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not-a-space-alien · 2 years ago

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All Creatures Great and Small Chapter 6: Clap Your Hands if You Believe

In this chapter: dont talk to strangers on the internet, unless you want to i guess, also shrimp colors

Thanks to my beta readers @appelsiinilight and @static-stars!!! <3

Story Masterpost

On AO3

PS unfortunately my writing will probably be going on hiatus for a little bit because my classes are starting back up this week...and I will have to be spending all my writing juice writing my thesis essay 😅 If you want to make sure you get notified when my active story(ies) come back, make sure to either subscribe on AO3 or ask to be added to the tag list!

Sierra was coming.

Everything was prepared. She’d gotten her plane ticket, and Marcy had the couch folded out so she could have somewhere to sleep. They’d made sure they had food in the house that was to Sierra’s taste, and they had a full agenda of activities to do while she was in town. Marcy had beaten back the endless tide of graduate school tasks requiring her attention to get the whole time off. They were ready for a great trip.

There was just one problem. Thistle still hadn’t told her he wasn’t human.

He’d tried. But she’d responded as though they were still playing make pretend. He’d even sent her a photo, to which she’d responded as though it were an impressive photo manipulation. Did you do this yourself? It’s awesome!

He chickened out after that. Marcy offered to take over and try to find the right words, but Thistle declined. He had to do this himself. It was only proper. He would do it himself, he repeated over and over, as he continued to not do it himself.

“Eeeee, I’m so excited!” Sierra’s voice came out through the tinny phone speaker. “The plane just landed! It’s gonna take me a while to get through the baggage claim and stuff though.”

“Okay!” said Marcy. “We’re just leaving the house now.”

“See you soon!” said Thistle. He hung up and then immediately exploded into terrified trembling, like a neurotic Chihuahua.

Marcy’s hand came over and palmed him, flat against the car seat. “Shhh.”

“What if this is a horrible mistake,” said Thistle’s muffled voice through her fingers.

Marcy lifted her hand, and he immediately popped back up into shape. “Then we’ll deal with it,” she said. “You can’t get anything nice in life without risks. You have to take the good with the bad.”

Thistle nodded, expression hardening. “Right. I’m not nervous at all.”

On the drive to the airport, he continued to climb all over Marcy, anxiously searching for a good place to sit, on her lap, in the crook of her neck, on the dashboard, in Marcy’s jacket pocket.

“All right then, totally not nervous little guy,” she said, removing him from the steering wheel and plunking him down into the cupholder. “Why don’t you just chill out.”

He wrung his hands. The street signs pointing towards the airport pickup started whizzing past in the window. Thistle moaned and popped open the hatch that sealed the compartment in the center console. “I’m–I’m just going to hide. Just a little bit. Just for a little bit.”

“Okay,” said Marcy. “You come out when you’re ready.”

Thistle scrabbled up into the nook, banishing himself among the pens and loose change and discarded, crumpled up papers. He shut it on top of himself.

Marcy pulled over near airport arrivals. There was a young woman, roughly matching Sierra’s description, waiting with a suitcase, neck bent over to examine her phone. Her fingers moved across the screen just as Thistle’s phone in the cupholder dinged with a notification that said I think I see you.

Marcy beeped the horn and rolled the window down, waving enthusiastically. “Hey! Fancy seeing you here!”

Sierra’s face lit up with delight. “Marcy?”

“Sierra?”

Sierra practically skipped over to the car, the trunk popping open cuing her to put her bag in there. She then came up front and clambered into the passenger’s seat. “It’s so great to meet you!”

“You as well!”

Marcy glanced down at the center console. When there was no movement from it, Marcy gently started to open it, but she felt tiny hands shoo her away and then click it back shut.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Fine, then. She pulled away from the curb and started to drive off.

Sierra cleared her throat. “So, um, not that I’m not thrilled to meet you…But I thought Thistle was coming too?” Sierra’s grandmother had warned her to avoid getting kidnapped and murdered while meeting people off the internet, and Sierra was now giving second thought to the previously-disregarded worries.

“We’ll meet him soon,” said Marcy. “Don’t worry.”

Sierra bounced with excitement. “Ooh, I’m so excited–and nervous, but I mean you probably don’t think I have anything to be nervous about, but you know him already, you probably think I’m silly and stupid and–”

Marcy laughed. “I think you’re overthinking things a bit.”

Sierra nodded, biting her lip. “Right. Well, Thistle speaks of you so highly, I’m just afraid he’ll be disappointed if I can’t measure up to you.”

Marcy looked over and saw Sierra wringing her hands. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“I’m just…” She nervously flapped her hands. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you guys have, I was too nervous to ask but I don’t know if you guys are, like, dating, or I thought maybe he was gay, but the way he talks about you…”

As Sierra trailed off, Marcy stared straight ahead, stunned by the awkward turn the conversation had taken. “Ah…Well that’s a good question, I don’t think he and I are entirely sure, either. But I promise there’s room for more people in his life.”

Sierra twirled her hair. “O…Okay. I…Well, I’ve been meaning to ask, but I was too shy. His name isn’t…isn’t really Thistle, is it? I just assumed that was a name he used online.”

“It’s a normal name where he’s from,” said Marcy. “It’s a translation of his name in his native language.”

Sierra perked up. “Ooh, that’s so cool! He has a pretty thick accent, so obviously I figured he wasn’t from around here, but…I could never tell where he was from?”

“I’m sure he’d love to answer all these questions for you,” said Marcy. “When we meet him.”

This last part was said slower and louder than necessary, with another glance down at the center console. Nothing.

Marcy sighed. “Thistle, please. This is fucking unbearable. Please end my suffering.”

Sierra looked at her wide-eyed. “I don’t get it.”

The center console compartment popped open. Just a crack.

Marcy rolled the car to a stop at a red light. “Come on, bud. You can’t put it off forever.”

“Is he…in the car with us?” Sierra said, puzzled, looking into the back seat.

The lid lifted. Marcy could see he was having a bit of trouble, with his arms trembling, so she helped him out and lifted it up all the way.

“Sierra Mist!” said Thistle, holding his arms out and waving. He’d clearly meant to be enthusiastic, but the crack in his voice betrayed his absolute terror.

Sierra looked down at him, face totally blank, eyes wide. The light turned green, and the car started to roll forward.

Thistle’s eyes darted around the seat, up to Sierra’s face, trembling.

Marcy glanced at the interaction from her peripheral vision. “Well? Say hello.”

Sierra’s mouth moved to form words, but nothing came.

“Please say something!" Thistle said through an agonized smile.

"I… thought you'd be taller?"

Thistle and Marcy exploded into laughter.

"You're real?" said Sierra, tears in her eyes. "You're really real?" She looked up at Marcy. "You're not tricking me somehow?"

"If I was talented enough to fake something like this, I'd be a lot richer than I actually am."

"Can I …. Can I hold him?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

Her shock redoubled, as though she hadn't considered it just because her brain was so thoroughly broken. She cast her eyes down at him. "Can-Can I–may I hold you?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

"Just cup your hands together and hold them in front of him," said Marcy, helpfully providing what she'd discovered to be the most comfortable for him after much trial and error.

Sierra did as instructed. Thistle hopped up into her hands and sat down cross-legged, ears twitching nervously.

She brought her hands up closer to her face. "You…you're the one I've been talking to online?"

He beamed a great big smile. "Why do you think I type so slow? The internet was made for people with much bigger hands!"

Sierra was in tears, overwhelmed. "You're really real?"

He frowned. "Normally I would just say yes, but your persistent disbelief is making me question it myself."

Sierra's face slowly cracked into a smile. "Ha…it really is you…that’s exactly the kind of stupid joke you’d make…"

Thistle giggled.

Sierra slowly lifted her thumb up towards his head. He flinched away, prompting her to stop–it was instinct, but then after a moment, he recovered and steeled his nerves.

The thumb brushed against his hair, rubbing his head. They’d talked about physical contact over the phone….but this was quite different from what she had been picturing. Thistle had been picturing pretty much exactly this, more or less, and had just been worrying about if she could be gentle enough.

She was gentle enough.

***

Colin was cooking when they came home. “Hey!” said Teddy from the living room. “Nice to meetcha!”

“Woah!” Colin came out of the kitchen at top speed, as though he were afraid to miss Sierra. “She’s here! Hah! Hey, what’s up!”

Sierra nervously curled in on herself, wilting under the attention. “H-hey, nice to meet you! You must be Colin and Theodora?”

“Hope you don’t mind I’m sitting on your bed,” said Teddy, patting the folded-out couch. “I was just watching TV.”

“What are you cooking?” said Sierra. “It smells really good!”

“Tacos!” said Colin, beaming. “And it’s almost ready! I figured you’d be hungry after your long flight!”

Sierra expressed the appropriate delight, and Colin went back into the kitchen. Teddy followed a minute later, setting the table.

Thistle crawled out from Sierra’s jacket hood. “It doesn’t smell that great to me,” Thistle mumbled.

“What?” said Sierra.

“It smells like dead meat.”

Marcy plucked Thistle off her shoulder, dangling him in front of the two women in the living room. “That’s because it is dead meat.”

Thistle gave her a sour look, then wiggled out of her hand and landed on the table. “Hey, oh, Sierra! I can finally show you my stuff!”

Sierra bounced excitedly. “Stuff! Stuff!”

Thistle leapt off the table and jogged to his castle. It was still on the living room floor, but it’d been pushed to the side to make room for the couch to fold out. He skipped over to a plastic critter cage next to it. “These are my worms!”

“Worm time!” Sierra chanted.

Marcy knelt and helped Thistle take the lid off the enclosure. Thistle had a wonderful time bringing different worms over to Sierra, telling her their names, because somehow he could keep track of which was which.

“Oooh, and, and–” Thistle darted into his castle, dragging out a mess of paper after him. “These are my art supplies! I was just–just coloring in this drawing before we left!”

He held it up proudly. Marcy took the tiny artwork between two careful fingers. It was a pencil drawing of Thistle sitting on Marcy’s shoulder.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” said Sierra.

Marcy furrowed her brow. “Yeah, it is, but…”

Thistle shuffled his feet. “Oh, but…?”

Marcy pointed to the pixie in the drawing. “This is you, right? Why did you color your wings like that?”

It had to be Thistle; the torn up wing was too on the nose to be someone else. But unlike the iridescent, semi-transparent, whitish color of his actual wings, the one in the drawing had vivid purple wings, with electric blue markings.

Thistle took the drawing, examining it very hard. “Why did I color them like what?”

“Purple and blue?”

Thistle rubbed the back of his head. “Well, I haven’t found a colored pencil yet that has the same color as my wings, so I just used the ones that were closest.”

Marcy cocked her head at him. “Um…” She rifled in his colored pencils, most of which had their tips broken off so he could use them like chalk. She withdrew a silver colored pencil. “You don’t think something like this is closer?”

He looked embarrassed. “What? No! Are you blind? That color is–is–so dull!”

Marcy put the pencil down, then used her finger to gently rub his back. “Thistle, are you…Are you insecure about your wings? That you feel the need to embellish them?”

Thistle recoiled, offended. “What are you talking about?” He tossed his hair over his shoulder, put a hand on his hip, and smirked. “My wings are beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the house.”

Marcy looked at Sierra. “You’re seeing the same thing I am, right? I’m not missing something here?”

Sierra fidgeted awkwardly. “Yeah, Thistle, I have to agree with Marcy on this one. Your wings look much closer to the silver pencil than what you colored.”

Thistle looked aghast. “What?”

“Wait a minute,” said Marcy, gears turning, and then an electric thrill of realization cannonballed into her head. “Can you…Can you see colors we can’t?”

Thistle took a step back, eyebrows raised, shocked at her enthusiasm. “What…what do you mean?”

“Some kinds of animals like bees and butterflies can see ultraviolet wavelengths of light.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Here–you–you’ve seen a rainbow in the sky before, right?”

He nodded vigorously.

Marcy dumped all his colored pencils out with shaking hands. “Here–draw–draw one for me.”

Thistle did as instructed, running through the whole gamut of ROY G BIV before…

He hemmed and hmmed and looked through the colored pencils. “I, um…There isn’t a good color for this one.”

“Holy shit, Thistle,” said Marcy. “We don’t make colored pencils in that color because we can’t see it.”

He looked up at her, worried. “Oh….you…” He cocked his head. “Can’t see? But–but–but then…” He covered his face and flickered his wings. “Then that means to you, my wings look ugly!”

“No,” said Sierra soothingly. “No, they’re nice! They’re pretty! They’re shiny!”

Thistle huffed. "Well now I have to think about all my outfits again."

He stomped into his little castle, muttering to himself about how humans had the audacity to have eyes that couldn’t even appreciate his wings correctly. The light in the ceiling came on–Teddy had helped him with that, a little bulb powered by a single battery sitting in the corner of the castle. He started unfolding his clothes and dragging handfuls of them out. “What does this one look like to you?”

“It looks green,” said Sierra, examining the shirt. “With a white trim.”

Thistle hurled the shirt to the ground, looking on the verge of an aneurysm. “The trim is not white!”

“Dinner’s ready!” Colin called from the next room, saving them.

Marcy promised they could talk more about it later and grabbed Thistle, carrying the steaming pixie over to the dinner table. She set him down at his setting–the chair next to Marcy remained empty, and on the place setting there was a small table and chair sized for him. On the table was a small fork and spoon–made for dolls, but roughly the right size. He had a cup and plate from a tea party set that matched his hands a little more closely, nice porcelain that was intended to be given only to the most careful of children to play with.

Colin brought out the pot of ground beef and set it next to where Teddy had laid out all the trimmings. Then he laid out a few tortillas that had been painstakingly cut out from full-sized ones, about an inch in diameter, on Thistle’s plate. Thistle clapped. “Thank you!”

Teddy gingerly set a plastic cup of small crickets next to him, suppressing the disgusted crunching of her face. “For your protein.”

“Thank you!” He bounced in his chair.

Sierra took a seat on the other side of Thistle, watching him with adoring fascination.

“Let Thistle pick his toppings first,” said Marcy. “So he’s not scrambling to get some.”

Thistle picked up his plate and eagerly pattered across the table, winding around Teddy’s silverware and past Colin’s cup to get to the chopped olives. He took a few handfuls, then piled them on the plate next to a few shreds of lettuce, a bit of salsa, and the tiniest dab of sour cream.

Plate piled high, Thistle scampered back to his place, and then the humans started serving themselves, taking scoops of things almost as big as Thistle’s entire body.

“Um,” said Sierra nervously, politely waiting to serve herself last. “So–So–Maybe this is–So I don’t know if it’s rude to ask this, but…” She tapped her fingers together. “Um, isn’t fae food, like, like a thing? Is there some special way I should eat?”

The other humans all laughed. “Yeah,” said Teddy, “there is a special way you should eat. You should make sure not to look at him while you’re eating, because you’ll lose your appetite.”

This, of course, prompted Sierra to instinctively glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was in the process of eviscerating a cricket, which he stopped, blushing, hands still covered with its goupy innards.

“It’s a mixed bag what folktales about fairies are actually accurate,” Marcy said. “That’s what it seems so far, anyway.”

“Oh,” said Sierra. “I guess that makes sense.” She seemed to be hovering in the clouds, mentally, watching Thistle lay cricket legs onto a tortilla. Fusion cuisine. “So…magic isn’t real, then? Or is it?”

Thistle’s hands wavered on his food, movements growing hesitant. After he was silent for a moment, Marcy prompted, “I think Thistle is probably the best one to answer that.”

“Oh, um…” Thistle rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s real.”

Sierra’s eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh! That’s so cool! What all can you do?”

Thistle’s face grew redder and redder, distress growing. “Me? Not–Not–Not all that much, the only thing I can reliably do is fly.”

Sierra looked a little disappointed. “Oh. But that takes magic? But you have wings.”

“They’re small enough that they probably don’t really generate enough lift to carry him by themselves,” Marcy interjected. “Just, you know, by the physics of it. Even though he’s pretty light. People always underestimate how big wings would need to be to achieve flight.”

This was the point at which Marcy noticed Thistle’s increasing mortification. “Ah…” she said, easing back. “Well–you–you’re probably wondering about the mantis wing.”

Sierra perked up. “Oh, yes. Thistle said he’d been in an accident, which you helped him through.”

“Right,” said Marcy.

Ah, now this was safer territory. Thistle stood up straighter. “Right. A mantis bit me and tore most of my wing away. Marcy put this one on to help. It mostly works. I just can’t stay in the air for more than a few seconds. The difference in shape makes it harder to use. And I can’t pull on it too hard.”

“Oh,” said Sierra. “That’s so sad! You can’t use magic to fix it?”

Thistle stiffened. “Um, well, doing that sort of magic is pretty hard…Most people can’t.”

This was the point at which Teddy picked up on Thistle’s discomfort. She cleared her throat. “So, Sierra, tell us more about yourself. What do you do for work? Or are you in school?”

Sierra looked jarred. “Oh, me? Oh yeah, I’m in school.”

“Awesome!” said Colin. “What’s your major?”

Sierra fiddled with a nearby fork. “Um…I actually haven’t picked yet.”

“She’s good at everything,” said Thistle, puffing up. “So that makes it hard to choose.”

“Haha,” said Sierra bashfully. “Well, I get mostly A’s and B’s.”

“That’s great!” said Teddy. “And you don’t have to pick right away.”

“Ahaha,” said Sierra nervously, “well, I mean, I’m graduating next year, so–”

“Girl,” Marcy whispered.

“--I should probably pick soon.”

“Marcy, you should tell Sierra about your work,” said Colin. “It’s super interesting, I bet it would make her go into biology.”

“I study the effects of pesticides on native animal life,” said Marcy, preening.

“Oh, yeah!” said Sierra. “Thistle told me about that. That’s how you found him, right? Out in the field?”

“Yeah!”

Sierra turned towards Thistle. “I’m kind of surprised you let Marcy catch you. I figured you’d be able to get away using magic.”

Thistle bristled again. “Um…”

This was the point at which Colin took note of Thistle’s nervousness. “Thistle’s a pretty nimble little guy, but Marcy had a net. She’s pretty good at catching little things in a net.”

“Yeah!” said Marcy. “Recently I had to catch a bunch of insects for this grant that was studying bioaccumulation at different trophic levels on agricultural–”

“Okay, but, like,” interrupted Sierra, “Surely you must have some magic you can use to defend yourself? You can use magic, right?”

Thistle recoiled, looking on the verge of tears.

This was the point at which Sierra herself finally noticed Thistle’s anxiety. She eased back a little, as though she hadn’t already just trucked past polite boundaries. “I–I’m sorry, I just–I’m curious.”

Thistle was experiencing a tumultuous mix of emotions. He was scared that if he flaunted the fact that he was a magical creature too much, it might give them ideas about how to take advantage of him. Jewel’s harsh speech about humans extracting magic from him, and how they always captured and tortured aliens and whatever extraordinary creatures they found, had made him perpetually nervous about talking about magic in too great of a depth with any of the humans…Even the ones he trusted. He knew, logically, that they were his friends, he could trust them, and they would never do something like that… But still. His prey instincts kicked in, warning him to stay away from anything that could be seen as something to be used.

And…he was not a proud creature, generally. But he was a little embarrassed. Everyone always got excited about the prospect of him being capable of supernatural feats, but he had just…never learned. It seemed very silly to try and explain, but he’d never had reason to. He wasn’t embarrassed when he’d been at home with his family, because nobody batted an eyelash at the prospect of magic–they were all better at it than he was. Why would he put in the effort to get good at it, when he was useful in other ways? When his natural talent lay elsewhere? When he could sew and craft things way, way faster than anyone else, and see the delight on their faces when he gave it to them? When they were a family unit, and all made up for each other’s strengths and weaknesses?

But now he was the only one around who could use magic if he tried, with the potential for magic. They were all so interested in it, the big thing he had never been very good at, and it was so easy to imagine them forcing him to try it for their own curiosity. It could be as simple as his humans good-naturedly pressuring him to demonstrate some of the simpler applications, all the way up to the horror of some malicious Robert-type human catching wind of him and stealing him away, locking him up and demanding the use of his magic for themselves.

He didn’t have any reason to be nervous. He knew he didn’t have any reason to be nervous. They were his friends. They wouldn’t do anything to him. He knew they wouldn’t do anything to him.

But he was just so scared.

Thistle started crying.

“Oh no!” said Sierra, mortified. “Thistle I–I’m so, so sorry! Don’t cry! It’s okay! We don’t have to talk about it!”

The other three humans all started to get up from their chairs, which startled Thistle, prompting him to hunch over.

Marcy’s hands came at him slowly, comfortingly. “Do you want to go to the living room?”

He nodded mutely.

Marcy’s hands closed around him–something that at one point was so so terrifying, now a solid and reassuring presence. The overwhelming world disappeared as he curled up and she carried him.

She opened her hands when they were in the corner of the living room. It was quieter here, and dim, the humans talking distantly in the dining room. He uncurled and let himself be held, looking up into Marcy’s compassionate eyes. His eyes flickered briefly to the fishtank behind her–Jewel was peeking out from behind a plant, brow furrowed in worry.

Marcy’s finger brushed his jaw gently. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I–I just–” Thistle’s voice wavered. “I just got scared.”

“Do you want to be alone in your castle for a little bit?”

He nodded tearfully.

Marcy set him on the ground, and he scampered forward into the castle and shut the door.

Marcy came back into the dining room, taking her place at the dinner table with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” said Sierra, seeming on the verge of tears. “I’m so–so sorry, Marcy, I’m really sorry, I’m so stupid, I’m an idiot–”

“All right,” said Marcy. “Okay, just listen.”

Teddy jumped in. “It’s hard to read his facial expressions sometimes, because his face is so small.”

“Right,” said Colin. “But–but he’s really an open book in other ways.”

“You have to pay closer attention,” said Marcy. “You have to be more careful to check how he’s feeling. It’s harder to notice, and he’s sometimes too timid to let you know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sierra, again. “I’m so stupid–”

“Just–just listen,” said Marcy. “Don’t make the same mistakes we did. He’s been through a lot of trial-and-error with us, because we had to, to try and figure out how to interact with him. I don’t want him to have to go through that again with a new person. Especially one that’s supposed to already care about him.”

“I’m so stupid,” blubbered Sierra.

“Then stop being stupid and listen!” Teddy snapped. “That’s not helpful.”

Sierra’s mouth clamped shut.

“I know you can do this,” said Marcy. “I wouldn’t let you even try if I didn’t think you could.”

Sierra nodded.

They spent a few minutes going over some things–what to watch out for, how to read his body language including his wings and ears. The humans felt weird talking about him like that when he must surely be able to hear them, but Sierra needed to hear it. From his castle, Thistle crouched and listened, suddenly self-conscious. Do my ears really go back when I’m scared? Do I really flare my wings out and rustle them when I’m happy?

He came back out after a few minutes, when he’d calmed down. The humans all immediately ceased their conversation, looking at him cautiously.

“Hey, bud,” said Colin. “Ready to come back to the table now?”

He craned his neck back to look up at them from the floor, nodding meekly. He jumped up, catching the edge of the table and hauling himself up.

“I’m sorry,” said Sierra. “I should have realized you might be upset by my questions.”

“It’s–it’s okay,” said Thistle. He sat down at his little table-on-a-table. “I just got–just got a little nervous.”

“You don’t have anything to be nervous about,” Marcy soothed.

“I know,” said Thistle. “Really, I do. I know in my brain. It’s just…” He moved a hand from his head down to his chest. “...hard to feel it sometimes.”

Sierra nodded. “We don’t have to talk about it. I promise it’s okay.”

Thistle fiddled with his fork. “I…would like to talk about it, I think.”

Marcy’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“I think it might make me feel better. I’ve been avoiding it on purpose.”

“All right,” said Teddy. “As long as you’re doing it because you want to, and not because you feel like you have to.”

Thistle swallowed, then nodded. He lowered his eyes. “I don’t really use magic because I never learned.” He blushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “I could have, and it’s embarrassing to admit I didn’t. It’s like how I’ve noticed humans are sometimes embarrassed that they don’t have a driver’s license, or don’t understand taxes.”

Sierra flushed now. She didn’t have a driver’s license.

“Did your family make you feel bad about it?” Marcy asked.

“No!” said Thistle. “No, definitely not. They would never. It was just frustrating watching my older siblings who got it a lot faster than I did, so I decided to just focus on things they weren’t good at. I enjoyed those things more anyway, and it was more useful since we had enough people to do magic already anyway.”

“That makes perfect sense,” said Marcy.

Thistle kept his eyes glued to his food. “It’s still–It still makes me feel unsafe, because I know humans are very interested in magic, and if someone like Robert didn’t care about my feelings as much as you all, they could try to take my magic for themselves. And the eldest members of the family were usually the ones who used magic to protect everyone, so it feels a little bit like I don��t know how to keep myself safe anymore.”

“We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” said Sierra dutifully.

Marcy held up a hand. “I’m sure Thistle appreciates our help very much, but I’m sure he would appreciate it even more to not be in a position where that was necessary in the first place.” She used a finger to take his hand comfortingly. “Do you think you’d like to be able to do magic?”

His eyes flashed over to the fish tank. “It—Maybe. I’m not sure. It would be much harder here, without my family to teach me. But I have plenty of free time now, and I’ve already learned so much.”

Marcy released him and went back to picking at her food with a fork, forcing well-regulated casualness. “Well that’s certainly something we can try. But only if you want to.”

Thistle gave a flushed smile, warming from the inside out.

“So how does it work, exactly?” said Sierra, eyes sparkling. “I mean, if you want to explain it, of course.”

“It’s kind of like flexing a muscle,” said Thistle. “You just try and wish and think really, really hard about it.” He gave a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “I can’t explain it very well. Maybe that’s why I’m not very good at it.”

“No, that makes total sense!” said Sierra. “That’s really, really cool. Are there like magic words or anything? How do you learn new spells?”

“Oh, well, no I don’t think so. I mean, I can do magic to fly, because that’s the easiest one, and when I was younger I would…” He waved his hands. “I had this thing I could do to speed up sewing, but eventually it just got easier to do it by hand when I had more practice.” He tapped his chin. “As for, like, learning new things…Well, I don’t really know how you learn the techniques necessarily, someone else can give you directions but it’s like, either you can figure out how to do it or you can’t. But it’s easier when you have lots of magic stored up, because it kind of…” He made a shaking motion, as though grabbing a bottle of soda and letting it explode. “...bubbles out of you. It’s like a force of will thing.

“So there aren’t, like, spells or anything?” said Sierra.

Thistle shrugged. “Uh, I don’t know–I guess not really in the way you think about them like that. It’s more like an extension of your natural abilities that you can use if you have enough magic stored up. Usually it doesn’t just happen; you have to practice, and some things are easier to learn than others. I’ve just kind of…never had the right circumstances.”

“What do you mean by stored up?” said Teddy. “You make it sound like you can find it somewhere and bury it for later.”

“Oh it’s–it’s sort of like. Well, it’s like how you have to eat food to fuel your muscles. And plants generate energy with the sun, and store it in their leaves. It’s kind of like that.”

“Woah!” said Colin. “That’s rad. So you’re solar-powered.”

“Er, no…”

“I think that was a metaphor,” said Marcy. “Unless…?”

“No,” said Thistle. “The sun is nice, but I don’t get magic from it.”

“Then how do you get it?” said Marcy.

Thistle once again went beet red, absolutely mortified.

“You don’t have to tell us!” Marcy rushed to clarify. “If it’s–”

“You all!” said Thistle, and he hid his face in his hands.

The humans all looked at each other. “...us?” said Marcy. “But we’re not magical at all!”

Thistle’s ears twitched, still hiding his face. He said something, too muffled and quiet to hear.

“What was that?” said Marcy.

He removed his hands. His eyes were big, and he had an embarrassed smile on his face. “I generate magic through social connections! I charge up when people are nice to me! I’m more powerful when people who care about me are around!”

Teddy went awwww. Colin looked like he didn’t really understand. Sierra put a hand to her chest and the other to her mouth, tears in her eyes. Marcy’s lip wobbled. “I didn’t know that. That’s–that’s–that’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, so, so–” said Thistle, suddenly unsure of where to go from here.

“So if I playfully tease you, that’s good for you?” said Marcy.

The mischief in her voice was enough to snap Thistle out of his own head, dispersing his anxiety immediately. “Uh–”

“So if I did this–” Her hand stiffened into a claw and came over him.

“Don’t!” Thistle laughed, already knowing what was coming.

“It would actually be good for you–” Her fingers came down and gave him a full-body tickle.

He was on the floor instantly, rolling around under her merciless assault, giggling and pushing at her hand. “Marcy! Marcy, no! Marcy!”

“Too bad,” said Marcy, rolling him over into her hand. “We love you, so now you’re stuck here dealing with us.”

Thistle flared his wings out and rustled them.

***

After dinner, they watched a movie and went to bed. Thistle looked like he was considering asking to sleep with Sierra, but ended up going the safe route and sleeping with Marcy like he usually did.

They had a full agenda of activities planned the next day.

The natural history museum was the first item of the day, and the one for which Thistle was the most excited. He quivered in the crook of Sierra’s neck excitedly, hiding under her hoodie when others were around. Fortunately since they were there on a weekday, it was quiet and there were few others around, so he was able to stay out most of the time.

He said he felt guilty for dodging buying a ticket and made Marcy donate some extra money. There was a delightful donation box that made it look like a Tyrannosaurus Rex was eating your money.

Thistle was impressed by the dinosaur skeletons at first, but as they started seeing more and more of them, they started to get repetitive. Clearly the different shapes all meant something to Sierra and Marcy, but to Thistle, they were all looming, hulking forms he was having trouble comprehending. He seemed more interested in the little pictures on the information placards, which depicted the beasts with flesh and skin.

He was absolutely in love with the hall of gemstones. Every single one he stopped and gazed at adoringly, appreciated the grooves in the stones, the shimmers and sparkles, the craftsmanship on the ones which were cut. Unfortunately, this was the one Sierra and Marcy found the most boring, and Thistle probably would have kept them in there all day if he hadn’t been small enough that Sierra could just walk him away to something more interesting.

Into the hall of mammals they went. It was filled with taxidermied specimens. Thistle was delighted by the opportunity to see up close animals it was normally too dangerous to interact with, especially the small predators. Thistle got very quiet when they started seeing snake skeletons and mounts. Sierra pointed out that a snake wasn’t a mammal, to which Marcy responded that they’d wandered into the hall of reptiles.

It was harder to let him see things in the gift shop, because in the enclosed space it was easier for the employees to see what they were doing. But Thistle made it abundantly clear that they could not leave until he picked out a gemstone to take home, promising he would pay Marcy back by selling extra things on Etsy. He eventually picked out a blue geode whose tag said it was chalcanthite.

They went to the mall next. Mostly window shopping, although they did stop in to the comic book store where Thistle begged Marcy to buy him some action figures, which she did. They stopped at the soft pretzel booth, and when no one was looking Thistle clambered onto the table and started wrestling with the twisted, salty dough to make both women laugh.

There was a miniature arcade there, and Sierra tried repeatedly to win a small stuffed cat from a crane game, without success. Thistle devilishly implored them to make sure no one was watching, then darted up into the claw machine through the prize flap, swimming through the stuffed animals until he reached Sierra’s coveted cat. He pushed it over–with some effort, it was bigger than he was–and rolled it down into the flap. He performed a similar trick later on a vending machine when Marcy wanted a candy bar that had gotten stuck in the dispensing coils.

They decided to go home because Marcy and Sierra's feet were getting tired. Thistle's weren't, so he was disappointed.

He slept with Sierra on the couch that night. Thistle could see Marcy trying to hide her disappointment, but she nevertheless encouraged him to do so.

Sierra's sleeping patterns were different than Marcy's, and he woke up once being squished under her shoulder, but it was easy enough to wake her up.

He didn't have any nightmares that night. He felt like an actual person, one who had people who loved and respected him.

The next day they went to the conservatory. Thistle had never been more in his element in a human-controlled space. He could not stop commenting on how good all the trees were, and more than once they had to hurriedly grab him because he failed to hide on their remark that someone was coming. One time he went missing for a whole ten minutes, the two women scouting the entire place for him, trying not to look too panicked. They eventually found him in the butterfly room, where he claimed he'd been playing hide and seek with them.

Things weren’t crowded because it was a regular workweek. They just had to be a little cautious, but they ended up being able to do pretty much anything they wanted to.

They took the train to sightsee downtown. They got ice cream. They played board games. They went swimming. They went to a fancy restaurant and got weird, gourmet soups. They sat contentedly at home, watching meaningless videos on their phones.

He was in Heaven. He didn't have nightmares. He was a person. He had friends. He never wanted it to end.

***

After confirming the coast was clear, Thistle stood on the car door, next to the door lock, as Marcy rolled the window down. Behind them in the background, the commotion of the airport chattered distantly.

Thistle was misty-eyed. “Well…I guess this is goodbye. For now.”

Sierra held her hand out, and Thistle curled up in it. She brought him to her chest. “I know plane tickets are expensive, b-but I’m sure I can find some way to come again soon.”

Thistle hugged her back as best as he could as she squeezed him.

She set him back down, wiping her eyes. “Well…you definitely weren’t what I was expecting, but–but it turned out even better than I could have hoped. Thank you for letting me meet you.”

“Thank you,” said Thistle.

“I don’t know how I’ll…go back to just–just living a normal life. And just pretending this didn’t happen. That you’re not real. But I’ll keep quiet, I promise.” Her face went red. “Maybe I’ll–maybe I’ll look more closely at the ground when I’m outside back at home now.”

Marcy smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“Thank you,” said Thistle. “I love you. Goodbye. Have a nice flight.”

Sierra cleared her throat, then looked at Marcy through the window. “Thanks for the ride. Drive safe home.”

“Have a good flight.”

Sierra hovered for a few more moments, then patted the car and walked off, rolling her suitcase behind her.

Thistle jumped down into the passenger’s seat, and Marcy rolled the window up and pulled away from the curb.

Thistle slowly lowered himself down and curled up into a ball. “Thank you, Marcy. That was. Very nice.”

Marcy reached over and gave him a little pat. “I’m glad.”

“I can tell you found her a little annoying. Thank you for not saying anything.”

Marcy let out an embarrassed laugh. “That’s okay, I still had fun. You can have her come back over any time.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed totally wrung out. “It’s natural to be feeling a little down after your friend leaves…is there something we should do? I…” She bit her lip. “I–I hate to ask this–I know that, well–I think–I um…”

“What is it?”

“You wouldn’t…Would you rather go live with Sierra?” When there was a pause, Marcy rushed to add, “I don’t know how we could get you through the flight there, but–but if that’s something you would–would want, I mean, you know I would be disappointed, but that’s your decision and I want what’s best for you.”

She felt a microscopic hand on her thigh. “No, Marcy. Sierra could never replace you. But thank you.”

He sounded so sure. Guilty relief washed through her. “Okay.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Still…it’s OK to miss her. We should–We can try and make some efforts to find you some more local friends. It’s–it’s a tricky needle to thread, of course, but I saw how happy you were…if you want, it might be nice to, I don’t know…find somewhere where you could have a sleepover?” It sounded stupid as she said it, but it seemed like the exact kind of activity he would like.

He was silent, so impossible to tell what his actual thoughts were.

“I don’t know who exactly you would want to–Well, I don’t know, but I know you’re sociable, and–and now we’ve eased into it, surely we can find some other people closer here so they could visit more often?”

No response.

“What do you think?” She glanced down to look at him.

He was gone.

***

You just try and wish and think really, really hard about it.

It took Thistle a decent minute to get his bearings to even figure out where he was. It was so dark, but he heard the sounds of many, many humans nearby, their voices muffled, and felt himself jolting and bouncing off soft fabrics accompanied by a rolling clicking sound.

He scrabbled to get upright, finding something solid to grab onto, looking around wildly.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized what he was looking at….A zipper. The clacking was the clacking of wheels over tile. Astonished, he looked down at the fabric under his hands and recognized it as the pink strawberry-patterned dress that Sierra had worn yesterday.

He was in Sierra’s suitcase.

He was in Sierra’s suitcase. Somehow. He had just been there with Marcy, and he’d blinked, and his stomach lurched, and then he’d just found himself in Sierra’s suitcase.

Either Thistle or Sierra had just used magic. Those were the only two possible explanations. They had both been so sad to leave, wishing they could stay together, and so pumped full of magic from their long vacation doing nothing but bonding, that it had just spilled over and yanked Thistle over and dropped him in Sierra’s suitcase.

Thistle didn’t feel like he’d done magic. To do something as big as teleporting himself from the car to inside the airport, that would have taken an enormous amount of magic that would leave him feeling very drained, which he didn’t feel.

Did that mean…Sierra had done it?

Was Sierra just…naturally very good at using magic? That would be ironic, a pixie who sucked at magic accidentally befriending a human who happened to be a savant at it. Sierra had never met a magical creature before now and so wouldn’t have had any actual magic in her body to actually perform any magic until now.

Was that how it worked? Were humans…able to use magic, but unaware of it? Unable to generate any themselves, but able if someone like Thistle helped them?

Sierra, of course, didn’t notice any of this. She just found herself suddenly feeling very tired, rolling her suitcase to a stop at the back of the security line and yawning, head drooping.

Not far away, on the road from the airport, a little red car with an I fucking love science bumper sticker slammed on its breaks, screeching into the most aggressive U-turn ever seen in the tri-state area.

***

Sierra was almost to the front of the line when she spotted Marcy, power-walking towards TSA, very clearly trying to strike some balance between her volcanic anger and her desire to not make a scene in front of security.

“Marcy?” said Sierra nervously. “What is it?”

“Come over here,” said Marcy venomously. “Get out of line and come over here.”

Sierra regretfully looked back at TSA, then ducked under the dividers to step out of line. Looking chastised, she rolled her suitcase behind her and met Marcy. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Marcy grabbed Sierra’s wrist in an icy grip. She leaned in. “Listen to me. I don’t know what you did. I don’t know how you did it. But we both know you’re not going to get him past security. They’ll see him on the X-rays. So I’m just going to say this once.” She held out her other hand. “Give him back.”

“What?” said Sierra, eyes wide, looking like a kicked puppy. “What are you talking about?”

“Where is Thistle?”

“He was in the car with you!”

“And now he isn’t. I don’t know how you did it, but–”

“You think I–You think I tried to steal him?”

“You’re not getting on that plane until I have him. Open your suitcase.”

Sierra drew back, looking overwhelmed. “I–I didn’t!”

“Then open your suitcase!”

She looked at TSA out of the corner of her eye. “Can we–can we at least go into the bathroom or something? For some privacy?”

“Fine.”

They managed to find a single-stall family bathroom with a lock on the door. When they were alone, Sierra turned her suitcase on its side and used the little key to undo the luggage lock.

She unzipped it and flipped it open, revealing Thistle tangled in her socks.

“What?” said Sierra, mortified. “How did you –How did–”

Marcy swiped Thistle out of the suitcase, holding him as far away from Sierra as possible, opening her mouth to wring Sierra out.

“Wait!” said Thistle, waving his hands urgently. “Marcy, wait! Wait!”

Both women looked on the verge of tears, but they broke eye contact from each other and looked down to him.

“It’s…It’s not Sierra’s fault.”

***

It was nearly eleven o’ clock by the time they got home, Marcy dragging herself in through the door and not turning the lights on, moving through the dim and quiet into the living room.

She set Thistle down on the coffee table. The room was lit just by the soft light from the fish tank. She folded her arms on her knees. “Okay, so…Sorry if I scared your friend off so much that she doesn’t want to visit anymore. There are only so many Auntie Anne’s pretzels I can buy someone as an apology.”

“I think she understands.” He sat down cross-legged. His cheeks were rosy. “I don’t–I don’t think any of us really expected that, and you were…worried.”

Marcy tented her fingers. “So…you think that humans can do magic too? That’s what you think happened?”

“Yes. I–I didn’t think it was possible.”

Marcy’s hands started to tap in excitement, but she was clearly trying to stay level-headed. “Right. Okay. That’s cool. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah.” He wound a lock of hair in his finger. “I honestly wasn’t sure. But I guess it makes sense.”

He smiled at her. She was grinning like an idiot. “What are you thinking?” he said.

“Just…about what you said to us about magic at dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“About learning it.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could…could learn it together?”

He beamed. “I’d like that.”

****

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haus-seeblick · 3 years ago

Text

Suptober Day 2: No Vacancy

Title: Backroad Romance

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3,119

Tags: First Kiss, Dean Winchester and Castiel are Alone in the Dark, Mild Angst With a Happy Ending, Sam Ships It, Making out in the Impala

On AO3 Here

“You’re shittin’ me, Sammy.” Dean groans and smacks the steering wheel with his palm. “There’s no room in the whole place?”

Sam’s voice floats into the Impala, high and tinny over the burner phone’s speakers. “No vacancy, Dean, I’m sorry, I checked with them three times--”

“--Nah, nah, it’s cool, we believe you,” Dean interrupts, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear so he can rub his face while steering around a bend. Cas reaches over and deftly slips the phone away, fingers pinched like he’s removing a block from a Jenga tower.

“Did you and Eileen find accommodations?” Cas asks, holding the phone out in front of him so Dean can listen in.

There’s a short pause, then: “Yeah… yeah, we did, but guys, the room is really small, like, a closet, I swear, and there’s only one bed, and--”

This time it’s Cas who interrupts. “--and you wish to engage in private romantic activities. Dean and I completely understand.”

They’re on a straight stretch of highway, but Dean still manages to swerve clumsily into the shoulder. He hastily course-corrects and bites down the urge to snap at Cas for-- for what? For talking like that? For using his deep, rough voice to say any words even vaguely related to--

No. It’s not Cas’ fault that everything he does steadily turns Dean into more and more of a creep. Dean shakes his head firmly and tunes back in to the conversation just in time to catch Sam awkwardly stumbling over his reply. Dean leans over, cutting him off with a whistle into the phone.

“We’ll be fine, little brother. Be a gentleman. Don’t hog the sheets. Girl like Eileen doesn’t come around every day.”

He can feel the bitchface radiating through the speaker and motions at Cas to hang up. Cas frowns and gravely says “Dean would like to end the conversation. Goodbye, Sam,” before flipping the phone shut. He drops it into the cupholder.

Dean makes a show of focusing on the road to avoid looking at Cas. He knows Cas is staring at him; it’s just something the guy does, sitting in the passenger seat and gazing at Dean as if the whole world isn’t flashing by outside.

Dean’s long stopped commenting on it. Let the dude stare.

He clears his throat. “We’ll probably have to find a logging road or something. Pull in and hole up for the night.”

“All right,” Cas replies. He opens the glovebox and pulls out the local map they picked up this afternoon when they rolled into Matlock, Washington, to investigate a haunted post office. It was a gray, dinky, bleak town and the poor ghost lurking around the mailroom seemed more melancholy than anything. She allowed them to dispatch her into the afterlife with very little struggle; that is, after some creative sweet-talking by Sam.

Eileen had teased Sam mercilessly about it before Dean had even gotten a chance. That’s how Dean knows she’s The One.

There was, of course, no motel in town. Sam and Eileen hit the road before Dean and Cas, because Dean insisted on getting a burger for dinner at the tiny diner on Main Street (a mistake). Now he’s staring down the barrel of a night alone with Cas, in cramped quarters, on a dark backroad. If they hadn’t already driven all day to get to Matlock, Dean would push on until they found a motel with vacancies, but he’s exhausted and Cas is just human enough these days to actually be tired too.

“There’s an access road nearby,” Cas says, tracing the map with his index finger. “In a quarter mile. Left.”

Dean follows his directions and sure enough, there’s a bumpy logging road branching off from the highway, stretching deep into the pitch-black trees. Dean pulls in about five hundred feet before turning off the lights and the ignition.

It’s silent. The darkness is all-encompassing, pressing in on Dean, so heavy it’s like he can feel it on his eyelids when he blinks. He takes a slightly shaky breath. Cas is utterly still, as usual, not a single rustle or exhale indicating his presence in the gloom, but Dean feels him there as intensely as he’d feel a roaring bonfire. His heart thuds in his ears.

Why is he freaking out? He’s slept in the car with Sam a million times. But even as he thinks that, he knows, he knows, that this is different. His brain starts whirling through logistics -- who’s gonna take the back seat? Is Cas even gonna sleep the whole night? Or will he wake up and just sit there, staring at Dean for hours, inches away?

Dean needs to shut off his brain. He taps the seat and says “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean,” comes the immediate response, measured and reassuring. “Would you like to talk?”

Relaxing against the seat and slinging an arm over the backrest, Dean peers over to the passenger side. “Sure.”

The moon’s out tonight, far above the trees, and the grayscale of nighttime slowly bleeds into view as Dean’s eyes adjust. He can just make out the sharp angle of Cas’ nose, the slope of his chest and the outline of his hands folded in his lap. He’s always so upright, so proper. Dean wonders what it would feel like to undo him.

“Are Sam and Eileen having sex?”

Dean chokes on air. Sputtering, he braces himself on the seat and coughs until his eyes stop watering. “What?” he wheezes. “Why-- Dude, why would you ask that?”

He sees Cas turn his head to regard him. Even in the dark, Dean can imagine the piercing gaze.

“It was unclear to me what you meant by ‘be a gentleman.’” Cas lifts his hands to shape the finger quotes. “I assumed the two of them would take advantage of their privacy to engage in physical intimacy. Was your comment meant to discourage Sam from having sex?”

Dean throws up his hands desperately. “Okay-- okay, first of all, quit talking about my brother doing it. And second, no, I wasn’t ‘discouraging’ him, just reminding him to treat Eileen like a lady. You know, romance her a little.”

The darkness is a godsend as Dean’s cheeks flush hotter with every word. He’s surprised they’re not glowing. He taps the seat in a random pattern as Cas sits quietly, seemingly digesting the information.

When he responds, it’s slow and thoughtful. “In the pornography I’ve watched, the participants always begin undressing one another rather quickly. And in my own experiences, there has been very little that I would label ‘romantic.’ What is classified as ‘romance,’ Dean?”

Well, shit. The last of Dean’s composure evaporates, sizzles away like a drop of water meeting his burning face. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

Cas leans forward, his knee brushing Dean’s. “Have I made you uncomfortable?” he asks, voice laden with concern.

Dean’s throat is tight, his fingers sweaty against his forehead. He forces himself to take a deep breath and to at least open his eyes against the shadow of his palms. “Uh-- no. No, Cas. You, uh-- you should be able to ask that kinda stuff. Human stuff. I get that it’s, uh-- it’s important to know. For, y’know. So you can--”

There’s a hand on his knee. A warm, strong hand. Long fingers. Weighty. Dean’s heart kicks into overdrive. He slowly, very slowly, lowers his hands to peek at Cas.

“How do you like to be romanced, Dean?”

There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing in Dean’s brain. It’s a chamber of silence. A void. He stares at the outline of Cas’ wild hair, mouth slightly open.

“...Dean?” The hand on his knee shifts slightly and Dean’s blank brain runs zero interference as his own hand darts out and stills the one threatening to leave his leg. As soon as his skin makes contact with Cas’, though, everything zings back online in a rushing roar.

Play it off, Winchester. Crack a joke. C’mon. “Hah, funny, buddy, you really got me there--”

“--Kissing’s nice.”

He snaps his mouth shut too late. The words float away, unrecoverable.

Cas tilts his head. Then, slowly, very slowly, as if he’s afraid of spooking Dean, he turns his hand around under Dean’s so that they’re palm to palm. An invitation.

With a pounding heart, Dean accepts it. He laces their fingers together. His palm feels even sweatier when it’s rubbing up against Cas’ dry, smooth skin.

Sexy, Dean. Way to go.

Somehow, even though it was Cas asking the questions, he’s the one leading now, shifting closer, laying his left arm along the backrest behind Dean’s shoulders. Their faces are so close that they’re sharing air, just two shadows suspended in a frozen moment.

“May I kiss you?” Cas murmurs gently, his breath washing over Dean’s lips. It smells like rain-refreshed air, like a promise of sunshine, alleviating the weight of the darkness. Dean tentatively chases it with his tongue, wetting his lips and leaving them parted.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. Because fuck, he wants this. He’s wanted this for so long.

And Cas wants it, too.

Dean always imagined that his first kiss with Cas would be an inferno, fireworks, showering sparks, all those cliches. That it would yank him from his body and send him floating through the ether.

It’s not like any of that. It’s better. It’s real.

Cas’ lips are just lips -- a little more chapped than Dean’s used to, perhaps, but they meet his in a familiar brush, followed by the typical tentative press, leading into a hesitant swipe of the tongue.

He’s kissing Cas. Cas, who he’s built up in his head for so long as this untouchable, impossible ideal, who stormed Hell to drag him out, who smote demons with his bare hands, who is so inconceivably old that Dean should be just a speck of sand under his eternal gaze.

Instead, that same Cas is busy dragging his fingers down the side of Dean’s neck. A crest of goosebumps follow, shivers trailing down Dean’s torso, and he gasps a quivery breath against Cas’ lips. He’s not used to being led. Normally he’s the one in charge, giving as good as he gets, focused on hitting the highlights, satisfying his partner. There’s a whole formula.

He’s never trembled like this before.

“Dean,” Cas whispers against his mouth, reverent, his voice somehow gravelly even as a breath. He suddenly pulls his hand free from Dean’s and grips his bicep, dropping his other arm from the backrest to wrap around Dean’s waist. Without preamble, he twists, tugging Dean across his lap. Dean yelps and hurriedly adjusts his legs, ending up with his knees on the seat, straddling Cas’ thighs. His fingers and toes are zinging in excitement.

Goddamn. Who knew being manhandled would do it for him?

The crown of his head presses against the roof of the car and he slouches forward until their foreheads are touching. He pushes his hands into Cas’ hair.

Cas surges forward again, nudging Dean’s head to the side and pressing his lips to Dean’s neck. Dean groans, low and shaky, as Cas parts his lips and sucks a trail up to Dean’s earlobe, his tongue soothing in the wake of his mouth, dragging over every mark that he coaxes to the surface. Dean knows his neck will be littered with bruises tomorrow, but he finds he can’t bring himself to care, not when Cas’ teeth are busy grazing the shell of his ear.

“Jeez, Cas,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to Cas’ shoulder. He's hard already, hips twitching a little, but he keeps his hands firmly in Cas’ hair, tugging the soft, thick strands, guiding Cas’ mouth back down to his neck. His pulse hammers under each press of chapped lips.

He pulls back and captures Cas’ mouth again, sliding his tongue into that wet heat. They trade open-mouthed kisses, a bit sloppy, while Cas’ hands glide up Dean’s back under his flannel. Dean’s absolutely flying, his pounding heart easily winning the battle against the tiny voice in his head dredging up reasons to stop, reasons to run.

He wants to stay .

Their kisses have escalated to a panting, frenzied give-and-take, and Dean’s tired of hunching over. He drops his hands onto Cas’ shoulders and starts leaning back over to the driver’s seat, trying to pull Cas on top of him. Cas whines when their lips separate, but he catches on quickly. A little too quickly. He grips Dean’s waist and shifts him along the bench seat with such force that Dean’s arm goes flying and his elbow smacks right into the middle of the steering wheel.

The horn blares, rending the night.

Both Dean and Cas jerk upright, instantly on high alert. Reality takes a moment to catch up with them.

Cas recovers first. “That startled me,” he says, voice wrecked.

Dean lets out a long breath. He’s still got one leg up on the seat, the other one cramped awkwardly next to the steering wheel. He drags a hand across his face and lets out a breathy laugh. The next thing he knows, he’s doubled over, laughing so hard his cheeks hurt and his eyes water.

He’s just so goddamn happy.

Cas watches him, head tilted in the shadows. Dean lets his laughter run its course, petering out with a sigh of mirth and hand slapped on Cas’ knee.

“What a night, huh?” he says.

Cas lifts a hand and strokes Dean’s cheek with his knuckles. Even after all that making out, this one gesture seems inordinately intimate. But Dean just smiles.

Cas swipes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone one more time before slowly, almost reluctantly, letting his hand fall. “You need to sleep.”

Dean nods and glances into the backseat. “You do too, don’t you? At least a bit? Maybe we can both fit back there.”

They get out of the car -- the cool night air rushes into Dean’s lungs and fizzes through his chest, bringing the events of the past half hour into blood-rich focus in his brain. He steels himself for the freakout, for the doubt and the deflection, but it doesn’t come. He feels right.

They crawl into the backseat, awkwardly shuffling and shifting, ending up with Cas sitting mostly upright (insisting that he’s fine) and Dean laid out on the seat with his head in Cas’ lap.

He drops off to sleep faster than he has a long time, Cas’ long fingers carding through his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the light that wakes him, pale gray seeping under his lashes and rousing him from a blissfully dreamless sleep. He lifts his head and immediately winces -- his neck is stiff as a board and his back aches all the way down to his tailbone. He’s really getting too old to be sleeping in the car.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean twists around and peers blearily up at Cas, who’s gazing down at him with one of his rare enigmatic smiles. Dean yawns and stretches as best he can, his back popping. He pushes himself up until he’s sitting next to Cas.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

Cas leans over and, before Dean can react, presses a warm, dry kiss to Dean’s cheek.

Sore body or not, this is the best morning of Dean’s life.

They extract themselves from the backseat and stumble into the damp early-morning air. Dean pops the collar of his flannel after a single glance into the side mirror. He’s got a lot of hickies.

They take a second to stretch (Dean admires the way Cas’ pecs shift under his dress shirt as he reaches for the sky) before sliding into the front seat. Dean backs them out of the logging road, the verdant green pines on either side nearly overwhelming his night-accustomed eyes.

Cas calls Sam as they roar down the highway again. It’s only 5 a.m., but Dean handed Cas the phone and told him to give Sam a wakeup call. The kid deserves it after a good night’s sleep in a real bed.

They pull into the parking lot of the Cedar Crest Motel just past 5:30. Dean ends up having to park on the street, though, because the lot’s at capacity, not a single spot unoccupied. He pats Baby in apology as he leaves her, and he and Cas make their way to the room number that a very irritated, cranky Sam snapped at them over the phone.

They’ve almost reached it when Dean suddenly stops dead. He grabs Cas’ arm. Cas shoots him a questioning glance.

“Look." Dean points up at the motel sign. There, huge red letters, blinking through the pale morning light, spell out a clear VACANCY.

“It’s hardly been six hours," Dean says. "No one would’ve checked out in the middle of the night.”

Suspicion rising rapidly, he strides to Sam’s door and knocks as obnoxiously as he can. As soon as the door creaks open, he reaches through and grabs Sam’s shirt, yanking him outside. Sam protests and slaps at Dean with one hand, shoving his bird’s nest hair out of his face with the other.

“What the hell, Dean!”

Dean just throws one arm up at the sign, staring at Sam with raised eyebrows. As soon as Sam sees what he’s pointing at, he shrinks into what Dean immediately recognizes as guilty little brother posture. He’s not even trying to hide it.

Sam clears his throat awkwardly, eyes darting between Dean and Sam, before holding out a placating hand. “I just-- I just thought, maybe you could use some time alone,” he explains hastily, backing up a bit into the room. “If we all ended up here, Dean, you’d insist that we share, you know you would.”

Dean knows Sam’s right (he’s careful with their fake money, so sue him), but he keeps glaring regardless.

“I just wanted some time with Eileen,” Sam mumbles, deflating a bit. “And I thought, y’know, with how you and Cas have been acting lately, that you’d-- uh, that you’d want some time together, too.”

Dean sputters. “Acting? We-- what--”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says, deep voice cutting off Dean’s protests. “We had a very pleasant night.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he straightens up, a knowing grin stretching over his face. His eyes dart to Dean’s popped collar. “Oh yeah? Did you now?”

Dean shoves him into the room and slams the door shut. There. He turns to Cas, who looks amused.

“Give me at least a couple days before blabbing to my brother,” Dean says, but he finds himself smiling. Cas nods. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, just for a moment, squeezing before letting it fall again.

“Of course, Dean.”

#suptober21 #no vacancy #gotta love some cramped car kissing #scheming sam strikes again #destiel fanfic

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fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

Flirty coops please?

Hell yeah, flirty Coops! We love a cheesy drive-thru couple. Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

The bell over the door jangles frantically as a young man runs in and comes to a screeching halt in front of Kayley’s register. I’m not paid enough for this, she thinks as the guy stands on his tiptoes to look out the window. “Welcome to Bitty’s, what can I get for you tonight?”

“One peanut butter milkshake with extra whip, please,” he pants, digging a beat-up wallet out of his back pocket. “There’s a guy in the drive through right now with dark hair, grey eyes, and a blue shirt. Could you pass along the milkshake and a message for me?”

God, I hope you’re not a creep. “Sure,” she says, typing in his order. “Your total is $3.63. What’s the message?”

“Tell him that he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life and I’d love to get to know him better sometime soon.”

Kayley writes it down on a napkin and tucks it in her apron pocket while he pays. “Anything else?”

“That should do it. Is it okay if I wait in here until he comes through?”

“Yeah, take any table you’d like.” It’s not like anyone else is in here to stop you. The intercom fizzes and she heads into the back room, pulling the microphone out of its holder; she clears her throat and pastes a smile on her face. “Welcome to Bitty’s, what can I get for you tonight?”

“Uh, one chocolate milkshake, and one peanut butter with extra whipped cream.”

Kayley pauses as she logs the order. It seems rather familiar, though she can’t place why. The customers start blending together after a while. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your total is eight dollars even. Drive up to the second window, please.”

“Thank you.” The intercom shuts off and Kayley hurries to the other window to mix three milkshakes. Her fingers are starting to get sore from holding the lever down all day—who knew so many people would crave ice cream in January?

A car pulls up outside the window and she slides it open as the driver rolls his window down, then does a double-take. Dark hair, light eyes, blue shirt…”Sir, I think I have a message for you.”

The man looks up at her, clearly skeptical. “For me?”

“Yeah, some guy just ran in here and told me to give you these.” She grabs one of the peanut butter milkshakes and smooths out the napkin, then hands both to him. “If he made you uncomfortable, I can call—”

“Oh my god,” the guy groans, leaning his head back with a short laugh. A faint blush tints his cheeks as he reads the note. “Oh my god.”

“…sir?”

“The guy that ran in, he had light brown hair and freckles, right? About six feet tall?”

Kayley blinks. “Yeah, actually. Do you know him? He didn’t leave a phone number or anything.”

“He’s my fiancé.” The guy shakes his head with a grin. “Thank you for the note.”

“He’s still inside if you wanted to say hi,” Kayley says, tilting her head toward the restaurant. “Seemed a bit out of breath.”

The smile slides off the guy’s face. “Did he run here?”

“I think so?”

“Fucking hell, Re,” he mutters. “You said eight dollars for the shakes?”

“That’s right.” She takes the cash from him and hands over the rest of his order. “Do you need a cupholder?”

“No, that’s alright. Is it okay if I park and then come inside?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Thank you. For the shakes, the note, and everything else.” He waves to her and drives toward the parking lot, laughing under his breath. Kayley sighs and closes the window before returning to the register.

‘Re’ is still sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on the top and bouncing his leg. “Did he come through?” The bell jingles again as she nods, and he turns in his seat with a sunny smile. “Hey, handsome.”

“You ran here?” Car Guy laughs, carefully balancing the three milkshakes in his arms as he enters.

“Coach let me go a little early.”

“Oh my god, Remus.” He squishes Remus’ cheeks in his hands before kissing him soundly. “I was already going to get you a milkshake, you know. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You’re so good to me.” Remus kisses him again and scoots over to make room, pulling one of the peanut butter milkshakes toward himself; he removes the plastic top and uses his straw like a spoon to get the whipped cream off.

“I still can’t believe you ran all the way from the rink.”

“It’s not that far.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

Remus snorts. “You literally drove right past me on the sidewalk. I waved.”

Car Guy rests his forehead on Remus’ shoulder. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Thanks for the milkshake, though.”

“The one you bought yourself?”

“How else would you know it was me?” Remus grins around his straw.

The other man rolls his eyes and takes his chocolate shake. “Most people would say a simple ‘hello’ or send a text.”

“Meh. Sounds boring.”

The intercom crackles again and Kayley straightens out her apron, doing her best to control her smile as she walks into the back room. Despite all the extra effort and dramatics, it’s actually pretty cute. She’ll have to try that trick someday.

278 notes · View notes

michaelsdemon · 3 years ago

Text

just breathe. [3 days until italy]

Summary: (Andy Dolan x Female!Reader) In the days leading up to his move to Italy, Andy finds you attempting to jump off his cliff. He ends up inviting you to stay at his place whilst he prepares his move, and you both grow closer and closer in those few days.

Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, suicide attempt, dark humour/thoughts, drug use

It was a few days after Hedwig’s disappearance that Andy decides to make a brief visit to his cliff. He just wants to be sure. Sure that she didn’t, for some reason, find this cliff herself, and hurl her body off it. Especially after her desperate attempt at help the last time he saw her that fateful night.

He resented her, and yet the guilt he felt had manifested its way into his bones and flesh, his stomach curling in on itself whenever the news flashed up on the tv screen, her photo up there, staring back at him, “Why didn’t you help me, Andy?” It had said.

Fuck her.

He pulls up nearby and gets out the car, and he frowns when he sees a figure in the distance. It’s not her. He knows that right away. But he also knew what the figure was doing. Slowly, ever so slowly as to not startle them, cause god forbid he didn’t need another possible dead girl’s blood on his hands, he approaches them.

The familiar smell of the salty waves enters his nostrils as he inhales slowly, the cool wind pushing his hair back the closer he gets to her.

The sound of a shaky breath and sniffle makes him pause and forget about his footing for a moment, and he kicks a stone, the clacking noise breaking her thoughts and she turns her head abruptly.

“Fuck off,” A gasping, wet breath leaves the woman, and she wipes her face quickly, obviously having not realised how much she had been crying in her quest for release.

Andy almost did turn away then, not wanting to deal with this, it wasn't his responsibility after all. But he manages to retort something back to her, “That’s my cliff.”

Her eyebrows furrow together in confusion, “What?” She sniffs loudly and Andy grimaces, wishing he had some tissue for her.

“The cliff you’re thinking of jumping from...that’s my jumping spot,” He raises an eyebrow, “Has been for a long time now...so you’re kinda trespassing,” A small smile of humour on his face.

It works, a bubble of laughter erupting from her chest awkwardly due to her stuffy face, “I don’t think people can own suicide locations,” She manages to get out.

“Well, I own this one,” He smirks and moves closer, “So if you don’t mind,” He gestures for her to move out the way as he shakes his jacket off.

“What are you doing?” She looks at him with concern.

“Doing what you came here to do,” He takes a deep breath and looks over the cliffs edge, “Think I’ll die straight away?”

Surprisingly, she grabs onto his arm suddenly and he looks at her vice grip with wide eyes, “Don’t,” She practically drags him back from the edge.

Andy looks down at her as they both stumble back, the sound of the waves crashing beneath them covering the silence, a blast of wind hitting his curls.

He says the first thing that jumps into his mind, “Let’s get out of here then,” He murmurs, “You like food?”

The girl removes her hand from him, an incredulous look on her face, “Excuse me?”

Andy can’t help but smile in amusement, “You must be hungry, I assume you’ve been here a while?”

Her mouth drops open as if to speak but no sound comes out, only then she nods a little, glancing back to the cliff, still obviously contemplating.

“Come on then,” He begins walking back to his car, waiting to hear her footsteps follow and he quietly sighs in relief when he does.

He saved this soul, maybe some higher power will forgive him for Hedwig’s now.

During the drive they pass a McDonald's, and he quickly pulls into the drive-through, ordering a variety of things, unsure of her dietary restrictions, whilst she sits there quietly. At collection, he passes it to her, gently placing the warm bag on her lap, a few drinks in the cupholders for her to choose from too.

He frowns a little to himself, wondering when he started caring for another human being, but he quickly brushes over the thought, taking one of the drinks for himself, sipping the coca cola with the windows rolled down.

The bag remains untouched and he glances over to her, “I thought you were hungry?”

Her fingers pinch the bag precariously, as if it’s a bomb, “Oh, I-I wasn’t sure,” She licks her lips, “I thought it was all yours.”

Andy blinks a few times, “I know I’m an asshole, but fuck, I wouldn’t buy food after asking you were hungry and not let you eat anything.”

It earns him a small smile and he hears the rustle of the paper bag as she opens it carefully and picks out the fries, eating them slowly. He appreciates that, not wanting there to be salt all over his car.

As he drives he realises he doesn’t know where to take her, “Do you have someone I can take you to?” He manages to get out, breaking the somewhat comfortable silence between them.

She pulls a face at the question, her lips tugging to the side, “No, not really,” she sighs hopelessly, “I think I have enough money for a room at a motel for tonight, you can take me to one of those.”

Now, Andy knows normally he would do that, he’d follow her request and drive her to the motel and move on with his life. However, after Hedwig, after pushing her away, still not knowing what has become of her, well these words end up leaving him, “You can stay in my guest room for a few days.”

Immediately she declines, and he wonders if she even knows who he is, not once has she called him by his name, not even by accident.

“Do you know who I am?” Andy asks her with full seriousness.

His companion blinks blankly, “Should I?”

He laughs, “I suppose not,” and he sips his drink as he begins driving to his house, “Look you don’t have to worry about me doing anything to you, I wouldn’t, and even if I wanted, I have far too many cameras on me at any given time.”

Slowly she nods, “I see, what’s your name?”

“Andy Dolan,” He replies without second thought, and he hears a few taps on a phone, making him glance over and he knows she’s googling him right this second.

“Star Commando?” A laugh spills from her lips and he raises an eyebrow.

“What is so amusing about that?” He hums, licking his lips and shaking his head with a small smile.

“Just sounds like a sci-fi porn...that’s all,” She giggles, clearly amused by the badly titled film he’d agreed to be in.

“Haha, very funny,” He rolls his eyes, “Eat your food before I take it back.”

There’s no more laughter as she begins eating again, a small pout on her lips from what he can see in a glance, he hears her speak again quietly this time, “My name is [Y/N], by the way”

Andy nods, “It’s nice to meet you.”

The rest of the drive is silent, his new stray tending to her food.

In a few days Andy will say goodbye to Eden, and goodbye to the ghost of Hedwig that sticks in his mind still.

“It looks a mess right now, but I promise it isn’t usually like this,” Andy explains as he leads the girl through the modern mansion.

“It’s...nice,” She gives him a thin smile, and he knows she hates it.

“It’s not, it’s a fucking crypt,” He hums, making her laugh a little, and he smiles, “So you agree, hm?”

Her laughter stops, obviously thinking she’d offended him, “N-no, I mean, it’s a little cold in places?”

“It’s okay, I’m just being an asshole,” He smirks and gestures her to follow him, showing her to the guest room that still has some of Hedwig’s photos on the wall. Shit.

“Ignore those,” He quickly rips them down, shoving them into a pocket.

She doesn’t mention it and just continues to look around, “Are you sure I can stay here?”

“It’ll only be for a few days at most, I’m moving to Italy,” Andy explains.

“Are you excited?” She smiles, sitting down on the bed slowly.

“I guess,” He shrugs, “I just want to get away from here honestly.”

She nods in understanding, but she doesn’t say much more.

“Do you want to talk about it?” God was he a therapist now? That rehabilitation centre must’ve got to him.

Thankfully, she shakes her head, and he hums softly, “Want something to help you relax?” He brings out a rolled up joint he’d prepared earlier in the day. Now only smoking it once in the evenings as his supply slowly runs out.

She looks at it with innocent wide eyes, and a hint of nerves as she licks her lips, “I-I haven’t ever smoked before.”

Andy sighs softly and sits on the bed beside her as he brings out a lighter, “I’ll teach you, you gotta learn sometime.”

Her eyes are trained on his lips, and he can feel her intense gaze as she watches him light the joint and slowly inhale the smoke, holding it in his chest for a few seconds before releasing it slowly into the air.

As she lets out the breath she was holding, she also inhales the smoke and her nose wiggles at the scent, “Is that what weed smells like?”

He chuckles and nods, “It does, yes,” He holds the joint out to her, but he changes his mind the last moment and he instead cups the back of her neck and presses the end of the joint at her lips, “Open,” He whispers.

She does as he asks and opens her mouth slightly, wrapping her lips around the joint.

“Now slowly inhale, very slowly,” He strokes the nape of her neck, and once she has fully inhaled the smoke, he removes the joint from her lips, “Now exhale slowly.”

The smoke leaves her lips in a smooth motion, and Andy hums impressed, “Are you sure you haven’t done it before?”

She shakes her head, “No, never. Was I okay?”

“You were very good,” Andy smiles genuinely and he takes another hit, feeling her gaze on him.

“Can I have another?” She looks at him eagerly.

Andy hums, “Just wait a few moments, I don't want it hitting you too hard.”

He ends up sharing the rest of the joint with [Y/N], the both of them laying on the bed and talking mindlessly, a mix of serious thoughts and laughter. He watches her carefully, making sure the weed isn’t too much and it proves to relax her instead, a soft smile on her face as she turns towards him.

“Ready to sleep?” He is also laying on his side, facing her, his eyes heavy.

She nods slowly, “Thank you for looking after me, Andy, you’re really nice,” her eyes closing as she grows more and more sleepy.

“I’m really not,” Andy whispers, the last words he says before he drifts off asleep too.

#andy dolan #andy dolan x reader #cody fern #just breathe

71 notes · View notes

downondilaudid · 4 years ago

Text

High as a Kite

After a stressful case reader unwinds in her own unique way, unfortunately, the BAU is called in on another case. Spencer doesn’t seem too fond of the reader’s stress reliever.

A/N: This is very poorly edited. I just got into a massive fight with a few friends. So now I’m very sad, and just wanna sleep. But fuck them. Like that one vine says, I don’t need friends, they disappoint me. Seriously, FUCK THEM. I still love them doe, i have too, they’re the only friends i have.

Oh also, I wrote this in first person, instead of my usual second person. Let me know if you like it or not! <3

Requested: Yes

Prompts: None

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: (Unprotected)Penetrative Sex, a DASH of angst, drug use, let me know if I missed anything.

“He rarely smoked, but once in a while, like now, when his world had been shaken, his woman nearly killed in front of his eyes, and he’d watched a house consume a man and spit him out, he figured a drag or two were appropriate.”

― Christine Feehan, Safe Harbor

Relaxing after a case was one of my favorite things on the planet. Especially when it ended well, I had been able to watch as the little girl who had been stolen from her family, ran to her parents, her little arms wrapping around their legs. Seeing the love and adoration in the parent's eyes as the wept and held her made me want to have a child of my own.

Spencer and I had been together for a little over a year, but I doubt either of us are ready for children. Our job alone is stressful enough, in fact, it’s how we met. I worked as a technical analyst under Penelope Garcia. I will say my job wasn’t as strenuous as Spencer’s, but it’s not exactly ideal to look at dead bodies all day.

We all have our own peculiar ways of unwinding, Spencer loves to sit and read a few books, Hotch heads home to spend time with Jack, and Emily is always down for a drink. I, on the other hand, would much rather smoke a bowl than read a book. It was my own way of unwinding and allowing my brain to cleanse itself of the horrors of the world.

My pink pipe was packed with weed, a matte black lighter in my hand. The weed burned in the small bowl, crisping to a dark black. My finger released the carb of the pipe a couple of times, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs.

The haunting voice of Lana Del Rey filled the room. Her voice alone is smooth as honey, but listening to her while high is an ethereal experience. I could only imagine what Spencer would do if he could see me now, probably ramble off the statistics of marijuana addiction. But I could definitely say I wasn’t addicted, it was just an easy way to relax.

I took another hit, watching as the smoke tumbled from my lips. My stomach rumbled, causing me to giggle lightly, here come the munchies. Usually, I didn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but when I’m high I can’t get enough sugar.

My hands pulled open the pantry, hips swaying lightly to the music.

Suddenly the music was gone, replaced by an annoying buzzing, “Ugh, you’re fucking kidding.” I groaned. I let the pantry fall shut, making my way over to where my phone sat. I had an inkling who was calling me, but every ounce of my body was praying I was wrong. Unfortunately, I was not, as I had one text from Hotch and a missed call from Spencer.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed in my hand, Spencer’s name illuminating the phone. Quickly I answered the call, pulling the phone up to my ear. “Hiya Spence.”

“You get the call?” Spencer questioned, his voice cracking slightly, it was obvious he hadn’t used it in a while. He had probably been reading ever since he got home.

I giggled lightly at the sound of Spencer’s voice, taking a moment to admire the perfect way it croaked. “Mhm, can you pick me up?”

There was no immediate response, it was obvious there was something off, Spencer could tell. I never asked him to drive me anywhere, I was always the one driving. Especially due to Spencer’s hatred of automobiles.

“But don’t you usually pick me up?” he questioned.

“Spencer, that last case… I’m literally the definition of exhaustion, can you please, just this once?” I was hoping that with the use of his full first name, he would understand the seriousness of my question. There was no way I was driving to work, with Spencer in the car, while high.

Speaking of, I still had zero idea how I was going to act sober in a room of profilers, granted, I had a lot of practice of acting sober in front of people, just not at work. Unfortunately for me, the best two words to describe myself while high were, giggly and horny. Oh, and hungry, who doesn’t get the munchies?

Spencer sighed on the other end of the line, “Of course, Y/N.” He paused for a moment, a slight hesitation in his voice with his next words. “Is-is everything okay?”

“Oh, totally, the case just got to me, that's all!” My reply was all but convincing, it didn’t help the awkward silence made me giggle, which I quickly stifled with my hand. But to Spencer, I’m sure it sounded like a muffled sob. At least he’d buy it, right?

…

I hopped into the car, looking too giddy to be dealing with another case, “hey.”

Spencer turned his head to look at me, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his tongue peeking out between his pink lips. “Y/N are you sure you’re okay?”

I rolled my eyes before playfully glaring at Spencer, “yes, now drive, baby.” I reached out, grabbing the gear shift, and shifting the car into drive.

The car rolled slightly before a startled Spencer slammed his foot on the brake, “Y/N what the- my foot wasn’t even on the brake! Do you know how many accidents are caused a year due to pedal error? Sixteen thousand, and that’s just in the U.S.”

I know it was inappropriate, but during the whole lecture he was giving me I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands. They were so perfect, long and thick, the number of times that I’ve come undone on those hands is immeasurable. I shifted in my seat before meeting his eyes. Honestly, I hadn’t comprehended a word he said, something about cars?

Spencer shifted the car back into park, turning in his seat to lean towards me. His eyes scanned me up and down, and not in a good way. “You’re acting strange. You’re overly bubbly, especially considering we have another case. You aren’t thinking rationally-”

A gasp left my body once I realized what he was doing, “Spencer Walter Reid, are you profiling me? We agreed not to do that!”

Despite my yelling he kept speaking “and you were too focused on the movement of my hands to retain a single word I told you.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Spencer, what the fuck are you-ow!” A blinding light clouded my vision, causing me to recoil further into my seat.

A scoff left Spencer’s mouth as he turned off the flashlight. “You’re high,” he stated, “what did you take?”

“I’m not-” I quickly stopped my sentence once I saw the glare Spencer was sending me. “Okay, I just smoked a little weed. Seriously, it wasn’t a lot.”

Spencer unlocked his phone, pressing a few buttons before opening the “W-what are you doing?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

“Calling Hotch” Spencer replied, his voice even yet stern. It was somehow scarier than his occasional outburst.

“What? No, Spencer!” I reached over the console, latching my hands onto his phone, before pulling back. Sadly, the phone stayed rooted in his large hands, and with a swift tug, he had the phone back in his grasp.

Spencer glared harsh daggers at me, before looking back down, and continuing to type on the phone. “Y/N, you’ve already pushed me far enough. Sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

I fell back into my seat, pouting and crossing my arms childishly. The faint sound of ringing broke the silence, stopped by the barely audible voice of Hotch over the phone.

“Hotch, Y/N can’t come in, she’s sick. I think she has a fever.” The lie tumbled easily out of his lips.

My head whipped towards him, my eyebrows raised in amusement. “Thanks, I will.” Spencer ended the conversation, this time setting his phone in the cupholder in the console.

I giggled lightly, “what would I do without you to save my ass?”

He didn’t respond, instead putting the car in drive, this time with his foot on the brake. Silence filled the car, Spencer opting to focus on the road, and me fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.

“Spencie, are you mad at me?” I asked, resting an elbow on the console between us.

It was obvious he was frustrated, I would be too, but how was I supposed to know we’d get called in on a case? “Yes, Y/N” he answered, his words punctuated and his jaw clenching, accentuating his razor-sharp jawline.

There was something about angry Spencer that sent shockwaves to my core, leaving me squirming against the leather of the car. Eh, what the hell, might as well go for it, I can just blame it on the cannabis.

My arm reached across the console, my hand landing on the top of Spencer’s thigh. I watched him visibly jump at my touch, he obviously wasn’t expecting it. “Are you sure it’s just anger?”

He sighed loudly, one of his hands leaving the steering wheel to remove my own from his leg.

…

“Please Spencer, just really quick? It’d help you relieve some stress!” I cried as I walked through the door.

Another angry sigh left Spencer’s mouth, he seemed to be doing that a lot. “Y/N, you’re under the influence, I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I almost laughed at his statement, it was perfectly logical of him to think that, and utterly sweet. But he was my boyfriend, my love, I would fuck him in whatever state I’m in. “Spence, I can promise you you’re not taking advantage of me. We’ve had sex countless times, I’d have sex with you even if I was sober, have you seen you?” I paused for a moment before adding onto my sentence, breaking the slight tension with humor, “yourself, not you, that doesn’t sound right.”

Spencer chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes as he reached for his belt. “Hell yes!” I cried as I began to undo the buttons of my blouse, quickly shedding it. I could’ve just left the blouse on, but Spencer was a tits man through and through.

As soon as I heard the clinking of his belt colliding with the floor, I ambushed him, immediately letting my lips find his. The kiss wasn’t rough, nor was it gentle, it was somewhere in between, a perfect balance. I pulled away, biting down lightly on Spencer’s bottom lip.

My hand slipped into his unzipped pants, palming him lightly. It was the most heavenly sight on earth to watch his head fall back, and a low moan tumble from his lips. “Fuck, Y/N”

Nodding my head I giggled, “yes, please fuck Y/N.”

Spencer tilted his head back up, laughing lightly at my comment.

I pulled away from him, grabbing the hem of my skirt and shimmying it up over my hips. Spencer’s eyebrows raised, a look of amusement on his face. “Please” I begged.

“Alright, turn around, over the table,” Spencer commanded, his voice low and demanding.

A giggle passed my lips as I turned around, making my way over to the table. My top half pressed against the table, my body resting against my forearms. I could hear Spencer’s footsteps as he crossed the room, stopping behind me. His large hands wrapped around my hips, pushing my skirt higher up my body. “Do you know how irresponsible it was of you to try and come into work while under the influence?”

His hand left my hip coming back down onto my backside, the impact causing me to cry out. “Spencer!”

His hand raked up my side, grabbing a fist full of my hair. “I-I didn’t have a choice.” I stuttered out as one of his fingers hooked onto my underwear, pulling them to the side.

“You did have a choice, you chose not to inform Hotch, leaving me to save your ass. Do you understand how detrimental the consequences could’ve been if something were to go wrong?” Spencer’s fingers ran through my folds, spreading around my arousal.

“Fuck” I moaned out, using my forearms to push myself back against his hand. “Better hurry this up, Spence, we don’t have long.” Spencer shuffled behind me before I felt the head of his cock brush against my core. “Fine, if you’re so impatient.” He grunted, pulling back on my hair, and pushing his cock into my folds.

He was quick to set a rough pace, pulling out and pushing back in, using the hand in my hair as leverage to pull me back in time with his thrusts. “Yes, Spencer, fuck,” I groaned out.

“You know,” Spencer started, pausing to roughly thrust into me, sending my body forward against the table, the edge digging into my thighs. “If you wanted a stress reliever, you could’ve come to me. Sex releases endorphins and other hormones, the same way exercise does. Particularly, oxytocin, commonly referred to as the “love hormone.”

I moaned against the table, my body beginning to falter as my orgasm approached. “Fuck, Spencer, mhmm, yes.”

With every thrust, I could feel the strain of Spencer yanking my hair back, which would definitely leave a crick in my neck. But I was enjoying myself too much to tell him to stop. I could practically feel Spencer’s anger with every obscene smack of our sweaty skin. It was what I was hoping for, a good fuck, and for Spencer to be able to release his anger before heading back to the BAU.

Surprisingly, Spencer released his vice grip on my hair, easing the tension on my neck, allowing my face to fall forward and my cheek to squish against the table. He planted his forearm beside my head, leaning over me so his chest was pressed against my back. “How good would you feel if I allowed you to come right now?” To add to the pleasure, Spencer’s hand resting on my hip wormed its way around my body, two of his long digits beginning to rub circles around my swollen bud.

A sob racked my body at the added pleasure, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. I could feel my legs starting to tremble as I held back my release, almost as if my body knew I couldn’t let go until he gave me permission. “Please, please?” I begged.

“Say it. Promise me you’ll come to me next time you need to relieve stress.” Spencer growled, his voice cracking, signaling he was close too.

The desperate sounds of our moans and the musty smell of sex filled the room, drowning out my senses. I was too lost in the euphoria to reply, instead, I deliriously rutted my hips back as an attempt to feel him deeper.

Spencer let out a groan before burying his head deep in the crook of my neck, moaning out “promise me, Y/N.”

“I promise, fuck, please, Spencer?” The words tumbled almost incoherently out of my lips, barely comprehensible.

Nodding his head against my skin, he placed an open-mouthed kiss to my neck before moaning out “come, come with me Y/N.”

And just like that, I was sent headfirst into a trembling, teeth-clenching orgasm. My back arched, uncomfortably pressing my breasts even further against the table. My vision went white, and my legs threatened to collapse. Spencer had stilled, burying his cock deep in my cunt, lewdly moaning out my name, and a series of various curses. An unfamiliar warmth coursed through my body as he filled me up with his seed. Leaving me to grin like a Cheshire cat, caked in sweat.

The two of us laid against the table, deep pants leaving both our mouths. Spencer pulled out, tucking himself back in his pants. “Thank you” I giggled, pushing myself up from the table, and shuffling my skirt back down my legs.

When I turned around I was met with the sight of a sweaty Spencer, running his hands through his tousled hair. “You look fine, Spence.”

I could tell Spencer was trying his hardest to contain his smile, probably wanting to stay mad at me. But as soon as his eyes met mine, his face broke into a soft smile, my own following suit. I took a step forward, wrapping my arms around his torso, and letting my head rest against his chest. “I love you” I murmured against his shirt.

His arms wrapped around my back, pulling me closer to him, “I love you too” he replied, placing a kiss to the top of my head.

“Okay, I have to go,” Spencer said, letting his arms fall back to his side.

I pulled back, unwrapping my arms from his body. “Don’t forget your belt,” I nodded towards his belt that was left discarded on the floor in the midst of our frenzy.

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N, remember?” Spencer joked, snatching his belt from the floor, and looping it back through his pants.

Rolling my eyes with a laugh I replied, “that doesn’t mean things can’t slip your mind, Spence.”

“Actually-” he started.

I cut him off by opening the front door, “bye, have fun, I love you!”

Spencer laughed, pecking me on the lips before heading out the door, looking over his shoulder to call out, “we’ll talk more about this later, Y/N. Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

“Shit.” I groaned, letting the door fall shut.

Taglist: @pinkdiamond1016 @gubler-squad @garcias-batcave

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #mgg fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you

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awanderingdeal · 4 years ago

Text

The one in which Logan finds Corbett - Chapter 3

This one is dedicated to the very sweet anon that suggested Corbett in the snow! Thank you for your love and encouragement. Join Finn, Leo, Logan and Corbett for a snow day!

CW: one joking threat of murder, and a brief mention of a snowboarding injury.

Please message me if you feel that any content warnings need to be added.

Rating: G (Not all chapters in this fic will be the same rating)

Credit to @lumosinlove for Finn, Leo, Logan and the sweater weather universe. Thank you for letting us use them! Corbett is mine :)

Please see my masterlist for future and previous chapters! "Fucking snow'," Finn growled, seeing the white blanketing the floor when he opened the blinds.

He felt Leo perch his chin on his head, wrapping his long arms around his torso and squeezing - a small display of excitement. "Can we -"

"Absolutely not," Finn interrupted his boyfriend's question, wriggling out of his hold. "We have nothing to do today. There is no way I am going outside in that," he stabbed his finger towards the window, "if I do not have to."

Finn would have liked to have said he was surprised when forty-five minutes later he was wrestling on layers of clothing to protect himself against the ungodly wind chill. However, he would be the first to admit that Leo Knut had him well and truly wrapped around his little finger. There was only so long Finn could resist his boyfriend’s doe eyes.

"This is a little excessive, non?" Logan laughed, watching Finn pull on another pair of socks. "Will your feet even fit into your boots?"

Finn looked down at his feet, and considered that maybe Logan had a point. Perhaps four pairs were too many. He removed the last of them, chucking it at Logan’s head. "That's what you get for teasing me."

"It is not even cold," Logan said, crouching to scratch Corbett's belly, the dog giving a satisfied whine. "Wait! This is Corbs first time seeing snow," he gasped. "Are you excited? Are you?"

"I'm going to kill you,” Finn said, how dare Logan say it wasn’t cold. It was snowing! I'm going to kill you, and bury you and no one is ever going to find you." The threat may have held more weight if he had been able to keep the smile from his face whilst he issued it. "You love me too much to murder me," Logan smirked. "I am loath to admit that is true," Finn sighed. "Leo!" Logan’s gaze looked past Finn towards the doorway "Save me!" "I'm just going to pretend my boyfriends aren't crazy if you don't mind," Leo replied, seemingly unfazed by the dramatics. He pressed a thermos into Finn's hands. "Coffee, can't have you freezing on us now, can we?”

“Thanks, Nutty. You're the best," Finn hummed against Leo's lips, pulling away with a grumble. "Right, come on. Let's get this over with." "Smile," Leo laughed, something soft and melodic. It always sounded like a song to Finn's ears. He poked Finn lightly in his cheeks until his mouth somewhat resembled a smile, "We're going to have fun." Logan slipped Corbett's leash into Leo's hand, before reaching for the beanie Finn was holding. Finn began to protest the theft, but then Logan was placing it on his head, with a softness that he rarely possessed outside of Finn and Leo. "We're going to have fun," Logan reiterated, adjusting the hat slightly and kissing Finn. Corbett thumped his tail against the hardwood as Logan took his leash back from Leo, excited to leave. Finn looked between his boyfriends, who seemed just as eager as Corbett, and decided even if his fingers fell off with the cold, he wouldn’t care much.

"You have to promise not to scream," Logan said, letting Corbett into the back seats of the car, Finn sliding in beside him.

"Only if you promise to drive like a normal person," Finn argued. There had been a brief argument over who was going to drive, Finn refusing to do so in this weather. In the end, Finn had reluctantly handed over the keys to Logan, who had claimed he had the most experience in these conditions. It was true, but he also had a tendency towards road rage that slightly terrified Finn. “I promise,” Logan nodded, “I’ve got precious cargo on board.”

“Are you talking about us or Corbett?” Finn snorted a laugh as the door shut in his face.

"How do you even know Corbett has never seen snow?" Leo interjected, changing the conversation as he buckled his belt. "He's 8, it's possible that he has."

"He's from Texas," Logan shrugged, muttering something under his breath about tall people as he adjusted the seat. "I just figured it wasn't likely."

"He could have gone on vacation," Leo reasoned. "Have you been on vacation, buddy?" he asked, craning his head around to look at Corbett.

"Can you stop ruining the fun with your big logical brain, s'il vous plaît?" Logan scowled playfully.

They were a few minutes away from the park when Corbett sat up, thudding his paws against the window. "Heyyy boy, you know where we are?" Finn laughed, trying to escape the wagging tail.

"He's smart, like his dad," Leo said, his expression smug. He too was starting to show signs of excitement. They were small, but Finn had spent enough time cataloguing Leo's mannerisms that he would never miss them. The slight flex of his fingers. The way he took a second , then third glance at the snowman somebody had built. The way he sat up straighter with every inch closer they got to the park. Finn would have thought one winter in Gryffindor was enough to dampen anybody's enthusiasm for the snow, but Leo had made it through his first year with his still in-tact. Whilst Finn teased him for it, he felt there was something poetic in the fact the snow, which was so unexceptional to him, held such magic for his boyfriend.

Corbett's barks pulled him from his thoughts and alerted him to their arrival in the parking lot. Finn had to admit, from the comfort of the warm car, it was a beautiful scene. Snow was still falling in a kind of slow dance. At this early hour, it was still winning its war against the footsteps that tried to mar the quilt it was knitting on the ground. He pulled his jacket tighter around him and stepped out into the wintery battlefield. "Baby," Leo cooed, pulling a pouting Finn into arms. "Thank you for coming with me, it wouldn't be the same without you."

"Can I get in on this hug?" Logan asked, "Or is it a ticketed event?" "You're an idiot," Finn shook his head, but gestured for Logan to join in. They were only huddled together for a few seconds when Corbett barked his discontent. It was probably for the best anyway, considering they were in public. Sometimes, it was so easy to forget themselves. The fleeting melancholy of it all was forced away by the sound of his boyfriend's laughter. Finn looked up to see Corbett was perched on the very edge of the car seat, looking out rather warily to the snow. his eyes darted between the three of them and the ground, as if his brain couldn't reconcile the fact they were standing on it.

"Come on, Corbett!" Logan encouraged, breaking away from them. A stream of French left his mouth. It was lilted and bouncy, nothing like his usual tongue. Leo huffed out a laugh, saying something that Finn was pretty sure was just a mocking repetition of one of Logan's sentences. The theory was confirmed when Logan flashed Leo his middle finger, still talking to Corbett. Finn cocked his head, asking silently for a translation.

"A summary," Leo said quietly. "Logan should definitely take over from Cap giving the team talks. He's very inspirational"

"I can hear you, Knut," Logan whipped his head around quickly. "I was, in fact, just telling Corbett what a brave boy he was."

Corbett seemed to have taken the words to heart, and took the leap of faith onto the snow. Finn thought he heard Logan stop breathing in anticipation of his reaction, but Corbett just froze. Other than a tiny twitch of his nose, he stood stock still. "Is he broken?" Finn said quietly, feeling Leo shaking silently with laughter beside him. "I think he's broken."

Corbett snapped out of whatever trance he was in just as quickly as it came and he galloped away, his legs splayed unusually wide. Finn saw Logan purse his lips to form a whistle, but Corbett started his return to them before he could get the sound out. "You can't run around the lot, but you can go free once we're in the park, okay," Logan clipped Corbett’s leash to his collar.

“Your coffee, sweetheart," Leo said, handing Finn the flask he'd shoved into the cupholder. Finn gave him a soft smile as a thank you, not even bothering to deny he had forgotten it. Leo helped him remember things, and he helped Leo with anything related to numbers. They were a team, both on and off the ice. Logan too. Finn loved his team, he loved his life. They trailed behind Logan and Corbett by a few steps, sneaking small glances at one another as they watched what was apparently a riveting conversation. "

You gonna run around in the snow too," Finn grinned, bumping his shoulder against Leo's.

"Maybe I -" Leo started, but then they reached the park. Logan let Corbett off his leash, and all their attention was pulled to the German Shepherd prancing through the snow, shaking his head with glee.

"Hey, Corbett!" Logan called, packing snow into a ball and throwing it. The ball splintered as it hit the ground, Corbett's face turning into a picture of confusion. He looked between Logan and the ground multiple times, before turning his stare to Leo and Finn. Rather than trying to solve the mystery any longer, Corbett scooped a mouthful of snow and bounded back to Logan, dumping the offering at his feet. Finn was distracted by the dog’s antics, so he didn’t notice Leo creating the snowball that collided with the back of Logan’s neck.

"Leo!" Logan yelped, already crouching down to pack more snow into his gloves. "Oh, no, no, no, no!" Finn protested, seeing exactly where this was going. "Leave me out of this," he struggled to make his voice heard over Corbett's excited yips.

He quickly realised the words were a mistake. A challenge that Logan would never be able to resist. There was a gleam in those green eyes that Finn had long since learned only meant trouble. He took a few small tentative steps backwards, as if he were retreating from a wild animal. Thankfully, in the brief moment Logan took to contemplate who would be his first target, Finn's phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

"My phone!" Finn said, relief evident in his voice as he pulled the device out of his pocket. Alex's timing was, for once, impeccable. Hopefully, Leo and Logan would get their bewildering need to pummel one another with the freezing substance out of their systems whilst Finn talked to his brother. "Alex, hey!" he greeted, turning his back on his boyfriends.

Some part of his brain told him it wasn't wise to let his guard down so easily. He took a glance over his shoulder as Alex began to ask him a question about their upcoming family reunion, just in time to see Logan jump on Leo's back, dragging him to the floor.

“Hello, are you listening to me?" Alex asked, his voice full of a fond exasperation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Finn gasped, feeling his eyes begin to water, “Logan just…” he couldn’t finish the sentence, his words distorted by laughter.

"Do you want me to call you back?" Alex said.

Finn managed to compose himself enough to answer the question, "No, no. I'm using you as my excuse not to get involved in this chaos."

"Chaos? Where are you?"

"We got the first snow of the year," Finn explained. "So of course Leo got all excited -"

"He's so Southern!" Alex chuckled.

"Don't interrupt me! Leo got all excited, so we're at the park and," Finn raised his voice so that Leo and Logan could hear him, "somebody decided it was a good idea to chuck snow at Logan, which has obviously descended into madness.”

"I miss snow," Alex sighed. "Nat and Kase were talking about hitting the slopes when we get a break though so that'll be nice."

Finn snorted, "Al, last time you went snowboarding you managed to break your leg.

"Anyway! As I was saying, Uncle-" Finn didn't hear the rest of what Alex had to say, the next thing he knew he was falling face-first into the snow.

"Finn, baby. Are you okay?" Logan asked, laughing slightly as he helped Finn to his feet. Once he was upright, Finn shook him off, crossing his arms across his chest.

"No, don't baby me. I am not happy with you." Finn said, looking around for Leo. He spotted him a short distance away, talking on the phone that had flown out of Finn's hand.

"It wasn't me!" Logan argued, tugging at Finn's arm. When Finn refused to unfold them, Logan merely hugged him anyway. "It wasn't! It was Corbett!" Finn looked at the dog, who was now sitting on his haunches, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he tried to get his breath back.

"Sweetheart, are you okay? I think Corbs got a bit excited," Leo said, just as Finn was about to make a point that it wasn't fair to blame the one individual who couldn't defend himself. "Your brother said he'd call back later.”

“Thanks,” Finn nodded. “And no, I am not okay,” he pouted, “I am cold and wet and I think I scratched my nose.”

Logan laughed, taking a surreptitious look around before pressing a small kiss to Finn’s nose. “There, that’ll make it better.” Finn’s lips curled into a smile, never able to stay angry at Logan for long. He could be infuriating in so many ways, but his heart was always kind and generous.

“Come on, let’s get you home and in front of the fire.” Leo chuckled, taking the leash from Logan and clipping it to Corbett’s collar. The German Shepard gave a small whine when he realised the fun was over.

“You’re grounded,” Finn huffed.

“Finn, you can’t go two minutes without giving him treats,” Logan said.

“I am the parent, I get to decide when he’s ungrounded,” Finn argued, pulling his wet hat off his head. His ears felt the cold immediately, but it was better than having the damp thing over them.

“Here Fish, you can have mine,” Logan smiled softly, handing over his own beanie. Finn took it gratefully, and allowed Logan to adjust it in the same manner he had done earlier.

"You want this?" Leo asked, holding out the thermos that he had retrieved along with Finn's phone. Finn's eyes widened, making grabby hands at the object until Leo surrendered it. He took long gulps of the drink, feeling the dark liquid glide down his throat, warming him from the inside out like some sort of lifeline. It was hot and bitter and just what he needed. "Okay, you can take me home now."

Corbett let out a single bark, which the three of them took as his agreement and headed back towards the car.

#Logan Tremblay #Leo Knut #Finn O'Hara #Injury #jokes about murder #lumosinlove #sweater weather #corbett

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imgoingtocrash · 5 years ago

Text

knowing (of everything she doesn’t)

Chapters: 1/1

Rating: G

Word Count: 9,097

Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Morgan Stark & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Michelle Jones, Happy Hogan & Peter Parker

Summary:

“Mister Stark means a lot to me, M,” Peter says firmly, effectively ending the discussion.

“I know,” she answers, squeezing his hand where it rests over the cupholder between them.

Looking out the window, what she thinks to herself is: do you mean that much to him?

Maybe it’s overprotective or presumptuous of her—she’s only known Peter well for a couple of years and has been dating him for less than one.

It’s just—in all that time, in all of the stories of his alter-ego’s exploits that he’s finally shared…she just can’t see how the universe-saving multibillionaire fits into all of this.

MJ joins Peter for a Thanksgiving visit to the Starks' lake house. It turns out that even after years of quiet observation and a few months of dating, there are still things about Peter Parker and his life that manage to surprise her.

Read on AO3

My gift for @peter-stank for @friendly-neighborhood-exchange!!! Happy belated Birthday, Beedee, and thank you so much for your amazing contributions to the fandom. Hopefully you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3 (Fic also under the cut, as requested by the exchange/until reveal.)

They’re an hour into a two and a half hour drive when Michelle decides to drop the question.

“Isn’t it weird?” MJ asks. “Casually being invited to your boss’s house for Thanksgiving?”

Peter shrugs, but she can see the way his shoulders tense underneath his hoodie when he answers, “Maybe. Before.”

Before doesn’t need to be clarified. The Blip.

“Besides, he makes a mean turkey stuffing. I promise, that’s worth it,” Peter attempts to deflect, the barest hint of a smile directed her way.

But Michelle has never been good at leaving well enough alone. She asks too many questions, sometimes makes people uncomfortable. It’s how she got good at academic decathlon and how she (mostly) figured out Peter was Spider-Man.

“What changed?”

“Hm?”

“The Blip was traumatic for everyone in one way or another. Why did it change things with Tony?” She never refers to him as Mister Stark despite Peter rarely ever calling his mentor anything else.

“It just…did.” Peter shrugs again, eyes determinately focused on the road ahead and far away from her. “He lost me, I almost lost him, it sucked. That’s all.”

“Okay, but—“ It just doesn’t make sense to her that he was an intern at SI or a superhero colleague or whatever, and somehow it added up to…whatever this is. Schlepping up to the Catskills in Peter’s hand-me-down Toyota for a few days at the Starks’ cabin. Like, that’s just a thing that Peter has been invited to do, and he doesn’t think anything of it.

“Mister Stark means a lot to me, M,” Peter says firmly, effectively ending the discussion.

“I know,” she answers, squeezing his hand where it rests over the cupholder between them.

Looking out the window, what she thinks to herself is: do you mean that much to him?

Maybe it’s overprotective or presumptuous of her—she’s only known Peter well for a couple of years and has been dating him for less than one.

It’s just—in all that time, in all of the stories of his alter-ego’s exploits that he’s finally shared…she just can’t see how the universe-saving multibillionaire fits into all of this.

They arrive at the lake house just as the sun’s setting, the orange hues reflecting across the water.

A loud thwack breaks the relative silence that’s formed by the car’s engine turning off.

“Petey!” shrieks the high pitched little voice that accompanies a little blur of movement out of the house.

Peter’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, a smile blown wide across his face. He kicks the door open—used to the way it sometimes sticks—and just barely misses hitting the brown-haired little girl that can only be Morgan Stark in her precious little head.

“Morgie!” Peter shouts in a parrot of her tone, not bothering to shut the door behind him before he picks up the five-year-old girl, spinning them both around in circles while she screams with laughter.

“’S so good to see you,” Peter says, pressing sloppy kisses to Morgan’s cheeks. “Did you miss me?”

“Yeah! Daddy said you were coming for a whole week this time, and I have a whole list of movies that you have to watch with me, and—“

Morgan trails on, but MJ is watching Peter—his attention is zeroed in on the girl in his arms, his megawatt grin on full display. He’s comfortable with her. She called him Petey—a nickname she knows is usually reserved only for May. She knew Peter was close with Morgan, but she’d always assumed it was in that way she sees her younger cousins every holiday and they think she’s the coolest person in the world for exactly eight hours, and then they don’t see or speak to each other again until the next family event, rinse and repeat.

The girl stops herself, moving her eyes directly to MJ and locking on. She’s always kind of hated that about little kids—they look into your soul and just kind of know things.

“Who’s that?” Morgan asks, more firmly wrapping her arms around Peter, as if to protect him.

(The only danger Peter’s been in from MJ in the last three hours was during their argument about road trip playlists. Particularly, Peter’s memetic gag of repeating What’s New Pussycat? on the same playlist multiple times and thinking she wouldn’t stop it before the first It’s Not Unusual.)

Michelle decides to get out of the car and introduce herself instead of awkwardly staring through the open door. It’s a bit of a chore—the passenger door’s handle is finicky—but she gets out without landing her ass in the mud and considers it a win. She still wipes her hands on her pants as she rounds the car, trying to remove any weird, nervous sweat. She’s not worried about it. She’s fine.

“I’m, um. Michelle,” she states, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Morgan’s head quirks to the side, looking Michelle up and down before she screams, “Daddy, Petey brought some weird stranger to Thanksgiving!” directly into Peter’s ear.

“Ow,” he hisses, rubbing at his earlobe. “Morgan, that’s not cool, MJ is—“

Morgan doesn’t let Peter finish, sticking out her tongue and wriggling out of Peter’s arms, running off towards the house as fast as she came out of it.

Tony Stark himself opens the screen door of the cabin next, chuckling as his daughter weaves between his legs. The effects from the battle with Thanos are clear—though it’s less intense than she imagines it was a year ago. White scar tissue spindles through the right side of Tony’s face, following down under his t-shirt and transitioning into to the metal arm painted the iconic Iron Man color scheme of red and gold.

Peter showed her the specs of that arm shortly after they got together—apparently Tony finished his rehab just after their trip to Europe, and it was supposed to be a gift from Peter. Seeing it on the man himself is…daunting, to say the least.

“Sorry about her,” Tony says, easing himself down the stairs as he approaches. There’s no kind of limp, but he seems to take his time with it all the same. “She gets a little territorial with us sometimes. Pep says we need to get her around more kids her own age, but the idea of sending her off to preschool…”

He shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs. She has to admit, he seems more human like this, surrounded by nature, talking about his daughter, the sun showing the lighter, grey strands of his hair more clearly.

“Hey, Pete,” Tony says, pulling Peter into a hug. It’s not just a one-armed casual sort of hug either, but a full one that goes on for a minute, dramatically rocking them back and forth. “Ugh, I missed you.”

“It’s only been a few days, Mister Stark!” Peter’s laughing reply is muffled into Tony’s shoulder. When they come apart, the smile from earlier has returned. Tony’s hands—robotic and human—have moved to Peter’s shoulders.

“A week. A whole week! I can’t spend that much time away from you anymore. It aggravates my angina.”

“Now you’re just trying to be embarrassing,” Peter grumbles, reluctant when the other man runs his hand through Peter’s gelled hair and musses it up just so.

“Absolutely,” Tony admits. He turns to Michelle. “You must be the famous scary girlfriend.”

“You’re just as bad as Morgan!” Peter whines. MJ isn’t sure she’s ever heard him sound so childish in his life despite the fact that he acts like a giant, overexcited goofball ninety percent of the time.

“My reputation precedes me,” Michelle ends up replying, shaking Tony’s hand when it’s offered. For some reason she was more nervous to meet Morgan than her father. Maybe it’s just her instinct to not be intimidated by rich tycoon types. Then again…she and the rest of the world know that he’s much more than that. Still. Old habits die hard.

“Now see, she can take a joke. I like her,” Tony says, nodding at Peter. Peter’s face goes a soft red, just edging on a full blush. She doesn’t really care if Tony likes her, but Peter clearly does.

Tony hooks an arm around both of their shoulders, leading them up to the house.

“Seriously, it’s good to have you guys. I’ve kind of been dreaming about the holidays—it got me through a lot of my physical therapy sessions,” he admits. It seems to be a more vulnerable comment than he lets on—Peter leans his head onto Tony’s shoulder. He’s almost too tall for it, but it’s…weirdly sweet. Peter’s big on physical comfort, as she now knows. Apparently even Tony has gotten used to it.

“Christmas is going to be a goddamn blow out, trust me,” Tony continues, breaking their grouping to lead them into the house. “Wall to wall Avengers, a mountain of presents. I’m slowly but surely convincing Pepper to let me build a fully functioning Santa’s sleigh to put on the roof.”

“No, he’s not,” comes a voice from deeper in the house. Pepper Potts steps in from what must be the kitchen, wiping flour off on the apron around her waist. “I will accept the light-up ones that are meant to be decoration and nothing else.”

Pepper presses a finger into her husband’s chest firmly, spreading a puff of flour and accenting her point with a quick peck to his lips. It’s a surprisingly domestic scene. She looks at Peter, and he’s looking at her already, soft doe eyes and a mind probably full of gross, sweet things that are way, way in their future.

Dork, she mouths. His returning smile is predictably un-cowed.

“You kids are just adorable,” Tony comments. Pepper nudges him with an elbow on her way to Peter.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, pressing a kiss to his head and holding her hands up. “I’d hug you but—“

“All good,” Peter replies. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No, no. You unpack, relax. I’ve got it, just—semi-literally have my fingers in a lot of pies, right now.”

“That’s code for please, god, don’t let a Parker near my cooking,” Tony whispers to her.

“Enhanced. Hearing.” Peter’s look at his mentor is the closest to peeved that he really gets. (She has to admit, though—there’s a reason they mostly go out or order in on dates. Cooking isn’t really either of their fortes.)

“Boys,” Pepper hums. It sounds like this is a common occurrence in the Stark household. “It’s nice to meet you, Michelle. Peter talks about you all the time. Again, I’d shake your hand, but—“ She holds up her palms, shrugging.

“No it’s—super awesome to meet you. Thank you for having me.” It’s actually beyond awesome. Despite her beef with Stark Industries and their ilk, she has to admit Pepper Potts is pretty high on her list of inspirational female powerhouses. She became CEO at 40 with only a Bachelor’s in Business and a Fine Arts minor, and Stark Industries entered a historic era of technology production and philanthropy under her guidance.

“Oh my god, you’re totally starstruck right now, aren’t you?” Peter questions in her ear, quieter than Tony so that only she hears.

“Shut up,” she says between her teeth, swatting at his arm without breaking her smile at Pepper.

Pepper smiles, giving Tony a look that Michelle can’t decipher. It might be flirtatious? Are she and Peter reminding Pepper of Tony and herself when they were younger? Her life is so weird, right now.

“I’ll go get our stuff,” Peter offers, out the screen door before she can argue that she doesn’t need his help. Like, it’s nice that her boyfriend can lift an entire car’s worth of stuff in one go, but she doesn’t always need him to. It feels a little…exploitative of his powers, somehow.

“I have a five-year-old to console,” Tony says, then quirks his head. “Chide? Eh, I’ll feel it out in the moment. Maybe a little of both. Make yourself comfortable, Michelle.”

Pepper watches Tony ascend the stairs, a what can you do? sort of look on her face towards MJ.

“Seriously, you and Peter have the afternoon to yourselves. If you need anything, just ask FRIDAY.” Pepper points up to the ceiling, as if that’s where the AI lives—which, maybe it does—before she turns around and attends to the beeping timer coming from the kitchen.

Michelle’s had a little experience with Peter’s AI, Karen, but the whole house being run by a super AI is something totally out of the norm. Honestly, she’ll probably just ask Peter any questions to avoid conversing with it.

She takes the chance alone to really observe her surroundings. From the outside the house looked like a pretty rustic cabin, but inside it’s a mostly-open floor plan mix of modern design and homey decor.

In particular, she notices the walls and surfaces are covered in pictures. The entryway features what can only be a shot of Tony and Pepper’s wedding day. The lake is featured behind them—Tony in a suit, Pepper in a white maternity dress that accentuates her pregnant belly.

Further into the living area there’s a larger variety of shots: Baby Morgan in Tony’s arms at the hospital, a few older shots with faces Michelle recognizes—Bruce Banner, James Rhodes, and even a group shot of the Avengers, smiling and receiving Medals of Honor from the Mayor of New York.

Nestled in a few shots of Morgan at a few different ages is a familiar face. Peter is pictured with Tony—it’s a selfie that was clearly printed, Peter making a goofy face combating Tony’s unamused expression. Next to it is a more recent picture. It appears to be from the spring shortly after the battle. Morgan is sitting in Peter’s lap, her hands covered in sticky popsicle juice while Peter is taking a lick from the offered desert over her shoulder. Clearly a candid moment.

Finally, nestled in-between a shot of the Starks teaching a younger Morgan how to swim and a press picture of Tony and Pepper from a gala she can’t identify is one of Peter and Tony on the very couch next to her, both of them asleep and pajama-clad, like they’d fallen asleep like that the night before and someone caught it the morning after.

“Ugh, that one’s so bad,” Peter says, suddenly behind her. He has a talent for sneaking up on her, one that would probably be more useful if he wasn’t always running his mouth and announcing his presence, particularly to bad guys. “Of course you found it.”

“I didn’t realize—“ she starts, but frowns, unsure of exactly what she’s thinking. It’s so…homey, here, and Peter’s clearly welcome. She knew he visited a lot, but this… “You’re all over the place.”

Peter clearly doesn’t think anything of it, shrugging. “I, um. We didn’t have anywhere to go after, you know?”

He’s never comfortable talking about the Blip or the battle against Thanos. A lot of people aren’t, but Peter in particular always stumbles through it. In the months of their dating, he’s only brought it up if she’s asked, never on his own.

“We lived here for a while. Our old apartment belonged to someone else, but May wouldn’t take any charity, wouldn’t accept the Starks’ penthouse in the city. She and Pepper looked for a place in Queens for months, but there were suddenly all of those people looking for housing…”

He loses himself for a moment. He does this sometimes too, drifting off like he’s disconnected, unable to keep himself in the here and now.

She takes his hand, and with a squeeze he comes back. There aren’t any tears, but there’s a weight in his eyes that she recognizes: guilt. For having a home when others still don’t months later. For failing at stopping Thanos the first time. For any number of other things he’s yet to reveal to her.

“Peter…” she tries, but what can she say? It’s times like this that she wishes she was…more. That she was better equipped to handle this superhero life that he’s so dedicated to. He takes the weight of the world on his shoulders, and she hasn’t figured out exactly how to give him a break, to take some of the weight as her own, or if she ever can.

“It’s fine, I’m—anyway, it was just…kind of nice, after everything that happened. Tony was recovering from here, Pepper was working from home a lot, Morgan was scared, I was…” He clears his throat, not finishing the sentence. “It was good to have everyone under one roof for a while, that’s all.”

She tucks herself into his side in a hug, unsure how else to respond. He would accept platitudes but he wouldn’t believe them. She rarely knows the right thing to say, anyway. Maybe this is the best she can do.

He pats her shoulder, breaking the quiet. “Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

Peter keeps his arm around her as they walk, squeezing them both up the stairs with their backpacks in hand.

“We’re staying in my room.” He stops walking, stiffening in a way that makes her feel—well, her age. They haven’t even really discussed sex, but any discussions past their first few chaste kisses have turned out a little awkward, stumbling forward because neither of them have dated before this.

“I mean, as long as that’s okay with you, I can take the couch, or—“

“No, no, that’s fine. We’ve shared before,” she mumbles, knowing there have been a few times May must have seen them asleep on Peter’s bed and let them be. She assumes his aunt’s open door policy will stay in place, likely why the Starks are okay with them sharing. Not like she has much desire to do anything in the Starks’ house, and especially with a five-year-old only a few rooms away.

“Your room?” she asks, moving them along. She assumed he and May just shared a guest bed or something that he just took over whenever he visited, not that he had a room of his own.

“It, ah—Mister Stark insisted,” Peter laughs, but mixed in with the slight embarrassment is something warm too, shown by how Peter’s gaze turns to the door clearly labeled Morgan’s Room in a pretty cursive font, likely Pepper’s work. She can hear the soft murmurs of Tony’s voice in the room, meaning that Peter can probably hear the entire conversation.

There’s a bathroom in the hall that’s a mix of Morgan’s colorful bath toys and what she knows is Peter’s deodorant sitting on the sink counter. Next to Morgan’s room is another bedroom, likely Tony and Pepper’s. At the end of the hall is where they stop, the unmarked door holding a room that is different from Peter’s in New York, but funnily enough, almost more expressive of him.

Peter hasn’t made it a secret that he doesn’t love his new apartment—it’s smaller than their old place, and devoid of the memories from his Uncle Ben’s presence. He seems to think there’s not much point in decorating it with the future expectation of college dorms ahead of them, and has apparently spilled most of his personal effects across this room instead.

The A New Hope poster on the wall is one of the nicer reproductions, framed and—signed by Mark Hamill, of course, probably a gift from Tony. A hologram is up on the desk, the Spider-Man symbol lazily floating around like a desktop screensaver. There are a few Lego sets unfinished in the corner—Peter rarely finishes them without Ned to keep them on task.

It’s Peter spilling out of every crumpled sheet of loose-leaf paper, every sneaker missing its mate.

Peter immediately takes to cleaning up the array of dirty clothes on the floor, mumbling apologies. She spies a faded hoodie with the cracked screen-printing of MIT’s logo among the mess before he scoops it up too.

“I was in a hurry last time I was here, sorry. Pepper says she won’t clean up after me because it sets a bad example for Morgan—which I totally get! But also, I mean, you’ve met me.”

It’s as self-explanatory as he makes it sound—he has a busy life. Sometimes, when stuff is crazy, a few dirty socks on the floor don’t really matter so much.

However, she also senses that some part of him likes the mess. His room in the city is a cramped box, and the charging case for the Iron Spider takes up an entire corner on its own. Here, he’s free to spread himself across the floors and up the walls as much as he likes.

“Yeah, Parker, you are kind of a mess,” she teases, only smiling more at his response of wrinkling his nose up at her.

“Anyway,” he continues with a grunt, flinging a sock into a hamper that’s overfull like he’s some kind of basketball star and frowning when it bounces into the floor instead. “Since Pepper’s kicked us out of the kitchen and Mo is being a grouch, we can do whatever. FRIDAY has any movie or show you could want—comedies, romcoms, that sad documentary about polar bears you like…“

“It’s not sad, it’s realistic.”

“What’s real is that you watched me cry about the ice caps melting for like thirty minutes, M.”

He brings her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and swaying them in place like it’s some kind of grand romantic moment, the two of them bickering in the middle of his messy bedroom at Tony Stark’s house. For some reason she has the impression that he’ll spurt into a tall and lanky mess in a few years, but for now she’s still looking down at him just a smidge, meaning he’s looking up at her all…mushy and enamored.

“As we all should,” she replies, failing to sound serious because she’s suddenly distracted by the hint of Peter’s teeth peeking out of his smile. Her boyfriend is so cute, which, yes, she knew that, but it’s just—he’s so much, Peter Parker, and she’s barely even scratched the surface after quietly watching him for years and thinking she had him all figured out. It’s intimidating, to see the open emotion on his face and know there’s even more that she’d never considered underneath.

“I—“ She takes a breath, trying to recover from the flustered blush that’s creeped up her cheeks without her permission. “Nap. I could go for a nap. That sounds good, right?”

Peter’s smile grows—he’s always so entertained when he breaks her brain like this, so smug that he’s one of the only people that can.

At her warning look, he lets her awkward stumbling drop, holding up his hands. “Yeah, MJ, that’s—sounds good.”

“That’s what I thought.”

If she picked that activity for an excuse to hold Peter close for a few hours alone after the barrage of meeting so many new people, well, no one has to know.

“Pete.” A voice she only vaguely recognizes is within the edge of her consciousness. It’s not her step-father, so she chooses to ignore it, snuggling into the warmth under her head further. “Spiiiider-baby. Kiddo, c’mon, wake up.”

Her eyes open just a slit—watery vision turned milky by the overpowering beam of light that leaks in. In the darkness of the room, she finds Peter’s face, still firmly buried in his pillow. Behind him, partially obscured by the curve of his shoulder and the powerful light from the hallway, is Tony.

He smiles when he catches her eyes. “Not the one I planned on, but hey, one out of two’s not bad.”

“Peeetey,” Tony tries Peter again, this time accompanying his calls with a touch to Peter’s head, he’s—running his hand through Peter’s hair? Is she dreaming? “Buddy, it’s time to get up. It’s dinnertime.”

“Hm?” finally comes Peter’s groggy response, slurred as he turns into Tony’s hand.

“Magic words,” Tony jokes to her, stroking Peter’s curls again, fully mussing what’s already been ruined by their nap.

“Feels nice,” Peter sighs. He squeezes the arm he has around MJ, as if for emphasis. “M’comfy.”

“Aw, they’re so cute when they’re sleepy,” Tony full-on coos, and that seems to do it, eliciting a groan from Peter’s chest against her ear.

“You’re so embarrassing, Mister Stark.” Peter bats Tony’s hand away this time, rubbing at his eyes and flitting them over to the holographic clock on the desk—6:30 PM.

“We slept a while.”

“I’ll say. I had Morgan all primed for an apology and you two were totally passed out.”

MJ removes herself from Peter’s hold, running a hand through her loosened ponytail and catching a few matted curls with a frown.

Tony turns up the lights slowly, sliding the switch to half-power.

“I negotiated that you two would watch Mulan with her after dinner, by the way. She tests people with how they react to Disney movies. Don’t ask me why.”

Peter nods solemnly, stretching his arms with a few quick pops.

“I got Tangled. Ned and I went to see it with Ned’s little sister as kids, but I still got all choked up at the whole hair-cutting scene. Cemented me with her for life.”

Peter literally rolls off of the bed, landing on his feet as if he’d simply sat up and stood like a normal person.

She and Tony are similarly unimpressed.

“The fact that you also act like her personal spidery-jungle-gym probably doesn’t hurt either,” he comments.

“You’re just mad that she doesn’t play Iron Man as much anymore.”

Tony sniffs, but doesn’t deny it. “Pizza’s getting cold. Pepper was too tired to cook anything else tonight, and I instantly agreed.”

“But have you ever had pizza for Thanksgiving?” Peter inquires, tapping his skull with his pointer finger like this idea holds the secrets of the universe. “You order the night before and eat it reheated the next day. No cooking required.”

“Just say May burned a turkey the year before and you were scared,” Tony replies. “It’s so much faster that way.”

“I’ll have you know it was Uncle Ben who was scared—“

By the time they’ve moved on to weighing the importance of tradition versus creating new traditions, Michelle has managed to brush her hair back into a more controlled ponytail and has splashed a little water on her face in the bathroom.

They’re still in Peter’s room going at it when she returns.

“You guys talk a lot,” she interrupts.

They both go silent, look at each other, then shrug. It’s like looking into a mirror, in a weird way, and she’s concerned that she’s dating half of that mirror when the other half is Tony Stark, who spent years flying around in a suit of armor and almost died on multiple occasions.

“Daddy!” Morgan thumps her way up the stairs, sliding into Tony’s legs on socked feet. “Mommy said you’re taking too long.”

Tony easily brings his daughter into his arms, bouncing her on his hip and leading them down the stairs that way.

“Oh she did, did she?” he asks, voice taking on a playful quality. “That doesn’t sound like Mommy. She usually just tells me to hurry the fu—“

“Mister Stark!” Peter interjects, slapping his hands over Morgan’s ears and awkwardly hovering over Tony’s shoulder on the stairway to do it. Honestly, it would probably be more comfortable for him to just get on the ceiling at this point.

“Oh, I’m kidding! I wasn’t actually gonna say it!”

Tony pulls Morgan out of Peter’s loose grip, moving all of them forward and almost sending Peter toppling down the stairs. MJ grabs the back of Peter’s shirt even though she suspects his feet are doing the steadying for him.

“You guys are like some kind of messed up comedy troupe,” Michelle comments, watching Peter pout and dust off his clothes as if it will rid him of any embarrassment.

Pepper shakes her head at all of them as they enter the kitchen, probably having heard at least some of that. “More like a circus,” she grumbles.

“We do have an alpaca,” Tony adds, placing Morgan onto her feet.

“I think that’d be more of a petting zoo,” Peter argues.

“Michelle, I’m sorry about them,” Pepper says. “Get whatever you want, we always order plenty for Mister-Mega-Metabolism over here.”

Pepper points to Peter, who has already unceremoniously shoved half of a slice of pepperoni pizza in his mouth and has a trail of grease slipping down his chin.

“You guys are so mean,” he sulks without bothering to swallow, meaning the words are a garbled, spitting mess. “Mister Stark’s the one that keeps nagging me about my blood sugar!”

“You’re attracted to this,” Tony says to Michelle, pointing at Peter. “This? Really?”

“He’s alright,” she answers, dragging both a slice of vegetarian and a slice of cheese onto her own plate without bothering to look at Peter’s fake-hurt expression.

“MJ, you’re supposed to be on my side, this is—I can’t even—“

In his distraction, Morgan decides to be sneaky. Only MJ seems to catch her subtle movements toward Peter, using her short height to her advantage and the element of surprise to steal what’s left of the piece of pizza from Peter’s hand. She giggles to herself triumphantly, biting into it herself.

“Morgan, sweetie, that’s—“ Pepper tries, but seems to lose the end of the admonishment that was probably about germs.

Peter only smiles, crouching as if preparing for a fight.

“Here they go,” Tony hums, expectant in a way Michelle certainly isn’t.

“You better watch out, you little—!” In a fit of laughter, Morgan sprints out of the kitchen, Peter hot on her heels. They run a lap around the living room furniture.

“Peter, leave your sister alone, she needs to eat her—aaaaand they’re already in the yard,” Tony sighs. He and Pepper seem to give up, bringing their own plates and the so far unused plates of Peter and Morgan to the table. MJ follows suit, placing herself an empty chair between the two table heads.

“I swear to god, they’re normal, like, ninety percent of the time.” Tony pauses. “Eighty-five. Solid eighty percent.”

“Did you…?” MJ feels awkward asking about it, but maybe it’s something Peter hasn’t told her yet, something she wasn’t supposed to know that just slipped out. Tony said—he called Morgan Peter’s sister. “Is there something I should know?”

Both Tony and Pepper look at Michelle like she’s not making any sense.

“What you said—that Morgan is Peter’s sister, it’s just—I can keep a secret! I just didn’t know he was, you know. Yours.“

“He wishes,” Pepper snorts into her ice water.

Tony’s responding smile is far too wide.

“I keep asking May for partial custody, but she just won’t budge!” He snaps his fingers in a very exaggerated, aw, shucks way. Pepper and Tony both laugh.

“Ah,” she lets out, embarrassed to have even had the thought that Peter might be Tony’s secret child or something, picking at her pizza toppings to avoid looking at the Starks.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Pepper pats her arm comfortingly. “Before the Blip there were articles with pretty similar lines of questioning. All shut down because they photographed a minor, of course.”

Pepper seems pretty proud of that, and MJ supposes she should be. People definitely would have made the Spider-Man connection sooner if Peter and Tony were in the paper together all the time.

More seriously, Tony says, “I’ve looked at the kid’s blood…more than I wish I had, honestly, but he gets injured, it happens. Anyway, yeah, no. FRIDAY would have figured that one out pretty quickly. DNA scanners and all.”

She nods, and the awkward silence thankfully only has to sit for a few more seconds before Peter bursts back into the house, Morgan wriggling around and squealing in his arms.

“I caught a wild Morguna!” Peter cheers.

“Is that the name of an actual Pokémon?” Tony asks, switching his gaze between Pepper and Michelle for an answer. “Did I accidentally nickname my kid after a battling monster thing? I only know like three of them, help me out here.”

Peter rolls his eyes, placing Morgan down with a quick tickle to her ribs that sends her flying towards the table.

“Come eat, Little Miss,” Tony commands, patting his hand on the chair to his right. Peter sits automatically to his left. “Michelle won’t want to watch a movie with you if you misbehave.”

“Do you like Disney movies?” Morgan probes, kicking her feet under the table and creating a light vibration.

Michelle shrugs. “Depends on which movie.”

Morgan squints, accessing. She nods.

“Good answer.”

Next to her under the table, Peter gives her a thumbs up, another piece of pizza already in his other hand.

The answer of where he got the food is clear as Tony shoves his other piece over to Morgan.

Pepper rolls her eyes and stands to presumably help re-fill his plate from the boxes on the counter.

Mulan was as good as MJ remembered it being when she was a kid.

Morgan seemed pretty pleased when she started mouthing along the words to I’ll Make A Man Out Of You, but less so when that prompted Peter to turn it into a dance number including the jumping kicks that almost resulted in a broken glass coffee table.

Despite their earlier nap, Michelle and Peter both find it fairly easy to fall asleep that night.

Still, it may be because of the nap that she doesn’t sleep as hard. She feels a disturbance, physically—Peter’s warmth leaves the bed, the steady pressure of his spine against her own is no longer there.

At first Michelle thinks it’s just a quick bathroom trip. Then she finds that she’s not as comfortable as she was those five minutes before without Peter because he keeps the room warm and he’s cool under the sheets (possibly because of the spider-man thing, she’s never asked).

So she waits.

She thinks about the English paper that will be her final for this semester that she only has half an idea for, and what drills AcaDec should be running for their first practice after the break, and…still no Peter.

She thinks about the pictures she spotted of Peter and Tony in the kitchen—the one of them from his internship next to one of Tony in a hospital gown, Peter on the hospital bed, his body covering Tony’s lost arm, both of them smiling with wet eyes and what it all means.

He still isn’t back yet.

She scoots over to Peter’s side of the bed and peeks her head out of the open door. There’s not even a light on in the bathroom.

Well, now she definitely has to investigate.

The cabin probably isn’t old enough for any squeaky floorboards, but she watches her step just the same, aware of every little noise in the half-dark of the night. She makes it to the stairs before she finally sees the dim glow of lights on downstairs accompanying the sound of someone talking.

“…it’s just so—messy.“

“Then explain it to me.”

She goes to her tiptoes, moving just a few steps down. On the couch she identifies the owners of the voices—the backs of Peter and Tony’s heads are silhouetted in the light of the fireplace in front of them.

“Tony…” Peter says, clearly hesitant, curling further into the couch.

“I can handle it, Pete. It’s worse for me when I don’t know what you’re going through, trust me,” Tony replies.

“I don’t even know what I’m going through,” Peter jokes, but his voice is weak, and Tony doesn’t laugh.

Peter sighs. “It was just—one thing to another. Like, I was under that building, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and then it was Titan, and I couldn’t breathe and I could feel myself—I could feel it happening and I was reaching out to you, but then you were—“

She can’t see Peter’s face, but his arm moves over his eyes, and the sleeve comes away tear-stained. He’s crying. Peter’s crying, broken, and her heart strains to do something about it, but this is—all of this is so much and she’s just overhearing it, what is she even doing?

“You were dying and I couldn’t…I heard when your heart—when you—” Peter’s words hitch into sobs, quiet and purposefully muted, like he’s scared to release them.

“Oh, buddy, no, no,” Tony brings Peter closer, his arm bundling Peter against his chest. Earlier she’d thought of what Peter might look like years from now, but now he looks smaller, younger.

The things Peter’s seen…he fought aliens in space, he was dusted and remembers it, his hero, his mentor, this man taking on Peter’s tears and pain with his whole body, his heart—another father—almost died right in front of Peter’s eyes. God, Mysterio almost put a bullet through Peter’s head for revenge—they’re still children, how can Peter handle this, how could anyone?

“Shh, I’m right here. I’m here, I’ve got you,” Tony soothes easily, like Peter is Morgan, just another one of his children seeking comfort.

“It’s okay, Pete. Everyone is okay. Just let it out, you’re okay.” Tony presses a kiss to Peter’s head, rubbing Peter’s back, so gentle, so soft, so unlike anything the world has ever shown her about Tony Stark, something precious and kind.

Something saved only for Peter, for his family.

Michelle sits at the top of the stairs for too long.

Too long thinking of every epic story Peter’s ever told about Spider-Man—the bruises he brushes off, the cuts and scrapes that he can hide away within a day, all of the times that he wins, the failures glided over as footnotes to a success story.

There’s so much she doesn’t know.

She knew he carried guilt, responsibility, but never this. This is a raw, deep wound of loss. It’s a fear scraping at him in the dark that he hides in the light. That he hides from everyone. From her.

Peter is curling into Tony for that comfort instead, burying his fears and worries into the man who brought him into all of this. If there’s anyone that could understand, of course it would be Tony.

She doesn’t know what do to with this knowing of everything she doesn’t. These are things she’s scared to know, things she wants to know anyway because they’re a part of Peter, and she wants more of him despite the sensical parts of her brain that scream for her to run off to California for college and leave dating a literal superhero that regularly risks his own life behind.

As Peter’s tears start to taper off, she stands from her place on the stairs, tip-toeing her way back up to Peter’s bedroom just as quietly as she came, leaving Tony's final whisper of, “I love you, it’s okay,” behind her.

She lies down, bringing the covers that smell of Peter's body wash up to her neck, the familiar scent comforting.

She only falls back asleep as the first dregs of sunshine begin to peek through Peter’s blinds.

Peter doesn’t come back to bed.

Unlike the day before, Thanksgiving morning is a quiet affair. A fog seems to have fallen overnight, leaving the outside of the cabin wet and hazy, matching her mood after the night before.

MJ wakes lightly a few times: the scent of coffee hits her nose, a high-pitched giggle echoes from Morgan in the hall, the sounds of doors opening and closing downstairs break the spell on and off.

If Peter enters the room to get dressed, he doesn’t wake her. She’s not sure if she wants him to or not.

There’s this—knot, buried right in the middle of her chest. Guilt for watching a private moment. Disappointed that she hadn’t thought about it sooner, that she’d let herself accept his constant assurances that he was fine, that there was nothing for her to worry about beyond the norm.

It’s Happy that ends up waking her.

“Knock, knock,” he announces, pulling open the already cracked door. Michelle doesn’t think she’s ever seen him out of a suit before now—usually he’s playing driver for them after school or hovering around Peter and May’s place, something Peter’s only become minimally more comfortable with since May and Happy's dating-ish-thing started. He’s picked a dress shirt and dark jeans instead. Not far from casually formal, but still…weird.

“Morning,” she announces from her blanket bundle, sulky and comfortable.

His eyebrow raises, wrinkling his balding hairline. “Do I wanna know?”

She shrugs.

“Okay, well, Tony and the other kids are making breakfast. Doesn’t seem like your thing, missing out on good food.”

“Are you fat-shaming a growing teenage girl?” She raises an eyebrow, her face dead serious and her tone purposefully instigating.

“Of course not, why would you—“ he catches on quickly, used to her tricks by now, her jokes that aren’t jokes. His lips hint at a smile under his goatee. “Very funny, kid.”

“I thought so.” She smiles.

“Food in ten,” Happy reiterates, turning around to shut the door.

“Happy—wait,” MJ calls, hesitant. He looks back at her expectantly, but she isn’t sure what to say without saying everything, her emotions caught in her throat.

“You—Peter’s worked with you for a while, right?”

She sits up from under the covers, ignoring the borrowed t-shirt of Peter’s hanging off of her frame and the messy wrap containing her curls. This is Peter’s family, in a way, and Happy saw her unhinged and wielding a mace back in Europe. Surely they’re at the point of being able to ignore things like appropriate dress, or whatever.

Her hands end up wringing themselves together. She’s unsure where to look—the whole room is a reminder of Peter, a collage of all the different parts—the hero, the boy, the growing man.

Happy’s facial expression questions the non-sequitur, but he redirects to Peter’s bed anyway, situating himself comfortably, probably realizing this isn’t just about what she’s asking.

“Working with, not so much. Looking after his scrawny ass…” He nudges her with his shoulder, but she doesn’t brighten up much, so he sobers.

“In the beginning, I spent a lot of time ignoring him when he needed me the most. Tony and I both did, and we both regretted it. After the Vulture, things changed. I listened to every asinine voicemail, Tony instituted lab time every other weekend…”

Happy clears his throat, his eyes honest. “Don’t tell him this, but after we lost him, I spent so much time wishing I hadn’t missed a minute of it. I kept wishing I could get him back, listen to him babble about his nerdy crap in the back of the car for just one more hour. Stupid stuff.”

“But then he came back,” she supplies.

He nods. “Then he came back. Tony was out of commission, and I promised myself that I wasn’t ever going to miss another call, even if it was just the kid rattling my ear off about free churros or a dress that he thought looked nice on you at school that day.” At the ending comment, he bumps a hand at her leg, emphasizing.

“Ugh,” she groans, but puts a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. Happy doesn’t appear fooled.

“What’s this about, Michelle?” he asks, meeting her eyes.

She sighs, crossing her arms and leaning back against the bed’s headboard.

“It’s just—after everything that’s happened, after everything you’ve seen him go through…do you think—is Peter okay?”

Something dawns on Happy’s face, followed by a somber kind of smile.

“If you ask me, the people that choose to do this kind of thing—these hero types…none of ‘em are anything close to okay. I mean, you’ve seen the kind of stuff they’re up against first hand. Weird tech, magic, aliens…it doesn’t exactly scream mental stability if you’re going towards that kind of danger.”

It’s not meant to be comforting, and he doesn’t say it as such. It’s just a fact: normal people don’t put on suits and fight bad guys and come out on the other side unscathed. That’s why so few ever do it, powers aside.

“But it does speak to a lot of heart. People didn’t understand that about Tony, when he started: you have to care about people a whole hell of a lot to want to keep saving their ungrateful asses over and over again.”

“I know that Peter cares—and I love that about him!” She blushes at the heated admission, but Happy seems content to let it go with only a kind smile. “It’s just—I didn’t realize how hard it must be on him. He doesn’t tell me how hard it is. I don’t know what to do.”

“Talk to him?” Happy suggests with dry condescension.

She frowns at him, because very clearly she’s not there yet, which is why she’s talking to him.

“I had to try,” he sighs. “Look, I know it’s hard to see someone like him going through all of this. It’s even harder when they don’t admit things are tough. Sometimes it’s just—there’s not much that you can do. We sit on the sidelines, we pitch in where we can, and when they do need us…”

He trails off, looking out Peter’s window. The lake ripples with a light rain.

“When they do need us, we show up. We show up and tell them how stupid they are for acting tough. We’re there when it matters, even when they’re being stubborn and telling us to go.”

Happy shrugs. “Well, that’s always been my tactic, anyway.”

MJ shrugs back, biting her lip. “It’s not the worst advice I’ve ever heard.”

“Tony?” he questions.

“Captain America. Those pre-recorded seminars make you want a big bag of weed more than any college stoner alive.”

Happy actually does laugh at that, patting her knee over Peter’s comforter.

“You two are good together. And I’m not just saying that cause I’m romantic or something—though I did know Pepper and Tony would be perfect together before anyone else, and you can quote me on that.” He points his finger at her, dead serious. Clearly that’s a regular argument at the Stark family get-togethers.

“He’s not going to get lost in this alone. He has too many people on his side for that. But if you need him to be more honest, you’re probably going to have to ask for it. Multiple times. Explicitly. These geniuses have concrete skulls protecting all of that brain matter.” He taps against his own head for effect.

“Yeah, I—thanks, Happy.”

“No problem,” he replies. Then he groans as he lifts himself from the bed, standing. “Now get up, or Morgan’s going to hog all of the syrup. Tony’s not above stealing from her syrup pool, but I personally think it’s an abomination.”

Despite the quiet morning, downstairs is filled with activity once she arrives, her floral dress toned down by one of her favorite grandpa sweaters, grey and a little garish.

Happy arrived with James Rhodes, apparently, as the Colonel is currently swinging Morgan around the living room like it’s a playground. Pepper and Happy are involved in something at the stove, crowded together and bickering about whatever they’re attempting not to burn. Tony is absent at the moment (out feeding their alpaca, maybe,) but Peter’s gaze finds her from his place at the counter where he’s seemingly just stealing bits of fruit out of a bowl instead of contributing.

His smile makes her feel floaty, like the department store dress and thrift store sweater are something more elegant, something he’s revering from across the room. She has value outside of his opinion, yes, but she likes his stuttering compliments, the bloom of pink on his cheeks, the tentative hand he links into her own.

Michelle likes him, might even love him one day, and she wants to get past all of this business where she’s torn up about his other life as a superhero and get back to his eager attempts to get her to full-belly laugh, holding his hand in the hallway, sneaking chaste kisses as rewards for acing flash cards.

“Hey,” Peter says, but he looks just as pensive as she feels. Maybe he knows how she’s feeling, senses it with his weird tingle-thing.

“Hey.”

They end up breaking the following silence at the same time.

“Peter, I—“

“Can we—“

She tilts her head to the porch, smiling. They’re both kind of ridiculous. “Outside?”

Peter situates himself on the porch’s bannister, swinging his legs from his perch. She chooses to lean on the wood next to him.

She’s trying to prepare exactly what she wants to say when Peter says, “I know that you were there last night. I know you heard…well, everything.”

Michelle’s eyes go wide, turning to him apologetically. Of course, his super senses. He probably heard her heartbeat.

“I really didn’t mean to pry, you just didn’t come back to bed and when I overheard you were clearly so upset and—“

“It’s okay, MJ.”

“Is it, though?” she asks curtly. “Because it didn’t seem like that was the first time something like that’s happened.”

He looks away. “It’s not.”

She nudges his side with her own, swaying him on his ledge a little.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault, bringing everything up like I did.”

“M, no, that’s not—“

She holds up a hand, asking for his silence.

“I just feel like I kept…pushing. You don’t really talk about all of this—Tony, the battle with Thanos, everything that made you want to become Spider-Man. And I realized I never really asked, either.”

She knows that she doesn’t have to take this burden on for him, but she wants him to know she’s listening, that she cares.

“I mean—Tony Stark is kind of your dad, dude! And I had no idea.”

Peter laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed. He also doesn’t deny it.

“It just…it made me feel like a crappy girlfriend, ‘cause I never thought about how all of that felt for you. That’s all.”

“You’re not a crappy girlfriend,” he replies, bringing her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “Just ask Mister Stark—for all that I like talking, telling people about my problems…” He shakes his head in distaste. “I hate it. It feels like I’m just complaining.”

“Well, I personally love complaining, and would love to hear you do it more,” she says.

He lets out a breath of a laugh through his nose, but he sobers again, keeping hold of her hand and squeezing.

“The stuff with Tony…it can be hard to talk about him without mentioning everything that got us here. It’s easier to let people think what they want to.”

MJ nods, understanding. Tony has been a public figure for his entire life. It makes sense that he’s pretty insular about the people that he considers family. Anyone important can be a liability—at least, she knows that Peter also tends to see it that way.

“It’s cute that you care about my relationship with him so much, though. I didn’t realize you were so protective,” Peter teases, hopping off of the ledge and onto the porch next to her.

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles, swaying their still-attached hands between them.

“Yeah, yeah,” he hums, smile wide across his face. He’s used to the parts of her that go hot and cold, and takes them in stride.

It feels good to have this out in the open, a previously closed door now tentatively cracked and inviting her in. It's a step closer, she thinks. A step closer to him and his world, this family he's made for himself.

A familiar look overtakes his face, and she feels a rush of warmth in her veins.

When they kiss—really kiss—it’s always tentative, a silent game of question and answer.

Peter inches closer, slow enough that she could turn away if she wanted. (She never does.)

Michelle tilts her head, reaffirming his desire. Are you sure? (He always is, his confidence always so much easier than hers.)

Together they take the final step, their movements more confident now as they’re slowly gaining practice. The slight difference of height between them often means she catches his top lip and his hands have a way of snaking around her waist, pulling them closer.

A wolf-whistle breaks them apart abruptly.

It’s Tony, walking over from what appears to be a barn not far from the lakeside, a teasing caught-the-canary smile in place.

“Well, well, look at you two,” he says, working his way up the steps with a little more pep than the day before.

“Please don’t start,” Peter begs, shrugging off the metal hand that immediately goes to ruffle his hair.

“Hey, you’re lucky it was just me. Rhodey has a real hard-on for breaking up PDA.”

“Please never say hard-on again in my presence.”

“Say it in mine,” Michelle interrupts. “I want it on camera.”

“I mean, I’m sure it already is if you look hard enough.”

Peter groans.

“I’ve never hidden my past from you, Pete. Now, Morgan—I’m hiding as much as possible from her internet searches until she’s at least sixteen.”

“I personally love the old flip-phone one of you drunkenly dancing on a bar-top to Toxic.”

“Oh, yeah! I actually remember that. Nice girl, Miss Spears.”

“I regret introducing you two,” Peter sighs, pouting.

“Love you too, kiddo,” Tony replies, opening the door ahead of them. “Now, c’mon. Happy’s going to deep-fry the turkey and you gotta watch. It’s some real Food Network shit.”

“Mommy! Daddy said your word again!” comes Morgan’s call from the living room area.

Peter shrugs to her, a smile on his face like he’s apologizing for getting her involved in all this.

She takes his hand again, giving it a squeeze before following him back into the Starks’ lake house and shutting the door.

#irondad #spiderson #spideychelle #ironfam #peter-stank #friendly-neighborhood-exchange #marvel #my writing

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betta-every-day · 4 years ago

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Fishie Transport

College dorming season is coming up in a few months! Whether you are going to school or changing homes, taking good care of your fishie friends is super important! A lot of people may be daunted by transporting fish and aquariums. It's no walk in the park, but it may not be as difficult as it sounds :) I'm going to explain in this post how I have been transporting my 5 gallon aquarium to my college (a 7+ hour drive!)

My method is this:

1. Bag the media in some old tank water. You may have a slight die off, but from my experience the bacteria are much more resilient than people think and will quickly recolonize when reintroduced to the tank

2. Drain almost all of the water from the aquarium. Please don't carry an aquarium full of water; it's super heavy and even on small tanks you risk the bottom glass cracking under the weight.

3. Separate betta and inverts into different holding cups with lids (good idea with aggressive fish). This is temporary. If you are going on a much longer trip, I would suggest bringing one of those tiny bottles of prime to do water changes. I use a literal cup that can fit in a car cupholder so the fish can stay upright.

4. If I have some really tall plants, I have removed them before and placed them in ziplock bags with some water. Do the plants hate it and throw a melting tantrum when replanted? Sometimes. However, it is much better to bag them then let them dry out in my experience.

5. I remove any big rocks that I am worried about cracking the glass if they shift while driving, but LEAVE THE SUBSTRATE (may not want to do this for larger tanks). I recommend taking a picture before you disassemble the aquarium if you are hoping to later replicate the look.

6. I lay plastic food wrap (cling wrap? Whatever it's called) over the substrate in the tank to keep the moisture in. I also might leave low plants if I can submerge all the leaves in a little tiny bit of water, but remember this adds weight. I also usually put paper towels over it too and on the sides (to prevent scratching on the glass), and then pack hardware inside the tank on top of it.

7. I pack all of my fish related stuff, tank included, into a big styrofoam cooler. Think they're decently cheap on Amazon. It puts my mind at ease about leaking water in the car, and can probably be easily substituted. I also place old towels around the aquarium to protect the outer glass, and make sure everything is packed relatively tight so nothing will be moving around a ton while driving.

That's my method. Also, I would like to recommend this post in addition to mine. This was a post I initially used when I was trying to figure out how to transport my fish when I first started.

Fun additional fact: you can take fish on airplanes. While I don't recommend transporting whole tanks because I've never done it, my fish have been through the airport several times with me and it always makes everyone laugh :)

#moving fish #college #fishblr #bettablr #aquarium #dorming #university #moving #fish keeping #snailblr #shrimpblr #aquablr #planted aquarium

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malumsmermaid · 5 years ago

Note

i wish you could write a fic about the reader finally feeling apart of the group? she’s met the band/gfs many times but she’s not like there yet. not saying they’re mean to her but she’s nervous and wants to make sure they like her. one day everyone’s hanging out and the girls invite her shopping and cal squeezes her hand knowing she’s excited to finally feel comfortable & everyone posts a pic on insta od the guys & girls in one pic and it’s all family hehe and later on they’re as strong as ever

Hi sweet pea, I have been staring at your ask all weekend. I understand the gist of what you’re asking for, I think some of the extra details threw me slightly. I’m sorry if I don’t quite capture what you were asking for, also bi!reader because fuck it.

Requests Closed

You were all crowded around Michael’s fire pit, enjoying a few drinks and the summer air. You’d been with Calum for a few months now, and the boys and their girlfriends have been nothing but welcoming ever since Calum first introduced you. However, you still felt like the newcomer, still trying to find your place in the full group. It also didn’t help that all three women in the group were incredibly attractive.

Those three words had yet to be exchanged between the two of you, but you could tell that you were well on your way to being in love with Calum. And that meant that you would never do anything to hurt him, but you weren’t blind. Knowing that they were also taken, by Calum’s best friends as well, eased some of the intimidation you felt from when you first met them, but still, you worried that you’d say something wrong to those beautiful women and they’d never feel comfortable with you again, have you ousted from the friend group and eventually cause you to be alienated from your boyfriend.

Sierra’s hand on your knee forced you out of your reverie, setting down the bits of your bottle’s label that you’d been picking at and meeting her warm gaze. “So what do you say?” She asked, “Noon fine for some shopping tomorrow?”

You tried to gain control of your facial expressions, nodding quickly and saying, “Yeah, sounds great!”

Sierra and the other girls nodded, and after confirming that you would be at Calum’s in the morning the conversation moved on. You got to your feet, heading inside to dispose of your empty bottle and the damp scraps of paper you’d removed from it, Moose following at your heels.

~~~~~~

The next day, right at noon, Crystal was at Calum’s door. You grabbed your bag, giving Calum a kiss on your way out the door, him telling you to have a good time, already knowing some of your insecurities within the group, not the full thing, but some of it.

You walked side by side with Crystal down the driveway, chewing your lip slightly as you passed your car, parked where you’d left it when you came over to Calum’s after work before the bonfire. Your car already looked slightly out of place next to his Land Rover, but now it looked downright foreign with Crystal’s Tesla parked behind it. You pushed down your anxiety, climbing into the backseat, KayKay greeting you with a smile.

Once you were at the mall and began wandering through the shops together you relaxed, finally beginning to feel part of the group as all your earlier perceived pressures faded away. You all modeled in the changing rooms, Crystal taking photos, handing her phone to you when it was her turn, all three of you cheering her on when she stepped out from behind the curtain.

You all went out to lunch after shopping, sitting around the table chatting as you waited for your food. “Today has been great,” you stated during a pause in conversation. The attention turned to you, Sierra nudging your shoulder with hers, urging you to continue. You took a breath before starting, “I just...it took me a while to actually let myself be part of this. I’m so happy with Calum and the way you guys welcomed me in was incredibly comforting but...I couldn’t help but be intimidated.

“You guys have all been here for like a lot longer than me and I just felt out of place from the get go. Cal and I have talked about it and all and he’s assured me time and again that I belong but there are just things that linger in the back of my mind.

“On top of that all three of you are so pretty and I’m like super bi and so for a while anytime I was around any of you, including last night, it was just like, my brain screaming and sirens, trying to get me to watch what I was saying to make sure things didn’t get weird.

“But spending this afternoon with you guys really helped calm all of that and I think I finally let go of all of that. So like...thanks for inviting me to hang out and all.”

You were staring at your hands on top of the table by the time you finished, some anxiety creeping back into you after spilling your guts like that, but the next thing you knew you were enveloped in a group hug, gasp escaping you as you leaned into the embrace.

The food arrived and the hug slowly ended, KayKay and Crystal returning to their own seats on the other side of the table to eat. Conversation continued around bites of food and eventually you’d all finished. The bill got paid and you all got back in the car, Crystal handing over her phone to Sierra for a last group selfie. After a few snaps Sierra put Crystal’s phone down in the cupholder and Crystal began the drive back, dropping everyone off one by one.

She pulled into Calum’s driveway and you thanked her, grin on your face as you went around to the trunk to get your bags and then skipped all the way up to the door. You pulled out your key, letting yourself in and surprising Calum. “Good time?” he asked, smiling as you set your things down.

You nodded as he made his way over, holding your arms up to him. He smiled, lifting you and spinning around with you in his arms, walking back to the couch. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing gentle kisses to his skin as he sat down, shifting you to be comfortable in his lap. “I’m glad you got to spend some time with the girls, and that you had fun.” He whispered softly, rubbing your back.

You made a content noise as you sat there, feeling your phone buzz in your pocket. You pulled it out, humming as you read the insta notification and opened it. Crystal had posted a thread of some of the photos from the fitting room modeling as well as the post-lunch photo:

Shopping day and strengthening our bonds 😘

You smiled as you flicked through the photos, humming happily before liking the post and leaving a few emojis in the comments before turning back to Calum, tucking yourself into his chest, having enjoyed your day out, but also happy to be back in his arms.

#calum hood #calum hood fluff #calum hood blurb #anon #wyw #Anonymous #requests

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scribbling-stiks · 3 years ago

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Retrievers - XXXI - Hotwire

Alabama hops into the front passenger seat, and Dixie pulls himself into the driver's. Russia bites into a granola bar he had grabbed off the counter. It's stale and tastes old, but Russia is far too hungry to throw it away.

"Dix! I can drive my own truck," Alabama complains.

"Yes, and the several dents in the exterior prove it," Dixie replies, turning the engine over, "now buckle in. I'm driving cuz Amy won't be able to handle you playing bumper cars."

"Awwww.... whyyyy?" Alabama complains.

"Cuz you have to. Now quit your whinin' and get buckled."

Alabama sighs and Mississippi kicks his seat.

"Just buckle so we can get moving," Mississippi says, buckling his own belt.

"Fine..."

America leans against the window, and Russia stares out the windshield.

"Okay Ruski, do your trick and point us in the right direction," Dixie says.

Russia takes a deep breath, though he feels skittish. He tries to stare out the window, but nothing happens.

"Rue?"

"Sorry, it's not working," Russia replies, looking away.

"Why not?"

"I'm... scared of it. I feel disconnected," Russia admits quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, Sett mentioned you dissociated," Dixie says flippantly, waving one hand over the center console.

"Ew. Bama, when is the last time you wiped anything down?" Dixie says in a scolding tone, lifting his hand limply out of the cupholders.

"Uhhhhh...."

Dixie sighs.

"Just grab some wipes and start cleaning up."

Russia hums and looks down. America gently takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

"It's okay. I'm here. We won't let anything happen to you," America promises, "I know it can be scary, but it'll be okay."

Russia nods and closes his eyes. He squeezes America's hand, and America squeezes back. He re-opens the valve in his chest and everything numbs. The radio song distorts, and the sun seems dull. The only thing that feels normal is America, whose hand feels warm.

They pulled onto a paved interstate, and Russia feels the car bump underneath him.

Russia opens his eyes and mutely points forward toward the grey blob on the horizon. His body feels weirdly warm, as if the cold had faded away. America glows light blue in his periphery. The color is comforting.

Russia takes a deep breath and watches the trees pass in front of the blob. He turns to watch and mumbles for them to get off, though he's not sure if they understood. Either way, the car turns down another paved road.

Russia watches as the ominous fog approaches. They break the surface, and Russia's whole body fills with anxiety. He starts to shake, and he recloses the valve. He takes a deep breath, and the static, anxious feeling still fills the air, but it doesn't fill him anymore.

"We're here," Russia says.

"Huh."

"It does feel weird," America says, squeezing Russia's hand.

"Well, I'm gonna see where this goes," Dixie says, driving down a winding road that opened into what looks like a city center.

Russia looks around at all the abandoned cars around the road. There is also red and rusty smears around the road.

"This don't look right," Alabama comments, pulling a handgun from the glovebox.

"Hand me one too?" Mississippi asks.

Alabama passes one back from over the seat. and then he hands back ammo. Mississippi quickly loads it and cocks it with a click. Then, a black truck catches Russia's attention. It sits out in front of a grocery store.

"Pull over," Russia says.

Dixie hums and pulls over. But he doesn't stop the car, instead, he leaves it parked and running. Russia gets out behind Mississippi. America stumbles out behind them, and Dixie hops out the front seat. Alabama walks around to the bed and pulls out a crowbar.

Alabama opens up the store doors and waves Mississippi forward. The two walk inside, back to back, and clear the halls between the shelves. Dixie follows them in, a shotgun over the shoulder. Russia and America begin filling the bed of the truck with snacks and canned food.

"The store is clear!" Dixie shouts.

Alabama and Mississippi start helping load the truck and Dixie walks around.

'Where is he going?'

"Damn, this is heavy," Dixie says from outside.

"What is?" Alabama asks, poking his head out the door.

Russia walks outside and drops the cans into the truck. He turns around to see Dixie trying to pry a gas transfer tank from the back of the black truck.

"That ain't gon move if its got gas in it," Mississippi comments.

"But it could be useful."

Russia feels his hair stand up. America tosses water bottles and empty Jerry cans into Alabama's truck.

'Something isn't right.'

"I don't have a good feeling," Russia says loudly.

"Well, we need more than a few jerry cans to keep the house running," Dixie says.

Russia sighs.

"Do any of you know how to hotwire a car?" Russia asks.

"No?" Dixie replies.

"No... wait! Can you teach us?!" Mississippi replies, a huge smile on his face.

"Ooh! Ooh! Please!" Alabama exclaims.

Dixie looks on with apprehension.

"Russ..." America says, giving Russia a look of 'Don't.'

Russia shrugs and tries to keep his smile innocent.

"I can't stop them if they watch me," Russia says flippantly.

Alabama and Mississippi cheer. America rubs his face, a scowl set in his features. Dixie sighs and shakes his head. Russia smirks.

'At least now they'll have fun.'

Russia picks up a drill and a screwdriver from the toolbox in the back of Alabama's truck. He walks over to the truck's driver's side door. It hangs open and Dixie waves at it.

"I picked the lock already, but I ain't sure how to get it to start without the key," Dixie says, leaning against the cab.

Russia climbs in and onto the passenger seat. He holds the drill steady and drills into the key slot. Alabama and Mississippi poke their heads around from the driver's seat, and Russia calmly waves their hands away.

After he finished drilling away at the pins, he removes the drill and sticks the screwdriver in. Turning the screwdriver turns the engine over. Russia cheers a little. Alabama hollers loudly and Mississippi gives Alabama a high-five.

Russia backs out through the passenger's side and feels eyes on the back of his head. Russia makes eye contact with America with a nervous look. America starts looking around apprehensively. Russia walks over to America and stares around the various houses.

"Something is watching us," Russia mumbles.

Alabama and Mississippi look at each other and Alabama clammers out and points his gun toward the darker shadows. Mississippi begins scanning windows. Dixie checks the gas tank.

"Whatever it is, it's probably the reason there ain't no people 'round here," Dixie comments, closing the canister and cocking the shotgun.

Table of Contents

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wittystiles · 5 years ago

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The Bluff || Part 16 || Mitch Rapp

Author: wittystiles

Word Count: 2k+

Relationship: Mitch Rapp x Reader

Warnings: Cursing (last time i’ll use this one fuckin’ expect cursing tbh)

Authors Note: Well fuck me, it’s back. After taking sixteen months off and deciding this story was dead seven times, I’m Goddamn back. And so is this hot-steaming pile of dog shit known as The Bluff. I hope to Goddamn hell y’all like it. If you don’t - well - shove it. Feedback is THE MOST IMPORTANT okay, thank you! (-: I love y’all, thanks for chillin’ with me. Read this if you will. Thanks. ((also thank you to my lovely @ellie-bee242 for never giving up on this fic!))

Irene stared at Stan, face expressionless. If anything, she looked tired. She leaned back in her chair and brought her hands together underneath her chest, head resting against the plush leather backing. “She’s moving in with him?” She repeated in a questioning tone.

“Yes,” Stan said in a sigh. “What part of that was unclear? I said exactly what you just repeated, without the inflection you had, but same meaning nonetheless. She’s moving in with him. He’s going to live with her. They’re going to share a place. Their addresses will be the same. They’re cohabiting. I am running out of ways to rephrase this.”

Irene rolled her eyes, “when will their union take place?”

“I don’t know their moving schedule. And ‘union’, come on Irene, no one talks like that.”

Ignoring the latter part of his response, Irene continued. “Could you find out?”

“No.”

Her dark eyes narrowed at the older man and contemplated the various ways that she could attempt to kill him with the pen sitting on her desk. She knew most would be thwarted the moment she tried them, however, and decided against any actual action. “So, while you had some information, you’re actually nearly entirely useless to me?”

“I wouldn’t call myself useless, ever.”

She shrugged, “do you have any idea where the two of them will be staying?”

“Together,” Stan answered immediately. “That is what cohabiting means, after all.”

“You’re fired,” she blurted without thought. “I’ll figure out how to get this shit done without you. Mitch can have a new mentor, if that’s what you are at this point, Stan.” She stood from her desk then, grabbing a file off of it’s edge fast enough to knock over a cup of pens that was stationed near it. “You have given me enough headaches for a lifetime.”

Stan stared at her in confusion, eyes trained on her face. “What?” He asked, finally processing her little blow up. “Knock it off,” he finally decided, reaching out to snatch the folder from her hands. She made no efforts to stop him, her breathing becoming long and deep. He didn’t think she’d gotten as angry as she had, but was clearly wrong, as he watched her calm herself down. “What is this?”

He opened the folder, thumbing through the contents with little interest, eyes darting quickly over each page. “You’re sending him out?” Stan wondered, looking up from the pages in his hand to the woman who was now busying herself tidying up her pens. “You know he’s not going to go.”

“He knows he won’t have a choice.”

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing the folder. “Irene, give him some more time.”

“He’s had over a month.”

“Let me remind you,” he leaned forward, holding the folder loosely between his legs, elbows resting on his knees. “He thought he was on assignment that entire month. (Y/N) was supposed to be his mission. He invested all of that time on her because he thought that’s what this big dumb organization was having him do. He even went and got those arms dealers, and his ass kicked, while in France. Give the kid some time with his new girlfriend.”

The chuckle that left Irene’s throat startled Stan, made him sit up straight again in his chair. She slowly made her way around her desk, taking her seat in her chair without another sound. When she made eye contact with Stan he leaned back, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side in calculation of her. “She isn’t his girlfriend,” she finally said in a cool and even tone. “She is his handler. And when the time comes, I will remove her from his life. Is that understood? Don’t make this something that it isn’t Stanley. Don’t give some deeper meaning to the two of them. Mitch is a pain-in-my-ass agent who thinks he writes the rules, and (Y/N) is there to rein him in. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She held no emotion behind her words. She could have been filling him in on the weather for the week in the same tone she used to remind him that they were manipulating Mitch’s life like he was a puppet on their string. He swallowed hard, suppressing the guilt that was gnawing at him like heartburn. “Irene,” Stan tried, using a voice he’d take with his own children. “Don’t be so cold. The kid’s falling for her.”

“Which was the plan,” she nodded her head like she was proud of herself. Another hard swallow from Stan. “Didn’t you so sinisterly say that he was going to? We wanted this remember? We dealt this hand for him at the beginning of the game. Sure, we didn’t think he’d play into it so well, but hell, Stan. This whole charade couldn’t be going better for us if we wanted it to.” She smiled then, “lest you forget that everything that we’ve done, every little move we’ve orchestrated? They’ve all been your ideas. You know how to play Mitch like an instrument and he’s really performing beautifully for you. You should have some pride.”

“Yeah,” he nodded his agreement, unsure what else to say to the woman before him.

“Now stop with this nonsense, and go give him that file. Lets see how having (Y/N) around affects the way he handles another task. We saw that he was quick to finish the one in Paris to rush back to her. I wonder if the same will hold true now that they’re cohabitating.”

Stan stood from the chair, deciding not to share parting words with Irene. He checked the file a final time while walking out of the office, headed for the elevator.

Mitch turned the corner to his apartment building sharply, seeing the older brick building come into view as his phone began singing loudly in the cupholder at his side. He blindly reached for it, answering it without hesitation as he pulled into the residential parking garage that wound underneath. “Going underground, I’m going to lose you.” He told the person on the other end of the phone, hanging it up without giving its signal a chance to be lost. He shoved the device into his pocket and searched around for a moment for a parking spot, stealing the one nearest the elevator. The older man that usually parked there was out of town visiting someone or doing something for the month, and he’d be damned if he let another one of the tenants get that spot.

He killed the engine, pocketed his keys, and got out slamming the door behind him with a metal clang. The noise echoed off the walls of the garage and for a moment he remembered being in France and finding a car to steal. He wondered if the owner had ever recovered it. He’d been so kind as to leave it relatively undamaged at the mouth of a tunnel near the river. He figured if junkies or the homeless hadn’t absolutely dismantled it, the owner could probably still even use it. Baring they didn’t mind it missing at least the windshield, to Mitch’s fault.

He walked the few steps to the elevator and jabbed impatiently at the button, waiting for it to light up. “Broke yesterday,” he heard a voice from his side say and he reached around his back reflexively for his gun. “Stairs are working though.”

A brunette woman was approaching him, carrying two overfilled brown grocery bags in her arms. “Leasing office said they’d send someone down within the week to take a look at it. Wouldn’t hold my breath though.” The woman made to pass Mitch and he processed her as a non-threat.

“That so?” He wondered, motioning towards the bags in her arms. “Let me help you,” he offered. She eyed him for a quick second before handing a bag over, wrapping both of her arms around the one she still held. “Mitch,” he introduced, opening the door to the stairs with his foot. She gave him a smile as he let her head through the door first.

She started up, her footfalls heavy on each of the metal stairs. “I’m Fiona,” she called over her shoulder as he followed her. “Moved in about a year ago. Met damn near every neighbor in this place, ‘cept you I guess. You new?”

“Lived here four years.”

She chuckled, continuing up. “You’ve lived here four years and this is the first we’re seeing of each other? What, you a recluse or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’.”

He heard her chuckle over the sound of her repositioning her arms around the bag. “Not much of a talker?”

His shoulders shrugged before he’d even processed the action, slowing his speed on the stairs to keep a relatively normal distance between her and himself. He wished absently that he’d not offered to help her, he could already be in his apartment by now. He needed to shower in a desperate way, and needed to still head out to the store to get something for (Y/N) to eat.

He frowned a little at the thought of her, of how she was so eager to thank him for cleaning. How small she had looked to him every time he’d peaked in to check on her. He wondered if she’d look that small in his place, too. If she’d still have the same soft light around her that she had in France and in her own apartment. Wondered if perhaps he couldn’t do her immediate harm after all.

“Earth to Mitch,” Fiona called with a laugh. “Boy, you really must be somethin’ else, gettin’ lost like that. You okay?”

He nodded, “tired.”

“You work the graveyard or somethin’? That's why you’re just gettin’ home at what -” she thought for a second. “Must be just after nine in the morning.”

Mitch waited until they reached the landing at the top of the stairs to acknowledge her question with furrowed brows. “I was out, doesn’t matter. I’m tired now though.” He handed her her grocery bag, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Have a good morning, Fiona. It was nice meeting you.”

He pushed open the door to the lobby of the apartment building and made a hasty retreat as she called a “yeah, you too” from behind him. He took the stairs up to the top floor two and three at a time, striding quickly for his apartment door. He withdrew his keys as he rounded a corner, freezing dead in his tracks.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw set, fist clenching tightly around the keys. He closed the distance between himself and his apartment door, not further acknowledging the man leaning against the wall beside it. He let himself in and made to shut the door behind him, being thwarted by a boot wedged against the door jam.

“Now,” said the owner of the boot, pushing on the door until Mitch relented and opened it. “Is that any way to greet me?”

“This is my home, Stan.” Mitch sounded defeated. “You’re not supposed to just show up here. Remember? We’d agreed on that.”

Stan laughed mockingly, shutting and bolting Mitchs’ door behind himself once inside the apartment. “No. You told me not to show up here, and I chose to ignore that. There was no agreement ever reached.”

Mitch stopped himself from rolling his eyes as he crossed the living room to his couch where he sat down heavily, busying himself with unlacing his own boots. “Why are you here?”

“Came to give you this,” he dropped a folder down onto the counter in the kitchen, opening the fridge to look through its contents. “Jesus, it’s more barren in there than Irene.” Stan joked, shutting the fridge after. “You don’t even have a beer?”

“I don’t drink much,” Mitch supplied, tossing his shoes to the side. “As much as I don’t appreciate unannounced visits, I have to get showered. So. If you wouldn’t mind seeing yourself out, I’ll look at whatever that is when I get a chance.”

Stan shook his head, leaning back against the counter. “You’ll look at it now, Mitch.”

There was a moment where Mitch contemplated not even acknowledging Stan. His bathroom was feet away and he could easily make it there before Stan could stop him. His foot twitched a little, ready for him to move. He rose to his feet, his brain willing him to head for the bathroom, but his body made its way to the kitchen where he picked up the folder. “What is this?”

“Christ, can’t you read?”

Mitch glared down at the pages, figuring it better than glaring at Stan, and read over everything carefully. “Spain?”

“Yes.”

“In two days?”

“Yes, fuck. It says all of this shit in black and white right there, Mitch. Why do you keep fuckin’ asking me?”

“No thanks,” Mitch decided, tossing the folder to the counter.

Stan boomed a laugh, picked the folder up, and smacked Mitch with it on the side of the head. “You don’t have a fuckin’ choice in this, runt.”

Mitch’s jaw clenched, his eyes trained on the pages of the folder, his chest rising and falling with strain. He didn’t want to leave yet. Didn’t want a mission this soon. He had things to do, things to take care of. He had other pressing matters that needed tending to before anything for Stan and Irene. He closed the folder with the loud sound of pages slamming and tossed it to the counter. “I’ll be ready to ship out then.”

I’m not kidding. Feedback would be fuckin’ sick, thanks y’all. I love you. Hope you enjoyed this!

Tags: @ellie-bee242 , @cathobs , @redstringlovers , @lovefilledtragedy , @sumcp, @teamwolf2411, @confidentrose, @daddyxraeken, @iloveteenwolf24-blog, @kalista-rankins, @stilinski-stydia-obrien, @rumoured-whispers, @omgimafuckingmermaid, @cuillere, @dylan-void, @kaelyn-lobrutto24, @fuckwhateverfuck, @maxytwombly, @itsamberh, @haveyoumetmeyet, @kal-pal, @infinitstydia, @thenovarose, @anamcg317, @terriblewife, @thelonesoul, @rebeccaannex3, @behind-my-hazeleyes27, @girlwiththerubyslippers, @x-mitch-rapp-x, @mainlymieczyslawstilinski, @veronicarapp, @kaylinfayezink, @a–1–1–3, @rxppmxtch, @lietomeat3am, @xxxxdelenaxxxx, @mentalc0re, @gendryia, @ashotofblues, @dancingalone21, @16wiishes, @a--1--1--3, @assholeofthanos, @gothcryptid-gf, @yuslut,

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writing-for-amusement · 5 years ago

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Keep It Secret, 4

Summary: Ever since your soulmate told you to stop writing on your skin because they didn’t want to communicate, you did as they asked even though it hurt your heart. During the first day of your new job as an “emergency woman” on a film set, you forget your notepad and planner, so you have to write on your skin. When you’re then called to the makeup trailer to deal with an emergency, you meet Zendaya Coleman, with your supply list on her wrist. You vow to keep your status as her soulmate a secret, even if it hurts, because all you want is for her to be happy. Even if it’s to your detriment.

A/N: Okay, so, this chapter is a little short, but... I REALLY wanted to break it off where I did because I like to keep the suspense going lmaoo... Anyway, I hope you like this, I’m actually pretty content with how it turned out!!! Fun fact, I actually didn’t know how I wanted to do the cat, so I legit went on a pet adoption website to find inspiration!!!!

You can still get on any of my taglists!!!! Also, what do you think will happen next?????

Disclaimer: I do not know or claim to know Zendaya Coleman; I am essentially using her as a face/name claim to my fic idea. The same goes for the other people in this fic. That being said, I hope you like this!!!!!

Warnings: drunkenness, mention of vomit, a kitty cat, some angst, swearing

Word Count: 2023

Permanent Taglist: @pparkerwrites, @jordyns-library, @natblidaclexa, @peterseuphoria, @lesbian-x-blackwidow, @beccaboo929, @softrdj, @icecoldban

KIS Taglist: @hailqueenconquer, @imaginerequestpage, @adventurousbooknerd

Chapter 4

Zendaya kept looking at you with those perfect furrowed brows, her hair gently moving in the breeze. Internally, you were floundering for an answer, flipping back and forth between what your heart and soul wanted, and what you knew Zendaya wanted.

Externally, well, you hoped you didn’t look as panicked as you felt.

“Is it me?” Zendaya asked in a small voice.

You hadn’t thought anything could have hurt worse than your daily pain of being around her and not telling her. But this, this was much worse than that. Every atom in your body was screaming in pain, in anger, as Zendaya looked so sad, confused, and broken.

Your hands briefly reached out to take her by the shoulders to add emphasis to what you were about to say, but you let them fall back to your sides.

You bent slightly so you could look her in the eyes. Zendaya raised her gaze to yours and you gave her a pained smile.

“It’s not you, Zendaya,” you explained. “It’s not you, I promise. I promise that it really isn’t you, it’s me.” You inhaled shakily to steel your nerves. “Look, I, well, we—”

Jade suddenly laid on the horn, making you both jump in surprise. You whirled around to see her animatedly motioning for you to get going. Then, she rolled the window down and yelled in slightly slurred words, “Let’s goooooooooooooo!”

“Okay, Jade, Jesus Christ, just a minute!” you yelled back. After watching your friend slump back into the car, you turned back to your soulmate.

She was chuckling and that made your heart lift slightly. “Such a character,” she sighed lightly. Then, her eyes were back on yours.

“Zendaya, I promise, it’s not you. But I gotta go, okay? We… we can talk later, alright? I’ll see you next time you’re on set.”

“Okay, Y/N,” she said hesitantly. Then, her demeanor brightened. “Okay. I don’t know why, but I really believe you. I’ll see you soon, Y/N. Be safe driving.”

You smiled and nodded, turning back and getting in the car. Zendaya waved at you as you reversed and drove away.

“What took you so long?” Jade whined.

You sighed at her and shook your head. “Just relax. You’ll be with your cat before long. If you must know, Zendaya asked why I never let her touch me.”

Jade gasped dramatically. “What did you say?”

“Well, I was going to tell her the truth, until you butted in with a car horn!” you explained with frustration lining your voice.

“Oh no,” Jade breathed. “Oh no.”

You glanced at her and were about to reassure her, when you saw how white her face was. Quickly pulling over, you urged her to open the door and vomit out there. It might not be your car, but you knew you’d be the one to be cleaning it, and you definitely didn’t want to be driving with that scent.

Your phone chimed as your friend leaned out the door and released her stomach onto the pavement. Glancing at the notification, you saw that it was a message from Zendaya.

“Hey, I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that,” the message said.

You dropped the phone into the empty cupholder and vowed to answer it once you got to Jade’s place. It seemed that the many daiquiris had finally caught up with Jade fully, as she was wobbling on her feet and slurring her words.

Thankfully, Jade didn’t throw up again as you helped her to her apartment. Her cat, an orange and white tabby named Cyborg, meowed from his spot on the back of the couch. He was named Cyborg because he only had one eye, but the other was a gorgeous green. Cyborg was the sweetest and most affectionate cat you’d ever met; he was also very chatty.

As you helped Jade through the apartment, Cyborg meowed loudly at you, following from a respectable distance. You nodded at him and hummed your understanding as you let Jade fall into her bed. He followed you as you went to the kitchen to get Jade a glass of water to drink before bed.

“I know, Cy, I know, she always leaves you alone,” you said sympathetically to the cat. After another meow, you said, “Well, if you want me to visit more, little kit-kat, you have to talk to your mama. I doubt she’d let me come in here willy-nilly.”

He gave a small mew.

“We can’t know what she’d say; your mama is a little crazy,” you explained as you bent down to rub his cute head. He purred loudly and licked your fingers briefly before following you back to Jade’s room.

“Drink,” you ordered as you brandished the cup at her. Jade, surprisingly obedient when this drunk, followed your command and drank it all in one gulp.

As you were tucking her in, Cyborg curled up in the crook of her knees, Jade muttered out, “I’m sorry I ruined your moment with Zendaya.”

“It’s alright, Jade,” you ruffled her hair. “You actually saved me.”

“No,” she argued gently, “you need to tell her. You need to tell her, or you’ll never become prom queen, Y/N.”

“Okay, Jade, whatever you say,” you chuckled. “Sleep time now.”

“Mmkay,” she said as she curled into her blankets. With an amused shake of your head, you kissed your friend’s forehead and left her room.

After plugging your phone in, you settled onto the couch with one of the blankets Jade hoarded for her couch. As you were drifting off to sleep, you shot straight up and snatched your phone from the table.

“It’s not your fault,” you typed out to Zendaya, “you do deserve an explanation, I just don’t know when I’ll be able to give it.” Then, after brief hesitation, you also sent, “I hope you sleep well, Z.”

Satisfied that you actually remembered to reply after dealing with a drunken Jade, you leaned back into the couch and fell asleep peacefully.

You woke up the next morning to a pounding on the front door and a weight on your chest. A loud purring vibrated through your chest and you saw that, of course, Cyborg was curled on your chest, content as can be. His eye was squinted shut in happiness, but it popped open as the knocking on the door picked up again.

“Okay, kit-kat,” you announced with sleep in your voice as you sat up. Holding the cat in your arms, you padded to the front door and looked out the peephole.

Standing on Jade’s porch was Zendaya, looking incredibly well-put-together for what was apparently 7:30 a.m. Her hair was tied back, she wasn’t wearing any makeup, and seeing her there made your heart pound in both a good way and a bad way.

Opening the door after maneuvering Cyborg as if you were cradling a piece of luggage with one arm, you said, “Zendaya, what are you doing here?”

“I got your text last night,” she explained as you let her in. Cyborg meowed from his comfortably limp place under your arm. “Who’s this?”

“Cyborg, Jade’s cat,” you replied, holding him up. He meowed loudly. “Haven’t you met him? Jade said you’ve visited before.”

Zendaya scratched the cat’s head and shrugged a shoulder. “I think he was in the hospital that night, getting the rest of his eye removed.”

You nodded in understanding before putting the cat on the ground. He wound around your legs and mewed softly. Looking up at Zendaya, you saw that she looked conflicted.

“Can we sit?” she asked, gesturing to the couch.

“Sure thing,” you said easily, picking the cat up again as you plopped on the couch. Zendaya sat down at the other end and pulled her knees to her chest.

“I’m gonna level with you,” she stated almost immediately. “I just… can’t get you out of my mind, and I don’t know why.”

“O-oh?” you asked, translating your nerves into petting the cat that was curled in your lap and purring like crazy.

“Yeah,” Zendaya said flatly, the confusion lacing her tone. She let out a growl as she ran her hands over her head. “I just don’t understand why, why you’re so enchanting to me.” She yanked her hair tie out of her hair. “Like, even when I’m not around you, I’m thinking about you, about what you’re doing, about if you’re smiling or not. I’ve never… never thought about someone like this before.”

“I… I’m really not that special,” you admitted with a half-smile and one shoulder shrug. Cyborg meowed as you stopped petting him, prompting you to continue.

“You are, though!” Zendaya said passionately. “You are just so bright and smart and clever and sweet and fuck, I don’t know! You’re just wonderful and,” she suddenly leaned closer to you, “and I feel like you feel a lot of the same things about me.

“When I noticed that other people touch you, but you always shy away from me, I had no idea I’d get so frustrated. I started testing it, you know… Every time you shied away from me, I got more and more hurt, more and more frustrated. And I can’t figure out why it bugs me so much. All I can think is… that you’re something special. There’s something about you, something that you won’t tell me about, but I want to know… I need to know.”

Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears as you ran your fingers through Cyborg’s long fur. You couldn’t look her in the eye because you knew that once you did, you wouldn’t be able to keep the secret anymore.

It’s what she wants.

“Y/N,” her gentle voice prompted you. “Please, talk to me.”

You swallowed nervously. “I,” your voice was dry as your mind and soul fought in the most intense boxing match of the century, “I’m worried that… if you know… you’ll hate me. That… That you won’t want anything to do with me.”

“Oh, Y/N,” she murmured your name. “Nothing about you could ever make me hate you. Please, just, just tell me what it is.”

You opened your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again.

“Y/N, is your ass still here?” Jade’s loud voice demanded from the hallway. “If you took an Uber home, I’m gonna be so mad—” she cut off as she entered the living room and saw you and Zendaya on the couch.

“Hi, Jade,” Zendaya greeted awkwardly.

“Fuck,” Jade said plainly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I fucked it up again, didn’t I?” Her eyes, wide with panic, locked with yours. “Fuck, did I interrupt?”

“Yeah, Jade,” you informed her, “yeah, you did.”

“But, I mean, this is your house,” Zendaya added.

“That’s true,” you nodded, “it is your house.”

“Shit,” Jade whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt the whole confession again, I’m so sorry—”

“Jade!” you interrupted her, your eyes wide.

“R-right,” she muttered, taking a step back.

“How about we go onto the porch?” you offered to Zendaya.

“Y-yeah,” she seemed confused at your loud interruption. You rarely raised your voice like that; hell, you barely yelled across set.

You got up and dumped Cyborg’s relaxed body into Jade’s arms before nearly marching to the front porch. Zendaya followed a few steps behind you, still surprised at your abrupt, almost irritated actions.

You plopped into a chair and rested your arm on the armrest, laying your head into it. Under your breath, you muttered, “Fucking Jade and her shitty-ass timing…”

Zendaya laughed at your words, making you glance up as she sat on the porch swing. Jade was lucky with the house she had bought; she’d told you that it had needed a lot of work, but because of that, the price had been incredibly cheap for an LA suburb.

“Sit with me on the swing?” Zendaya asked hesitantly.

You hesitated slightly before nodding, getting up and sitting down on the swing. You internally winced as you felt like your weight made it creak almost ominously.

“So,” Zendaya prompted a bit nervously, “you were saying?”

#zendaya x plus size reader #zendaya x reader #zendaya coleman x reader #zendaya coleman x plus size reader #keep it secret fic #reader insert #plus size reader #please let me know what you think

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epizkage · 5 years ago

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the first chapter of my good omens fic! its a uni au, the main ship is ineffable bureaucracy but there is also background ineffable husbands, hastur/ligur, and maybe future dagon/michael! i’ll be uploading this to ao3 tomorrow, as well as uploading a page of sketches for each chapter both on here and on my art insta. thank you for reading, im grateful for any feedback at all!! tagging as #ineffable neighbours on all platforms!! (here, ao3 and instagram!)

“Crowley, what the fuck?” Bee groaned, incredulous, as Crowley handed them another houseplant through the car window. They were sat in the passenger seat, knees near enough at their chest with how far forward the seat had been pushed, their lap and arms already full of plants which they may as well have been juggling in trying to make room for more.

“I have to bring all of them, Bee, they’ll be lonely if I don’t.” Crowley answered sincerely, handing them another, which Bee shoved rather frustratedly into one of the cupholders by the gear stick.

"Oh, don't worry about me-" Bee huffed sarcastically, taking the tray of mini cacti that Crowley handed them and sliding it onto the dashboard. "-I'll just be a fucking shelf, shall I? It's not like I wanted to say goodbye to our mothers or anything."

"Language, Bee!" Came their mum's joking voice, though from where Bee couldn't quite tell, their peripheral vision on both sides blocked by leaves and greenery.

"Yeah, Bee, language." Crowley mimicked petulantly, having the gall to try and hand them one last plant through the window only to be stopped by a string of very colourful curse words. Bee managed, after a lot of growling and swearing and heightening claustrophobia, to transplant the innumerable pots into the vacant driver's seat, swinging the car door open with enough vigour to nearly hit Crowley as they made their escape.

The tiny battered car was stuffed to the brim, back seats folded down to make room for two lots of possessions, Crowley and Bee's lives packed up into boxes and stacked in the world's most audacious game of Tetris, scraping the roof and blocking the back window entirely; sure to make Crowley's already terrible driving even worse.

"Arsehole." Bee scowled, stepping back from the car to join their parents on the pavement, all watching and doing nothing to help as Crowley attempted to strap a way-too-big suitcase to the roof.

"Don't call your brother an arsehole, dear." Their mama said jovially, nudging them in the side.

"He is a bit of one, though." Replied their mum - the other one - coming up to their other side. Bee smirked at the two of them, and busied themselves with rolling a cigarette.

"Oi!" Crowley called, turning to throw them all a faux-offended pout, ignoring the suitcase for just long enough for it to start sliding off the roof. At the sight of him frantically trying to stop it from either hitting the ground or smashing one of the car windows, Bee choked on a laugh and dropped the filter they'd been holding between their lips, figuring it was karma for laughing as Mama rushed to Crowley's aid.

"You could help, you know, dear sibling." Crowley yelled, way too loud for a quiet, late September morning, as he tightened the straps on the makeshift roof rack. The neighbours, inevitably, would talk amongst themselves - middle class businessmen asking "oh, aren't you glad that those bastard kids are finally going back to uni?" over a neat and orderly breakfast, wives responding "I never did understand them anyway, Karen mentioned Satanic witchcraft, but really I think they're just hippies." Maybe they'd even pop round with fake neighbourly intent, presenting the couple with a rehearsed spiel of "my Sophie left for uni again a few weeks ago, you don't appreciate the alone time until they come back!" and a horrid fake laugh when really all they were trying to do was nosey around and determine whether their neighbours were lesbians or just really good friends.

Really good friends, who shared a surname, raised children together, and held a garden party last year to renew their vows.

Bee ignored him and sparked up their cigarette. Both mothers shared a glance and rolled their eyes, and Crowley rounded the car to lean against it.

"Is that everything?"

Bee nodded through an exhale of smoke, and suddenly their parents had zoned in on them, Crowley being dragged into their huddle while Bee was made to extinguish their cigarette.

"Oh, we'll miss you, horrible children." Their mum laughed, pulling both Bee and Crowley into a tight hug and kissing them both, Bee on the crown of their head and Crowley on the cheek, before passing them off for Mama to do the same.

"We'll miss you both too." Crowley replied, his smile showing clearly all of the anxiety he was trying to keep hidden.

"Don't worry, kiddo-" Bee slapped him on the back as they spoke, a rare moment of genuine and open kindness flashing between them and making their mothers smile from ear to ear. "-Everyone's nice, you know that."

It was Crowley’s first year while Bee was going into their second, and Crowley was to move in with Bee and their friends that they’d met last year. Crowley had met them all before, too, even considering them friends of his own after spending a lot of time at Bee’s flat, though nothing could help keep the anxiety at bay.

Truth be told, the poor kid looked like he might cry, and so with a sigh Bee decided to take control.

“Come on, we gotta go, I’ve got all the keys and I don’t want Hastur or Dagon tearing into me for making them wait.”

Crowley looked understandably dejected, but nodded nonetheless, and with one last long family hug the two bundled into the car.

Bee got in first, bringing all of the plants back into their lap to make room for Crowley, who soon after slid into the driver’s seat, hands balled into fists on his thighs as he took a deep breath.

“It’ll be okay, kid.” Bee tried to be reassuring despite their voice sounding bored and their face being almost entirely blocked by plants, but Crowley smiled at them anyway.

“I know, it’ll just be weird to be so far away.”

Bee nodded with a hum, both of them waving goodbye to their mothers, before they set off for their new house-

-which was fifteen minutes away, in the city. ~

Crowley and Bee had managed to unpack the car and near enough move everything in before the first of their housemates even showed up, perfectly chaotic and exactly at the wrong time, as Crowley battled to fit the giant suitcase through the front door while Bee laid on the sofa and did nothing to help.

Her arrival was made known by three things: the sound of Britney Spears’ ‘Womanizer’ muffled through car windows and getting ominously closer until coming to a head as she pulled up, a crash as the aforementioned car hit the lamp post outside the house, and then a loud, blunt exclamation of “fuck.”

“Ah, Dagon’s here.”

She ran out of the car, leaving the engine on, door open and music still blasting, and gave Crowley a hard clap on the shoulder as she pushed past him and threw herself into Bee’s lap, only to be promptly deposited onto the floor.

“Aren’t you guys buzzed?” She grinned, red hair messy and falling into her face, partially covered by a black baseball cap that said “women want me, fish fear me” on the front.

“I was until you got here.” Bee fired back playfully, snatching the hat from Dagon’s head and shoving it on their own. It was way too big and the peak fell down over their eyes every time they moved, and they readjusted the size, quite intent on wearing it for the rest of the night, as they got up to help Dagon unpack her car.

Dagon had brought with her far too much of what she didn’t need and far too little of what she did; half of her car being taken up by a giant fish tank (“I’m going back home tomorrow to get them, I hope they don’t miss me too much.”) while the tiny suitcase on her passenger seat apparently held all of her clothes for the year. The music, still Britney Spears, was only turned off once Dagon had unloaded the car completely (as Bee and Crowley had discovered, she had created a playlist of every single Britney Spears song on Spotify), by which point many of the neighbours had already given them some rather distasteful looks from behind their net curtains.

With the playlist blaring again, now through a speaker upon Dagon’s insistence, the three of them had split up to investigate the house. The outside was irregular and dirty-white, made complete by a wooden door with chipped black paint and a half shiny, half rusted number six nailed to the wall. The inside was no better, old carpets and ragged papering complimenting holes in the plaster and rusty radiator pipes.

None of them had even bothered to look around the place before signing the contracts - an offer of cheap rent and ‘satisfactory’ facilities more than enough to sway them.

Bee had taken to the garden, itching for nicotine, and they extracted a cigarette from behind their ear, scattering loose tobacco through their mess of black hair and making no effort to even acknowledge it, let alone remove it.

The garden was small, narrow and void of greenery completely, except from a pitiful looking tree that looked more like a long twig that had been plunged into a patch of gravel than anything that had ever been remotely alive. The ground was plain concrete, mossy and damp and unappealing in every sense, resembling an alleyway more so than a garden. Bee thought it crunched nicely beneath their thick-soled boots as they walked, and that was enough for them.

They hopped up onto the shoddy brick wall that ran the length of the garden fence, almost barreling straight into the tree-that-once-was, and once they’d found their footing they paused to light their cigarette.

Crowley would be sure to try and bring the thing back to life, of that they were certain.

Eyeing the fence, Bee was sure that it would fall down before the year was up, what with the rot and knot-marks and holes between the panels; and they suppressed a laugh at the death-rattle it gave when they kicked it. They spared a glance over into their neighbour’s garden, and then their nosiness overcame them and they draped their arms over the fence entirely, wrinkling their nose a little at how nice next door seemed in comparison.

It was a wide, open space and the tiles on the ground looked brand new and almost shone under the early afternoon sun. Bee didn’t feel in the least bit bad about dropping cigarette ash all over them. In the middle was a patch of neat green grass, in the far corner a russet-painted shed, and the entire back fence was painted with a sunset-inspired mural.

Inside the house Bee saw a lone girl, busy packing things away into the wall units in the kitchen. Bee found themselves very intrigued, her deep brown skin flawless and shining with a rich gold highlighter that caught the sun every time she moved, and she wore a loose, ruffled white shirt that flowed with her movements and made her look like an angel.

For someone so seemingly put-together, she’d sure picked a rough neighbourhood to live in.

Bee stopped staring, then, and as they turned to duck down behind the fence to finish their cigarette they met eyes with Crowley, making his way out of the back door to join them.

“Dagon’s setting up her tank," He waved vaguely behind him as he spoke, up on his tiptoes to peer eagerly over the fence.

"What's next door like?"

"Nice." Bee replied genuinely with a nod, waiting for Crowley's hum of approval before continuing. "When's your boy moving in?"

Crowley choked, and Bee snickered when his face flushed almost as red as his hair.

He had started dating a boy named Aziraphale, though Crowley would only ever call him Ezra, Zira, or Angel, over the summer, having met online and hit it off in a fresher's group chat for their university.

"Weird name." Bee had commented, and then had immediately taken it back upon remembering that their legal name had very nearly been Beelzebub.

The two had met up a few times, and soon become an official item. Bee could still vividly remember the absolute joy on Crowley's face when he'd found out that, arguably through some sort of divine intervention, Zira would be living just next door when term time started.

Who else he was living with, however, Bee and Crowley hadn't the faintest. All Zira had said was that there were four of them, two second years and two first years, and all of them had met through family friends, university societies and extra curricular youth groups. Nerds.

"Uh, h-he-" Crowley cleared his throat, removing his sunglasses as if it'd help him think better, brown eyes so light they almost shone yellow darting this way and that but never meeting Bee's own. "-He should be here tomorrow, or the day after."

Bee smirked at him, quirking an eyebrow.

"You'll have to introduce us.”

Crowley very quickly brushed it off with an awkward nod.

“What do you think the rest of ‘em will be like?”

Bee finished their cigarette and stubbed out the end on the wall, little ashy embers flying back at them as they flicked the filter in the general direction of the drain by the back door.

‘Get something to put your dock ends in-’ Bee reminded themselves as they followed Crowley back through to the living room. ‘-Asshole. Think of the planet.’

“Insufferable, probably.” Bee shrugged, leaning back against the sofa and crossing one leg over their knee, their foot beginning to twitch and shake out of habit. They decided not to mention the girl they’d seen in the kitchen, knowing full well that Crowley would mislay the information to Dagon, who in turn would mislay it to Hastur, over-exaggerated and not at all true stories of Bee and the mystery girl somehow being an item forming from nothing more than boredom and a need for drama.

“Yeah, probably.” Crowley’s reply was half-hearted, paying no real attention as he instead stared down at his phone.

“Zira likes them, though, so I’m sure they’re nice enough.”

Bee made no effort to reply, but if they had, it would’ve been cut off. First by a crash, followed immediately by the second customary exclamation of “fuck” of the day.

It was beginning to feel like home already.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #ineffable neighbours #my writing

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