Schmidt standing just below the one-story building, wearing his gear and black sunglasses covering his eyes, broke the semi-trance Olivia had going on with Syverson. “We need to roll out.”

She nodded at her comrade, throwing a last look at a smiling Sy, before heading down towards their room. This was unacceptable. Get your head in the game, Liv. She scolded herself, a frown forming on her face as she ran down the stairs.

It was almost sundown when the troops finally came back to Warhorse. Olivia let the chopper hover over the camp while the last of the Humvee travelling behind the tarp-covered truck, entered the compound. They had noticed a few cars driving up to the mountain while the on-ground crew had spoken to the truck driver. Olivia was aware that they weren’t supposed to fire until they were getting attacked, but her fingers had hovered over the trigger to their machine guns attached to the chopper as a precaution. 

Luckily for them, the cars had driven off without any sort of trouble. The rest of their route back had been mostly uneventful with one of their men singing “Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain” making everyone laugh over the comms. Olivia, unlike her own no-nonsense superiors, usually let her unit members have fun from time to time. She believed to earn respect, it wasn't necessary to make them bend the knee to her.

As soon as the skids hit the dirt, her eyes seemed to lock onto Syverson. He stood near their main wing in the same clothes, patting on the backs of his men as they walked back to their building.

“That seemed easy,” Schmidt cracked his neck, shrugging his shoulders to loosen his muscles. She could also feel the stiffness in her neck from sitting in the chopper, tensed and worried about the ground force. “This will feel like a vacation, huh Red? Work only once a week.” He laughed, joining the other men as they jumped out of their vehicles.

She smiled at him, stopping to watch the SF men helping her guys to unload the contents of the food truck. She spotted a body walking towards her from the corner of her eyes. She chose to look on ahead, counting the number of crates being offloaded, without glancing to her side.

“You did good, Red.” Sy’s gruff voice sounded from beside her. The use of her nickname sent weird sparks down her spine. “You scared off everyone with your chopper blades.”

Olivia couldn’t help but let herself smile. She would like to believe she did scare off the insurgents. “Would that suffice for everyone?” She jutted her chin, indicating the cartons of food being placed on the ground.

Sy let out a heavy sigh. “Will have to. Can’t let the locals suffer because of us.”

“What if they don’t care about us helping them?”

“We still do it. That’s our job.” She looked to Sy after he spoke. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pursed together as he observed his boys taking the cartons to storage. Her eyes lingered on his, the evening sun making them look like two limpid pools of blue. She was aware she was staring but in a deeply cliched moment, she couldn’t avert her eyes.

“Like what you see, Sergeant?” The smugness in his voice was unmistakable. She quickly looked away and down towards her shoes, vaguely noticing the sand stuck to the eyelets and the scuff marks on the toe caps. 

Even though her ears warmed up from being caught red-handed, she was quick in gathering her wits around the awkward moment. She looked up again without much consideration towards him and turned to walk away. But before she was out of his ear shot, she couldn't resist adding, “I’ve seen better.”

Sy’s laugh, loud and filled with spirits, made her bite her lip as she smiled and sauntered back to their designated wing. Two things she was glad about right now. One, about Schmidt being right, this definitely felt more like a vacation. And two, Syverson and her weren’t exactly butting heads.

Olivia refused to accept it, but it really warmed her heart and she looked forward to the coming days.

Chapter Three>

✨Series Masterlist✨

**Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist**

Tags: @wanderlustkitkat @michelehansel @stephartrave @yuhsophie @hennerslionhat @henrythickcavill @eldarwen333 @peakygroupie @klaine-92 @thelastsock @indigosaurus @oddsnendsfanfics @viking-raider @cavillliketravel @geralt-of-baevia @achaoticaugust @dancingwendigo @littlefreya @luclittlepond @mansaaay @agniavateira @inlovewithhisblueeyes @henryobsessed @henryfanfics101 @poucinette1333 @ohmygoodie @oolicity @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @asyverson @summersong69 @awhitewolfandhisvibraniumshield

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [1]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: You meet Steve Rogers for an interview but he’s not what you expected.

Note: I’ve been trying to chill the last five days but I obviously got some writing in. It has resulted in this impromptu series and I hope you all like it. It’s looking like it will be about 10 chapters when all is said is done but that being said, I am still working on it.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Reader

Your left ankle bent as you leaned heavily on your heel. You stood before the thick walnut door, a round frosted window on its face. The townhouse stuck out on the old Brooklyn row and all knew its resident. It surprised many that he remained in the borough and he was cherished all the more for it. He was the golden boy of New York.

Well, that’s what people like to believe. You weren’t there to paint another flowery picture of the saviour. You were there to speak with the real man behind the plan. There was a story behind Steve Rogers that had yet to be told and when you were selected to tell it, you knew you had to do it right. The task was both daunting and humbling. It could be your big break.

You knocked and adjusted the bag that hung from your shoulder. You didn’t miss the group of kids at the end of the block gathered around for a glimpse of their hero. The door opened and you were greeted by the man himself. He smiled at you as his hand rested on the curled door handle.

“Hi,” He greeted you. “Thanks for coming. It saves me a lot of trouble.”

“Not at all,” You shook his hand. 

You’d spoken to him briefly over the phone and negotiated the time and place for your interview. You agreed that him coming to the office would cause too much of a flurry. You were sure he was over that.

“Come in,” He stepped back and waved you through.

He closed the door as you looked around the entryway. A thick banister with the same dark wood as the walls led up to the second level and a finely carved archway peeked through to the next room. It was cozy and a lot quainter than you expected. The exposed brick above the panelling lent it a warmth.

“Shoes?” You stopped by the mat.

“Your call,” He said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers, but I’m fine,” You assured him as you stepped out of your heels. You’d hate to scuff the hardwood. “I’m sure you're just as impatient as me to begin.”

“Steve. And yeah, I suppose. I don’t really do much more than pressers and usually, I don’t do much talking.” He confessed. “Just through here,” He pointed to the front room. 

You nodded and stepped through. He directed you to the pair of armchairs before the artificial fireplace and you set your bag down as you sat. He lowered himself across from you as you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone and notebook. You swiped up and flicked your finger across the screen.

“Do you mind if I record you? It helps with editing and of course, accuracy,” You said.

He scratched his jaw and shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Great,” You hit the red dot and set the phone down on the small table with the mic facing him. 

🖋️

You were a bit surprised by how it had all unfolded, but, you supposed, you were right when you said no one was ever exactly what they seemed. Steve was nice enough as he showed you the door but you could see the agitated impatience behind his eyes. You should’ve eased him into it more. Timing was everything.

Even so, you had promised your editor a story and if you didn’t deliver after being chosen for such a coveted one, well, you would never see its likes again.

So you sat at your desk in your small but comfortable city apartment. It was nothing compared to the star-spangled hero’s walk-up but it was home. If you could work the interview the right way, it might mean an upgrade, or at least a television that didn’t flicker.

You hit play on your phone for the third time that night. Steve Rogers’ voice was etched into your brain. And that tension in his forehead, the tic in his jaw. A thinly veiled wrath unexpected of the valiant soldier-turned-saviour. You shivered and paused the recording. It was almost startling how quickly he’d turned on you, but you weren’t entirely innocent.

You stretched your fingers over the keyboard and sighed as you stared at your blinking cursor. You couldn’t just sit on this forever. You had a deadline and an extension was an impossibility, if not a death warrant for your career.

So you hit play and began to type, pausing to play back snippets as you went.

🖋️

‘It’s early afternoon in the heart of Brooklyn. Amidst the old brick buildings that line the cracked sidewalks is a townhouse unlike any other. The home of a man born there over a century ago. A living ghost that haunts the block. Most would say he is a friendly spirit.

Steve Rogers answers the door as a boy lets his baseball roll under a car and his friends lower their mitts to watch. A teen on a bike, a ring in his nose, even slows to admire the hometown hero as he smiles; a beacon of the borough. A glimmer of hope for all to think that the block is not the whole world.

He greets me like an old friend. “Hi.” The same smile seen in newsprint. He thanks me for coming and ushers me inside. This is the first time I’ve met him in person. I can’t lie; I’m intimidated. I’m just another person in debt to this great veteran.

His house isn’t what you would expect from a man as prestigious as him. No medals hanging on the wall, no vainglorious cut-outs of his image, or pictures of him shaking hands with men in suits. Only framed baseball cards along freshly laid wood-panels. It’s like any other house in Brooklyn, just newer. An ancient skeleton revived.

We sit in the front room, he offers me a drink. I’m not very thirsty. I’m more anxious to start talking. I can see he is too though his facade is hard to crack. He tells me to call him Steve as my recitations of ‘Mr. Rogers’ become almost pathetic. We begin.

Interviewer: “Great.” I hit ‘record’. “I’ll start by saying you have a nice place.”

Steve: “Thanks.” He seems to relax as he leans back in the chair which is nearly too narrow for his broad shoulders. “It took a while but I think it’s coming together.”

Interviewer: “Can’t take the boy out of Brooklyn, I guess.”

Steve: “Wouldn’t leave it for the world.” He smiles again, though he never truly looks less than amiable.

I: “Only to save it,”

S: “I do what I can.

I: “More than most; New York, Sekovia, the world. You’ve done it all. Do you ever just take a break?”

S: “I try. And sometimes I get a chance to just… be here.”

He looks around, proud of himself, of his home.

I: “Any hobbies?”

S: “You know, I used to love to draw. Nothing special, you know. But I found it calming. I actually bought a bunch of pencils and a pad but I never touched them. I’m sure they're just sitting up in my closet, neglected.” 

I listen intently, imagining this man bent over a notebook. It’s an absurd picture as my mind returns to the man in his cowl with shield in hand. The red, white, and blue bullseye is more suiting in my head than a pen.

I: “Anything else? Anything you actually do?”

S: “I like to run. Helps me get to know my neighbours, reconnect with my roots. I read… a little. I’m still not really into the whole internet thing but I try. I still get the newspaper just to read the strips and fill in the weekly crosswords.”

He confirms my suspicion. A man lost in time, but it seems he has found his place.

I: “A man for all times. And you work? I’m sure you get tired of talking about it but well, there’s been a lot of speculation about a possible retirement.”

He ‘s silent as he looks away and fidgets in his chair. He becomes the rehearsed hero at his podium. 

S: “I’d hate to fan that fire but I think it’s only natural to consider it.” 

I: “Thinking of settling down?”

S: “It’s always a thought but I’m not stupid. It’s not that simple. I’m not the type of man that gets to settle down.”

This remark might break the heart of every woman in Brooklyn and beyond but it seems to hurt him more. A grim truth for a man who many would say has the world in his hands.

I: “And if you did hang up the shield, is there anything you want to do? Anywhere you want to go?” 

S: “I’d like to try fishing. I’ve heard it’s relaxing. I love the city but it’s nice to get away now and then.”

I: “Is there anything keeping you from retiring? Besides the obvious; we all know you’re a good man and a great hero. You’ve shown commitment to the city, the world, humanity.” 

He looks to the artificial fireplace and shrugs. He’s thinking; perhaps censoring his response.

I: “Co-workers? The world is well aware of what you did for your old friend. And it has proven to be a point of contention, even after the pardon.”

He clears his throat and he’s no longer smiling.

S: “Bucky is an old friend and a commendable soldier. He does his job well. I wouldn’t take anything back. He has more than earned his place.”

I: “So, if you retired, you believe that he would retain his place among the team?”

He’s frowning now. He adjusts his posture so that he seems even bigger than before. A formidable opponent, if not an overwhelming one. 

S: “He is not there because of me. He’s there because of himself. Because he is an asset to the world.”

His blue eyes are darker now. No longer the crystalline waves shining in the sun but those foreboding tides which crash together beneath the moonless sky. My ship has gone awry, carried by an errant wind.

I: “Well, I can’t help but point out that many wouldn’t agree. You put yourself and several of your associates on the line to save him. To bring him into your fold. To place a man who was once a national enemy beside you. I hate to say it but, frankly, even if he were pardoned on his own merit, I fail to imagine him being allowed the same access to confidential intelligence and tasked with the protection of civilian life.”

His hands are fists. I could put up a front and say I’m not nervous, but I am. I have done what I once thought impossible. I have angered Steve Rogers.

S: “He wasn’r Bucky, but he is now and he has been cleared. I’m sorry, but I thought you were here to talk about me.”

I: “Yes, I am, but the world is well aware of your friendship with Mr. Barnes and all its implications. It is hard to separate him from your life.”

S: “I agreed to talk about me.”

His tone is set in stone. I attempt to stay calm myself.

I: “We are talking about you, but we can move on. Now, even with its dissolution, there are still questions being asked about the Sokovia Accords and your opposition to it. While many can acknowledge the need for your team and their work, they can’t help but wonder at the lack of restraints placed upon it. There are regulations even for the FBI and CIA and other protective services. So why should you be exempt?”

He sniffs and stands up slowly. He retreats behind his chair and nears a table along the wall. He distracts himself with a signed baseball. I don’t have a chance to ask who scribbled along the stitches as he tosses it and finds his voice.

S: “I never disagreed with the sentiment of the Accords. As heroes, of course, we should have obligations. Our first and foremost being the protection of innocent lives. The hardest to uphold but we do it.”

He is ever the statesman but he isn’t finished and his voice gets low. Dangerous, even.

S: “At the same time, we put our own lives on the line and you come here and nag me about formalities? What is it you want? Paperwork? Reports on how I threw my shield to stop a bullet from striking an innocent bystander? How a piece of shrapnel nearly severed my tendon as I threw myself in front of a speeding vehicle?”

I: “With all due respect, I am only asking about transparency. People deserve to know more. They deserve the truth.”

S: “Is that what you’re looking for? The truth? You want to know what we don’t tell you and your readers?” 

He puts the baseball down and his hand is on his hip, disapproving. I suspect his lecture will continue. He nears the chair and grips the back of it as he narrows his eyes at me. I fear he might throw it in my direction though for now, I hope it should act as my own shield against him.

S: “About how I have to lie about how many men I lose to keep this world safe. Because I can’t scare the people. Because I have to keep on this mask of the brave hero.”

His eyes go to the ceiling. He takes a breath to calm himself. I can tell he wants to continue. That he is holding back something which has brewed within him for a very long time. It is a moment before he speaks again.

S: “We’re done here. That’s it. Turn your phone off and go.”

The interview is over. What happens next will remain off the record. I leave with a mouth full of bile. My childlike wonder has been extinguished. I came to seek out the man behind the shield and I have done just that, but he is not who I expected. 

I was ready for a humble man, a man like any of us; the same wants and desires. Still human despite his enhancements; despite his superhuman status. What I discovered was a man who’s exceptionality has nurtured a sense of entitlement. 

And we do owe him our lives, our gratitude, we owe him the world. Yet I cannot dismiss the sense that he might regret his good deeds. That to him, it has become a thankless chore. That we are the needy children and he has been burdened with our cries for help.

So we should not be surprised or upset upon his retirement, not if, but when it comes. And we cannot fault him for his departure. It has been a long-time coming.’

🖋️

You took a breath and sat back in your chair. You rubbed your cheeks as the recording began to repeat itself. You stopped it and checked the time. You’d spend your morning editing and hope you would be ready for submission by the evening.

As you hit save, you felt an odd tremor deep inside. This could be it. Your big story. Or you could be tired and entirely up your own ass. You only hoped it was the former.

🖋️

You sat across from Poppy as she read your article through the glasses which sat low on her long nose. She was just past forty and wouldn’t look it if she didn’t wear the ridiculous half-circle spectacles. She wore a shade of red which paid homage to her name and her lipstick was just as bold. Her long lashes flicked up as she lowered the pages and her blonde hair fell behind her shoulder.

“Well…” She said carefully. “It is…interesting.”

You swallowed nervously as you teetered on the edge of the acrylic seat. Her long manicured nails played with the corner of the article.

“I had initially planned to have this in the back pages. No one really cares about the Avengers anymore.” She said. “But this is… I will discuss it with our marketing team but I know a feature when I see it.”

“A feature?” Your lips parted and you sat back as you gripped the thin arms of the chair.

“Oh, yes,” She said. “Another celebrity break-up is not exactly scandalous and to be frank, I do tire of that ridiculous narrative. But this… you will be hearing from me soon.”

“Uh,” You stood awkwardly at what you were sure was a dismissal. “Thank you.”

“For what? Doing my job? Should I thank you for doing yours?” She countered.

“N-no,” You stuttered.

“Go on then. I’m certain you have other work to do.” She tapped her long nails. “You certainly will once this is ready to print.”

You nodded and left her. She was already on her phone before the door closer behind you and you looked around the blindly bright office. It would be your first feature and it was the first article which had earned you more than a passive grumble from the woman. Perhaps you hadn’t been so foolish to think you had actually done something well.

[pebblerobber]

A little Twisted (Chapter 2)

Chapter One: The King | Chapter Two: The Collection

Co written w/ @desertdwellerdanny

Steve's house was a 40-minute drive out of Hawkins, deep in the depths of the forest. It was an old farmhouse he renovated into a stylish home and made the old barn into something else. He pulled up to the house parking at the end of the long driveway. "We're here," Steve said flatly as he got out of the car. "Let's get you cleaned up, and I'll deal with the rest." Neil gazed up at the farmhouse with wide eyes, “You’re fuckin loaded.” He whispered, gingerly opening the door to step out. Steve smiled at Neil's expression. "Yeah, being vice president of a corporation helps." When Neil stepped out of the car, Steve lightly grabbed him by the chin, finally noticing a few wounds under the blood. The outside lights of his house lit up the beauty of Neil's features. He indeed was the most beautiful man Steve had ever seen.

"Did he hurt you?"

Neil swallowed, eyes sweeping over Steve’s face so close to his. They were complex, calculating, but he didn’t feel threatened by what he found in them. “He punched me and scratched at my face when I—when I woke up.” Steve lightly rubbed his thumb across Neil's busted lip. Not trying to make a pass at him in that way, but he really wanted to know how soft they were. Neil’s mouth popped open a bit, standing still as Steve’s hands explored as they wished. "I have some clothes you can have," Steve whispered softly as if not to scare Neil off even though the primal part of him wanted to see Neil running from him. Neil gave a slight nod, blue eyes flickering down to Steve’s lips for a spell before shooting back up with guilt. Steve had to bite back a smirk at that; it looks like his newfound interest had found him interesting back. “It’s Billy.” The previously introduced Neil said, breath warm against Steve’s thumb. “Neil’s my father. I didn’t—don’t—trust you. But seeing as you’ve got something of mine in your trunk…” the corners of his lips quirked up a tad, “You can call me the right name.”

Steve had an odd sense of pride; giving someone a fake name was always good. "You're already a natural, Billy," Steve mumbled, sliding his thumb into Billy's mouth out of a need to find something not pretty about him. Running his thumb along with Billy's teeth as he looked slightly disappointed before removing his finger with a long-winded sigh. Absolutely perfect. Billy’s cheeks were flushed red when he looked back at him, mouth still propped open from Steve’s curious hands. Even that made something in his smile, Billy staying where Steve had put him. He slowly blinked before startling and snapping his mouth shut, “Can we just go?” He grumbled, wrapping a pair of leather-clad arms around himself standoffish.

Steve nodded and started walking to the front door, unlocking the door with a keypad on the side. Steve made sure no one could go in and out of the building unless he wanted them to. “Welcome to castle Harrington.” The moment the doors opened, you could clearly see on the far back wall rows of crowns of people’s skulls on display. At first, they really just looked like bowls painted in different colours like a monument, But Billy knew better. He eyed them, a sick interest in each one as he strode over in curiosity as Steve looked on in amusement. “These are them.” Billy leaned over, gently brushing them with the tips of his fingers with interest clear in his eyes. "Beautiful aren't they" Steve followed close behind, watching the look on Billy's face as he touched them. The two of them playing this dance around each other like lions ready to mate. “Gorgeous.” Billy moved on to another, this one painted in swirls of blues and oranges and black. He traced a small crack in it. “Who was this?” Steve reached over to remove it from the wall showing Billy the inside of it where he carved the name into it. Jonathan B. "I think I was about 18," Billy’s eyebrows shot up, “Young. How’d you know him?” "School—we went out of town for a basketball tournament." Steve placed it back on the wall carefully. "He thought I was his friend, but I just wanted to hear what he sounded like burning alive." “So you burned him?” "Yeah, is that surprising?" Steve looked at Billy, searching his eyes for an answer. “It’s… well, it would depend on who he was. Why him? Did he deserve it?” Billy turned back toward the wall, neck craning up to see the entire expanse of the collection, “The guy in the trunk deserved it. I don’t feel bad.” Steve chuckled, "Do they really have to deserve it? Every one of these was really just for my amusement. They were all going to die eventually." Billy pulled a face, raising an eyebrow back at Steve but saying nothing. He wasn’t wrong. And it didn’t feel wrong to see all these people’s lives shortened—they could’ve died the same day from something else; it doesn’t matter much. “I’d like it better, personally, if they deserved it. But we’re all sinners in some way.” Steve smiled at him, "whatever helps you sleep at night, come let's get that beautiful face of yours cleaned up." Steve reached up and rubbed some of the dried blood of Billy's face with his thumb. Billy’s eyes widened a bit before his lips grew into a smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Harrington.” He took a small step backward, quirking an eyebrow at Steve as if to say lead the way. So he did. Steve brought Billy to his bedroom, where there was an on-suite bathroom connected; it was simply designed besides nightmare-like paintings all over the house. You could tell that Steve didn’t hide his dark tastes very well. “The bathroom is there. You can borrow some of my clothes.” Billy stopped just outside the bathroom, turning so that he could lean back against the expensive-looking door and eye Steve in full. “Am I staying with you? Why?” He sounded suspicious, weary. It’s not the first time Billy’s been taken home by men in fancy suits and expected to stay the night—but it is the first time said man had helped cover up a murder he had committed. "You can stay if you want, or I can drive you home" Steve didn't really expect Billy to stay even though he would like it. "I have a guest room you can use." “That’s awfully kind of you. What’re you getting out of all of this?” Steve pulled some sweat pants and a plain shirt out for Billy and walked over to him "as I said before, you made my boring life a little more interesting." “What happens when I’m not interesting anymore?” Steve smiled, “Then I’ll get rid of you.” Billy held his gaze for a brief moment, eyes flicking back and forth, trying to read Steve, trying to decipher what gets rid of you means--the smile shining with a glint of morbid curiosity. Like Billy was a toy for Steve to play with and discard when worn down to the point it simply breaks. Billy doesn’t understand the thrill that shoots up his spine at that, and he’s not sure he wants to. He instead nods, eyes falling to his shoes as he scuffs then and pops himself off of the door, “Guess I’ll just have to keep you on your toes then, huh Stevie?” Steve didn’t answer but watched Billy, filling his mind with things he could do to this newfound toy. He didn’t understand how Billy wasn’t scared of him or how he was holding up so well after finding out about him. He kept watching Billy even as he undressed, putting his foot in the doorway to stop it from closing. Steve was still looking for that one imperfection. Billy squirmed, eyeing Steve and trying to desperately hint that he wanted privacy while he showered. He was uncomfortable--but it wasn’t apparent why until he’d pulled his shirt over his head. Perfect, toned body muscled and golden, pulling taut as he slipped each article of clothing off and revealing thick, ugly scars that cross-crossed his chest and back. Steve’s face didn’t show much; it stayed the same blank look as it always did as he watched. He was taking in every line and edge of Billy’s flesh and violent scars. This was what he was looking for. This is what made him interesting. Billy took a breath before letting his last piece of clothing fall away. “What’re you thinking? It’s too hard to tell with you.” “You’re magnificent,” Steve mumbled, unconsciously undoing his tie around his neck. Steve wanted to feel him, running his hands along the scars to take in the enjoyment someone must have felt ripping at his flesh. Steve wanted to feel that enjoyment. It must’ve been the way Steve was staring at him like he wanted to eat him alive, some sort of primal want for ruin that ran through them both. Billy flushed blotchy pink, spotting down to his chest. “They’re disgusting. Horrible.” Steve laughed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt showing scars of his own. Smaller and more spread out different types from people trying to defend themselves against his force. “Nothing is disgusting about them.” Billy’s eyes locked onto his chest, inching forward and placing a hand in the middle right over a jagged scar that slashed over one pec. He traced the pad of his thumb over it, gentle. “Mine are.” “Every scar tells a story; it’s like reading a comic book,” Steve gently touched the edge of Billy’s scar tracing it carefully. It was odd to Billy to see someone so gentle after talking about burning someone alive, but the soft brushing of Steve’s hands on his skin had him holding his breath. “It’s artwork…” Steve whispered. “I didn’t want these,” Billy ground out, “They’re marks of a coward. You got yours from acts of mercy.” Steve kept tracing the scars, his thoughts racing, “I could make you like them. Add to the collection?” Steve word vomited, he usually was level-headed, but something about these scars about Billy made him want to hear the guy beg, but not for his life. Billy’s face scrunched in pain as if automatically going to decline, remembering how it felt to have gotten them in the first place, but he gave pause. “How?” "There are many ways to get scars," Steve traced over the scar on his chest, sliding over his nipple. "Self-defense, fighting, hunting." Steve's lips curled into a smile "pleasure." Billy stifled a gasp, hands flattening on either side of Steve’s chest as his pale, cold hands explored his skin. Goosebumps trailed where Steve touched, “And if I was interested?” Steve moved his hand up to Billy’s neck, just holding it there but not squeezing. “I’ll make sure you enjoy it, so you have happy memories to look back on.” Billy sighed, soft and sweet, as he leaned into the hold on his neck. It was a secure weight that anchored him, and he took another step forward until his front was pressed up against Steve’s. “Do it.” “Impatient, aren’t we” Steve chuckled, “I barely know anything about you, Billy.” Steve was picky with people he let into his life, and the offer he just gave held a lot of weight to it. It was his twisted way of showing sexual affection. Steve rubbed his thumb along the vein of Billy’s neck, feeling the racing heartbeat. “Are you turned on right now?”

Billy bit his lip, “Yes. You knew that.” Steve did know that with Billy's hips against his, all he could feel was Billy’s cock. "Go clean yourself off." Steve felt Billy’s prick twitch against his thigh at the same time that he growled a low, “Don’t command me. I’m not your dog.” Steve squeezed his hand slightly around Billy’s neck. He was not saying anything, just giving that blank stare into Billy’s eyes. He felt Billy swallow against his hand, expression locked in the same stubborn glare. He looked unwilling to back down. It was weird having someone not be scared of him. “After all I have done for you.” Billy’s lip twitched in an aborted scowl for a second before he lowered his eyes in furious submission, “I’m not your dog.” He whispered again, body lax and the fight drained from him. Steve let go of Billy, not moving away from their pressed bodies. He liked the fight in Billy but definitely wanted to get him to submit like this more just for him. Steve smiled at him, his rare smile that was beautiful in every way. “Do you want me to join you then?” Steve deflected onto something else without missing a beat. Billy thought for a second, hands still splayed on Steve, although migrated down to his hips. He was still ashamedly hard, but fuck if he’d say that out loud. Instead, Billy gave a slight nod. Steve shrugged off his shirt and jacket, letting it fall to the floor around them. He let Billy hold on to him, “You’re going to have to move so I can get my pants off,” Steve mumbled before running his thumb against Billy’s bottom lip. “Unless you wanna help.” The tip of Billy’s tongue poked at his thumb, and rough tanned hands slid down his torso to work his belt buckle and slacks open. Billy’s fingers worked slow, dragging them down Steve’s legs and dropping with them until he kneeled at his feet—head tilted back and looking up at Steve. Billy could tell that Steve wasn’t hard, but Steve’s look from above was breathtaking. The cold hard stare had a comfort behind it for Billy, like Steve saw more in him than just his looks. He was different from the other men he had met. “Your eyes are so blue” Steve reached to trace Billy’s eyebrows with his thumb, obsessing over every detail of this man. Billy’s eyes fluttered shut at the caress, almost embarrassed how fast he’d gone from nearly decking this man to kneeling at his feet and enjoying his touch. “They’re just blue.” He quietly replied. Steve laughed, “You really don’t know how to take a compliment.” Steve moved his hand into Billy’s curly locks, massaging Billy’s scalp. “I don’t just get undressed for anyone; they have to be pretty amusing for that.” “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” Billy eyed him, thumbs rubbing against the soft hair on his thighs, “anyone else, I’d think it wasn’t. You make it seem like one, though.” Steve gave him a slight smile, just enjoying the minor details of Billy. He wanted to know why Billy made him feel this way. Why didn't he want to kill him? "It is a compliment" Steve added another hand into Billy's hair letting out a little bit of a breath for how soft it was even with blood caked in it. It left the man beneath him to grunt softly, eyes fluttered closed, arching into the hands in his hair. Steve kept ranking his hands through it, giving into the urge to grip it in his fists, just to see what Billy would do. The reaction was immediate—blue eyes snapping open, wide and dilated and daring. He looked equal parts threatening as he did submissive. “Everything about you is so interesting.” Steve gave the curls a little sharp tug, nothing too painful but enough to make Billy gasp. It ripped a low growl out of him, but curiously enough, he didn’t seem all too displeased with it physically. “You’re a bastard; you know that?” Billy ground out. “You have seen nothing yet.” Steve chuckled, removing his hands out of Billy’s hair and fixing his own, ignoring how Billy gave a low, quiet whine. Steve took a deep breath like he was trying to calm something in himself down. “I’m covered in blood.” Billy reminded, staring pointedly at the shower. “Then get up,” Steve commanded, giving his blank stare as he let the words slip out of his mouth, unbidden. Billy narrowed his eyes but stood up nonetheless and walked into the shower without another word—before Steve could give another command that ricocheted up his spine with a shiver. Steve closed the door behind him, watching Billy start the shower and get the temp just right. He liked watching the blood leak off Billy’s tanned skin onto the tile below. He gave a relieved sigh, the hot water pounding down on his back, and Steve could see the tension drain out of him. It felt good to see him relaxed, even if he kept side-eyeing him like he expected to be attacked. Steve slowly walked up to the shower door, joining Billy in the shower, sliding his hand onto Billy’s waist to feel the blood dripping off him. “Did you enjoy it?” Steve finally asked, wanting to know if Billy was just like him. He watched him closely, catching the way his shoulders tensed again and the way his hands carefully clenched into fists at his sides. “He was a fucking rapist. He tried to hurt me,” Billy let out a shaky breath, “Yes. I liked it.” Steve ran his thumb along Billy's hip bone, trying to get him to relax again. Part of Steve didn't like seeing Billy on edge; he didn't want him stressed about all this. "Then you have nothing to worry about." “I killed a man. And liked it. How the fuck isn’t this something to be worried about?” Billy hissed back. Steve moved his free hand to Billy’s face, rubbing some of the blood off with his thumb as the water showered down on them. His eyes were flicking over Billy’s angry expression. “Because you have me to guide you.” Billy’s eyes softened, flicking down to the floor, “When—If—I go down, you’ll go down with me.” "We won't get caught" Steve lifted Billy's head with his chin. This excited Steve having a little bird under his wing. He dreamed about it, sharing his hobby and love for the craft with people, but everyone was dull until Billy. "I’ll make sure of it.” Billy locked eyes with him; bottom lip pulled between his teeth, “Your confidence is reassuring,” he let out a breath, “But hell, if you’ve got the know-how to back up that confidence, then why the fuck not.” Steve smiled at the slight change in Billy, “I’ll take care of the body—for now, you rest” Steve grabbed a loofa hanging off his shower caddy, Covering it in soap. “The guest room is down the hall to your left.” He lifted the loofa up to Billy, nudging him to turn away so that Steve could sidle up behind him. He slid it up towards his shoulders, wiping away blood-splattered there along his neck—pink stained bubbles trailing their way down Billy’s body and over his thick, raised scars. “We will be just fine.”

[lottiethroughthelookingglass]

Another 15x19 coda/15x20 fix-it? It’s more likely than you think. Anyway I think they should have delivered on the whole barn thing also feeling personally victimised by Lord Huron’s “The Night We Met”

on ao3

It’s a pull in his stomach.

It starts the moment they agree to check out the strange deaths of three IT professionals in the same small mid-western town.

He almost turns it down, says it’s was probably nothing, says they should probably let someone else take it. But he doesn’t

Sam hasn’t connected the dots. Then again why should he. He’d been off with Ruby or something. There’s no reason for him to even think of that night.

The hunt turns out to be a quick salt and burn. The three IT guys had stolen software from the company and the ghost of their ex-boss apparently couldn’t rest without vengeance.

These people need to get their priorities sorted. Dean thinks as he shovels dirt from the boss’s freshly dug grave while Sam stands watch for cops or security guards or the ghost or whatever else might decide to fuck up their night.

The body burns quickly and they’re able to head straight back to the motel. Done and dusted. Sam showers and then conks out almost immediately on his still-made bed.

Dean can’t sleep. Typical. He stares at the faded wallpaper on the dingy hotel room wall. The pull feels like a burning. He wants to throw up. But then again, he wants to throw up most of the time these days.

Grief’s a raw nerve ending. But it can’t last forever. He knows that. It’s not the first time he’s grieved. Not the first time he’s filled his days with drinking and nights with numbness.

But before there’d always been other things to distract him. After Sam there’d been Lisa and Ben, Sam and Jack after Cas and then Chuck and the end of the goddamn world after Mary.

He’s spent the better part of the last year wishing for nothing more than a chance to stop Chuck once and for all and now he almost wishes they hadn’t. Almost wishes that Chuck or Michael or Lucifer or just some damn bad guy would poke their head up and make his life miserable again. At least give him something he can fight. Some goal to work towards. Something he can defeat.

Because this. This he can’t do anything about. All he can do for this is turn through the motions and pretend that he’s ok.

The pull is in his chest.

Maybe it would help. Maybe it’s what he needs. Some kind of closure. Completing the circle bullshit or whatever.

He leaves just after 1am. Sam’ll be out for at least a few more hours. He leaves a note anyway on the cheap motel notepad – gone for a drink, will be back in the morning – Dean.

Sam won’t like it. He’ll be mad in the morning but he’ll be over it soon enough.

It takes almost two hours to get there. The roads all begin to look the same and he soon realises that despite having a good memory for locations it turns out finding a random barn you visited once twelve years ago isn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

He keeps driving. If nothing else it’ll be a way to pass the time and the search at least gives him something to do.

Eventually, he begins to see a few familiar signs. A dirt road with a twisted tree he recognises and it’s suddenly before him.

The barn’s still standing but the years haven’t been kind. Even more slats of wood are missing than before and one end is badly charred from a long-extinguished fire.

He parks Baby behind the barn, in the same spot he had twelve years prior and enters reverently like a parishioner to a church. There’s no need for a torch as the moonlight finds its way through the holes in the roof to bathe the floor in a cool blue light.

The pull turns to an ache.

The sigils are still there upon the walls. Hardly touched by graffiti over the years.

He makes his way down the centre of the barn, the dirt and grass crunching softly under his boots.

At the end of the barn he turns to face the doors.

There’s no breeze, they stand still. Firmly closed.

He doesn’t fall, just finds himself on the ground. His back against the wall and head raised to the sky. The heavens shine above him, stars in their multitudes glitter above.

Cas…

He breathes it out. It’s not a prayer. More a lamentation.

He prayed the first few nights. Racing after Chuck he prayed and he prayed and he hoped that Cas could hear him. But after Chuck was gone and the days started to blur praying became too much. It was just a reminder of the silence that would always face him.

In the stillness of the night there’s a flutter. A familiar sound.

Dean doesn’t move. His mind’s gotten particularly good at playing tricks on him lately.

“Dean?”

A silhouette against the closed barn doors. No sparks rain down. Permanently messy black hair and rumpled tan trench coat and skewwhiff blue tie illuminated by the pale moonlight.

“What are you doing here?”

The figure approaches him. His steps hesitant, nothing like the march under gunfire he’d made that night.

“Saw it on TripAdvisor. Apparently, this barn’s a top tourist attraction.” Dean replies with a crooked but mirthless grin.

Castiel stops, his head tilting.

They regard each other. Castiel’s eyes seem to brim with pain.

Dean’s are empty. He’s cried enough tears and he isn’t going to let some ghostly hallucination draw more from him now.

“Why are you here Dean?” The apparition’s voice is firmer, more demanding.

Dean sighs, tilts his head against the wall, “Just looking for some closure. A bit of sense I guess.”

His mind’s image is before him now, leaning down, reaching out-

A solid hand presses against his arm.

“Dean?”

Dean’s whole-body flinches. Visions can’t touch.

He stares up at the man before him, his eyes wide.

“Cas?” He breathes. “You’re not-”

“I’m sorry, I just saw you were here and… Jack was worried for you. He said I should talk to you.”

Dean tenses, “What do you mean saw? Jack-”

Visions of leaping up and embracing are dashed even as Cas begins to retreat.

“How are you here?” Dean demands, anger bubbling to the surface over any relief.

Cas hesitates, “Jack needed angels to rebuild heaven and well the Empty was getting crowded.”

“So he brought you back?”

“Among others.”

“You’ve been back this whole time.”

“Not the whole time.”

“How long?”

“I- I don’t know. Time is different in Heaven.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me. Me or Sam? I thought we were family Cas?!”

He finds himself on his feet. Words of anger coming so much easier than the tenderness he’s been holding near his heart

“We are. But I didn’t want to make things hard.”

“What the fuck does that mean Cas? What the fuck do you mean hard? Do you have any idea-”

Dean stops. He can’t. This is all his wanted for weeks. Months? He’s not sure. Time is different here too. And now Cas is standing in front of him and he just wants to fight.

Cas is staring at him. Cas is so close. Cas said he loved him.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Cas looks to the ground.

Dean curses, slumps against the wall of the barn. Of course, it’s not what he thought. Why would it be?

“I used to come here often.” Cas’s voice cuts through the silence, gravel deep and rough.

Dean scuffs at the barn floor, “Why?”

“When I was questioning.” he says, “I would come here and I’d look at what you and Bobby had done. The sigils, the bullets, everything. You had no idea what you were facing. I- Heaven, Angels, it was something you couldn’t comprehend. Something so entirely beyond you. And you took your paints and your books and your weapons and you tried so hard to protect yourselves.  You were so scared. And this barn would remind me of that. That no matter what you said, how confident you were, The Plan was more than you and if you couldn’t even comprehend a single angel then what was the worth in listening to you.”

Cas comes and stands beside Dean. A solid space still between them.

“But then, when I was falling… I kept coming here. And looking at this place.  You were so scared. The warding, the weapons, you were just trying to cover up your fear. But it was also your bravery. You knew that this was something bigger than you’d ever seen. Something you couldn’t understand and you were terrified. But that didn’t stop you from trying, from going for it with everything you had because you knew confronting your fear was better than it letting it fester and control you. I was afraid, of everything knew I was feeling. Of falling. But this place reminded me that I couldn’t let that stop me from doing the right thing. Even if I was scared…”

Cas falls quiet. The night air lies stale and still between them. Dean almost wishes it was storming but all is quiet.

“I’m still scared.”

“What are you scared of now?” Dean asks, barely a whisper.

Cas frowns, chews over his words.

“I’m afraid you won’t ask me to stay”

Dean’s eyes met Cas’s and the air becomes electric for a moment.

“What are you afraid of Dean?”

Dean can barely breathe.

“I’m afraid you’ll leave.” He wants to look away but he forces himself to hold Cas’s gaze. “Cas, please stay.”

“I won’t leave Dean.” He says, barely a whisper.

“Good.”

He looks away. He can’t hold that gaze. Doesn’t know what to do with the energy vibrating between them. So he does what he knows, he looks away and tries to brush it off.

“It’s good to have you back Cas.” He says to the wall ahead of him.

He feels a hand on his sleeve. Cas reaching out to him. He turns back to him and suddenly finds himself in a bone crushing hug.

“It’s good to be back.” Cas whispers into his shoulder.

And if Dean holds onto that hug a little longer than he should, if his head turns to breathe in the scent of ozone and that missing storm and home that lingers on Cas, nobody needs to know. If he should really take this moment and kiss the miracle of an angel standing before him but he doesn’t – well, there’ll be another moment he tells himself. There’ll always be another moment.

Cas breaks the hug first, pulls away and Dean almost doesn’t let him. But Cas doesn’t go far. He raises a hand to cup Dean’s face, and he’s got that same look on his face that he had that night.

There’s something Dean should say.

Cas pulls his hand away.

They separate and then they’re in the car and they’re going back to the motel and Sam’s hugging Cas and asking questions and the moment’s gone and Dean can’t stop looking at him but the tugging feeling hasn’t gone. There’s still that sense of grief and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

No. He does know how to fix it. He’s just afraid.

-

They drive straight back to the bunker – back home. They don’t talk much but between the music Sam fills the silence. He calls Eileen who says she’ll meet them when they get back. She’s happy to hear about Cas.

Maybe Dean’s still angry. It’s been three days and he’s barely talked to Cas. It’s better than it was before. He can eat now, he can sleep and every day doesn’t feel like a rusty nail being dug into his gut.

He told Cas to stay but every time he sees him he can’t help but feel that Cas is just itching to leave. He can feel it radiating off him. He left all of heaven and his son to be here. To be with a human who hasn’t even been able to articulate what he wants after this angel gave everything for him.

The third night Sam and Eileen go out for dinner. Sam tries to invite Dean and Cas along in the kitchen over lunch and Dean just gives him a confused look. “No, I don’t want to go on your date Sam.”

Sam shrugs, “Suit yourself.”

Cas comes down to the kitchen after they leave.

“Where’s Sam and Eileen?”

“Went out for dinner.”

“Oh.”

They stand for a moment in the kitchen before Cas goes to leave.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?”

It’s an easy suggestion. Not that he really wants to watch anything. He just doesn’t want Cas to walk out again. Needs some reason to keep him here without actually having to talk about it.

“Ok.” Cas says.

-

They end up on Sam’s Netflix account. So, Dean can snoop and judge more than anything. There’s a half watched terrible looking Netflix original film in his Continue Watching section.

“What the hell Sammy?” Dean says as he hovers over the description.

“Maybe it was Eileen?”

“Hell no, Eileen has much better taste.”

“Was it you then?”

Dean shoots him a stinky look. “No, I have better taste.”

“We should watch it.”

“Really?”

“You’re always insisting I watch “classics” and “good films”. I think we should watch bad things too.”

“Ok.”

They play the film. It’s as terrible as the description suggested. Within five minutes Dean’s cackling at the bad CGI. The dialogue is as clichéd as anything and he’s never seen a man look so stilted while professing his undying love.

Beside him Cas is smiling– almost laughing.

He pauses the movie two acts in.

“I need to take a break.”

“Are we giving up?”

“No, we’re finishing this. I’m just gonna get popcorn.”

He comes back with the popcorn and sits back down next to Cas.

Cas reaches in and takes a handful of popcorn.

“Hey!”

“I thought it was for sharing.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to eat. I thought it was all molecules to you anyway?”

“I like the texture.”

Dean doesn’t know why his cheeks flush at that. He doesn’t know why he sat down so much closer to Cas. Or rather he does know but he’s not sure if it’s the moment yet.

He starts the movie again.

At least it is a moment. For the first time since Cas came back things feel right.

He looks across at Cas, the angel of the lord that stormed that barn twelve years ago, taking rounds of bullets to his chest without flinching, as he shoves popcorn that he can’t even taste properly into his mouth and laughs at this stupid Netflix movie.

A smile crosses his face.

There’s something he should say.

Cas moves to rest his head on the back of the sofa. He’s got a content smile on his face. He looks like he wants to be here.

“I’m afraid you won’t ask me to stay”

“I love you too Cas.”

He barely registers the words coming out of his mouth.

Cas turns to him, the content smile gone from his face.

“Dean?”

“I don’t really know what you meant. And I’m terrified that we both mean two different things but I just need you to know that I’m so glad you’re back and- Cas you mean so much to me and I’ve been such a dick since you got back but I just don’t want you to go. I just want you to stay and I need you to know before I fuck this up anymore that I love you too… I love you Cas.”

The words stream out of him all of a sudden and Cas is staring at him his mouth slightly ajar.

God, did I look this stupid, Dean thinks.

Cas moves his hand like he’s going to do something with it but it’s still filled with popcorn. He looks at it for a moment. Dean pushes the bowl towards him and he puts the popcorn back in.

The moment feels awkward again but thank God Cas seems to be committed.

He cups Dean’s cheek. His fingers are buttery and it’s kind of gross.

“I- I love you too Dean. And I want to stay. I don’t want to go back to heaven, and I haven’t for a long time. I just want to stay here like this… with you.”

“Ok.”

It’s Dean who leans forward, takes the final leap and presses his lips feather soft against Cas’s. He leans awkwardly, hyper aware of not spilling the bowl of popcorn in his lap. Cas shifts closer so that he can properly kiss him. He tastes like popcorn and ozone and Cas.

They break apart but not far. Dean can feel the ghosts of Cas’s smile against his lips and his breath on his cheek.

The moment’s interrupted by a sudden chorus of loud rap from the movie.

They both turn back to the screen briefly.

“Why the hell are they all dressed as carrots?”

“I have no idea.” Cas replies.

He smiles again and looks over to Dean, their noses almost touching. “You do realise this is now going to be our movie.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, “Absolutely the fuck not.”

[atiny-ahgase]

Anemone

Author’s Note: Guess who couldn’t sleep because they had this idea stuck in their head but also couldn’t write because they wanted to sleep? If you guessed Me then you would be correct *Gold Star*.

Side Note: Currently I’m not sure if i’ll be able to continue writing because I recently hurt my wrist. I hope that its nothing serious and of course i’ll keep you  all posted if or when anything changes. I hope that its nothing serious and that the pain will go away but i’m really unsure right now so I thought that I should let you all know- Gabby.

Extra Info: This is for some context when references about the Anemone flower are made. This is also known as the ‘Wind flower’ because it blooms during Spring time when the winds are strong. The flower welcomes Spring by blooming but its petals are fragile and are often blown away by the same winds that they have opened up to welcome.- (aren’t I poetic lol).

Summary: Y/n is an introverted flower enthusiast, to say the least. Only knowledgeable in communicating through ‘flower language’ she rejects the idea of vocal communication with others. But what will she do when she finally meets someone that she wants to talk to? Will she be able to get her message across or will love be her Anemone flower; welcoming the same strong winds that ultimately threaten to destroy her.

Pairing: San x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Romance, School AU

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Female Reader, Flower Symbolism

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

Working at your parents’ flower shop wasn’t just a job to you, it was the highlight of your day; you loved it there. You’d spend your entire summer break helping arrange flowers for anything from centerpieces to bouquets. You hated the time you spent away from the enchanting corner shop which you often referred to as your home. Walking through the emerald green doors only to be greeted by a plethora of flowers in an array of colours and species was one of the best parts of your day. This moment was second only to the feeling you got when you walked through your home garden and greenhouse. That was truly where all of the magic happened. It was the place that provided your family with the paint you needed to colour art pieces which spoke straight to the human soul, also known to others as ‘Flower Arrangements’. 

To say that you liked flowers would be an understatement, you couldn’t even say that you loved them because that word couldn’t even communicate the strong feeling you had towards those colourful sprouts of life. And that was the problem with words; they just weren’t strong enough. They could never express sincere emotions the same way that flowers did. It was this very notion that cultivated your current belief that flower language was the superior language in every state, shape and form; and anyone who couldn’t understand that wasn’t worth your time. 

This was the very reason that you spent the majority of your time outside of the flower shop alone. No one understood your deeply rooted love for flowers and you honestly couldn’t be bothered to explain it to them. That was until now. Why was it that after all of this time do you now feel the need to communicate with someone? And it wasn’t just the simple “Good mornings” and “How have you beens” that you’ve programmed yourself to say just so your parents could stop pestering you about your ‘antisocial tendencies’ or whatever they called it. You actually wanted to sit down and have a real conversation. You wanted to tell him that his smile brightens your day more than any Sunflower could and that the joy of his laugh reminded you of the Lilac flower which represented ‘The joy of Youth’.

You’ve never felt like this about another person before, everything about him was like a flower to you; an arrangement carefully created by the heavens. The rosy colour of his cheeks mimicked the hue of the Pink Carnations that framed the windowpane of your home, the golden glint in his eyes while he spoke about the things that he enjoyed was like that of the Freesia petals; bright and filled with innocence. You could write a book about every floral feature he had, honestly you could write a series about him; one book for every mesmerizing quality he possessed. The more you studied him the more his personality bloomed, opening up to reveal even more beauty like a flower opening up its petals to greet the light of a new day.

---------

You had met San one rainy evening while you were closing your parents’ shop. The store didn’t regularly close that early but sales were slow that day so your mother said that you should just close up and head home for the day. You turned the “Open” sign so it would display the words “Closed” to the outside then headed to the back room to grab your bag and turn off the lights. You reached for your backpack only to be startled by a thunderous roaring from the sky. It was as though the heavens had opened up, striking the world below with bolts of furry and piercing bullets in the form of rainfall. The weatherman did say that there was going to be a storm but you had never imagined that it would have been of that magnitude.

Searching for your phone you dug into your back pocket. You texted your parents to let them know that you were basically stranded until the rain lightens up; not wanting to drive in torrential showers. You then headed back to the front of the store to wait out the weather. Sitting behind the counter you couldn’t help but see the outline of a figure attempting to take shelter outside of the shop. The strong winds were making this action incredibly difficult as they crashed into the front door and windows. If he wasn’t already soaked, he would be soon.

You released a loud sigh before walking to the door and allowing the stranger to enter the shop. Even though you weren’t incredibly fond of conversations you couldn’t just sit back and leave someone to endure that type of weather. He quickly ran into the store, clutching his sides to retain some level of heat in his body. Now that he was in front of you you could clearly see his features. His raven black hair was soaked to the touch, wet and wavy the gentle curls framed his face like the petals of a Carnation. He had a slit on his eyebrow right above his dark brown eyes. For some reason the more you looked that them the more they reminded you of the brown centre of the Anemone flower, beautiful yet fragile.

“I’m not gonna lie y/n; I didn’t expect you to open the door”, he spoke before chuckling to himself.

The look of confusion was eminent on your face which only made him laugh even more. He clutched his stomach as he toppled over laughing; water droplets from his hair dripping unto the white tile floor beneath him. “Great, I just let a lunatic into the store,” you thought.

“Sorry about that,” he said while whipping the tears which built up in his eyes “,it’s just that we’ve been in the same class since we were eight and you still don’t even know my name.”

You tilted your head to the side studying the person in question. You were positive that you’d never seen that man in your life.

“I’m Choi San” he stated with a smile “, we’re the same age, I sit behind you in Biology class and my locker is LITERALLY right next to yours”.

“Hi,” you simply state before walking past him to once again sit behind the counter. “Wow, I guess the rummers were true, you really are just as coldhearted as they claim you to be,” he says, his eyes never once leaving yours. “Like the Hydrangea flower right?” he directs the question to you, his head tilted to the left. He had caught you off guard, you’ve never expected him to even know what a Hydrangea was, much less what it symbolized.

Reaching down you grabbed a towel from beneath the counter before tossing it in his direction. “Although there are a lot of negative connotations connected to the Hydrangea such as Coldheartedness; it also symbolizes gratitude and thanksgiving,” you scuff before returning your attention to your phone.

“You really know your stuff huh?” you hear from across the counter. “So what does this flower mean?” he asks while pointing at a vase of tulips sitting on the counter. “Its a declaration of love,” you simply state. “And what about this one,” he asks while studying a painting of Orange “Lilies on the wall. “I hate you,” you replied. “What did I do?” he exclaims; eyes looking both confused and hurt.

You couldn’t control the burst of laughter that exploded from your body, you placed your hands on the counter in a futile attempt to balance yourself. “I didn’t mean I hate you, dummy. That’s what Orange Lilies mean,” you explained, amusement prevalent in your eyes. You hear him softly chuckle before he returns to interrogating you on some of the remaining flowers in the store. To your surprise, you actually didn’t mind the company, apart from your parents you’ve never really gotten the chance to talk to anyone else about flowers. You didn’t know that it would be as fun as it was, but at that moment you didn’t mind getting close to someone if it was San.

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

Walking into your morning Biology class you’re greeted by the most unexpected sight; on top of your desk was a bouquet of light blue hydrangeas. Surely they couldn’t be for you unless they were some sort of sick joke from your classmates; ‘let’s get the coldhearted girl Hydrangeas cause they both represent the same thing’. You scuffed at the thought before sitting at your desk and inspecting the flowers. Tied to the stem was a small note which read: “The Hydrangea is one of the most misunderstood flowers of the world not unlike you. Thank you for helping me out- Sanflower’. You didn’t know whether you should smile at the fact that he actually remembered or laugh at the comparison he made between him and a Sunflower. If anything he was more like a buttercup; bright, childish and joyous.

You carefully plucked off a single bud of the Hydrangea before gently placing it on the table behind you remembering that he said he often sat there. “You’re welcome,” you hear him whisper behind you, you could practically hear the grin on his face. 

That was the moment that you realized that you’d give anything to spend even one second more with him. Just talking; it didn’t even have to be about flowers. He was the first person whose life you actually cared to know about. Did he have any siblings, what was his favourite food, did he have any pets? All of those questions swarmed around in your head all day.

You could go up and talk to him if you actually knew how to have a conversation but you were completely hopeless. San was the first person outside of your family that you actually conversed with for more than 5 minutes. The fact that you were completely aware of your lack of communication skills only fueled your overgrowing anxiety.

After multiple failed attempts at socializing with him; apart from the basic “Hi” when you see each other; you decided that maybe it was better to just not even try talking to him. Quit while you’re ahead right? So could someone please explain why you were standing in front of San’s locker at the early hours of the morning with a small bunch of Pear Blossoms in your hand. Well, according to the girls you found gossiping in the bathroom, San had a Taekwondo tournament and Pear Blossoms meant ‘good luck’ so it just made sense to give them to him. Placing the flowers on his locker you hastily left, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment. You could have just handed him the flowers dummy... 

This action continued for months, you’d leave flowers all around him at least twice a week. You knew that it was weird but what else could you do? Just the thought of confessing to him filled your body with so much anxiety that you couldn’t breathe. You were cursed to only be able to express yourself through flowers so you did just that. You left White Camellias (Symbolizes Lovable/Adorable) on his desk, Yellow Tulips (Symbolizes Happiness of Love) on his locker, even Red Chrysanthemums (Symbolizes Love) near his gym clothes. 

With every flower, that you placed you hoped that their message would reach him. “I like you”, “You’re Cute”, “Please think of me”, “I love you”. You felt as though your words where being screamed into deaf ears but you couldn’t give up. You couldn’t give him up. You never understood how focusing only on the colours of flowers had made you blind to the colours of the world. He painted your world in the brightest colours that you’ve thought only existed in flower petals. How could one person be so beautiful inside and out? The most stunning flower in the garden.

As the school term was coming to a close you began seeing less and less of San plus you started taking more hours at the flower shop; as if that was even possible, you already basically live there. You sat behind the counter remembering how your life was before you had ever met San; things were less…..confusing. He filled your head with thoughts that you’ve never considered before and even though you hated the bubbly feeling in your stomach you couldn’t deny the love he made you feel. You cherished every emotion he had given you, from the butterflies in your stomach to the hurricane in your heart, they were all precious to you; he was precious to you.

The chiming of the bell at the front door knocks you out of your thoughts, the sight that comes into view knocks the air out of your lungs. San had entered, he stood beside an older man. The similarities in their facial structure had caused you to deduce that it was his father. They slowly walked through the store examining the flowers with a commendable amount of detail. You take a deep breath before speaking.

“Looking for anything in particular sir?” you ask from across the counter. The elder man smiles widely at you before walking to greet you at the counter. “I’m looking for a gift for my wife. She recently got promoted to be the supervisor of a company in Seoul,” he explained. You couldn’t hold back the sinking feeling in your heart. Seoul? That’s really far away. Will they all move there? Will San move there? All those thoughts just kept on swimming through your head, spiraling like a tornado; demolishing your hopes.

“People usually give roses don’t they?” San’s voice being the only thing that could pull you out of your thoughts. “Red roses are perfect for a loved one,” you state “, I can prepare a bouquet now if you’d like.” The man thanked you before taking a seat on one of the benches inside the store. The bouquet was simple enough so you didn’t take too long. Before you walked out you picked up a single Myosotis flower; holding it behind your back. You had just finished receiving your payment when you hear San call out to you. “Hey Y/n, Sunflowers are a symbol of loyalty right?”

You laughed to yourself, he sounded so proud of himself, it was cute. “Yeah they are,” you reply “, but what about this flower?” you say while revealing the flower from behind your back, head tilted to the side. San walked up to you, taking the flower from your hand to inspect it. You took a deep breath, it was now or never. “I’m not too sure about it. Can I ask an expert opinion?” he asks while looking at you, eyebrow cocked and a lopsided grin on his face. “They’re called ‘The Myosotis Flower’ but they’re better known as ‘Forget me not’. Can you guess what they mean now?” you responded.

The longer he took to respond the hotter your face got, you felt as though all of your emotions were boiling up inside you ready to erupt at any moment. “How could I forget you Y/n?” he asks, his eyes looking deep into your soul. “Don’t forget me when you go to live in Seoul with your Mom,” you whispered looking down at the floor. The more you looked at him the more your heartache. He whispered something to the elderly man before you heard the store door open and close. Shuffling was heard the store; too afraid to look up at San you instead kept your head down, finding a new interest in the tiles on the counter top.

A soft banging sound on the counter forces you to jump up. “Can I have these please?” he asks gesturing to a vase of Red Tulips. You blinked a few times to ensure that you were seeing correctly. Was he really not gonna acknowledge anything that you said? “Pink Tulips represent care wouldn’t you rather-”. “Id like these please,” he interrupted you. Red Tulips really weren’t appropriate to give to a relative but if that’s what he wants.. “I’ll go wrap them up then,” you reply unable to keep the exhaustion from dripping off your lips. Love was exhausting but San somehow managed to make all the pain worth it. “You don’t need to do that, they’re staying right here,” he says. 

“What are you talking-”. “They’re for you,” he interrupted you again. “Do you even know what Red Tulips mean?” you questioned rather harshly. He’s moving to Seoul and now this? You’re not sure how much more pain you can take. “They mean ‘Believe me when I say that I love you’,” he shouts the golden spark in his eyes were replaced with a look of determination. “I love you Y/n. I have since the first time we met so many years ago. Do you know how many times I’ve looked at you and prayed that you’d look at me with the same care that you look at these flowers? I came to class early every day so that I can sit behind you, I traded lockers with one of the guys on the Football team just so I could see you between classes. Heck, I take the long way home from practice just so I could pass by this shop every evening so please don’t pull that ‘Don’t forget me’ line when you’re the one who couldn’t remember me.” He stood there, panting. You’ve never realized how exhausted he looked, was all of that because of you?

How did he do that? Depict the meaning of Red Tulips better than Red Tulips themselves. You felt a tightness in your chest. What were you supposed to do when the one thing you’ve wished for for so many months finally comes through? How were you supposed to react when the guy you’ve been in love with for months says that he’s loved you for years? What were you supposed to say to the only person that actually saw you? But you were too distracted to notice them. Your thoughts went a mile a minute; you raked your brain to think of what to say. What flower was there to show him how much you really did care for him. To tell him that you felt the same love that he’s had for so many years in the mere months of him entering the shop. To tell him that you don’t want him to go.

There wasn’t one. You couldn’t express those feelings with flowers but you also couldn’t express them with words, only with actions. Extending your hands you pull him into a hug; the counter still separating you but that didn’t seem to bother San as he cradled your head in his hands. “I’m so sorry San,” you whisper; your voice breaking in the process. “I love you too. So much,” you continued, gripping him in your arms even tighter. “It’s okay Princess. Your the strong winds to my Anemone flower; I know that I can’t withstand you but I welcome you anyway,” he responds before kissing your cheek. You could hold unto each other forever but the chiming of the front doorbell forces you two apart. 

“Sorry to interrupt Sannie but we need to get going,” states the man who had previously entered with San. You could see the faint blush on San’s cheeks as he looked at the man. “Sorry for the wait uncle I’ll be right there,” replied San before he glances at you with a smug smirk on this face. It only took you a moment to connect the dots. If that man was his uncle then that meant that his Aunt was moving. You released a loud groan before resting your head on the counter. This is so embarrassing. You feel gentle fingers begin the glide across the skin of your arm before a chaste kiss was left on your head. You raise your head upon hearing footsteps beginning to fade.

“Orange Lilies (I hate you),” you jokingly yell at San while pouting, arms crossed over your chest. “Red Roses (I love you),” he smiles back at you trying his best to hold back his laughter before departing. You looked at the Red Tulips that he had left for you on the counter, his words replaying in your head, “Please believe me when I say that I love you”.

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

Hope you all liked it. I really like flowers so I had a lot of fun writing it. 

[always-horny-for-fictional-men]

La Lune Cache Un Côté Sombre Part One

WARNING: THIS FIC HAS TRIGGERING ASPECTS. TALK OF SUICIDE, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ABUSE, MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE, AND MENTAL DISORDERS. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T CONTINUE IF YOU THINK YOU MIGHT NOT BE COMFORTABLE WITH THESE SUBJECTS.

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: IkeVamp x OC/ Dazai x OC

Rated: Explicit for graphic themes

Type: Full Fic/Angst (fluff and some smut later on)

Word Count: 1,003 words

We start our story in modern day France with a young woman named Selene. I'll let you read the rest.........

The Mona Lisa. The most popular painting in the entire museum. Most people come here just to see this painting. Just like me.

I stood in front of the painting, thinking. It was something I had always wanted to see. Now that I've seen it, I frantically tried to come up with something else I wanted to do. There was nothing. Nothing except....

"Oof!" Someone bumped into me, a little girl. She stopped and apologized.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She spoke in almost perfect French. I smiled at the little girl.

"It's fine, I wasn't paying attention." Her family called her over to them, scolding her for leaving their side. I watched them for a moment and turned my attention back to the painting, my smile fading.

Have I finally completed my bucket list? Am I ready?

In my heart, I knew that i wasn't. But what other choice did I have? Life wasn't kind to me. No one would miss me, not even my own family. I was done. My backpack, filled with all of my earthly possessions felt like it weighed a ton. I was painfully aware of the razor blade in my pocket.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" I turned towards the voice. A tall man with golden hair stood not too far away from me. He held out a hand. In it was a familiar moon shaped earring.

"I believe this belongs to you." My hands flew up to my ears. One of them was indeed missing.

"Oh, I didn't even realize it was missing." Of course I didn't. I went to take it from him and put it back in when he stopped me.

"Allow me." I hesitated. I didn't know if I wanted this stranger to touch me. I didn't know if I could take it. I swallowed and nodded, brushing my hair away from my neck. He must have noticed my hesitation as he replaced my earring with minimal skin contact.

I stood stock still, desperately trying not to flinch at his light touches. He pulled away after a moment and appraised my ears.

"There we go." I bowed my head.

"Merci, monsieur." He smiled warmly.

"Of course. Now I must be going. It was lovely meeting you." He's lying, of course. I managed a small smile.

"It was nice meeting you too, monsieur." He turned and left. I stood there for a moment. What an odd interaction. No matter. It was time to-

Clunk

Looking down, I noticed that I had kicked a small object across the floor. I hurried over to it. It was an old pocket watch. Picking it up, I noticed a large scuff on the cover. This must belong to that gentleman. I should return this to him.

Putting the pocket watch in the pocket of my jacket, I hurried off into the direction that the man had went in. It was a hallway with no art on the walls, no benches, or any other people. At the end of the hallway was a tall, intricately carved wooden door.

He must have gone through this door, where else could he have gone? I pulled the door open, poking my head through. Beyond the door was a narrow hallway lined with artifacts. I didn't see him in the hallway. I paused, looking over my shoulder into the museum.

I felt like if I went through this door, I would never return. It was a looming, ominous feeling. If that's true, would I want to return anyway? Isn't that the point?

I became aware of the razor blade in my pocket once more. Shaking my head, I stepped into the dark hallway. I started walking....

And walking.....

There are so many clocks. What is this place? I had a feeling I wasn't in the Louvre anymore. The hallway was long, too long, and so quiet that every clock tick was distinctly audible. My chest seized, the dark was starting to get to me. I wanted out. I wanted that more than anything at that moment.

Next thing I knew, I was standing in a strange hallway. There were doors on one side and windows on the other. I immediately thought that this was some sort of mansion. Confused, I turned around. Before me was a door, the exact copy of the door I walked through before.

I pulled on the handle, not really expecting it to open. I was stuck here. Wherever 'here ' was. I leaned against the door and slid to the ground, pulling my legs up to my chest and burying my face in my arms.

I'm scared. The situation coupled with everything going on in my mind made me feel like I was a tiny boat in a huge ocean. And I. Wanted. Out.

I heard footsteps near me and I brought my knees closer to me. The footsteps stopped near me and I heard a voice.

"Are you ok?" I glanced up and saw a man with grey hair and eyes crouched down next to me. I shook my head. His eyes were tender.

"Do you think you can get up?" I shrugged. I knew I could if I really tried but I also felt like I would fall immediately if I did. The man reached for me and helped me to my feet.

"Come, the master of the house would like to speak to you." I nodded, absently and allowed the man to lead me deeper into the mansion.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, another was listening in. Sharp, tawny eyes watched the pair walk away from the door. He had seen the girl emerge from the door and everything that happened after. He was going to go over to her if Sebastian hadn't shown up.

The girl reminded him of himself. She was just like him in the weeks before his own death. That was concerning to him. He would have to keep an eye on her.

[ikeromantic]

Doll

Day 9 of Ikemektober

I chose Jonah for this one. Sweet and fluffy! Approx. 1200 words.

With a title like the Queen of Hearts, you would think the eldest Clemence would have one. But no. Instead, he lords over hearts, seeing them as worthless trinkets bought and sold with fancy gifts or five minutes of faked affection. It didn’t matter that he was beautiful, with his perfect little lips. His brilliant amber eyes. Hair that fell like liquid silver. 

Alice swallowed. He was an arrogant, demanding, gorgeous, frustrating jerk! This was the bent of her thoughts as she sat and waited for Jonah in his room. 

Everything in here was so perfectly Jonah. Elaborate, over-decorous, and stiff. Except for the tray of macarons. Those were pretty good. Not a patch on Luka’s baking, of course, but still sweet. She snagged another one from the back of the tower, hoping the Queen wouldn’t notice how many she’d eaten already.

Her fingers weren’t as deft as she hoped, and one of the macarons next to her target teetered and fell. It rolled along the floor like a little puffy wheel, leaving a trail of frosting to its final resting place, just under the edge of the bed. 

Alice set the cookie she’d grabbed down and walked over to the giant four poster monstrosity. It was easily big enough for three or four Jonahs. The velvet coverlet was a deep red, and edged in little gold tassels. She could just see a crumb from the macaron beyond them. 

It was tempting to just scuff the sugary smear leading from the table to the bed, and leave the cookie for someone else to clean up. She entertained a brief fantasy of Jonah waking up to a bunch of ants in his sheets, but even though it made her smile, she couldn’t do it. 

Alice knelt down, pushing the ruffles and layers of her skirt to the side so she could get under the bed. It was pretty empty under there, and dark. She spotted some dust bunnies before her eyes landed on the cookie. And just past the escaped macaron - a, a doll? 

All she could make out was a stitched arm and leg, stuffed and stubby. It looked like it was wearing a Red Army uniform too. Maybe someone else left it in the room. A soldier’s child on a visit or - well, anyone other than Jonah. Alice snagged the cookie and then reached back under the bed for the little, stubby arm of the toy.

“What are you doing under my bed?” 

Alice blushed. Jonah had that effect, even when his voice was sharp enough to slice carrots. Without looking up at him she said, “I dropped a macaron.” Honesty was the best policy, even when it was embarrassing. 

“Just leave it. I’ll get it later.” 

The words were rushed, and . . . Alice considered this carefully but . . . nervous? Had he hidden the doll here on purpose? But that would mean he knew it was here. That it was his. She grinned wickedly, and pulled the doll the rest of the way out. 

“Oh, I already got it. And this.” Alice held the doll up, getting her first good look at it. The doll was definitely wearing a Red Army uniform, with stiff white pants, red striped, a white jacket with little, gold buttons, and little leather boots on its feet. The face was adorable - big, dark button eyes and a shy little painted smile. With purple hair, made of thin yarn and pinned to the side by two white clips. 

Jonah’s eyes went as round as tea saucers. “What? Alice! Put that down!” 

Alice declined to follow that order. She held it up, considering. “Is this - you know, I think this looks a lot like Luka.” She glanced at Jonah. His porcelain perfect face was flushed with embarrassment. 

“Just give it here. And forget you saw it.” He held his hands out for it. 

“Mmm, I don’t think I will.” Alice held the doll by its two little arms and wiggled it in front of her. “It’s so cute. Does Luka know you have a doll that looks like him?”

Jonah’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. He reached for the doll, but Alice lifted the doll above her head. This might have worked if she was taller than the Queen, but he topped her by more than a head. She backed away from him, still trying to keep the Luka doll away. Right into the edge of the bed. That didn’t stop the Queen. Jonah kept coming, and the two of them tumbled onto the the velvet coverlet.

“You are the most nosey, stubborn, irritating woman,” he growled. Jonah grabbed the doll, but Alice wouldn’t let go.

“I think most of that is true, but you’re one to talk! You arrogant, beau- beastly jerk!” 

Jonah stopped tugging at the doll and met Alice’s gaze. He was so close their noses almost touched. “Beastly? Really?”

“Well, yeah? You tackled me to the bed and now you’re wrestling me for a doll. My hair is mussed, my dress is wrinkled -”

“And you got crumbs on my bed,” he grumped. Jonah let go of the toy and sat up, still straddling the prone girl. “Will you just give me the doll? Please?”

Alice smiled. “Well, since you asked me nicely instead of ordering me around - yes.” She handed him the doll. 

Jonah smiled at it sadly and set it on his pillow. Then he stood and held out a hand to Alice to help her up. 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you have a Luka doll, Jonah? I know he’s your brother but - it just seems like an odd thing to keep around.”

The Queen sighed heavily. “Does he say anything about me? Does he talk about me?”

Alice shook her head. “Never. He looks grumpy when your name is mentioned.”

“Still.” Jonah looked so sad as he said this, that Alice felt all her built up aggravation at him drain away. “I wish he would talk to me. I want to at least understand why he left.” He looked at the doll as if it might answer him. 

“Is that why you have it? Because you miss Luka?”

“Yes. Sometimes, I really just want to talk to him. Like we did when we were little. I - I know it’s just a doll but . . . it makes me feel a little better.” Jonah looked back at Alice, his eyes shining with held emotion. “You won’t tell him?”

“Of course not.” Alice took the Queen’s hand. “Your secret is safe with me. And . . . if I get the chance, I’ll let him know you still miss him.”

Jonah’s face lit up with a sudden smile. It was so unexpected, and so different from his usual, icy expression, that it took Alice completely by surprise. Her own lips twitched into a smile, the first real one she’d given Jonah, just for being himself. 

“You know, you’re really very pretty when you smile like that,” he said. His fingers brushed her cheek.

Alice felt her heart begin to race. Traitor organ. “I could say the same thing to you.” 

Jonah gave a rueful laugh. “I am supposed to be seducing you, Alice. Not the other way around.”

Though she didn’t say so, Alice thought today, he’d made a good start.

[ad1thi]

keeping a low profile | AU-gust Day 11: Farm/Ranch AU

AU-gust masterlist

disclaimer: i haven’t actually watched Hannah Montana The Movie

//

Tony mimes cleaning out his ears, dramatically and theatrically in a way that makes his father roll his eyes.

 "I must've misheard you," he says, sending his father a significant look, "so why don't we try that again? What is it you wanted to see me about, father mine?"

His father pinches the bridge of his nose, and Tony is equal parts ecstatic that he managed to garner such a reaction and worried that he's made things worse, "I said - I'm sending you to Crowley Corners Tennessee, to go live with your Aunt Peggy."

 "But I don't even know my aunt Peggy! Besides, I have a life here, a life that you can't just tear me away from. You can't send me, I refuse to go."

His father scoffs, "A life? What life would that be?" he grabs a magazine from the pile stacked next to him and flings it across the desk at Tony, "A life where you get into fights with Tyra Banks over shoes?"

 "Or is the life where you pass out drunk in the back-alley of nightclubs?"

 "Or," he takes a second to look at the magazine cover, and Tony fights the urge to sink into his seat, "and this is my personal favourite - is it the life where you make your bestfriend's birthday party all about you?"

 Tony would very much like it if the Earth could open up and swallow him whole, much like it did in that one story his Ma used to love telling him as a child.

 "That was," Tony splutters, fumbling for some sort of explanation, "that was a mistake. I didn't mean to make Rhodey's party all about me!! But Hammer was just following me everywhere, and I couldn't shake him off - and you know how paparazzi are just like bloodhounds and I just…"

 He trails off when Howard gives him a look. Mostly because he knows there's no excuse for this one. He's still working on getting Rhodey to forgive him for ruining his eighteenth birthday party, but it's slow going.

 "You're going to Crowley Corners Tony," his father says in a voice that Tony has learnt to mean no arguing or pleading or begging will change a thing, "the fresh air and countryside will do you some good. Turn you back into that child that your mother loved so much instead of this, media monstrosity you've become."

/

Ordinarily, if Tony was travelling anywhere, he prefers flying. He isn't enough admitting that he's got a taste for the finer things in life and he learnt long ago that unless he was completely comfortable with the company - land journeys were not his thing. He was a big believer in popping a pill before the flight took off, pulling a mask over his eyes, and being gently woken up by a pretty air hostess when the flight landed.

 Howard however, disagreed, which is why he was in a ratty bus that moved maybe 5 miles an hour and had seats so thin that Tony could feel it digging into his skin and making a home there. This is about getting back to your roots, Howard had said when he saddled Tony with two large suitcases and then left him off the side of the road to fend for himself.

 He's been trying to sleep for the better part of an hour, but funnily enough - leaning your head against the dusty window made it rattle like you were in a laundry machine and that wasn't very conducive to a good night's sleep. And since Tony was surrounded by strangers and he had some survival skills, he wasn't about to pop a pill and make it easier for the homeless guy two seats away from him to kidnap him.

 His only small comfort was in the fact that once Rhodey had found out where Howard was shipping him, he'd laughed so hard that he'd forgotten why he was mad at Tony, or, more likely, he decided that Tony's life was already hard enough without him also having this weighing over his head.

 His exact words were: You think I'm going to miss out on you slumming it with countryfolk? Nah we're good as long as you promise to update me every single day.

 Given that there was nothing to do in Crowley Corners Tennessee (he knows, he googled it), Tony didn't think that was a hard ask.

 The bus finally halts to a screeching stop, and Tony cups his hands over the glass and peers through the window to see the sign better. C-owley C--ners, it reads, in faded red paint, and Tony is fairly certain that this is his stop. He gently pushes back the large man who'd plopped into the seat next to him over an hour ago and makes his way off the bus; rocking back and forth on his heels as he waits for the bus driver to unload his suitcases from the trunk.

 While he's waiting, he takes a cursory look around at the town that's supposed to be his home for the next summer. It's painfully obvious that they're no longer in the city, because Tony can't see another person for miles. Reaching into his back-pocket - he pulls out his phone and starts thumbing through his contacts, trying to look for the number that his father had sent him earlier.

 "Tony!" he looks up at the sound of his voice, and sees a tall woman walking up to him, with blonde hair that curls around her shoulders. Aunty Peggy, his mind supplies, thinking back to the photos he'd seen of her. There's a touch of familiarity as she gets closer, even though Tony knows it's been years since he's seen her.

 "Aunt Peggy," he replies weakly, and that's all he gets out before he's pulled in for a tight hug.

 "Oh it's so good to see you darling," she says, and Tony realises with a jolt that she has a british accent. She pulls back and cups his cheeks, not unlike how his Ajji does when he goes to visit her, "you look so much like your mother."

 Tony ignores the tug in his heart when he hears those words, mainly because nobody ever tells him that he looks like his mother, and says instead, "It's good to see you too."

 "You must be so exhausted from your journey, let's get you all settled in."

 /

Despite his preconceived notions, Aunty Peggy actually does have a nice house. She's got a jeep parked just off the side of the road from the bus-stand, because apparently Crowley Corners isn't big enough for more than a small bench at the edge of town; and Tony dutifully drags his suitcases all the way to the jeep and hauls them over to park them in the back.

 Riding in the jeep isn't too different from the bus, except that it's less stuffy and Tony can feel the wind on his face. He isn't sure if that's a good thing yet, but he silently marks it down as a point for Crowley that he doesn't immediately hate it. It's a short journey, no more than five minutes - and soon Aunt Peggy is turning the corner into what looks like a very nice house, with a man in crutches standing at the door.

 "That's my husband Daniel," she explains, as they step out and Tony goes to grab his bags, "He injured himself a couple years back and was forced to retire, and New York was no longer fun without him, so I joined him out here a couple months later."

 "What happened?" Tony asks, out of politeness more than anything.

 "He got shot at," Aunty Peggy replies, but before he can ask whether she's serious or not, they're at the front steps

off the house and Mr Sousa is making his way down the stairs. Aunty Peggy meets him half-way, tilting her head up ever so slightly to kiss him hello, because he's still a step above her - and then smoothly shifting under his arms and helping him back up the stairs.

 He thinks he can hear Aunt Peggy scolding him for trying to come down the stairs, but he isn't sure. They remind him a lot of his father and his Ma, before she died, and he turned into a tyrannical asshole. Before that though, he remembers them being happy.

 "Come on in Tony!" Aunt Peggy calls after him, and Tony moves to grab his bags, when movement from the side of the house catches his eyes. Huh, he thinks to himself, I didn't know anyone else lived here. He wants to ask Aunt Peggy who it is, but she's already gone inside, so he feels a bit foolish yelling after her.

 "Hello?" he calls out hesitantly, "Is anyone there?"

 There's a shuffle and then a boy who can't be much older than Tony steps out; with mud on the scuffs off his boots and wearing an honest to god cowboy hat.

 "Howdy!" he says brightly, while Tony tries to wrap his head around the cowboy hat, "You must be Mrs Sousa's nephew." He wipes the back of his hand against his cotton tshirt, which is so thin that it's practically see through, "Clark Kent. I help out with Mr and Mrs Sousa's ranch sometimes, on account of Mrs Sousa being away a lot and Mr Sousa's leg injury."

 "Tony," he says back, and up close, Tony notices that his thick framed glasses and wide brimmed hat are hiding blue eyes, "Tony Stark."

 "Nice to meet you Tony Stark," Clark says with a twinkle, "I guess I'll be seeing a lot of you 'round here."

 "Yeah," his tongue feels heavy, but Tony manages to unstick it just enough to say, "yeah I suppose you will."

 Both of them stare at each other for a couple of seconds longer, missing the way Peggy looks at the pair of them with a private smile playing on her lips.

 Fin

[stromaintic-archived]

TASK 01. — THE PEOPLE / THE TOWN.

“ Could there be a temple of the hearth, of Home, which lurks beneath the paltry mechanisms of sinew and bone, Claude? Cruel mistress and tempest-tossed, the Sea is. To say aloud that I tire of her wraith-like keening is to insult the divine art of piracy itself. She is Home, what ever left of it I have left. But I will not cease my searches, for if any sailor knows well that there need be a day where you crash upon Her rocks, or unearth a final port for your weary soul. ”

p. 221 —  “The Pleiades Above, The Captain and His First Mate Discuss.” Raiders on the Seas.

i. ——

let me tell you about the man who lives in the manor at the end of crescent road. coalyard is hardly the type to get new visitors, the static nature of the town almost piling up like corpses in a mass grave, sediment on the crust of the world. eccentrics, such as the man who bought the house on crescent road, would have wanted to go somewhere with arthouses and people as odd as him. but he stood there, another dead man in the dead-end town. another corpse for the pile. on some level, do you think he knows this?

let me tell you about the man who lives in the manor, the ghost living in the skeleton of a once magnificent house. the first day that the strange man buys the old house near the woods, movers come in, and he stands unnaturally still in the daylight, watching as the movers walk into the house and furnish it one by one. the long dining room table, the plates, the armoires. the furniture was old as the sin of our forebears, kept alive by sentiment and elbow grease. when a mover scuffs the chair, he does not flinch. he does not acknowledge it. he barely even breathes.

this is no story, you say, only observations. a painting made with the backdrop of shifting light and painted regret.

let me tell you something else, then.

ii.  ——

did you know that paris is built upon the bones of its dead? did you know that saint petersburg is built on the dead that built it? did you know that the bodies of history have overflown and spat out men from heaven and hell alike? did you know that purgatory is a wasteland of souls, wailing outside the gates and running from the flames?

did you know that the man who lives in the manor is alone? in some form or another, we are all alone. measured by the distance between our heartbeats, divided by our differences, our loneliness can be quantified, even known to us, if we only stop to notice. but who wants to know their solitude?  the man who lives in the manor walks down the street, people giving him a wide berth. some of them whisper and ask who died, and there is almost something in the man that wants to reply.

did you know that coalyard is the last place anyone will find him? he has no family, of course, only the memories in his diary, long-dead and rotten beneath his touch. this is the finalé to a punchline, the arc of a swing calculated over centuries of questions. there will be no body, but he will be dead, as will all the people he had carried with him. only another thing that coalyard subsumes into itself. at least he is a part of something, he whispers, staring out into the open water. at least there is that.

iii.  ——

he wears his existence in town like an ill-fitting coat. the grocery clerk stares at the man and the man, as a kindness, pretends not to notice. he pretends not to notice a lot of things, of course. he’s had practice. death streams down from the light in the afternoon sun. perhaps the man on crescent road will pretend not to notice that as well.

iv.  ——

why do you tell me this? what is this for? you ask this, unknowing. i forgive you. sometimes, stories have no purpose but to be what they are.

that’s a shit explanation. so let me end the story. perhaps we can start anew.

v.  ——

two years pass and he still walks to the door and feeds a stray. the man that lives on the end of crescent road does not disappear anymore, only lingers. dusk sets and the stars shine, but the town still feels wrong. maybe the problem isn’t the town, or the wine, or the people, just him. but the coat fits better in the end, even if the wrongness never leaves. the corpse is content with being what it is, here in the graveyard where it waits.

the man only waits, but does not live, the idyll of the days outside going by in a haze of months. what is one more in the span of centuries? he’s lived his life thrice-over, and the toll of the bell drones only to let him remember the passage of time. there is no savior coming for the man, so what’s a little more waiting? what’s a little more torment?  the corpse becomes lazarus, and the old mythology rears its head through the fog.

a christian god is something anathema to the man, and yet he swallows down every walk to the church through the silence of the mosaic glass. there is a miracle yet to come. agnus dei, agnus dei. he will be content to sit and to live through coalyard yet again. the coat fits his shoulders, not his arms. perhaps four lifetimes is enough, and lazarus will return to the earth.

[the-odd-job]

Harem AU Chapter 6 - Waiting Game

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Characters: Megatron, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Skywarp, Starscream, Unnamed Characters Relationships: Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Additional Tags: Referenced Rape, Referenced Orgy, Coercion, Angst Words: 9428

No I’m not late with this or anything, what are you talking about.

I’m really excited for chapter 7, ngl. But this first.

He would have never guessed that it was possible to fall asleep after something like that. How could the mind calm down enough to allow for rest?

But it wasn’t about the mind. It was about the body, pushed to its limit by an overload after overload—energy reserves used to depletion, all charge drained from one’s batteries.

Exhaustion.

It didn’t matter how the mind suffered and reeled, at that point. The frame took over, demanding things. Demanding rest. A chance to recharge.

And that was what it had decreed in the end. Sunstreaker wasn’t sure how long it had taken, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Those memories were best blurry and out of focus.

Like how many unwanted overloads it had taken to finally knock him out. Sideswipe, too. How much distress it had taken for their minds to shut down, only now beginning to return to him as he climbed out from the grasp of pitch black sleep.

He wished he could’ve fallen straight back into it when reality began to creep in, but his processors’ march to consciousness was unrelenting. Memories began to flood in too, fuzzy as they were, and long before he wanted to, he became aware of where he was.

Of where he still was. 

The only upside in the whole situation was that he couldn’t feel his field or scan his spark signature. Before his optics opened, Sunstreaker was already mostly confident that Megatron was not in the vicinity, and once his optics did open, a glance around confirmed that the tyrant was nowhere to be seen.

Figures. He probably had more important things to go, being the leader of the whole goddamned city and whatnot. Have his fun, fuck and rape, then go on his merry way without a backwards glance!

He couldn’t confirm that last one, but it wouldn’t have surprised him.

There were plenty other spark signatures around him, other fields—Sideswipe was passed out next to him, warm to the touch and–

And covered in all manner of fluids.

Sunstreaker averted his gaze quickly, scanning the rest of the room. They were still on the large berth, and although there were a couple of other mates on it as well, most were recharging in their own cots. Some were already awake, talking in hushed tones to avoid disturbing those that were still resting, but even that didn’t account for everyone.

It appeared quite a few of the mates had recovered faster than him and Sideswipe had. But considering they had gotten most of Megatron—and Soundwave’s—attention, Sunstreaker thought that was fair enough. They hadn’t been allowed to choose their pace, or whether or not they’d like to have breaks, or—Primus, if they even wanted to interface in the first place.

He was shaking, his plating rattling just so. Were his ventilations a little faster than what they were supposed to be? Those were probably just the aftereffects of everything that had happened during the course of the night.

Everything else he shoved down deep, twice as resolutely when Sideswipe began to stir next to him. A small, wounded moan was the first sign of life his brother made, and it was nearly enough to break Sunstreaker’s spark all over again.

As if it had ever recovered from the first time.

Sideswipe returned to awareness much faster, panic seeping in before conscious thought. His optics snapped open to a wild look around, an uncoordinated jerk in his limbs. 

“Hey, hey,” Sunstreaker said at once, battling his own frame to roll onto his knees and land a servo on Sideswipe’s shoulder—and wincing from the stab of pain from his lower body. 

Megatron hadn’t gone out of his way to damage them this time around (and Soundwave hadn’t seemed interested in that either), but his valve was still throbbing angrily and his hip joints protested how much time they’d spent spread around someone’s hips.

He wanted to purge, but pushed that down with the rest of it to focus on Sideswipe instead. His twin’s optics locked on him after a pass around the room, and slowly the look of prey faded from them as his mind caught up.

Megatron wasn’t here, relief. Sunstreaker was here, relief.

Sideswipe’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. What was there to say anyway? What could they say? Something to make things better?

There was nothing that would make things better.

That thought snapped between them like a whiplash, and Sideswipe caught his lower lip between his denta before he dropped his gaze. Sunstreaker’s servo on his shoulder tightened.

He hated to see his brother like this. Sideswipe was supposed to be larger than life, the light in the room, centerpiece of any party—everyone’s friend, always cheerful, refusing to let anything bring him down.

Here and now? What Sideswipe was meant to be and what he was were… Miles apart.

But was that any wonder? There was the whole of a planet between where they were and where they were supposed to be. 

Their life had been torn from them. They had been given no chances to let that sink in. All there had been was a relentless input of new things intermittent with abuse, abuse, and more abuse. Change after change after change… And more trauma than he had wanted to believe was possible.

And he feared this was only just the beginning.

That thought he didn’t want to reach Sideswipe, though, so instead he gave his brother a gentle shake to earn those optics back on him.

Sunstreaker smiled. Just a small smile, but even that felt so… Fake. And like it hurt to even produce the expression.

There was no reason to smile, but for Sideswipe he’d try to do so anyway.

“How-” he started, before thinking better of it and cutting his vocalizer. There was no point in asking how Sideswipe felt. Useless words, when he could feel and see all too well how Sideswipe was feeling.

Not well.

To put it mildly.

What to say instead? Or should he let there be silence?

“We- We should probably visit the washracks. Would you like to?”

Sideswipe took a moment to register his words before he nodded carefully, and swallowed, hard.

They both cringed at the taste of transfluid on his glossa and at the back of his throat, but Sideswipe nodded again, more firmly this time around, and began to push himself up. “Yeah, that… That sounds like a good idea,” he said quietly, flinching when he caught a sight of his frame.

Paint transfers and fluids were splattered liberally all over him. Sunstreaker knew he didn’t look any better. 

They really needed those washracks.

As one they scooted over to the edge of the berth and dropped down onto the dais it was on, and from there to the level of the rest of the berthroom. Some of the other mates glanced their way, but they didn’t stick around to see if anyone would’ve liked to say something to them.

They had been a part of it. All of them. Mecha in the same situation as they were… There was no way all of them were here any more willingly than them, and yet.

The fragging shit they’d done. To them. To each other. Just…

He didn’t even want to think about it. He could feel his anger rising, but it had no target in the present, and he didn’t want to take it out on Sideswipe. Sideswipe stumbled along next to him as they crossed the short distance through the hallway into the washracks, that weren’t empty—of course they weren’t, that would’ve been far too much to ask—but that still held the promise of washing away at least some of the signs of the… Orgy.

They scurried over to the far end of the room, to the last showerheads, and then under their hot sprays. Solvent pattered down their frames, and slowly it began to loosen the dried fluids, a process made much faster by the smooth coat Knock Out had applied onto their paint jobs, compared to the rough texture of…

Of before. 

How many times did it need to be said he’d rather have that life than this? It might’ve been a life of poverty, of scraping by, of going hungry, of uncertainty—but was there any more certainty in this?

Beyond the certainty of more ways to hurt them, physically and emotionally.

They had fuel, they had access to high quality paints and polishes, to washracks… A roof over their helms.

But the price wasn’t worth it.

Sunstreaker shuttered his optics, letting the solvent fall over him and soothe aching cables as it trailed into his internals through the gaps in his armor. Beside him Sideswipe did the same, and blissfully the other occupants didn’t break the silence of the washracks either. Maybe it was just because of the two of them, but the mood felt so somber. Like it wouldn’t have been right to speak.

So they didn’t. Without a word, but together, they grabbed scrubs and began to clean their plating to the best of their ability, helping each other where appropriate. The sealant Knock Out had used to protect their new paint was surprisingly good at its job. The paint transfers littering them came off in a way Sunstreaker hadn’t experienced before. Usually that amount of scuffs would’ve required touching up the underlying paint afterwards, but now… That didn’t seem necessary.

He wasn’t sure how grateful he was about that. It was one less thing to worry about, but also another consequence of their situation—a separation from before, when they evidently hadn’t sealed their paint properly, or hadn’t had the ability to seal their paint properly. Whichever it was.

Same result.

It always came back to it: he’d rather have the before, even with all of the supposed downsides it had come with. 

They hardly even seemed like downsides anymore, compared to the downsides of being held captive in Kaon like this.

But as easily as the paint transfers came off, and no matter how well the solvent and the scrub dislodged the fluids that had dried on him, they did little to remove the ghost sensations that were left behind—and they did nothing to the way lubricant and transfluid streamed from his valve when he opened his cover against his better judgement. The moment he did, Sideswipe wished he hadn’t, but… He just wanted it out. Was that too much to ask? Too much to hope that he could make it feel like nothing had happened?

It was, wasn’t it? Gravity pulled out quite a bit of it, but he knew, he just knew there was still so much left inside that he had no way to remove. 

And he didn’t want to touch it. Primus, he just…

His helm hung. He knew Sunstreaker was worried about him, and Sideswipe knew he was… Acting out of character in a lot of ways.

But could he be blamed for it? Look at what had happened to them. What did they have but each other, anymore?

What had they ever had besides that?

Freedom, that’s what. A right to self-dictate.

His paint was gleaming already, but that was only because of the repaint Knock Out had given them. He looked good.

He didn’t feel good. He didn’t want to look good. He wished he looked the part of the guttermech he was, even if he’d spent his life fighting that very appearance. But it was better than this—being a pretty, polished doll for one tyrant and his lackeys to use. And if he’d ever thought… If he’d ever thought that the other mates could be allies in this situation, those hopes had been crushed last night.

They were complicit. They did what Megatron told, even if… Even when that involved what it had.

It was so wrong. Didn’t they see how wrong it was? How could they just…

How could they?

Sunstreaker’s servo closed around his wrist and Sideswipe was snapped back to the present enough to realize he had washed the same spot for a needlessly long amount of time already. There was nothing left to clean in that area. There was nothing coming out of his valve anymore, his crotch and inner thighs washed clean by the running solvent, and he let his cover close back up. 

So why didn’t he feel clean?

Why couldn’t he forget how many servos had grabbed him by the hips to–

His claws, sharp like they hadn’t been since they were first activated, had dug furrows into the soft scrub. Sunstreaker’s hold on his wrist tightened. “I’m fine,” Sideswipe whispered on reflex, knowing full well his brother’s concern.

He was lying. They both knew he was. He couldn’t lift his helm. Couldn’t… Couldn’t just put on an act and pretend that was the truth. He’d always been able to before, no matter what had happened.

But never before had this happened. Evidently there were limits to what even he could fake his way through. 

Sunstreaker didn’t say anything, but let go of his arm to go back to cleaning himself up. They were both clean already though, at least visually. There was nothing more to wash away. No paint transfers, no lubricant, no transfluid. 

Nothing but the feel of it all, and Sideswipe wasn’t sure if that could be washed away. Maybe in a million years they could’ve.

But not so quickly. 

“Hey,” came a familiar voice from behind them and Sideswipe jolted from his thoughts. Both him and Sunstreaker spun on their heels to face Skywarp, Sideswipe with wide optics, Sunstreaker with a growl.

Skywarp shrunk back a little bit from the aggression aimed at him, but wasn’t wholly discouraged. “Um, I came to see if you needed help washing up, but it looks like you got it already,” the Seeker said. He was clean too, but that wasn’t a surprise considering he hadn’t been in the berthroom anymore when they’d woken up.

Under different circumstances, the offer would’ve been a nice gesture.

Under these circumstances?

“You have some fucking gall,” Sunstreaker hissed. Sideswipe’s ventilations hitched, and he didn’t, couldn’t look at Skywarp, letting his gaze drop again. Sunstreaker stepped up in front of him, between him and the Seeker, and he was angry. He was so angry it was like a physical wall between him and the rest of the world.

Skywarp wasn’t completely blind to the danger and took a step back from Sunstreaker’s righteous fury. And it was righteous. 

Look at what Skywarp had done. Right along with the rest of them.

And now he was here, acting like none of it had happened.

This place was so upside down. If it wasn’t for Sunstreaker, Sideswipe thought he might’ve started doubting the whole fabric of reality at this rate. 

‘Yeah, I participated in your gang rape, but would you like me to help you wash up?’

Not even an apology. “You and the whole rest in this Primus forsaken place!” Sunstreaker continued, his voice rising until it was nothing short of a bellow. Skywarp took another step back.

Sunstreaker didn’t pursue, but Sideswipe knew the only reason for that was that he didn’t want to leave Sideswipe alone. If it wasn’t him inadvertently holding Sunstreaker back, there would’ve been nothing to save the Seeker from his brother’s wrath.

Justified wrath, if you asked Sideswipe.

“I just thought-” Skywarp tried to say, but Sunstreaker didn’t let him finish.

“Get. Out,” the golden twin snarled instead, pointing at the door. He probably had no rights to order anyone around, yet in the face of the anger directed at him, Skywarp took yet another step back.

“If-” he tried to speak again, and again Sunstreaker cut him off.

“OUT!”

Sideswipe was pretty sure that could be heard all throughout the harem wing, but at least Skywarp finally believed there was nothing he could achieve here, and hurried to the door with just one backwards glance.

He looked… Sad? Hurt?

He had no right.

The few other mates that had been in washracks cleared out quickly after their winged compatriot, sending more glances their way.

And then they were alone.

Sunstreaker’s engine revved, but Sideswipe slumped back against the wall under the still running shower. Numbly he reached for the controls and turned it off—to conserve the amount of solvent used, but what did it matter how much of it was used? Whose solvent was it?

Megatron’s. Everything here was Megatron’s.

Including them.

His vents hitched again at that thought, at the reminder—why Sunstreaker was angry at Skywarp.

The whole fucking mess of it.

Skywarp had been a part of it. And– He hadn’t come to apologize, had he? Unless offering help was his way of apologizing.

But he could’ve said something too. Some acknowledgment that what had happened was so, so wrong. They too had to think it wasn’t right, didn’t they? How could anyone think it was okay? He was pretty sure Megatron knew it was messed up too, but Megatron just enjoyed that fact.

What about the rest of them, though? If Megatron’s behavior could be explained away with just sadism and cruelty, what was the excuse for the others?

Was it going to happen again? Were they, all of them, going to do it again? Turn their audials off to any protests they had, because… What, just because Megatron told them to?

He knew all too well what Megatron was like, already, and they’d barely known him for any amount of time. In that he really… He really couldn’t blame the others for not disobeying him.

But he still didn’t understand it. There was no resistance whatsoever, not even any visible reluctance.

They just did it.

They’d said no, and they just did it.

They might act nice towards them, be helpful, or try to be… Skywarp, Runabout. Aside from Starscream’s weird attitude, no one had been mean towards them.

Aside from last night.

They were just as messed up as the rest of this. How was he even supposed to look at any of them anymore, after what they’d done to them? How was he supposed to look at Starscream and not think of the Seeker’s face or valve right next to him as he serviced Megatron right in front of his optics? Without any signs of hesitation?

Or Skywarp. How he had just… How everyone had just…

How much more of this was there going to be?

When was it going to end?

“What are we going to do?” Sideswipe blurted, prompting Sunstreaker to break his angry staring contest with the door. “We need to get the frag away from here.”

Desperate.

Get out.

But how?

When?

“We’ll find a way,” Sunstreaker said, promised, turning back to him and wrapping him into a warm and familiar embrace. And Sideswipe wanted to believe. He buried his face in the crook of his twin’s neck, and he wanted so badly to believe that they would find a way out before… Primus, he wasn’t sure. Before what?

How much more of this could he take? What would happen when he couldn’t take it anymore? “We just need to hold out until we do,” Sunstreaker whispered to him, and Sideswipe could feel the shiver in him. Neither of them was unaffected by this. But they were holding it together pretty well, weren’t they? Despite everything.

They’d beat the odds before. They would this time too. Like Sunstreaker said, they’d just need to survive until then. They could do that. 

That thought and the pulse of his brother’s half-spark against his chassis steeled his resolve. It was just them, but that was fine, because it had always been just them. And that was all they’d ever needed.

It would be all they needed here too. They would find a way out, and they would do so before it was too late. No, no. It would never be too late. They would just need to be patient and wily, outsmart the cage they were in, undo all of its locks, and steal back their life.

“Yeah,” he responded to Sunstreaker with no more volume than what Sunstreaker had used, and wrapped his arms around his twin in turn. And he meant it. Maybe… Maybe all they’d need were little moments like these to keep a hold of their sanity until they could break free.

The washrack door opened with the quiet swoosh of a well oiled mechanism and they glanced up in alarm. One of the mates was standing in the doorway, looking a little awkward. Like he didn’t want to be there. “Hey. Sorry about the interruption, but,” and Sideswipe tensed all over, because how could any news borne by their assailants be good ones?

His gut was proven right a second later. “Megatron’s summoned you, Sideswipe.

“Alone.”

“What the pit…” Sideswipe whispered, and Sunstreaker growled, his arms tightening around him.

“No,” his brother said. “You can go tell him to frag off.”

Sideswipe burrowed into Sunstreaker’s embrace, his spark beginning to flutter faster and faster with the implications.

Alone with Megatron.

It was bad enough with Sunstreaker there, when he could draw strength from his brother and share the experience and the attention. Sure, they were used against each other too, but it was still better to be together. Bearable to be together.

It was never bearable.

How was he supposed to go without his brother?

His plating was clattering against Sunstreaker’s, but that only made his twin tighten his hold enough that Sideswipe worried their armors would buckle.

And as much as he trusted his brother, as much as he knew Sunstreaker’s desire to protect him from everything and anything… He feared there was nothing Sunstreaker could do to protect him from this. Not from Megatron.

That was a terrible, terrible thought. He keened at the inevitability of it all, of the– Of the–

“Please please please no,” he pleaded, looking up at the other mate still standing in the doorway. “Please I can’t– I can’t go through that, not again, not with him– Please.”

Tears welled, then fell at the thought of what Megatron could do to him, and oh Primus but there was so much, and he was sure his imagination still couldn’t conjure anything even halfway as awful as what Megatron would think to do. Even with everything that had happened already, no matter how many times and in how many ways they’d already been raped, he was sure Megatron would find new ways to torture and humiliate them.

Him. Just him, if he went alone. “I can’t,” was what it all boiled down to, and he couldn’t even hate how badly his voice cracked when he said that, trying so hard to beg with the newsbringer. Make them understand. 

Their look was sad, pitying. Maybe they did understand.

Maybe they’d been through the same thing.

Maybe they didn’t have a twin to share it all with in the first place.

But they were a part of it. Had been, last night. They’d carry out Megatron’s orders.

And even if they didn’t want to do that, what could they do? Could they really just carry the message back to him, ‘hey, they don’t want to, so I guess this isn’t happening’?

Inevitable. Megatron was inevitable. This was his kingdom and all in it lived to serve.

Strength left him, and only Sunstreaker’s hold of him kept him up. “Sunny,” he whined, pathetic, but he was beyond caring about his own dignity. As if he even had any left at this point. “I can’t do it, please.”

Sunstreaker understood, if no one else did, and a protective growl rumbled in his brother’s engine. “He won’t get you,” Sunstreaker promised quietly but resolutely—and despite that, Sideswipe could feel Sunstreaker’s uncertainty.

The want to protect was real, so very real, and there wasn’t a single fiber in his twin’s being that wanted to hand him over to their tormentor.

But neither of them knew how to avoid it. What could they do? They were so powerless against the tyrant.

The mate had disappeared from the doorway, but Sideswipe didn’t feel even a moment’s relief at that fact. And he was right. A moment later two guards and Starscream entered, the Seeker following behind the black clad mechs. “Our Master doesn’t make requests,” he said, sounding annoyed, like this all was just an inconvenience to him. The guards came for them, but Sunstreaker positioned himself between them and him, and Sideswipe cringed further against his chassis.

Inevitable.

“Resistance is futile.” Starscream’s words sounded like they came from a mile away with the way panic began to pound in his audials, but there the Seeker was, echoing thoughts they’d already had.

Turning them into hard truths.

He was frozen in place when the guards took a hold of Sunstreaker and forcibly pulled him away despite his cursing, but without his brother there, fight or flight took over.

He chose flight.

Sideswipe bolted for the doorway the Seeker blissfully wasn’t blocking, through it and into the hallway, and–

And then he didn’t know where to go. Where could he go that would get him away from his fate?

There was further ruckus coming from the washracks behind him, and some other mates either hanging out in the hallway or on their way to here or there looked at him, but Sideswipe didn’t acknowledge them. He didn’t know what to do.

Until the sounds behind him got closer, the fields of the guards, and he took his legs under him again and dashed to the main doors leading in and out of the wing.

What did he do that for?

They were locked, as they had been before. The guards on this side having left them hadn’t changed that fact. Of course it hadn’t. 

And he had nowhere else to go.

“Leave him alone!” Sunstreaker yelled behind him, his voice registering dimly but enough that Sideswipe cast one panicked look over his shoulder.

There were mecha peeking through the doorways, curious over what all the fuss was about. There was Sunstreaker, struggling against Starscream’s hold, but unable to break it. Held back. “Sideswipe! You fragging dronebrains, leave him alone!”

And there were the guards, headed straight for Sideswipe. 

Give up?

No. That wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t just willingly subject himself to this.

He deserved better.

He had value, he had rights. This was wrong.

Megatron was wrong. 

“Get away from me!” His voice was still shrill when he cornered himself against the grand doors. As ever, the guards offered no reaction, too intent on following their orders to the letter no matter what. What Sideswipe wanted was of no consequence when pitted against what Megatron wanted. 

It wasn’t right!

The hallway was big, but it wasn’t big enough. When he made one last desperate attempt to get past the guards—and to where? The rest of the harem wing, only to be cornered again?—they only had to reach to get a hold of him, and the grip was like a vice. 

“No!” He struggled all the same, but they merely caught him arm apiece, and push-dragged him towards the doors. “Let go of me! You- Don’t!”

He didn’t want to go through those doors. Not like this. He fought, he fought so hard, and he could hear Sunstreaker’s angry and fearful yells, and feel the way Starscream’s claws sank into his armor to keep him in place.

Just until they were through the doors and they closed behind him and the two guards with a decisive slam.

His ventilations came fast and hard and there was no willing them into a calmer pace, not when his spark was a whirlwind of fright and desperation. He offered none of his cooperation, but the guards were big and burly and didn’t give a damn about his struggles. He was marched through the halls and past the other doors until they came to those ones.

The ones he was going to have nightmares about for the rest of his life, most likely.

They opened to admit them to the bleak interior of Megatron’s wing, but where Sideswipe had expected to be merely shoved in to find a place to hide and postpone what couldn’t be avoided, the guards instead pulled him further into the wing.

And further, and further, all the way to the lounge at the end of the hallway.

Megatron was waiting, big and imposing despite the fact he was presently sitting on one of the couches with a cube of energon in one servo, a lit datapad in the other. He glanced up when they entered, his optics brightening with… Pleasure? Glee? Anticipation? Greed? 

No matter what it was, Sideswipe wanted nothing to do with it.

“Ah, good, you’re here,” the tyrant said as he set the cube down on the table in front of him and subspaced his datapad. It was so conversational, the way he said it, like there was any damn way Sideswipe would’ve come here voluntarily.

Like there were any faint traces of cordiality or rapport between them.

As if they could have normal conversations.

A flick of Megatron’s servo as he rose to his pedes, and the guards let go of Sideswipe, turned around, and left. The door closed behind them, and Sideswipe doubted it would open again anytime soon.

And once again he was the target of Megatron’s focus, except this time there was nothing and no one to function as a buffer between them. Or as a distraction. Or… Anything.

Now there was nothing but the weight of those red optics staring down at him and making him feel so small and vulnerable.

Which he was, when compared to Megatron.

“Where’s your brother?” Megatron asked, but with the way he grinned when he said that, Sideswipe knew Megatron knew exactly where Sunstreaker was.

He was just toying with him.

Sideswipe responded anyway. “You only wanted me,” he said, trying and failing to keep his voice strong and steady.

Sunstreaker might’ve managed that feat.

He wasn’t Sunstreaker.

He was scared out of his wits without his brother. His voice betrayed him completely on that front, wavering and shaking, but he still hoped even some of his resolve remained and shone through—even one remnant of his belief that Megatron wasn’t within his rights to do this, no matter what the mech seemed to think. 

But no one had the rights to do any of this to another living being. Not even the unquestioned ruler of Kaon.

“That I did,” Megatron said, sounding decidedly pleased. “Come. We have much to do.” Again there was a flick of his digits and the expectation that that was all the order Sideswipe would need, as it was all the order everyone else seemed to need.

“No,” was what he said instead, planting his pedes, raising his chin, and keeping his voice steady.

Just for the duration of that single word, but it was better than nothing, wasn’t it?

“No?” the tyrant asked, his amusement palpable. “I see. What would you like to do instead?”

Games. The damn megalomaniac was playing games with him, and Sideswipe’s spark spun wildly, but every moment spent pretending Megatron was in any way interested in what he wanted was one less moment spent doing what Megatron wanted.

“I would like to go home,” Sideswipe said, and his voice was shivering again.

“...Please,” he tacked on after a beat.

You know, just to be polite. Couldn’t hurt.

“Home?” Megatron mused, bending to pick his cube back up and… Sipping from it. As they talked.

So casual.

Sideswipe didn’t feel so casual. He swallowed, hard, but the dreadful anxiety didn’t lessen or go anywhere. Of course it didn’t.

“I hear you were guttermechs, you and your brother,” the grey mech continued while Sideswipe just stood there, with nowhere to go and nothing to say that would change the course of this. And no matter what Megatron said now, Sideswipe was sure it wouldn’t change anything. He was just toying with him.

And having fun while at it, by all appearances. “Do you even have anything to go back to?”

“Yes,” Sideswipe answered, and it was true.

There wasn’t a whole lot, he could admit that much. They hadn’t had a lot.

But they’d had enough.

“Really? Did you have everything you do now?” Games, games, games! Megatron knew what he was doing, and he was enjoying himself. There was that gleam in his optic, the caress of a smile on his lips.

Sideswipe didn’t want to play this game.

“You should thank me.”

For a moment he couldn’t believe what he heard. How had he– Why had he expected Megatron wouldn’t go there? Was there anything the tyrant wouldn’t do, any trick in the book he wouldn’t use?

But did he mean it? Sideswipe didn’t know. Maybe his view of reality was so warped that he did mean it, that he was functioning under the delusion that this was somehow an improvement.

It wasn’t, and damn him if he was ever going to be thankful for the abduction and the rape that Megatron seemed to be the base cause of.

Megatron’s orders, Megatron’s desires. “Never,” Sideswipe hiss-growled in a way that was more at home on Sunstreaker’s vocalizer. He could grasp anger now, his servos balling into fists.

That was the only answer there was to stupid suggestions like that.

“Hmh.” Megatron, so noncommittal, but with one more gulp he emptied his cube and dispersed it.

And Sideswipe’s anger deflated, burst by the spike of fear that thought it knew their little chat was over and they were about to get down to business. 

That fear was joined by the fear that the other fear was correct when Megatron began to approach him, and how much fear was that?

A lot, Sideswipe concluded, because his knees nearly buckled from it and he barely managed to stumble away from the tyrant’s approach. His spark was spinning faster than it ever might’ve before. He hadn’t feared a great many things before. Maybe he should’ve, but he hadn’t.

And he’d never feared anything like he feared Megatron.

Megatron didn’t take offense in his escape this time either, and pits but Sideswipe wished he would’ve. It might’ve broken the aura of smug superiority and full control that surrounded the larger mech—compare that to Sideswipe, barely staying upright on weak legs, tripping over himself in his hurry to keep distance between them.

It was a doomed effort, like it had been all the times before. Slowly but surely—like he was drawing things out just for the sake of it—Megatron cornered him and snatched him by the arm before unceremoniously dragging him to the berthroom. That door closed too, once they were through it, and then he was once again tossed onto a massive berth. Megatron followed him onto it, but slowly enough that Sideswipe had the time to scoot to its furthest corner.

Out of reach.

Not that Megatron cared. Oh no, the tyrant had entirely different plans that apparently didn’t involve chasing Sideswipe around any more at all. Because Megatron merely settled himself onto the other end of the berth and spread his legs in invitation, that damn amusement in his optics when Sideswipe’s gaze passed between them and the dark crotch. “Coax it out.”

Sideswipe balked. “What?”

“Coax it out,” Megatron repeated patiently like the benevolent leader he wasn’t.

Did he really expect it? He was there and Sideswipe was here, and he wasn’t in range to force him. 

Did he think Sideswipe would do it willingly?

He almost felt offended. “No!” he said, drawing his knees up and glaring at their captor. The whole situation was absurd enough that some of the anxiety melted away from sheer disbelief–

But it was quickly replaced by the fearful expectation of what Megatron’s plan here was. He had to have one beyond just expecting Sideswipe to do as he was told like a good little mech.  

Everyone else might’ve done it, followed Megatron’s every word and gesture, but he fragging well wouldn’t.

That fear gained more fuel when Megatron still didn’t take the bait and merely said an even, “You will.”

And… Did or said no more than that. Sideswipe waited, a tense ball of nerves, but nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

Well, beyond Megatron shifting his attention away from him entirely. He pulled a datapad from his subspace and focused on it instead, leaving Sideswipe to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

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

Hours passed. At some point Megatron got off the berth and moved to his desk, and by all appearances set to work on… What did tyrants even do for a living, besides ordering others around and creatively tormenting them? Sideswipe had no idea.

And Sideswipe… He was left to wait, there, at one end and one corner of the berth, with his knees drawn so tight to his chest and a pit of ever deepening confusion in his tanks. 

You will. That sounded like a threat and a promise rolled into one, but as much as he already knew Megatron to be capable of, he had no idea how he planned to achieve this one thing when he didn’t look like he was planning to use his own frame to get it, this time. What did he expect to happen? For Sideswipe to suddenly change his mind? Out of boredom maybe?

Because he was bored. Anxious, but bored. He was prone to that to begin with and had always had bigger thrills than Sunstreaker just to keep himself satisfied.

And now he was left with nothing more to do than sit and stare at another mech’s back.

It didn’t sit too well with him, but it was far from making him desperate enough for something to do that he would’ve magically begun to want to service Megatron of all mecha. Or really anyone, at this point in time.

Everything was still too fresh for him to want anything to do with interfacing anytime soon.

And although he wasn’t forced to interface right then, Sideswipe only felt a modicum of relief. Sure, the present could’ve been worse, but he feared the future would be even worse than what the present could’ve been if things had at all gone like he’d expected them to. Megatron had a plan and an intent, there was no doubt about that even if Sideswipe had no idea what it was.

But the end goal at least had been made clear already: for Sideswipe to interface with him, presumably without too much force being involved.

If that was it, it was under his control, and it was an easy promise to make to himself and the world that he wouldn’t do it.

No matter what it came down to.

As long as Sunstreaker remained unharmed, but Sunstreaker wasn’t even here.

Why didn’t he feel so certain despite his desire to stand strong? Why did he trust Megatron to have too many trump cards that he wouldn’t be able to counter?

He could’ve taken it as a moment’s respite, but it didn’t feel like respite at all. Just a truckload of uncertainty over what the future would bring. 

He stayed right where he was for what felt like an eternity while Megatron tapped away on his datapads. And then…

Then Megatron got up and left.  

Sideswipe stilled in utter confusion when the door closed behind the tyrant and he was left alone in the damn mech’s berthroom.

He didn’t want to be alone there, even without Megatron present. 

Yet he was, without exactly any say in the matter.

What the pit was going on?

And if he’d thought he’d been bored before, without even the stimulation of watching someone working—and that wasn’t exactly good entertainment either—he thought he was quickly driven towards insanity. He didn’t dare move though, just in case that would’ve summoned his harrower. Somehow. He sort of doubted there were cameras in Megatron’s personal quarters, but what did he know. Maybe the mech just really liked leaving his mates alone here, only to watch them squirm through some hidden cameras.

But Sideswipe wasn’t squirming. Sideswipe wasn’t really doing anything, in fact. Well, besides just… Waiting. Waiting for Megatron’s return, waiting for what would happen next, waiting for what kind of torture the future would bring. 

He waited for a very long time. It was closer to a half an orn before he could hear pedesteps on the other side of the door and tensed all over from the light doze he had entered just to pass the time. Conflicted emotions followed right after, boredom warring with fear over whether it was better there was another living being to look at to have something to do, or if he’d rather not have Megatron anywhere near him.

The latter was winning by the time the door opened to admit the big mech. He strode in like he owned the place—which he did—and landed his optics on Sideswipe. The door closed behind him, and Sideswipe felt as trapped as he ever had.

Was this it? Had Megatron’s patience ran out and now he would just pin him down and rape him? At this point that might’ve even been relief, something familiar in the place of whatever this was.

But instead of coming for him directly, Megatron again climbed onto the berth and stayed well out of reach. He spread his legs, and then he gave the order again. “Coax it out.”

Sideswipe shook his helm. No. He still wasn’t about to do that. What had Megatron expected to achieve by leaving him alone for a time? Cooperation?

No fucking way. 

Megatron waited for a time, gave him a chance to reconsider… And then moved. Sideswipe expected the worst the moment the tyrant came towards him and he bolted off the berth, but instead of pursuing him, Megatron merely…

Reclined. The fragger reclined on his berth like he was about to go to recharge.

And when his systems began to cycle down, Sideswipe realized that was exactly what he was doing.

What the pit?

It was like he didn’t even care Sideswipe was there, standing on the floor of his berthroom, watching him go to sleep. Did he think it was safe, that Sideswipe wouldn’t do anything to him while he was out of it and vulnerable?

Except… Was he vulnerable? Was a mech like Megatron ever vulnerable? Was he dumb enough to shut down all of his systems for recharge, or did he leave enough on to royally mess Sideswipe up if he got too close or tried anything?

Greater mecha than him had probably tried to off the tyrant, but here Megatron was still. What chances did Sideswipe have against him? And there were two ways that could go. Either Megatron would just be amused, or he would take offense and… Kill him in retaliation? That wouldn’t surprise him.

He didn’t want to die here. Not in Megatron’s berthroom, not in this tower, not in Kaon.

He didn’t want to die at all.

It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take and not a price he was willing to pay for the slim chance he could end Megatron. And… Even if he did manage that, what did he expect to happen? He doubted Megatron’s lackeys would be too pleased.

No, there was no way that could’ve ended well for Sideswipe. It wouldn’t end well for him if he didn’t do anything, but at least by not doing anything he had the chances to get out of Megatron’s wing, return to Sunstreaker, and return to their escape plots. 

He wouldn’t be able to escape if he was dead.

He still didn’t understand what Megatron was doing, though, but he feared he would learn the answer sooner or later, and that he wouldn’t like it. While Megatron was recharging though… Sideswipe didn’t think he would be catching any recharge himself, not with Megatron there. He didn’t want to let his guard down, even for a moment.

There was no way that would’ve led to anything good. 

Sideswipe glanced around him at the spartan room. Megatron had made sure not to leave any datapads behind when he left, and there was nothing more to explore now either. If he even would’ve dared to snoop around while Megatron was recharging a couple of steps away.

So… Now what? He’d escaped interfacing for the time being, but he still didn’t know what the game they were playing was, and he still had absolutely nothing to do.

With a quiet huff Sideswipe backed up until his back hit one of the bleak walls, then carefully slid down it to sit on the floor, pulling his knees back to his chassis. 

More waiting. A lot more waiting, listening to the peaceful whirr and rumble of Megatron’s systems. The sounds would’ve been soothing if they’d belonged to someone else, but coming from Megatron they only put Sideswipe on edge and made it impossible to forget where he was. He didn’t want to familiarize himself with the sounds of the tyrant’s recharging frame.

But here he was.

He didn’t full on recharge himself, not for the whole of Megatron’s recharge cycle, but he did enter a light doze like before. Not because he was particularly tired, but just to have something to pass the time with.

They were long, long hours that he anxiously waited for Megatron to awaken, and see what that brought with it. It gave his mind far too much time to work over all the unpleasant things that might await him in his unfortunate future, concoct all sorts of possibilities, each one more terrible than the one before.

And he feared Megatron would live up to all of it, somehow.

How had one mech become the biggest boogeyman he’d ever known?

Megatron woke up no sooner and no later than what suited him. Sideswipe snapped out of his thoughts the moment the sounds of the tyrant’s systems changed and started to ramp up again, signaling his return to full awareness. It was a short process with no time wasted, just the steady climb from recharge to everyday functioning. Soon Megatron was already sitting up and stretching like Sideswipe would’ve expected from any mech.

But it looked so wrong coming from the sadistic dictator that had no right to remind him of the common folk that didn’t go around kidnapping and raping others.

It didn’t take longer than that for Megatron to take notice of him, though, and Sideswipe pressed tighter against the wall at his back when the tyrant’s red gaze zeroed in on him. “Sleep well?” Megatron asked.

Sideswipe’s lips drew back in a snarl.

Megatron didn’t laugh, but it looked like it was a close thing. “Come here and coax it out,” he gave the order once again, patting the berth in invitation.

“Slag you!” Sideswipe growled back at him and decidedly didn’t go over to fragging coax it out.  

“Suit yourself,” the tyrant said genteelly before getting up from the berth and leaving the whole room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Sideswipe was alone all over again.

This didn’t make any damn sense. “Why doesn’t he just…” he murmured to himself, trying to make sense of the mix of emotions his spark was pulsing with. On one hand, relief that he wasn’t getting raped like he’d gotten a lot recently.

But on the other he just… Wanted it over with. It would hurt, and he’d hate it, but afterwards he could return to the harem wing, to Sunstreaker, and hug his brother, and listen to him hear say they’d get out yet.

He didn’t want this waiting. Waiting for Megatron to unleash his cruelty, waiting for the suffering, the pain, the humiliation. 

Get it over with.

It’d only hurt for a while. And on the other side… There might just be a moment to gather himself back together before the next time he’d need to survive Megatron’s attentions.

But this?

“Fuck this,” Sideswipe whispered, his servos finding their way to his helmet and cradling it.

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

Again he sat, and he waited, and again it was such a long, long time before Megatron deemed to return. Sideswipe didn’t even want to count the hours.

“Coax it out.”

He refused.

Megatron didn’t force him.

Megatron sat at his desk, drank his energon, and worked, and Sideswipe sat on the chilly floor, against the wall, and watched him because he had nothing better to do. 

Another recharge cycle Megatron slept peacefully on his berth. Sideswipe remained on the floor, tense and anxious, but not as tense and anxious as before.

He hated that. He didn’t want to get used to Megatron’s presence, but his emotions were tiring him to the point of dulling when nothing bad happened.

Another morning, another order, another time he didn’t do as he was told.

Another time Megatron left him alone while he went off to who knew where.

This time Sideswipe got up and went to the door, experimentally testing if it was locked or if he could maybe even get to the lounge on the other side.

But it was locked. He was not only held prisoner in Kaon and the palace, but now in Megatron’s berthroom too. 

What did he want? For him to just… Was it all he wanted that Sideswipe would go to him and do as he was told? Was that all?

“Frag off with that,” he muttered as he turned from the door and crawled under the berth, all the way to the center where he could be sure Megatron wouldn’t be able to reach him. He curled up there and tried to get some real recharge in the spell of peace and quiet when Megatron wasn’t present.

And tried to ignore his slowly depleting fuel levels.

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

When Megatron returned that night, he halted right at the door, probably because he couldn’t see Sideswipe right away. Sideswipe tensed, but it wasn’t like his spark or energy signatures had gone anywhere. In short order Megatron had fully stepped into the room, walked over to the berth, and crouched down to see under it.

Sideswipe met his optics.

Megatron smiled at him.

Sideswipe growled.

But Megatorn said nothing, and did nothing else, only stood back up and went to his desk. He had energon with him again. Sideswipe could hear the cube hit the desk every so often after Megatron took a drink from it before setting it back down.

And although Sideswipe wasn’t exactly exerting himself, his frame was still using his energon reserves for simple functioning. The decline was slow, but steady.

He wondered if Megatron had any plans to give him fuel.

Probably not.

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

Orns. Straight up orns. 

He stayed under the berth stubbornly, ignoring the cold wafting from the floor, barely warmed by the heat of his frame. In fact, putting those two against each other, it was his frame that was cooling rather than the floor warming.

He didn’t move much either, and his cables were getting stiff, but he didn’t dare do anything that would’ve earned Megatron’s attentions. As it was the tyrant only crouched to take a look at him and smile at him right after he returned from spending the day who knew where doing who knew what dictator things. He didn’t say anything and wouldn’t try to get him to come out from under the berth, but Sideswipe knew what was hanging in the air between them despite their silence.

Coax it out.

That was what he was supposed to do. What would happen if he did? Yeah, no doubt there’d be interfacing he wanted absolutely nothing to do with, but… What about after?

Would he get to go back to Sunstreaker?

Primus, but he missed his brother. He was bored out of his mind, but more importantly than that... He just wanted his twin’s embrace and the comfort of a frame near identical to his own, of a spark that was a half of his own.

He could really use a hug right about now, honestly.

Because he didn’t know what to do. Time passed, but Megatron showed no signs of planning to let him leave, or of offering some fuel to him. And his fuel meter, it was lowering to uncomfortable readings. He’d already used up a large portion of his reserves during the orgy, and hadn’t had the time to replenish them.

How far would Megatron let things go? Until he went to stasis?

Would he leave him to rust under his berth? His reward for his determination?

Was it worth it? He wanted to see Sunstreaker again. He wanted to have the chance to leave this hellhole for good. A chance to reclaim his life.

He wouldn’t get that if he became forgotten under a tyrant’s berth.

But what he would need to do to get out of here… Pits. There was no winning. He got to choose between two kinds of damned, that was all. 

He wanted Sunstreaker here, so, so badly. He didn’t want to do this alone, be here alone.

Sideswipe curled up tighter as Megatron settled down for another recharge cycle above him. His HUD was blinking a fitful warning at him, beseeching him to fuel soon before he became too weak to do so. Hunger was gnawing at his tanks, near empty by now. He had little more than the energon in his lines, and that was losing charge steadily. It wouldn’t be too long before there wasn’t enough of it there to power his engines.

And if he couldn’t power his engines, he wouldn’t be able to move. Then what?

Best case scenario was that Megatron would have him pulled out from under the berth and refueled, but that would only land him back to square one. This wasn’t even a game of wills anymore, if it ever had been. It didn’t matter how much willpower he had. Even if he had enough, he’d just lose another way.

Inevitable.

His fate was coming for him whether he liked it or not. There was no way out that didn’t involve doing Megatron’s bidding.

When would he give in?

Was it just a matter of time?

He tried to quiet his sob and drew his field in even tighter than it had already been. Megatron didn’t need to know how he was feeling.

He didn’t need to know he was winning.

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

Two more orns. He held on for two more orns, cold, lonely, bored out of his fucking mind, but still preferring that to the future he feared.

Despair. The warning on his HUD had gotten upgraded in priority and was nearing critical. Stasis or pleasing Megatron, those were his two options. He couldn’t see any others.

When Megatron came back that night, he crouched at the end of the berth as was usual by now, and Sideswipe met his optics, knowing his own were dimming.

“Are you hungry?” Megatron asked and brought a cube to his view. Sideswipe’s throat constricted at the promise of much needed fuel. His frame demanded him to take it, to avoid being forced into stasis.

Into being completely helpless.

As if he wasn’t that even when his tanks were full.

“You must be,” the tyrant continued with a tone of fake kindness, like he actually gave a damn about Sideswipe’s wellbeing.

He just cared about how he could get Sideswipe to do what he wanted. How to make him like everyone else in that regard.

And it was working. Sideswipe closed his optics and entertained defeat. He wouldn’t last another orn. It was now or never if he didn’t want to choose stasis over Megatron’s clutches.

He just wanted back to Sunstreaker. What was he doing except drawing things out at this point? He couldn’t win. There was no reality where he would get his way and get out of here without going through Megatron first. 

Without doing what Megatron wanted of him, first. 

He would… He would just have to keep that in mind. He was doing this for Sunstreaker, for their reunion. Not for himself, and definitely not for Megatron.

For Sunstreaker.

He closed his optics tighter. The words hurt when they came out– “What do you want from me?” 

–But the approving pulse in Megatron’s field hurt even more.

“Come out and see.”

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

( Previous / Next )

[doobler]

Strip

Tony learned the hard way that 225lbs of titanium-steel alloy aren't really capable of tip-toeing, no matter how hard he tried.

"JARVIS!" He whisper yelled, sneaking past his row of antique cars. "Can't you find some way to cover up the noise?!"

"I could begin your work music playlist at full volume, sir."

"Oh hah, hah, so clever, you're a real genius." Tony snarked back.

He was so distracted by his intelligent comeback, he didn't realize how much of the room he'd crossed. His desk shuddered as he ran into it head-on. All sorts of tools clattered to the floor, including at least five different sized irons and an extra large wrench. Tony stood absolutely still, arms raised above his waist, shoulders hunched forward.

"That... Wasn't so smart."

He snapped his jaw shut at the soft patter of bare feet against concrete steps. There, punching in the passcode to his workshop's door, was Stephen. His hair was ruffled, silver and charcoal locks sticking out at odd angles. He seemed to be wearing a long heather grey silk robe and nothing else. His eyes were a bit glassy. It was 2am, after all, he'd probably been asleep. Tony watched, silent and unmoving, as the sorcerer slid into the room and across the floor.

"Good morning." Tony croaked, watching two pale green eyes watching him.

Stephen sniffled, circling his boyfriend. His gaze dragged up and down the form of the Iron Man suit, the MK VI. He took note of some fresh bullet holes and scuff marks, especially the large gash that ran from one hip to the opposite line of ribs. His stare was downright predatory. 

"I woke up alone," Stephen spoke. His already low timbre was frazzled at the edges, gravelly from sleep. It sent chills down Tony's spine. "In a cold bed. With no explanations."

"There was an... Emergency I had to tend to," Tony replied, very gradually standing up straight. "I didn't wanna disturb your beauty sleep--"

"Despite my being a sorcerer and able to assist you."

Tony swallowed thickly, clenching and unclenching his fists. Even though he'd been wearing his thinnest undersuit, he was beginning to sweat under the collar. Stephen blinked slowly, tilting his chin upwards.

"You're lucky it's hard for me to stay mad while you're in that."

Stephen flicked one finger and the suit's right pauldron juddered before detaching with a hiss and clattering to the floor. Tony inhaled sharply through his nose.

"I'd be upset," Stephen continued smoothly. "But I was also having a rather pleasant dream."

He prowled the floor, tracing a path around Tony. A twitch of his pinkie had a shin guard offline and benched. Tony flinched.

"We were flying, I think. We never do that together, which is odd. We both can. We both should."

Stephen jerked his head upwards. The matrix of plates around Tony's thigh crumbled apart. He blinked again and off came one gauntlet.

"And you laid me down amongst the clouds," Stephen let out a chuckle like dark chocolate and caramel. "They felt like cotton candy."

A crook of his finger had the entire back panel of the suit on the floor.

"It was warm. Sunny. Peaceful. You were smiling a lot."

Stephen stepped, pivoting on the ball of his foot. In quick succession, the other gauntlet, pauldron, and shin guard were disassembled.

"You complimented my eyes in that way you always do, i.e in no normal language. You said they reminded you of melted pistachio ice cream. You liked it, though."

Tony was breathing heavily now. His skin felt tight. His head was spinning. He'd been ready for bed the moment he reached Malibu but now, his blood was singing, screaming in his veins. His throat bobbed as the suit's pelvic plate popped off.

"You made such sweet love to me up there." 

Stephen let the implication of his body up against Tony's spine linger. He didn't let them touch, simply allowing the waves of heat from his skin to speak for him. He reached around, long spidery digits lighting along the chest plate. He barely graced it, fingers flicking forward. It followed his movements and fell away.

"I could show you how that went."

Stephen stepped around so they were front to front. All it took was a single slim fingertip against the mask's chin. It peeled open, dropping to the floor with a dull thunk. Tony's pupils were blown, his ears a bright red, his lips parted as he took ragged breaths. Stephen smiled slowly. He didn't even need his hands to paint a portal directly to their shared bedroom.

"Care to join me?"

[bubmyg]

generationsuga - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: dancer!yoongi, fluff, brief mentions of tap dancer!jin, taehyung and jeongguk are the justin bieber of 2012 in this universe

word count: 2,756

summary: he’s a commercial hip hop dancer who takes small jobs here and there but mostly spends his time at the small studio he owns with you. you teach ballet and jazz technique classes to disinterested kids who are mostly there for the guy (yoongi) who had an “epic” fifteen second b-boying solo in a kim taehyung video or the children figure out that they have to pay attention to you or else yoongi makes them do wall sits.

There was an extra crack in his spine when he straightened from the stereo but the music emitting from the same chipped speakers wasn’t unfamiliar, track seven on disc three of a five disc set he’d bought before the official opening of the studio. Warm up music, a low fi beat with just enough accentuation to be useful in improv, track seven one he never used (in fact, he barely used disc three at all) because the kids complained enough about stretching and he didn’t need the added distraction of Yoongi, this is making me fall asleep!

The top 40 playlist filtered through Seokjin’s Spotify membership did the trick instead.

The second catch in his spine wasn’t surprising but new in comparison to the wood floors underneath his sneakers, shining from their weekly Wednesday visit by the cleaners. They’d been there for years, just as the mirrors stretching the length of the far wall, complete with two elevated barres, a stack of mats, and an ever growing collection of forgotten pointe ribbons.

Yoongi stared at himself through the same smudges in the mirror, fingerprints appearing no matter how many times he told his classes not to touch them, counting subconsciously in his head and his body moved a fraction before eight without having to be told. His shoes were new, laced for once because you’d scolded him of rolling his ankle and he no longer had the luxury of healing quickly from injuries. Minimal scuffs lined the soles but a new one formed when he toed into the floor, legs freezing while his upper half rolled with an elongated hi-hat. He added an arm without thinking about it, one on his chest, latter pressing straight, wrist locked and palm flat.

The next half a count and he jerked his arm backward, moving in the opposite direction from the flow of his hand, wave of locked fingers catching on the reflection of a variety of plaques hanging on the far wall. His hand in the mirror followed the journey of his career, from a young student with a hat way too big for his head and ambitions to match, ones that jerked his shoulder out of place when he insisted he could copy the ridiculous b-boy position he didn’t even know the name for. He cut the position from his piece and earned his first award, his first scholarship, his first opportunity.

The in between was frivolous, scholarships earning classical training that laid the base for his first appearance, a background dancer on a children’s television show. He was seventeen and had grown into his snapbacks just a fraction more but not enough for him to stand out in the middle row of the formation. University came and he continued to get by on his basics, joining way too many clubs that let him exist without straightening his elbows and extending through his ankles. It was coincidence and talent that brought him to his senior showcase hours after a near breakdown as what would come next, a talent scout scouring the corridors after the show until they located the bleached blonde and offered him an audition for an upcoming music video.

His picture with Kim Taehyung, Tae, became a collage, frames cluttered together on the studio wall with each new video he entertained with the superstar, his friend. Superstardom of Yoongi’s own in the dance world that led him to his quiet house on the outskirts of the city limits within walking distance of a tiny studio he’d bought after a year of sizable paychecks. The bill of sale was framed too, on top of a hoard of receipts from the mirrors, the floors, the mountains of paint, and the new computer Seokjin insisted he buy him if he were going to operate the front desk. He didn’t know he kept it all but he didn’t know why he’d throw away evidence of his passion, either.

The accomplishment wall ended but his focus traveled to the glint of the diamond band shoved snug underneath his knuckle. It wasn’t new and neither were you. The various frames of glossed pictures, diplomas, scholarship announcements, and flimsy receipts were tainted with you.

Your forgotten ballet slipper in the corridor of his first school and your bashful smile when you informed him you had already purchased another pair by the time he returned it to you. The ice you’d brought him for his shoulder and the teasing scold that sometimes practice does make perfect. The easy arch of your back and elongation of your calf on the barre that he could only gape at for thirteen different reasons. The bounce of your stature in the back row of his first television show and his internal decision that he’d rather have your smile lighting up the screen than a half second glance of him completing the choreography. That same smile peeking out from behind his dorm room door, a half second visit to collect your brightly colored bag stacked on top of his stark black one but ending in you being late because his lips pressed against yours one too many times. The flowers in his arms after the talent scout tugged on his elbow from you, your arm falling from around his waist as he chatted with the man but your proud affection never faltering.

The picture in the middle of his Taehyung collage with you wrapped up underneath his arm, your first and only public duet three days before your wedding and a week and a half before the official opening of the studio. Your signature was squished next to his on the bill of sale. Your name was first on the owner tagline underneath the ridiculously large neon sign hanging from the front of the building

“Why get GenerationSuga in size seventy-eight font when you can get it in size two hundred font for twenty dollars more?” Seokjin achieved his wish in the same way he garnered Yoongi’s credit card to buy new tap shoes (“If you’re going to make me teach and run your entire establishment, the least you can do is buy me some proper equipment”). Persistence.

Yoongi was mid turn when the door opened, ball of his foot planted behind his opposite heel, turning him a rotation and a half until he was planted. The indentations in his cheeks grew higher, encompassing his teeth and then his gums as he watched you shake your head, nudging the studio door shut with your hip.

“Pirouette,” He teased, “and a half.”

“You never were good on relevé,” You stepped around him, discarding your half soles and tattered jazz shoes next to the pile of pointe ribbons.

He cocked an awkward pose in response, “And you never could quite count anything other than Beethoven.”

The music had shifted, track eight, something slow and ridiculous. Not quite slow dancing music but not quite dancing music in general. You snagged Yoongi’s hand and dragged him closer. He avoided squashing your bare toes and corrected the position, arm around your waist and hand clasped in yours.

“Why didn’t we ballroom dance at our wedding again?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose, spinning you in an off beat circle that curled your toes in delicate placements around his shoe clad feet. “Shoulder…” He’d barely been able to hold onto you without crying (for seventeen different reasons, pain the primary) and you said nothing just like you hadn’t since holding ice on his sore muscles years prior in the dingy boys locker room. You’d advised against him trying that one faithful position on set before the first take of your shared Kim Taehyung video. The video was shot in one take because he managed it and then could barely move the rest of the day. Or the next three days. Or the next week.

You hummed, pattering fingertips into the spoken muscle as he twirled you back in, holding you close. “I can’t count and you’re stubborn,” You dug your thumb into his collarbone, “Why do we own a dance studio?”

He dipped you mostly because you knew exactly where to press to make the already weakened muscle give out. “We can sell it to Jin,” Yoongi told the brush of his lips against your cheek, “The kids already adore him. His tap empire would flourish.”

Something shifted in your eyes when you nodded, aiding Yoongi in dragging your figure back up. Softly you moved, resting your cheek against his chest as you moved in a minuscule circle about yourselves, shoulders sagging as your fingers twisted into his shirt.

“What?” Yoongi’s lips bumped against your hairline, “The only person better would be you. You’re—”

“The kids hate me.”

Yoongi stalled your movements. It was silent in the studio. Track eight was the last one on disc three.

“The only way they could hate me more is if I actually used Beethoven in my classes,” You continued, voice grumbled and muffled against him.

He began moving again, back and forth rather than in a circle. Thumbs gentle on the small of your back, lips coating your ear, “Were they bad again?”

Something like terrible left your lips and Yoongi sighed. Well known in the dance world meant idolized by children meant children enrolled at his studio meant children who only wanted to come to his classes and skip everyone else along the way, even if it was in the contract, if they were training just as he and you had in your youth, or if they were simply recreational students with homemade posters of him plastered on their doors. You didn’t take it personally but sometimes it was hard not to.

Yoongi took it personally.

“What if we add an extra hour of technique in today?”

You peeled your cheek from his chest, giving him prime opportunity to cup your face even as you frowned. “Why would we do that? Your supposed to have them next—”

“I will,” He beamed and pecked the confused wrinkle of your lips, “You can teach my class today.”

You stared at him as he continued to poke his thumbs against the side of your lips just to watch your cheeks inflate and deflate. “...you want me to teach a hip hop class?”

“I have some things in mind for warm up today but then yes,” Yoongi kissed you harder this time, letting his nose brush against yours as he pulled away, “I want you to do whatever you want.”

You watched as he strode across the studio, opening the door with a delayed greeting, the sugary sweet hey, guys! on his lips stalled by the tumbling rush of children through the door, chanting Yoongi! like bored parrots. It was like your presence sucked away their voice and enthusiasm, the ripple effect of silence traveling from the first child who saw you all the way to the last until it was just a low murmur among themselves.

“Get your shoes on,” Yoongi was saying, taking to the sound system in the corner to press the auxiliary cord into his phone. “We’re going to do something a little bit different today.”

“Is Miss helping today?”

There was a groan at the suggestion, muffled and panicked on the tail end that they’d actually let it slip and Yoongi smiled in the general direction of the offender.

“Yes, actually,” Your head snapped up when the beginnings of Fur Elise crackled out of worn speakers. “I’ll be running warm ups and then Miss will be taking over from there. Head on over to the wall for me, line up.”

Even as a trained classical dancer, wall sits to a repeating playlist of Fur Elise were among even your own personal hell. The same fury of the children seemed to be turned on you as well, the difference in their usual serene classroom, warm ups skipped by Yoongi in favor of learning a new combination. Their narrowed eyes lasered into you from your frozen spot at the barre, attention only shifting when Yoongi began to speak.

“I’ve heard that your attention seems to be lacking in technique class,” He cocked an eyebrow at a young boy in a baggy tank top until he sunk further onto the wall, “and jazz. And anything that frankly is not this class right here. Is that true?”

Silence.

“You know, I was a young dancer like you guys once. I didn’t use think the basics were important, either. I slopped through jazz one and two. I never made it past two. Everyone else in my class graduated with jazz five. They had to make a special exception for me because my work ethic was horrendous and the instructors were, frankly, tired of dealing with me.”

Someone whined. It’d barely been forty seconds on the wall.

“I don’t want you guys to be like me. I want you to be better than me. Feature in a Jeon Jeongguk video,” A little girl’s eyes lit up, causing her to come out of position. Yoongi didn’t scold her because he didn’t blame her. “And who better to learn from than my lovely partner in crime…”

Your skin flushed hot and you smiled bashfully when several pairs of eyes turned back to you this time without malice. Partially with indifference, partially in apology. Whether it was wall sit induced apology or not, you indulged in it.

“If you’re good and pay attention, we won’t have to do anymore wall sits,” A nod and they all came off the wall with a sigh of relief. “...so pay attention.”

“I won’t go too hard on you guys,” You spoke up finally, arms unfurling from your chest to hang awkwardly at your sides. “Correcting Yoongi’s technique violations in his hip hop lessons is a tiring endeavor.”

There were a few giggles as the hoard of children began to shuffle toward you. Small victories.

“Alright...uh. Spread apart for me…”

Yoongi shut off Fur Elise as you began to lecture on extending through your turnout. Proper arm placements. Pretty hands versus hamburger hands (“I’m not the hip hop expert but I’m fairly certain there’s limited times you need to look like you’re hoarding multiple McDonald’s cheeseburgers in your fists.”). More giggles.

“Oh, so…” Yoongi shoved himself up off the stool in the corner, standing next to you. He cocked his hip at the worst angle he could manage, toes sickled and turned as far inward as he could manage. Ankle weak behind the laces of his sneakers. He made crab hands, snapping them each at you, “Like this, right?”

You glared at him, fond and hopelessly endeared as he hopped, changing legs. He winced as a muscle in his knee twinged but he kept up the act. “See? I can do it to the other side too. That’s important, right? To be able to do things on both sides?”

“You have to be able to do it correctly on one to say you can do it on both.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched and you scrunched your nose at him. Battle cries.

“Mhmm, I think some wall sits might be in order for the teacher this time,” He took a menacing step toward you and you held your ground.

“Make me.”

He caught your waist to the tune of shrieking giggles, lifting and dragging you away until you were out of the studio followed by a train of protesting children.

Bring our teacher back, Yoongi!

Yeah, you can’t steal them! They’re ours!

Bring them back!

Yoongi carried you past the front desk, lips behind your ear while you struggled, gasping for breath between laughter, chaos so much you barely heard Seokjin’s chair clack against the wall and his shouts of Hey! No running in my lobby! Seokjin’s herding and Yoongi’s lead dragged you into the opposite studio, your studio, where he plopped you down on a stack of mats similar to the one in his studio.

A labored breath had your surroundings clearing, finding him hovering above you, shoulders sagging as he tried to collect himself as well. The children were shrieking but you took no mind to it, a smile overtaking your features seconds before Yoongi’s lips descended onto your own. More yelling but it faded away this time as the children fled the scene, entering another Seokjin tyraid as he yelped, “What did I say about running?”

“I stand by my statement. Your turnout is horrible.”

Yoongi nipped at your bottom lip, grinning into the next press of your lips.

“Care to give me a private lesson later?”

[winterromanov]

keeping all the promises (we made years ago) - a romanogers fic

Peter’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing. And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters. (rock band au. chaos, man.)

/one

It’s Uncle Tony that gets him the job. Well—perhaps gets isn’t quite the right word, because get implies a bit of shuffling behind the scenes and handshakes when in reality Uncle Tony can get whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s not even his biological uncle. Sometimes, Peter wonders if Uncle Tony just fancied having a nephew and saw him in kindergarten and thought, hey, he’s the one. May’s never told him how Tony ended up being his sort-of guardian, usually financially but sometimes otherwise. He’s just…always been there.

The always been there feels a little more literal now, ever since Peter mentioned that he might not want to go to college after all. Yeah, sure, the Princeton physical sciences program is like, the best in the country, but is that really all there is? He likes music and evening walks and the shitty little apartment he shares with May in the city. He likes the familiarity and the way it covers him like a safety blanket.

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Uncle Tony was pretty fucking pissed at the idea. Of, you know, not making the most of the thousands of dollars he’s invested in Peter’s education and not going to an Ivy. Nevertheless, there’s not much he can do about it. Even Tony Stark can’t force him to go to college, even if he looks at him with that disapproving glare every single goddamn day for the rest of his life.

(Uncle Tony’s disapproving glare is one of the scariest things Peter has ever seen, period. And Ned once made him watch all The Exorcist films in one sitting back in freshman year. Took him a good few weeks (months) to shake the paranoia and realise that, realistically, he probably wasn’t going to get possessed by some angry old spirit anytime soon.)

But Uncle Tony can ask him what he’s doing instead of going to college, and Peter quickly discovers that a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders is not an adequate response. He thought that maybe Tony would get him some sort of starter position in his company, but Tony isn’t the kind of guy who gives out jobs to anyone (even if they’re his sort-of nephew). No, if Peter ever wants a job at Stark Industries he needs a college degree first, and a good one at that.

“You need a taste of the real world, kid,” Tony had said, Peter idly spinning on the office chair in front of his desk. “And then you might think twice about giving Princeton the boot.”

And that’s how he ends up in front of Endgame.

-

Peter knows a hell of a lot about Uncle Tony, but also absolutely nothing at all. There are things he deliberately keeps hidden and Peter knows better than to ask about but he’s also ridiculously open, especially about how fucking rich and clever and sexy he is. May says it’s a confidence thing—that he must be hollow under all that blithe arrogance, but Peter has never met anyone more solid. He thinks. Tony cannot be anything other than whole, because he’s sure helped keep Peter’s foundations stable all these years.

He knows that Tony’s business is his life. That he’s a bit more…forward, with women than he should be, but it’s all talk because Pepper wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t. He knows he prefers Turkish food over everything else and that he cares more than he lets on, always.

But he absolutely didn’t know that Uncle Tony kind-of owns a nightclub in the city; the super cool kind that has live bands and plays British indie rock and a menu with over fifty different kinds of cocktail on it. It makes so much sense, when he thinks about it. It’s exactly the kind of place he imagines Tony heading to after a day working non-stop at the tower.

It’s only three in the afternoon but the place is unlocked, Tony pushing open the double doors at the front with his shoulder. Inside, there’s a jarringly bright room with a bar and a stage that feels wrong not swathed in darkness or the muted glow from overhead lighting. A woman with long, brunette hair that falls down her back is mopping the floor off to the side. She looks up when she sees them enter.

“Wanda,” Tony greets, pushing Peter forward. The girl smiles bemusedly, shoving the mop back in a red plastic bucket. “Working hard?”

“As always, Mr Stark.” Her accent is soft, European. Peter likes the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve just missed Nat, but Clint is still in the basement, if you’re looking for them.”

“Barton. Perfect.” He tugs on Peter’s arm, and Peter vaguely feels like some naughty kid being dragged around by their dad. This must be what that feels like, he muses, not that he knows much about the whole parent thing. “Come on, Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Wanda catches him, and she laughs a little, returning back to the mop.

Tony drags him through a hallway lined with black-and-white checked squares and down a set of stairs labelled staff only, the walls covered in aggressive-looking graffiti which he assumes are song lyrics he’s never heard of. He likes music, but he’s the soft-spoken acoustic type. Not the mosh-pit type.

(Alongside Tony Stark’s disapproving glare and horror movies, he’s also kind of terrified of being swallowed by crowds. He doesn’t like the feeling of being lost or untethered. He likes being anchored to something. Someone. It’s kind of ironic, really, considering.)

Tony opens a door at the bottom of the stairs that leads onto what he assumes is some sort of staff common room, the walls all exposed brick and lined with tattered leather sofas probably pulled from a garage sale. Band posters either hang loosely with blue thumb tacks or, in some cases, in black frames—some scribbled with messy signatures. A makeshift bar stands in front of a small kitchen, lined with more liquor bottles than he cares to count. A coffee table is littered with vinyl cases and sloppily written notes, a wire charging an iPhone trailing all the way from the door. A man with brown hair and a strong jawline sits on the sofa nearest the back wall, Doc Martens kicked up on the table, scrolling through his phone. His eyes barely flicker when they enter the room, like he’s waiting for Tony to talk first.

“Welcoming as always,” Tony remarks, urging Peter to walk further into the room. The other man snorts.

“If you want a fucking parade every time you enter a room, Stark, you should stick to those dumb expo things you still insist on doing.” He’s still scrolling through his phone. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter can’t help but say, because he’s eighteen and a high school graduate, for God’s sake. Both Tony and the man raise an eyebrow, in that patronising way Peter is all too used to. Like, you’re basically just fresh out the womb, boy.

“You’re a kid until you stop thinking like one,” Tony says, and it looks like Peter is still going to be getting a lot of that. He gestures towards the man and back again. “Clint Barton, Peter Parker. Peter, Barton. He’s your new boss.”

“Half-boss,” Clint quickly corrects, “Nat would probably slit your throat if she heard you say that. Also…” Clint pauses, finally putting his phone down. He seems to examine Peter carefully, eyes flicking up and down. He feels oddly exposed. “Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be doing AP Literature homework or something?”

Peter sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m not in high school. I graduated high school.”

“I refuse to believe that. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“I’m eighteen!”

Clint narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know my own age.”

Clint hums. He shifts his feet from the coffee table and to the floor, leaning forwards. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter, but are you sure you want to work here? Aren’t you better suited to…like, a computer science major? You just don’t look like the kind of guy we’d usually hire.”

Peter takes that to mean you look like a massive fucking nerd, moron. Well, Clint’s not wrong, but it’s always a bit jarring to hear someone say it actually out loud. He’s not the kind of person who works in a cool bar with cool people who wear Doc Martens and listen to the Arctic Monkeys.

“He’s hired because I say he’s hired,” Tony interjects, pressing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “And because this little punk thinks that he doesn’t want to go get a STEM major.”

Clint smirks a little at that, like he’s gone from zero to just a touch of respect for him. “Teenage rebellion, huh?”

“No,” Peter replies, not that convincingly. “I just don’t want to go to college, alright?”

“Not right now, but a few weeks of working with these absolute head-cases will have you handing in your transcripts before you can say Ivy League,” Tony states and Clint chuckles, “You will be begging for the sweet release of the Princeton marching band and that compulsory calculus class.”

Peter looks over at Clint, who merely nods in a faux serious manner. “We’re special here, Parker. Absolutely one-of-a-kind.”

“Who’s one of a kind?” Another voice rings out behind them, clearly feminine but surprisingly low and sultry in tone. When Peter turns, he sees a petite woman with red hair that scuffs her shoulders, skinny jeans hugging her legs and a leather jacket over her shoulders. She clutches a shopping bag in her left hand, her nails painted the same shade as her hair. Her Converse sneakers are black and streaked with dirt, but like they were made that way, like it’s all staged.

He has to actively fight his jaw from dropping open. Because, Jesus—he isn’t blind. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen…and there’s something about her, a familiar quality he can’t quite place, like he’s seen her before in another time or place. She smirks when she finds him staring. Peter flushes, looking away, and thinks idly about beautiful gardens and being tempted in by a Devil.

“You are,” Clint replies effortlessly and, like that, Peter realises that there must have fucked at some point. Her eyes glint as she drops her bag on the counter.

“I assume you’re here for a reason, Stark,” she says, “If this is your new intern, I’m dying for a coffee.”

“Funny,” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “And as I was just telling Barton, this is your new employee.”

“As of when?”

“As of right now.”

When this woman assesses him, it feels more scathing than it did with Clint. Her eyes are slower, her expression less readable. Clint was clear in his uncertainty. It’s impossible to tell with her. Eventually, she halts, lips pursed. “Huh.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Clint responds. He’s back on the coffee table, like he’s bored by the whole situation.

Tony stands back, folding his arms. “You have an opening now the other Maximoff has moved on, and this moron needs a reality check. You lot are probably the worst people I could think of to give it to him.”

The redhead blinks slowly. She rests her chin in one hand, her elbow on the bar. She’s looking straight at Peter, green eyes blazing like exotic jewels. “You have any bar experience?”

“Uh…” Peter scratches his head sheepishly, “No?”

“You train him, Nat,” Tony says when Nat looks skeptical, “You train the hell out of him. Or get him to do the 4am bathroom cleaning shift. Your choice.”

“We have Clint for that,” she says, and Clint throws a scatter cushion at her. She catches it with ridiculously quick reflexes and dumps it on a bar stool before hopping onto it. Her shopping bag is exclusively filled with grapefruits. “Although, we do need a new bartender now Pietro has fucked off.” She pulls a knife from seemingly nowhere and points it in Peter’s direction, which gives off a threatening air that Nat looks all too comfortable with. Worryingly. “But no doing homework at the bar. It’ll ruin our image.”

“I’m not…” Peter starts, but Nat’s smirking again. So. He’s just going to have to accept the fact this is going to be a running joke, right? Anything that gets Tony off his back.

“You’re kind of adorable,” Nat says, looking over at Clint. “Steve will love him.”

“Steve will try and adopt him.”

“Steve will try and adopt anything that looks vaguely pained and puppy-like,” She chops a grapefruit in half, then into quarters. “It’s taking everything I have to convince him we don’t need a golden retriever right now. It’s exhausting.”

(At this point, he stands gormlessly and watches both Clint and Nat bicker back and forwards about this Steve, this guy that Nat must be dating, and nothing clicks. Nothing clicks yet. He feels like a bit of an idiot when he eventually does, though, because of course. That’s why Nat looks so familiar.)

“Well,” Tony interrupts in a tiny pocket of silence where Clint and Nat aren’t snarking at each other, “Consider Peter your anniversary gift. He’s every bit as charming as a golden retriever without having to pick up the shit. I think he’s already potty-trained. I think.”

Peter shakes his head out of disbelief. Not biological, but every single bit as embarrassing as a blood relative in front of anyone cool. Nat doesn’t take her eyes off the grapefruits.

“Our anniversary was last month, asshole, and all you gave us was a fucking star named after us. You know, one of those dumb certificates you buy online for about ten dollars.”

Tony clutches his heart dramatically. “It’s romantic, not that I’d expect you to understand. Imagine looking up at the night sky and knowing a little piece of you and Steve is up there, glimmering just for you, courtesy of me. That’s special, Nat. Money can’t buy that feeling.”

“Money can buy that feeling. You bought it for ten dollars. Fortunately for you, Steve is a gullible and the sappiest son-of-a-bitch we know so at least someone enjoyed the sentiment.” Natasha pauses for a moment, resting the knife down on the counter. “Now. You—Peter—how much, exactly, do you know about cocktails?”

-

There are things he learns incredibly quickly when working with Nat—facts, logistics, statements. Both Clint and Nat have known Uncle Tony for a while, but he’s not sure why or how. Tony helped Clint and Nat buy Endgame and he continues to invest in the business, taking a share of the profits. It’s been open five years, but Clint and Nat have known each other way longer than that. He’s not sure why or how. Actually; he’s sure why, because Clint and Nat are pieces of the same puzzle, irrevocably interlocked. The way they look at each other is haunted by years and years of shared history. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

Also—Nat mixes drinks with a speed and precision that is impossible to replicate. He watches hopelessly as she grabs spirits off a rack on the wall from memory, barely glancing at the labels. Wanda occasionally brushes past and Peter can see the amused look in her eyes, like she’s in on a joke he doesn’t know about.

She’s trying to teach him how to mix a basic mojito—not their most popular drink, but one of the easiest—when the front doors swing open and a man walks in, tall and broad-shouldered, blonde hair mussed from the motorcycle helmet that hangs in his right hand. His shirt is way too tight for his torso and arms but he looks so good anyway, in a way that Peter could only ever replicate in his dreams.

It takes Peter a moment to realise, when the man smiles at Natasha like she’s every good dream he’s ever had, that this must be Steve. And then it takes another moment once he gets a decent look at his face, that this isn’t just any Steve. This is Steve fucking Rogers. And Nat… Nat is Natasha Romanoff.

“You certainly took your time,” Nat says coyly as Steve sidles over to the bar. He reaches over and takes her face in his hands, kissing her gently and casually on the lips. It’s like Peter isn’t even here. It’s nothing too intimate, though; Nat seems aware of her privacy and what she wants other people to see. She seems to have a strict code on showing and telling. Peter isn’t part of her exclusive inner sanctum (yet).

(Clint struts in, then promptly struts out again, muttering something about letting someone else be the third wheel for a change.)

“Meeting overran,” he confesses, still curved over the bar, “Honestly, I keep telling them I’m retired.”

“Show them your birth certificate. Can’t possibly expect a man in his nineties to record another album.”

Steve laughs, and honestly, it’s like watching a scene out of a romantic movie. “For some reason, they just won’t believe me. They might believe you, though. You have a way of getting people to do what you want.”

Natasha pats his cheek gently. “Absolutely. Oh—and this is Peter, by the way. Anniversary gift from Stark.”

Steve’s eyes settle on him for the first time since he arrived, because it’s very clear that he’s the kind of guy who tunes out the rest of the world when his girlfriend is in the room. “I thought Stark got us a star for our anniversary. I love that star.”

“Of course you do,” Nat titters, “And Peter is filling in for Pietro.”

Steve offers Peter his hand, and he shakes it tentatively, because this is still Steve fucking Rogers. “Great to meet you, kid.”

“Oh,” Nat lowers her voice, “He’s not a kid. He just graduated high school.” When Peter’s mouth opens, she grins. “This is Steve. He hangs about here sometimes. Can’t seem to get rid of him. I have tried, believe me.”

“You’re Steve Rogers,” Peter breathes, dumbstruck, and it’s only when Nat and Steve share a bemused look that he breaks out of his stupor, cheeks flushed. He nervously looks at his feet. “Sorry—it’s just I’m a big fan.”

There isn’t anybody who hasn’t heard of Steve Rogers, as far as Peter is aware. He’s got all his albums on CD stacked on the shelves of his bedroom and he listens when he’s feeling particularly nostalgic, pressing them into the portable player May got him a lifetime ago and lying back on his bed. Steve is the Golden Boy of America’s pop music scene, his songs soulful and sad with a quiet, yet constant, lingering optimism. It’s the kind of music that reminds him of leaves in the fall and sitting alone on the subway. The kind of voice you could get lost in, but not in the unknown, terrifying kind of the way. It’s like he’s trying to guide you home.

Steve and Nat share a look and Peter fears that he’s made a bit of an idiot of himself. Again.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask for his autograph,” Natasha scrunches her nose, glancing up at her boyfriend. Steve looks mildly entertained. Like he’s used to it. “His ego is big enough as it is.”

Steve shakes his head. His hand reaches across the bar and squeezes Natasha’s shoulder. She softly runs her hand over his knuckles—it feels weird, to use the word soft to describe Natasha, because from what Peter has seen (in his admittedly limited experience) she’s never anything but razor sharp. “You’ll come to realise, Peter, that this woman never has a day off.”

Natasha’s smile is wistful, longing. “I don’t have time for days off.”

The room suddenly feels heavy and Peter can feel something lurking under the surface of their dialogue, something that’s not being said while he’s there watching. Steve looks away, smiling at the ground. Look—he’s not that into tabloids or dumb E! News twitter threads where their pictures are plastered about like incriminating photo albums, but he’s not totally unaware of it either. He knows Nat’s surname because he’s seen her red hair on the cover of magazines at the drugstore countless times, on May’s coffee table. Some of them have been holding Steve’s hand. Some of them are just Steve. Some of them are Steve with other women.

He’s got enough knowledge to know that this relationship mustn’t be…easy. Or conventional, at the very least. Not that he knows much about that. He knows about as much about romantic love as he does parental.

(Aka, not much at all.)

Wanda is the one who breaks the moment. “Nat, Clint is asking—oh, hi Steve!”

Steve smiles and the two share a quick embrace, because Steve definitely seems like the hugging type. Meanwhile, Natasha walks round the bar and beside him—Steve slings an arm casually round her shoulder, and it’s so comfortable and natural that Peter feels something shift in his chest. Wanda lets them know that Clint needs to run over the inventory before opening in a couple of hours, so Nat leaves Peter in Wanda’s capable hands while her and Steve head down to the basement together. Peter can’t seem to drag his eyes away from them.

“You too, huh?” Wanda remarks, one eyebrow raised. Peter blinks, not sure what she means. “They’re magnetic, right? And not just because they’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Peter flushes—for what seems like the millionth time since he arrived—and covers his hands with his sleeve. “I don’t—“

“We’ve all thought it, one time or another. There isn’t anybody else like them.” Wanda smiles softly. “They haven’t had it easy but they’re happy now, so. Every cloud, yes?”

Peter nods hesitantly. “What do you mean…haven’t had it easy?”

Wanda’s smile is still gentle, but there’s an unwavering nature to it. She seems to float past him, like she’s not quite real, an ethereal ghost. “That’s not for me to tell. But I can tell you how to make more than just a mojito, if that’s adequate?”

Peter feels himself relaxing, the tension vanishing from his shoulders. Wanda is a little less terrifying than Natasha. Her eyes are big and touched with melancholy, but there’s no bitterness there. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really adequate, thanks.”

-

His first shift—well, his first shift is insane, and he completely and totally understands why Tony thought this place would cure his college related existential crisis. The bar is packed from the moment the door opens because even though there’s no live music tonight, Clint and Nat’s sick playlists seem to reel in people from all over the city and further out. A bearded guy in a Led Zep shirt drunkenly tells Peter that he’s come all the way from Toronto to listen to Hawkeye and Black Widow, and he’s really not sure what that means.

There are also people who are here when they realise Steve is about, from Twitter or whatever. He’s not exactly under the radar as he seems to spend a lot of his free time in Endgame (for obvious reasons) but as soon as the customers start coming in, he edges away, disappearing off into the basement while Nat, Clint and the rest of them work. Other than Wanda, there’s only one more employee who turns up—a tall, buff British guy called Thor who wanders in about fifteen minutes before opening time with hair off a Herbal Essences commercial. He slaps Peter on the arm and almost knocks the wind out of him.

By the time closing time hits Peter feels battered, bruised and a little like he’s fallen out of a top floor window, his shirt covered in shit tons of unnameable alcoholic combinations and his head beating like a bass drum. Clint, Nat, Wanda and Thor weave between people and the bar like it’s ingrained in them, grinning and laughing and seemingly knowing everybody. As the cool, 2am air of August hits his face like a slap round the face, Peter wonders if he’d actually been holding his breath the whole time, waiting for the storm to be over.

He almost throws up on the stairs. Almost. He kind of wants to go home, go to bed, and never come back here again. Everything—it just happens a lot, always. Maybe he is just a kid. Maybe he’s not ready for a life outside of education, like Tony had said.

He feels a hand curl round his shoulder and he starts, but when he turns he sees Steve, oddly reassuring and stable in this new world that makes no sense whatsoever.

“You alright, Peter?” he asks, warm and empathetic, “Maybe you should sit down.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting on the damp, stone steps that lead up to the entrance. Peter sighs heavily, goosebumps bristling up and down his arms. Cautiously, he eases down next to him. Wonders how his life got to this.

“It can get pretty intense in there, huh?” Steve nudges him with his shoulder. “I thought that when I first started singing in public, like my heart was just going to rip out my chest. But it gets easier. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it.”

Peter laughs a little at that. There’s a scab on his left thumb and he picks at it out of habit. “I think Clint was right. I’m not the kind of guy they like here.”

“God, don’t let him hear you say that. Clint can’t ever be right. The universe would implode.”

Natasha appears at the front door from nowhere, as is the pattern, and it’s the first time Peter’s seen her all evening properly—she’s wearing a black lace camisole and leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but Peter knows better (and is better) to let his eyes hover for too long. Her lipstick matches the color of her hair. She’s absolutely breath-taking, like a rebellious Hollywood starlet. It’s the first time he’s seen her tattoos, too; she has a spider on her left shoulder, an arrow on the other and there’s the smooth curve of a circle that peaks out of the waistband of her trousers. She hands Peter a paper cup filled with water. Come to think of it, not drinking anything all night was probably a bad idea, adding dehydration to a general sense of, you know, existential dread.

“It’s just your first day, buddy,” Steve says, “It’s new. That’s all.”

“I think you did pretty well for someone with no experience,” interjects Nat. Steve gives her an exaggerated look of shock. “Hey. I said pretty well. He’s still got a lot to learn.”

“Praise indeed! You should be proud, kid. Took her over a year for her to say anything remotely nice about me.”

“That, and also I’d take every opportunity to prove Tony Stark wrong about something.” Nat smirks. “You just got to get into the music, then you won’t be able to fucking wait to come back.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, looking up at her, “She’s pretty exceptional at making mixtapes.”

He’s entering yet another moment that feels like an intrusion just being there, another conversation without words. He’s been the third-wheel before—countless awkward dates at the Cheesecake Factory—but this feels like a whole other level of it, because the worst kind of couple to tag along with are the ones that use silence like it’s not silence at all.

“Am I…alright to go?” Peter asks quietly, folding the cup in his hands. He’s not sure how all this works.

Nat nods. “Yeah, seeing as it’s your first day. But tomorrow you’re helping with the clean-up.”

“How are you getting back?” Steve is already sifting through dollars in his wallet, “Get a cab on me.”

“Oh—Mr Rogers, I couldn’t possibly…”

“It’s Steve, and you absolutely can.” He hands him twenty, and Nat audibly sighs from behind him. “What? What is it?”

Natasha looks totally unsurprised. “Clint was right about something. You’re totally adopting our new bartender. He’s only been here a day!”

Peter has to admit, having Steve Rogers look out for him is hardly the most disastrous thing to come out of this shift. He half-smiles, mostly to himself, unfurling the twenty between his fingers. Steve just shoots Nat a withering, long-suffering look, because this is what Steve calls being nice.

“Thank you, Steve,” Peter says, standing up, “And thanks for the water.”

Steve salutes a goodbye and Nat walks down the stairs, filling the space Peter leaves. As he saunters down the sidewalk, he picks up snippets of their conversation:

“Which star do you think is ours? You know. The one Stark bought us.”

“Oh, shut up about that goddamn star. Stark will really try and buy anything, won’t he? Even bits of the universe. You’re supposed to—I think you should just leave the cosmos the hell alone. We don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “The science is neither here nor there for me. And Stark’s capitalist consumerist ideology aside…I just like to think the stars all come out for you.”

(He thinks about that all the way home, in the slow hum of the cab, the buzzing tinnitus in his ears. He thinks about loving someone so much you want the whole universe to exist just for them.)

-

The first thing he does when he gets home is Google them. He can’t help himself. He just—he has to know more. But as soon as he types in their names, and a ton of unsavoury articles mentioning other women and possibilities about Natasha’s past come up, he feels disgusted with himself. This isn’t the truth. This is just hearsay and shady sources and the edges of facts cobbled together with hyperbolic adjectives and PVA glue. This feels voyeuristic and weird, like he’s doing something explicitly wrong, like he’s listening to high school gossip.

He turns to Instagram instead. Natasha’s—predictably—is on private and he’s too awkward to send a request, and the blur of red on the icon might not even be her. Steve’s is a lot easier to find. He’s got almost three million followers and a blue tick, his photo an outtake from some shoot where he’s laughing like a maniac. His most recent picture isn’t even of him. It’s Natasha, caught off guard in the basement of Endgame, looking through the stack of records he’d seen on the coffee table. When he swipes along there’s another where she’s using a Bon Iver vinyl to cover her face, looking beneath her eyelashes at the camera. The caption reads though she be but little, she is fierce.

And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters.

-

The next day he wakes with a thumping headache. When he asks May if there’s any aspirin, she looks at him with a mix of disappointment and muted shock.

“Yes, I agreed with Tony when he said getting a job would be good for you, but really Peter?” she tuts, to Peter’s confusion, popping two tablets out of the tray and into his hands. “What was it, then? Beer? Rum? Vodka?”

Oh. Oh. She thinks… “Relax, May. I didn’t do anything. The music was just loud, that’s all.”

May doesn’t look entirely convinced, her eyes slightly narrowed, but it admittedly isn’t in Peter’s character to engage with any underage drinking (even though that’s what he’d probably do in college, if he was still going). Clint had slid him across a jack and coke with a wink at some point after midnight, but he’d let it go warm on the counter. The only time he’d ever really drunk was at Liz Allan’s New Year’s party at the end of junior year, and that was only to prove to that dumbass Flash Thompson that he wasn’t a pussy. His puke tasted like beer and then that just made him puke more.

“I just worry about you. I’ve never pictured you working in a place like that.” May sits at the kitchen counter, watching him as he swallows back the pills. “Couldn’t you send your resume to a bookstore or something? Bryony from Pilates says she’s looking for a new waiter at her place. Maybe that’s more your… thing.”

It’s quite likely that’s more his thing, but the told you so that would come out of Tony’s mouth is persuasion enough to keep on at it. Yeah, he feels like death and another night like yesterday is not going to make that any better, but surely he’ll get used to it. Right?

“I’m not quitting already. It wasn’t so bad. Plus, I got to meet Steve Rogers.”

May’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Excuse me? Steve Rogers as in…?”

“Yep,” Peter pops the ‘p’, grin tugging at his lips. His aunt isn’t exempt in the nationwide crush everybody has on Steve Rogers. “The manager—well, one of the managers—is his girlfriend. You know Nat Romanoff?”

“Oh, so she’s Nat Romanoff to you,” May chides, “Didn’t realise you two had got so close already.”

“Shut up. She’s kind of terrifying. So is the other guy who runs the place. But there’s a girl there—Wanda. She’s pretty awesome.”

May purses her lips, studying his expression. “Is she pretty pretty too?”

“No!” Peter replies a little too quickly, to May’s delight, “No—she’s… nice, but she’s a bit older than me. Anyway, I’ve told you before. I’m not looking for anything like that.”

(It’s been almost a year since Liz Allan tore his heart to pieces and he’s still not over it. It’s kind of pathetic, really. They were never really dating to begin with, but it all felt so real anyway.)

“Alright,” May hums, “Just…be careful, okay? I heard you come back late last night and I hate thinking about you walking about on your own.”

He wants to say that he’s eighteen and basically an adult and that New York City at 3am doesn’t scare him, but him and May have been so close his whole life and it must be difficult, her watching the little boy dropped abruptly on her doorstep all those years ago growing up and moving on. Other than Uncle Tony, who walks in and out of his life when it suits him, May is all he has. And she’s only got him. There’s a lifeline there that holds them indefinitely together and she hates watching it stretch, fray.

“Steve got me a cab,” he says gently, “And I’ll bring my bike tonight. I’m totally fine. I promise.”

She gets up, kisses him on the top of his head, between the curls that are still damp from the shower. It makes him feel like a kid, but not in the restrictive, controlling way Tony does when he’s pissed at him. It makes him feel nostalgic for the time where May would kiss his scraped knees better when he tripped on the sidewalk and make him peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for his lunch box.

“I love you more than anything,” May says, her mantra. You don’t have a lot, but you do have me.

Peter smiles. Blinks slowly. “I love you too, May.”

-

Just before he leaves the apartment for another round, a notification lights up his phone. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he opens the text anyway, and it’s a link to a Spotify page ran by username blackwidow. The playlist is titled for peter.

-

“You’ve looked them both up on Instagram, right?”

Wanda says this as she drops on the sofa next to him, propping her feet on the coffee table. Clint and Nat are bickering in the office adjoined to the kitchen and occasionally he can see one of them through the window—he’s almost certain at one point Nat had Clint by the throat, but Thor looks at him, shaking his head. You just gotta let them ride this one out.

“Uh…what?” Peter absent-mindedly replies, dragging his eyes away from the pot of pens that has just collided with the window. Wanda doesn’t react. It must be normal.

“Steve and Natasha,” Wanda elaborates, “I did. It’s the first thing I did, after I met them. You wanna know about someone’s life, you find their social media. Or lack of it.”

Peter sighs. Well, at least it’s not just him. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t sent Natasha a request.”

“Nope.”

Wanda grins. “She’s meticulous. Natasha. Obsessed with privacy and who gets to see what. I’m surprised she has social media at all. I mean…it’s not illogical, considering, but she does not reveal her soul to just anybody. Steve, on the other hand, is an open book. Not very good at hiding anything. Which is usually a good thing, sometimes not.”

Peter tilts his head, taking Wanda in. She’s wearing makeup today, black smudged round her eyes. May’s right, she is pretty pretty. “You seem to know quite a lot about them.”

“I’ve worked with them for a while now. And anyway. They’re interesting. You see it, too. Sometimes it’s hard to look away when they’re together.” Wanda doesn’t flinch when another crash comes from the office. “You wonder how they work, because they seem so very different.”

Peter shrugs. She’s not wrong, obviously, but he doesn’t want to look too interested, like the creepy fans that leave leery comments on Steve’s pictures. “People do say that opposites attract.”

“People are stupid. And vague. What even are opposites?” Wanda’s laugh is low and sort of croaky. “I am just glad they found their way back to each other.”

“How did they even meet?”

Wanda’s smile is the same one he saw yesterday, like he’s encountered a dead end and she knows it. This is not her story to tell, like so many others. “I am sure you will find out eventually.”

Clint bursts out of the office, then, dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a napkin. He looks kind of like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, flustered and breathing hard. His eyebrows lift when he sees Peter sitting there, offering the two of them a quick greeting.

“Oh, and Clint!” Natasha calls out, appearing from behind the door, “Could you get me an iced latte?”

Clint considers for a second, before nodding. She throws him her reusable mug and he catches it with one hand before turning to leave.

“Don’t even try and get me to explain that relationship,” Wanda says, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Peter laughs under his breath. It’s like Nat said, in the conversation he shouldn’t have heard. We don’t have to understand everything.

-

At about 11pm that night he joins Wanda for a cigarette out the back fire door and for the first time, he feels kind of cool, watching as the end burns a tiny amber dot, ripping a hole in the black. He’d never smoke one himself—the fact that May is horrified by him consuming alcohol is bad enough—but he likes watching her, how oddly and decadently beautiful the smoke unfurling from her lips is.

At the bottom of the alley, a motorbike pulls up and a man that looks vaguely Steve-shaped jumps off of it. Wanda glances at him with a smirk, stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of her boot. His arms fold out, and a woman runs into them, their laughter echoing down the street. They obviously don’t know that him and Wanda are watching; it feels like a private glimpse that they’re not supposed to see, a privilege. Natasha’s legs wrap round his waist. They hold each other for what feels like minutes, hours.

He can’t take his eyes away the whole time.

“I told you,” Wanda elbows him, brushing past to get to the door. “They’re magnetic. You’re pulled into their orbit.”

“I just…I don’t know why,” Peter says, dumbfounded, “Maybe it’s the way they look at each other? Like the whole world could burn to ashes and they’d just…stand, in the afterglow.”

“You’re poetic, Parker,” Wanda muses, “But you’re not wrong, either.”

They’re pulled back into the heat of the club when Clint realises they’re not working, grabbing them both by the shoulders and violently shoving them back onto the bar. He’s not paying them to gossip about snapchat and heelies, or whatever the kids are into these days, apparently. And Thor can only handle so much attention before his ego combusts.

He’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing.

-

It takes about two and a half weeks, give or take, for things to start to feel normal. The hours fuck up any semblance of a sleeping pattern, but he’s no longer waking up with a thudding in his skull like a second heartbeat and Wanda’s tip about earplugs help a ton. He arrives at about three, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. He’s usually off again by two unless Nat or Clint are feeling generous about clean-up. The bar is shut every Sunday and the freedom is near divine. He doesn’t get up until midday and spends the rest of the day in his pajamas, eating pancakes and watching shitty reality television about people who are paid to sing badly or hate each other.

Steve is in the bar most nights and whilst he doesn’t always talk to Peter, he begins to miss him when he’s not there. He’s usually got a motivational speech or two in his back pocket, and it feels pretty fucking awesome that Steve Rogers seems to care a little about his wellbeing.

He hasn’t had the nerve to ask about how they met, yet. Wanda is still tight-lipped and Clint is borderline psychotic anyway, so each of them feel like a dead-end. He’s stuck with assumptions and watching them from his peripheral.

“You know, he wrote his last album about her,” Clint says in a rare moment of honesty, while they’re preparing for opening. Steve and Nat are tucked in a booth by the door, her knees brought to her chest, speaking impossibly close together. “It’s abhorrently adorable. Almost puked when I heard it.”

“What?” Peter says skeptically, “You mean the whole of See You In a Minute is about Natasha?”

“The whole goddamn thing. Sickening, isn’t it? I think the title is some sort of private joke between them.”

Peter doesn’t mention that Steve’s last album is his favorite, because he doesn’t need more excuses for Clint to bully him. Plus, he needs to push on. He needs to know more. “Have they always been like that? You know. Close.”

Clint pauses. He’s polishing glasses, but lays the cloth on the counter, looking over at him. “I’ve known Nat a long time. Long enough to know that it takes…a lot, to impress her. To pull her in. Even with me—and with Steve—it took her months to realise there was a mutual trust there.” He grins a little, showing the softer side to all that strident energy. “If you tell her this, I will violently murder you, but I love that girl to bits and I wouldn’t accept just anybody taking her away from me. But I accepted Steve immediately. So take from that what you will.”

It doesn’t really answer his question, but he supposes it answers a bunch of other unasked ones.

There’s a moment of silence. And then—

“Have you and Nat ever…?”

The look Clint gives him makes him realise he knows better than to finish that sentence.

-

(He brings up See You in a Minute on Spotify the moment he has time alone before opening, back on the leather couch in the basement. He figures the songs might have a new meaning now he knows who they’re about. His thumb taps the titular song—a slow, atmospheric ballad that sits in the recesses of his heart as soon as he hears the opening piano chords.

I have one last dance all saved up for you

He really wishes he wasn’t crying, but he just can’t help it.)

-

A band is playing that night called The Guardians who everyone but Peter seems to know well. They’re a six-piece retro rock band that the crowd goes wild for—they all have crazy hair colors and equally crazy names, apart from the lead singer, who’s messy brown hair is barely brushed and is weirdly also called Peter. They stay for a while after their set has finished, building up a substantial bar tab that Clint’s on their ass about. Peter Quill and his girlfriend Gamora (the other singer and guitar player of the band, her hair bright green and her lips painted black) sit on the stools and tease Peter (who they call Little P, hilarious) until closing time.

“Are you even allowed to serve alcohol?” Quill jibes, sipping a beer, “Isn’t there a rule against children being anywhere near liquor in public?”

Gamora pokes his shoulder. “Maybe it’s some sort of psychology project. He’s studying us for a paper.”

Peter can’t even be bothered to argue at this point. He still gets this same genre of comedy from Clint on a daily basis so what’s a couple more age-related jokes? He just smiles, mixing a cosmo for Gamora’s scary looking sister who silently glares at him from the stool next to her.

“You know what would be a fun psychology project,” Quill points a finger in Peter’s direction, “Nat Romanoff.”

Peter pauses for a second. “What makes you say that?”

Quill’s limbs are loose from all the drink he’s been downing before, during and after his performance, so his movements are all exaggerated and floppy. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested. Clint too. They both have shit in their pasts they don’t want us to know about.”

Gamora is decidedly more composed. She shakes her head, looking at Peter seriously. “All conjecture, of course. And none of our business.”

“I heard she was a spy for the Russian government,” Nebula casually mentions, her tone completely void of inflection. “She can slit someone’s neck with an envelope.”

All three of them look at Nebula, slightly aghast, but Nebula’s expression is so stoic and emotionless Peter can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Even Quill blinks heavily, knocked speechless.

“That’s…not what I meant,” Quill slurs, leaning in closer, “But there’s something there.” He taps the side of his nose. “Mark my words.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Gamora says, “Having a past you want to remain in the past is hardly rare.”

Peter’s beginning to notice a pattern with his colleagues. They all guard their memories under heavily armored doors and it’s only in occasional moments of softness or weakness where anything is ever revealed, and rarely by the person themselves. Clint let’s something slip about Natasha, Wanda about Clint. None of them really know anything about him.

“How long have you guys known Nat and Clint?” Peter asks, before tentatively adding, “And Steve?”

Quill and Gamora smile knowingly, like maybe this is a question that’s been asked before. Gamora presses a hand down on Quill’s shoulder. Peter hides the urge to sigh at another dead end. “We’ve been performing here since they opened, but if you actually want to know anything about them we’re probably the worst people to ask.”

Quill nods. “They don’t talk. If you ever find anything out, though, feel free to let us know.”

Peter laughs disbelievingly. “As if they’ll ever tell me anything.”

“Have you asked them?” Gamora replies, and Peter’s expression answers her question. “Little P, if they didn’t think they could trust you, they wouldn’t have hired you. They don’t let just anybody into their inner circle.”

“My uncle got me the job—he’s like, an investor, or something. Trust had nothing to do with it. Probably the opposite.”

Gamora’s lip curve, unconvinced. “I think you know it’s never quite that simple.”

“I don’t…I don’t even know why I’m so interested.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Gamora says wistfully, sliding him a tip across the counter. “And we should probably leave before he makes a fool of himself.”

(The he in question is Quill, who has since disappeared to join the dancing crowds with his shirt off. Nebula’s eye roll is mechanical, like the rest of her. Peter wonders if Quill and Gamora are her Steve and Nat; two wildly different individuals that seem joined together by something no-one else can see, that no-one quite understands. She downs the rest of her cocktail and makes her way towards the couple, who have since started kissing in the middle of the dancefloor.)

Gamora kind of reminds him of Michelle. Clever, beautiful, existing on a plane that floats way above everybody else. He swallows hard. He’s not sure where that thought came from.

-

By coincidence, MJ actually messages him about a week later. He’s been so busy either sleeping or working that all his friendships outside Endgame have taken a bit of a back-burner, texts stacking in his inbox that he’s been too tired to respond to. Besides, the only person he really keeps in contact with from high school is Ned and he’s spending the vacation before he goes to college with his family in Hawaii—he’s kept updated with sunkissed snapchats from the beach, exotic flowers and drinks in coconut shells. He’s hovered over Michelle’s name a few times over the past few weeks, but she isn’t always the kind to message back. She flies off grid as soon as school is out. There’s no point in tormenting himself over her lack of read receipts.

But when she messages, asking if they want to meet at the mall, he types sure before he can properly think about it. It’s a Sunday, after all, and he’s been thinking an awful lot about the limited relationships he has lately. What he wants them to be.

(That’s definitely a bi-product of Nat and Steve. He can’t put it down to anything else.)

MJ is sat by the fountain in the middle of the shopping complex reading a copy of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto, making notes with a tiny wooden Ikea pencil. Her dark hair is long and loose and she’s wearing a plaid shirt with sneakers, casually beautiful in the way she’s always been. It takes her a minute to look up and actually see him standing in front of her and when she does, her mouth opens a little, curved in a bemused grin.

“Woah, Peter,” she says, closing her book, “Didn’t realise you were edgy now.”

(She’s talking about his new Doc Martens that Wanda helped pick out. They’re shiny black leather and extremely uncomfortable, but you know, he’s getting down with the culture.)

“I’m…not,” Peter says. MJ laughs at his awkwardness. “You should see the people I work with.”

“This your new job, huh?” MJ eases back into the bench, crossing her legs. “Now you’ve decided to fuck college. Is this the beginning of a crisis? I’m getting vibes, here. Smart kids who screw college to work in a nightclub are definitely going on some sort of downward psychological spiral.”

Peter shrugs, smiling. Trust MJ to be brutally honest about his life choices. “Do you wanna grab coffee?”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not Starbucks. I’m not using my limited finances to fund their crooked corporate empire.”

They trail around for a bit before they find a cripplingly expensive but decidedly independent coffee house, filled with mismatched vintage furniture and hipster-types crowding the front windows with their moleskin notebooks. Peter feels out of place but Michelle fills the space like she owns it, lounging in an armchair angled away from the counter. She closes her eyes and asks for a chamomile tea and a blueberry muffin which he—he just gets for her.

He returns with an Americano for himself, because for some reason he wants MJ to think he’s the kind of person who drinks black coffee now, when in reality he’d prefer something fruity and sugary that has him flying off the walls.

“So…” Michelle starts as he falls into the sofa opposite, “You’re definitely not going to Princeton?”

Peter folds his legs. Tries to get comfortable. “I’m definitely not going to Princeton.”

“Interesting. Even though Tony Stark will probably fund, like, all your tuition fees?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He hates her insistence on bringing up the fact he has Tony in his life, a handy billionaire safety-blanket, like he can’t complain about anything ever. Yeah, sure, Tony would probably fund his way through college—but he wonders how much of that is guilt money, the dollars his mom and dad would have scraped together if they were still alive. Not everything is about money. Tony Stark is the kind of person MJ hates with every fibre of her being, but… Peter still loves him, and not just because he’s rich as shit. Even when he’s being super annoying.

Michelle smiles sadly when he doesn’t reply. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s just hard for me to get my head around, you know? I would commit homicide for someone to fund my way through college. Maybe I already have.”

Peter chuckles. Has a sip of his god-awful coffee. “Where are you even going for college? I don’t think you’ve ever said. In-state?”

“It’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually,” MJ admits, “It’s a bit further out than in-state.”

“Oh. Right. Pennsylvania?”

“Bit further than that.”

“…California?”

“Not exactly.”

“MJ, are you going to make me run through every college I know about? Tony’s shoved just about every prospectus in my direction so we might be here a while.”

“I got accepted onto a philosophy program,” MJ starts, bringing her teacup to her lips. “At University College London.”

Peter almost spits his coffee out everywhere.

“I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. The whole admissions process in England is completely whack, and they don’t have SATs and stuff over there so I didn’t think I had a chance. But—I don’t know. Something happened, and I got in. So I guess I’m moving to London.”

He’s not completely sure what she’s saying, just watching her mouth move and nothing but blurred, incoherent noise reaching her. She said London. MJ is moving to London, and that’s a hell of a long way from anywhere.

“You’re moving to London?” he just about manages to squeak.

“Yep. Totally aced it, dude. Time to live my English dream. You know. Try and abolish the class system they have over there and stage a revolution against their monarchy.”

A vacuum opens in his stomach, like he’s just now realising that he doesn’t really want to live in a country that isn’t the same as MJ’s. But she looks so happy. He doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help it. He can’t not be happy for someone who is about to do everything they’ve ever wanted.

Nevertheless, it’s an inconvenient epiphany. Wanting to hold onto someone as soon as they tell you they’re going to leave.

“Congratulations,” he says, hoping there isn’t a crack in his voice. “That’s…incredible, MJ. You’re awesome.”

“I know! And now you’re earning a proper wage like an adult, you can totally come and visit me over there. We can eat scones and laugh at how ridiculous British accents are.” She kicks him gently, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter says quietly. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Cool. Now we’ve got that out the way…” MJ reaches into her bag, bringing out her little black copy of The Communist Manifesto. “Can I interest you in a dialogue with my new BFF, Karl?”

He sinks back into his chair, feels his whole body bleed between the fabric and through the floorboards.

-

He walks into work the next day and finds Steve and Natasha sitting in one of the booths. Steve has an acoustic guitar and he’s strumming chords while Nat is nodding along, pointing at something on a scrap of notebook paper in front of him. Occasionally, he’ll grab a marker and cross something out or scribble something down. When the door shuts behind him, the two of them look over. God. He’s got a running habit of ruining moments.

“Hey Peter!” Steve calls out in his usual, friendly way, “What’s up?”

He’s about to reply, but Natasha edges in first. “Come over here. Let’s talk.”

There’s something ominous in her tone but Natasha is impossible to predict, so a vague sense of anxiety haunts him as he sidles over to the booth and sits slowly in the space Nat has made for him. He wonders if she’s firing him but Steve looks chipper—surely he wouldn’t look that happy if he was about to lose his job, right? Maybe his not so discrete interest in their relationship has…got back to them? He’s already imagining the look on Tony’s face. I said you needed a reality check.

“Am I in trouble?”

Nat laughs. Even that is low and sultry, somehow sexy. Steve laughs too. “Peter—I know we tease you about it, but you do realise you’re not in school, right? And…calm, measured conversation isn’t usually how we deal with things here.”

He recalls the argument in the office a few weeks prior. Yeah, sounds about right.

“We just want to know about you,” Nat continues, “Because—I know a lot about the people I work with. But I don’t know anything about you, other than what Stark has said. And I trust his judgement about as much as I trust Steve’s.”

“Hey!” Steve says with a pout, “My judgement is perfect, thank you very much.”

“It’s the opposite of perfect, but okay, Mr I-trust-everybody-I’ve-met-ever.”

Steve shakes his head at him. “This is what I get for not being openly hostile all the time.”

“It’s got me and Clint this far. Anyway, I digress.” She nudges Peter gently. “Tell us something about you.”

Peter is mildly suspicious about the whole thing and doesn’t know what to say, so just stares vacantly at the two of them.

“Okay…well, at least we know you’re not a talker,” Nat murmurs, “So how about I ask you a question. Who was the girl you were with at the mall yesterday?” Peter’s jaw swings open like a door on a loose hinge. Nat half-smiles. “I saw you when I was coming out the Urban Outfitters. I’m curious.”

Steve glowers at her. “Peter, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. She’s insatiable.”

“Oh, yeah. But if you don’t answer it you’ll be kind of answering it, if you get what I mean.”

Peter’s taken aback. For someone who is so private about everything, she’s appears to have no qualms investigating his private life. He coughs on nothing and shifts in his seat awkwardly. “Just a friend. From school. It isn’t—she isn’t…”

Nat laughs under her breath, looking over at Steve. “He’s right. It’s none of my business. But you two looked good together. That’s always a good start.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, and she sighs.

“I think so,” Nat splays her hands out on the table. He notices her fingernails are painted electric blue. “But, sure. It isn’t everything.”

“What is everything?”

The question catches both of them off guard and Peter instantly regrets asking, wishing he could catch his words back in a butterfly net and shove them back inside of him. The two of them are…they’re untouchable, Wanda and Clint have both made that equally clear. It’s something you find out, not something you’re told. But it’s too late now. Steve and Nat look at each other in a minute of an intense, burning eye contact and not for the first time Peter imagines being swallowed up by the seat whole.

“I guess…” Steve begins but trails off. Peter watches as his fingers inch closer to Natasha’s on a table, like they’re playing a complex game wherein they discover where their boundaries are, how far they can go while he’s still there. “I guess everything is when you’re sat in a room, and there could be just one person it or thousands, but it doesn’t matter because none of those faces are the one you want it to be. The only perfect room, the only one you’ll ever be happy in, is the one they inhabit with you. To leave it…or for them to leave, feels like you’re constantly just gasping for air.”

Natasha looks away. Somehow, Steve manages to drag his eyes away from her, after saying all that, and back to Peter.

“But sometimes everything is just knowing the favorite brand of ice cream they like to eat when everything is awful or the setting they prefer their washing machine on. It’s all about striking a balance.” He half-smiles. “Sometimes it takes a while to find it.”

Peter frowns. He likes Michelle, likes her more than he’d ever let on if the uncontrollable reaction his body had after she said she was leaving is anything to go by, but how can he know if it’s everything? What Steve is saying sounds suspiciously like soulmates, if they exist. That not being with them feels like dying. What he feels for MJ is blurry, inconstant; but it’s there all the same. He’s not sure if that flame is supposed to become anything more. Not that it matters.

“Michelle is moving to London for college,” Peter says desolately, then rolls his shoulders. “She’ll be living a whole other life over there. I can’t expect her to fit me into it, even if she liked me back.”

“Hey, Peter?” Nat says with a sympathetic smile, “Distance sucks, but you know what sucks more? Waiting too long. We know a thing or two about it, and I’d recommend quite heavily against it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve adds his two cents, “I’d give it a one star review on Amazon for being the worst ever. Not what I ordered, arrived broken, the lot.”

Clint enters and asks if they need a witness to sign the adoption papers and Nat throws a dirty washcloth at him, everything returning to normal. But there’s a warm feeling in Peter’s chest, because this is the closest he’s ever got. Maybe Gamora was right.

-

He sends Michelle a text that night, asking if they could maybe meet up again. She doesn’t reply. Maybe she never will, because that happens. But he’s not waiting too long. It’s not what he ordered.

-

They have an evening off a couple of weeks later because it’s Nat’s birthday. Apparently it’s tradition that whenever her or Clint turn a year older they fuck potential profit for a day and spend the night drinking whatever they can get their hands on. Instead, Peter’s invited to a small party that is hosted at Clint’s apartment across town—he’s still dragged to the bar a couple of hours before, however, to roll kegs of beer and various bottles of multi-colored spirits from the storeroom to Clint’s car for the occasion. He vanishes back home to shower and change before returning, May hastily shoving a bottle of wine into his hands as a gift as he leaves. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen Nat drink white at all, but hey. He’s only little. He doesn’t know much about liquor.

Clint buzzes him in and he follows the drum beat in the corridor to his top-floor apartment; the door is open so he just walks in, but is surprised when he sees nobody about. The speaker is blasting music into an empty room and if it wasn’t for Wanda entering the kitchen, he’d assume he’d come to the wrong house.

“Peter!” she says excitedly, squeezing him into a tight hug. Her dark hair is loose across her shoulders and she’s wearing a burgundy dress that floats above her knees. He can’t help but smile at her. “So glad you could make it!”

He leans out of the embrace, putting the wine on the counter. Glasses are spread out without any clear design, interspersed with opened bottles of various drinks. As far as he can see, there’s no non-alcoholic alternatives—May would probably freak out. “Where is everybody?”

“Did Clint not tell you? We’re on the roof. I’m just off to the bathroom but if you go through the door off the kitchen and up the fire escape you won’t miss it.”

She bounds away so he slowly makes his way up as per Wanda’s instructions. As soon as he opens the door he can hear chatter and laughter, and upon reaching the top he finds an area covered in strings of white fairy lights and odd chairs from jarring furniture sets. A bar runs along the edge near the wall where Clint is mixing drinks, rows of glasses filled with a very generous amount of vodka and garnished with olives. There are people he recognises—Steve and Natasha are tucked into a loveseat, finally comfortable with the eyes on them, with Thor perched on the edge—but mostly people he doesn’t. A man with white hair sits comfortably with a brunette woman, while two unknown men stand deep in conversation off to the side. Nobody notices him straightaway and he feels little odd, the youngest there, but Clint dramatically fist-pumps the air.

“Parker!” he exclaims, walking over and clapping him ferociously on the shoulder. He wonders just how long the drinking has been going before he arrived as he tries not to cough up his lungs. “No extra-curriculars tonight? Lacrosse, maybe?”

“Leave him alone, Clint!” Natasha says, to Peter’s surprise, but then— “He’s way too little for lacrosse. I think he’s more of a mathlete.”

“Who’s kid brother is this, then?” One of the men he clocked earlier calls out before heading over, “Could be Rogers, I suppose. You both have that needy white boy look about you.”

Peter sighs, stretching out his arms. “Should we just get all the insults out the way now? Then we can move on with our lives.”

Needless to say, the insults don’t decrease with time—if anything they continue to spike as more vodka is consumed and less fucks are given, which are outstandingly little to begin with. Sam—a friend of Steve’s from his touring days—is by far the most scathing, not letting him rest for a second. Peter kind of likes it, though. It’s the way a lot of them show affection for each other, brutally kicking the shit at every opportunity. Steve’s other friend is Bucky, someone from childhood, and the white-haired guy is Wanda’s brother Pietro who left Endgame for music management somewhere. Maria and Phil work in legal and know Clint and Nat from wherever they were before Endgame. A good-natured yet authoritative man called Rhodey turns up later, who Peter recognises from Tony’s offices but has never actually met. Maybe Tony and Pepper will turn up at some point. Maybe they won’t.

Clint offers him one of Nat’s Special Birthday Martinis. He’s on the edge of turning it down, but everybody is laughing and he kind of feels part of this, so why not. The taste is bitter and awful and Clint laughs at him for a very long time, until his eyes water and he has to go and sit down. He talks to Wanda and Pietro, about their life in Sokovia before civil war ripped it to pieces, and Steve mentions how he took Nat out for Chinese food and champagne.

Steve brings in Natasha’s cake and Nat flushes—just a little—as she sees the candles flicker in the relative darkness, like Steve is holding a fire in his hands. Her eyes flutter closed as she blows out the candles and Peter muses on what she wished for, or if she wished at all. The alcohol makes his stomach feel warm, and the people make him feel warm, and he thinks this little party in this pocket of New York City may be one of the happiest moments of his life.

As the hours lull into the coolness of the morning, guests in various states of drunkenness either leave or continue on into Clint’s apartment. Peter takes a minute to steady himself, his heady heart and clouded head. He clings onto the metal railings until his knuckles turn white, staring out over the city. His city. He can’t go to college because he can’t leave here, all the lights and the heat and the music. New York is him and he is New York. This is something that cannot be ever taken away from him.

He hears footsteps and instead of you know, staying, like a normal person, Peter’s instinct is to duck behind the bar. He’s not ready for anyone to see him yet. He just wants a couple more moments alone with the world—plus he feels a little drunk, and being drunk is the best right here.

The footsteps come to a halt barely feet away from him. He’s not trying to listen as this is weird enough as it is, but it’s difficult not to. It’s Steve and Natasha.

“Another year, another one of Clint’s illegal martinis.” Steve’s voice. “Or two. Or several.”

Nat laughs lightly. “I’m going to go with several. I better not be holding your hair back while you puke tonight, boy. It’s my birthday.”

“Well—technically it stopped being your birthday a few hours ago, Nat, but I’ll let it slide because I love you.”

“You love me, huh? That’s certainly a new development.”

“Nah, it isn’t. Loved you the moment I saw you.”

“You fall in love with everybody.”

“Not in the way I love you. God, Nat. Do you actually realise what you do to me? Every time I look at you—you rip all the air out of my lungs.”

“That sounds pretty painful.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s agony. But it’s worth every second because…because you’re you. After everything. You’re you.”

There’s a few seconds of quiet. Peter wishes he’d just gone because as much as he wanted to know about them, to feel closer to them, this isn’t…this isn’t it. This is too private. Maybe if he edges along, he could sneak…

“Marry me.” Steve’s voice hangs in the night, like one of his songs. Poignant. “Marry me, Natasha.”

Nat is quieter than Peter’s ever heard it. It’s quiet, and it cracks in the middle. “Is that Clint’s martinis talking?”

“No. No. This is me talking. Marry me. You know—you know I’d be happy, forever, with what we have now. But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“Steve…” her voice is barely a whisper. Peter’s hand balls into fists. He’s here and yeah, he shouldn’t be, but he’s goddamn invested at this point. “I’ve been told that I can be pretty hard to deal with, sometimes. I’m reluctant to inflict that on somebody forever.”

“For you to inflict your inconstant, confusing, ridiculous self on me forever would be a privilege, Romanoff.”

“You really do have an answer for anything, don’t you? Insufferable asshole.”

“I’m your insufferable asshole.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

At that moment Peter’s leg just…involuntarily spasms. His foot collides with a nearby chair and it shifts across the concrete loudly, his cover completely blown. Shit. There’s no hiding now, so he peeks round the edge of the bar, finding Steve and Natasha stood with their arms around each other.

“Hello,” Peter says sheepishly, pointing towards the door, “I was just—“

“Parker, you’re not going anywhere.” Nat grabs him by his shirt and pulls him up, but there’s no malice on her face. Instead of violently throwing him off the top of this very high building for perving on their proposal, she drops him on one of the sofas. Steve hands him a nearby martini, amused by the whole situation if anything.

“You’re sitting there, and I’m telling you everything you want to know.”