#A fraction of a millimeter crooked and it's fucked

[cripplecryptid]

MADE AN APPOINTMENT FOR A VERTICAL LABRET!!!!!!!!!!

[heli0s-writes]

II. Silverline

Summary: And suddenly, it feels like he’s watching himself from the corner of the room. Like he’s floating overhead and he can see the past and present and future and the impending sense of doom that is always hovering over this truly fucked affair. Steve knows this can’t happen again. It’s got to be the last time—it does.

Warnings: Rough sex, Steve marinating in his many feelings, language, etc.

A/n: I’m a whole year late but here it is. We’re working up to some Sad Hours but until then, look at that, more angry sex. 3.2k words. Thanks for reading and waiting and sorry!

A History of Touch Masterpost

Most people don’t give Steve enough credit. They take one look at him—all big and blonde—and they forget: Captain America may be a steel bruiser on the outside but he’s wicked smart, too.

He’s a master tactician, priding himself on the ability to fluently run point. He knows all the entrances and exits, where to duck in a firefight, where to move all the chess pieces down to the millimeter— the split atom second. He knows the plays, runs them like nothing in his head.

Granted, this only works when the pieces follow directions, and he’s got one shitty rook that won’t stop fucking up his day.

“Great,” he mutters between clenched teeth when his aforementioned shitty rook dead-legs the target.

William Sanderson crashes into the nearest blackjack table and looks like he hit his head on the way down. Steve’s suit begins feeling too tight with the way his chest burns.

What is it about undercover do you not understand?

“Uh-oh, Cap. You wanna get that or should I?” Sam crackles in his ear. “Nevermind, you know what? Sit tight, because if you go in, I’m not sure who you’re gonna take out.”

Steve shoots his gaze back to the table where the target’s gone.

He’s a fraction flustered before he goes back to restrained and spots Sanderson next to the door, fumbling for the handle, walking crooked.

“Hey—” you whisper through the commlink, “Four minutes down the hall and window’s closing. Make it snappy, Cappy.”

Steve pencils in snapping you into eighteen pieces when he gets back to the tower, but after he scales window and gets all the intel he needed and some, he briefly thinks at least the rook knocked out a piece on the other side—no matter how sloppily.

-

Apparently, fudging command even though you shaved off about five more hours of inhaling second-hand cigar smoke still isn’t recognized as a completely legitimate way to end a mission. Sanderson was supposed to be tailed, not concussed. He was supposed to be intimidated into revealing coordinates afterwards, not hung by his necktie over the disabled restroom stall.

Fury reamed you out on speakerphone and gave Steve specific instructions to make your night hell. And boy, did he find pure, unadulterated joy in dishing out that order.

Of course he did. He’s gotten way worse lately.

You stare at the pile before your feet: the team’s entire arsenal and a heap of microfiber rags. Sam’s wings; Natasha’s batons; one terrifying spool of grade-A-will-fuck-you-up-choke-out wire caked in blood; a mountain of semi-automatics because one particular teammate with no hobbies and a metal arm has approximately seventy of them.

Groaning, you begin work on a certain other weapon. Your shorts are rolled up high on your thighs, the hem of a worn sleeping shirt pulled up and bunched at your waist, smeared with gun oil and grease.

The steel wool in your hand slips under your weight before you can catch it.

“Guh!”

Your palm slides off Steve’s shield, elbow landing on a just-polished white stripe, funny bone knocked into and your entire left side feels like someone shut it off. You slump over it defeatedly, cursing out the sadistic superior who charged you to this slow death in the first place.

Between the wooly TV static eating through your fingertips and the blind frustration, you don’t notice his figure in the doorway.

“Missed a spot,” he says, having watched long enough to know exactly where you missed a spot. You jump when the toe of his shoe taps your thigh beneath the stitching of your shorts, inappropriately close to your ass.

“What do you want?” A weak swat at him behind your back, “Got another thing for me to do tonight?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

You twist around, still prone on all fours, cautious. “What?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says again, like you’re stupid.

Steve repeats the same motion with his shoe except this time, on the inside of your thighs, wedging them apart. The sole leaves granules of dirt between your legs, material catching your skin with its rubber teeth.

You glare, but gradually opening how he wants, goosebumps starting to crawl up your back.

“Right here in the weapons room?”

“What, you prefer it in your room?” He already knows of course you don’t; you’d never desecrate your sleeping space with the bulk of him, same as he’d never with you.

It’s always the couch, the carpet, the dining table. A rental car, once, swerving home from Massachusetts after hitting an old Hydra den, the both of you snarling at each other before Steve peeled off into an abandoned parking lot and pushed his seat back as far as it could go. All the words he wanted to scream disappeared, sated by the way you worked yourself over the gear shift and on top of him, cursing at him, then soon enough cursing through a few whimpers.

He’s got no tactics when it comes to you. No game plan other than when his dick’s up and needs a tight grip. It’s up tonight, needy and throbbing, an itch to be scratched, an anger to be soothed.

“You know what your problem is, Rogers? Everything’s gotta be just perfect. You should try being useless sometimes. Unclench your painfully tight ass and take the day how it comes.”

“Like you?” A huff of air, “Free concussions for everybody.” He leans forward, knee coming down slow until his shin is on the small of your back.

“Exactly.”

Steve places his palm between your tensed shoulder blades. A thrust from his hand and your knees give, chest landing down on his shield, face shoved into carpet. He finds the waistband of your shorts, tucks his fingers inside the elastic of your underwear, and tugs them both until they pool at your calves.

His other fingers go inside his cheek, licked slippery with ease. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Admit you’re charmed, Rogers. I’ll keep your secret.” You’ve put your face in the crook of your elbow, both arms folded together into a makeshift pillow. You laugh cheerlessly, hide your eyes because he knows it’s much too close to a conversation he’s not ready to have.

It’s one of his worse secret to keep—you and him and the transgression past professionalism, past contentious co-workers. Way past the one night and an ill-tempered mistake all those weeks ago. How did it happen again? Why? Other than that it feels good, hurts good— uncomplicated, in a way.

That’s all Steve wants. Un-fucking-complicated or as close to it as he can get. Wet. Warm. Nothing he’s committed to sustaining other than rhythm, and he’ll stop investigating the foxholes of how and why there.

His middle finger plunges to the knuckle and he swallows thickly at the sight. Two slow rubs and you’re jerking back, arching for more. He takes his time with it, feeling hot flesh, soft ridges of muscle sucking his finger in, your knees inching toward each other and thighs squeezed tight.

He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans with the kind of deft speed only someone who’s been doing this habitually would know. Just a flick of a thumb, a yank at a belt loop and he slides to the hilt home.

“Oh, fuck you.” You back curves, shoulders rolling out tension.

“Right,” he responds, one hand on the back of your neck, moving your head away and straightening you out because at this point he knows what angle he wants. You go ragdoll limp—tired, easy, pliant. Liquid fire around him.

He says calmly, “Take it how I give it to you,” and realizes it comes out more like a growl. Makes himself frown.

He doesn’t even sound like himself. His voice. His breath. The sound his body makes meeting yours. It all rushes out in a torrent. Filthy, dirty promises and threats of what he’ll do to you if you keep pissing him off. But he’s not lying.

He watches your throat constrict inside his hand, pulsing a slow breath upward into your mouth. He doesn’t know what he feels next, the line of appropriate retaliation smudged now so severely that punishment and reward seem nearly the same.

He’s holding tighter now, same as he always does when he’s close. Starts handling you thoughtlessly, only wanting one simple thing. Uncomplicated. Silence. An orgasm so his brain can stop spinning so fast and so angry.

He is getting too reckless. Right here in the weapons room? If someone walks by— he shudders out a gasp. If someone walks by like this— sees him, sees you, sees that face you make when he takes you apart—the way your mouth opens like you’d whimper or yell, but sated—blissed out, wrecked to speechlessness, sex drunk on him.

Oh. You’d be so embarrassed and guilty and he could just… reach out and grab your chin, turn your head until you were facing them and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself. He’d keep fucking you through it, keep crashing into you, slamming and slamming and the thought of all that, of how helpless and turned on you’d be right on the edge of it, how you’d want to make yourself stop feeling so good, so fucked out, but that you wouldn’t be able to for even a second—you wouldn’t be able to stop anything.

And it’s that, isn’t it, that keeps him going back to this. That finally, finally, after all the damn headaches you’ve given him, despite his best efforts to be apathetic and unaffected around you, this is how he’ll give it back. Fucking karmic—perfect. You can piss him off all you want, you’ll still take off your clothes for him, still let him screw you senseless, leave you quivering wherever he chooses leaves you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts, hand big and around your throat. “Goddammit.”

He feels it burrowing— so close—with the returned throb in the apex of his chest. You’re writhing, grabbing for a tether, sweating on his shield, the side of your face pushed against red and white, hair reflecting in silver. Pretty and compliant and easy.

Everything pulses for a second into white. The sight of the room, the arsenal of weapons, your fingers digging into the floor—it’s all there, but he can’t register it. There’s only the ache in his muscles from tensing up for so long, pushed along further and further by the raw desire to get his hands in you and unravel you.

It’s only a split second that stretches into eternity. He loves this part:

The tautness of your cunt suctioning around his cock. The way the stretch of skin looks— smudged with arousal, leaving streaks so pretty all over him. Sometimes he jerks himself off like that, fingers around the inches he pulls out of you while letting his head throb inside, rolling his hips just only just, watching you squirm and beg and shimmy for more. Pushing your tits together with your hands, opening your mouth for his fingers—for anything.

Steve pulls out, gets his fist around himself, and pumps long, sticky lines onto the small of your back, spilling hot and wet and raspy-pleased.

“Look at what you—nnngh—made me do.” His hand is still stroking as he grits his teeth then pulls his lip between them until it hurts. He squeezes the final drop out, watching it smear over your skin and mix into a sheen of sweat.

And then, eternity passes.

It’s just the weapons room again. It’s just you, overheated and panting atop his shield, splayed over the concentric circles and stars and battered in gun oil and come, trying to keep your legs from shaking, keep your eyes from instinctively finding his.

There’s no more fantasy of being walked in on, no more uncontrollable desire for stimulation, no more ache to fuck.

And suddenly, it feels like he’s watching himself from the corner of the room. Like he’s floating overhead and he can see the past and present and future and the impending sense of doom that is always hovering over this truly fucked affair.

Steve knows this can’t happen again. It’s got to be the last time—it does.

He breathes in, shame taking residence in his chest.

“Fuck,” Steve says, frustrated. Even though you’re the one sprawled out on the shield, wrecked, dazed, curved over it like you’re protecting something sacred. “Fuck,” he says again, helpless this time. “Look what you made me fucking do.”

-

“Why’re you so keen on pushing him?” Bucky asks later, around the same time you’re still thinking about Steve going look what you made me do, with equal measures of pride and remorse.

Poor Bucky’s patient as ever, a serenely placid lake even as he’s caught between two storms. He takes it well enough most days, letting the fumes of thunderous arguments and bared teeth roll off his back, flapping his hand amiably saying, alright, time-out for the both of you. Go on, kids, get.

You rub your eyes and yawn, shifting until the dull throb between your legs settles. Finding no better answer than the shortest one.

“He deserves it.”

“Really.” Bucky blinks, unfazed. “Deserves you being a gigantic pain in his keister?”

“He’s a gigantic pain in mine.”

“How old are you again?”

You pout, then scrub at your hairline in exasperation.

It was meant to be good simple fun. Good Boy Cap was a national treasure, saved the world twice over and you were just a bright-eyed recruit finding yourself perplexed at why your childhood hero couldn’t bother to spare a real laugh or a smile—like he’d only partially thawed.

You wanted to tease the stiff, get his panties in a knot a little, watch him crack a smile—but he never did. So you stubbornly kept going until it became both habit and spite.

It’s not like you had a plan or ever thought that once you got to the top of Mt. Capsicle, he’d bend you over and ride you all the way down. Or that you expected how when he’s railing you that sometimes he does crack open— just a little— and you get to see the thing you wanted in the first place. For a few seconds he stops wearing that awful veneer and shows you his teeth—that ugly, human side he pretends he doesn’t have.

And for those few seconds when he splits into his barest parts, you feel fond of him.

Your chest hurts a little, and you chalk it up to being slammed down into the shield earlier, the pristine star some kind of ironic symbol sent from god as you bounced on it.

“Sweetheart, listen,” you urge sarcastically, “and keep up.”

Bucky leans his jawline into his fist, rolling his eyes. “Sure.”

“You ever buy a phone charger somewhere and at first, it seems legit? Looks just like your factory-made one with the logo and all. So, you buy it, you plug it in and there’s obviously something wrong with it. It doesn’t charge as fast; you have to wiggle the cord once in a while, and it’s well enough to where you don’t mind much— a perfectly serviceable item— but you just wish it said so in the first place.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, head slightly nodding along as if he’s retracing your proposal step by step. “You think he’s… broken? And what, falsely advertising not being?”

“Hell yeah,” you confirm, “He’s messed up. Even worse than you because at least you admit you need a hand most days. You’re staying at the facility, aren’t you? Why doesn’t he do the same thing. What’s so hard about asking for help?”

Buck starts chewing lightly on the corner of his lip, looking at his hands, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes growing. “You think he’s ever asked anyone for help?”

You only make a noncommittal noise and open the paperback in your lap, because of course Steve wouldn’t. He only knows how to build walls, forgets they’re breakable, forgets he is too. But what do you know about it, considering you’ve been supplying him with bricks?

“Tell him something, won’t you? He needs to… I don’t know.”

Bucky echoes the same exasperated sound, tilting closer now to peek at the words, breath warm and sad. “You think he’s ever listened to me?” Then, he sighs, looking to immediately end the conversation and settling with, “That looks good—can you read it out loud?”

“It’s kind of a depressing book.”

“Yeah, well, I got therapy to sort me out afterwards, don’t I?”

It’s not a happy story, like you warned. The boys seem to be in the middle of a terrible coming of age, fumbling with their identities, protecting themselves against the universe and sometimes from each other. Lovely words, though. Soothing, beautiful phrases, but then there are shocks of violence that make him pause and ask you to go back, for context, or explanation, trying to catch up with the forty pages he’s already missed until he’s too invested but now you’re nodding off, stretching your neck, words slurring to a stop.

When Steve drops in to say goodbye, Bucky’s fixing a chevron blanket over your shoulders. He rubs his eyes absently and rolls his shoulders before he notices Steve.

“Remind me to never piss you off,” Bucky jokes, “Girl’s beat. Fell asleep reading this thing—" he gingerly picks up the novel, flipping it front to back, blue cover catching the light. “Some story about… I’m still trying to figure, but I learned a new word: towhead. Means blond.”

“Huh,” Steve says.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. ‘Course, Buck. Why wouldn’t I be?” But Bucky only shrugs, kicking his foot at the carpet distractedly.  

“I’m not looking to get on your bad side, Stevie. Just think it wouldn’t kill you to give her a little more credit.” Bucky presses the nailbed of his middle finger to his thumbprint, leaning down until he’s wound up all that potential energy in a flick to your forehead. “Heavy sleeper, though. Reminds me of someone.” He throw Steve a lopsided grin, eyes mischievous and alight, “All the glass breaking in the world couldn’t stir you. Kettle would be going. Nothin.”

Steve was awake, all those times, and just pretending not to be. Under the covers because it was too cold to get up some mornings, mostly because Bucky was better at making the coffee and he liked the way it’d smell up the whole tiny apartment they shared. The spoon clink-clink-clinking over to his head before Bucky would finally yank the moth-eaten sheet down, laughing.

Up and at ‘em, Rogers. Nine-thirty’s no respectable time for a man to start the day.

Steve would wipe his eyes, stretch, and take the mug out of Buck’s hand, smiling.

“Up and at ‘em,” Bucky says now, but he’s not looking at Steve. He’s peering at the chevron and the mess of hair underneath. “Hobble off to bed, sweetheart.”

He kicks lightly when you’re unresponsive, and then a fraction harder until you stir enough to grouse at him.

“Leave me alone, jerk.” You pull the blanket back over your eyes but Bucky’s not having any of it, wrestling the covers off, patting your shoulder and arms until you stumble up, eyes still shut. You sway absently before slumping over Bucky’s back. “You’re not very comfortable.”

All he does is grin.

Steve looks on mutely, feels himself floating again, watching himself again, drifting further and further away.

[avegetariancannibal]

“Je me souviens”

PLEASE NOTE: There is character death below. But life after that, as well.

Hannibal was no longer aging.

Will pointed it out to him one day when they were walking through the market and had stopped in front of a shop window.

"Look at us," Will said, looping his arm through Hannibal's. He nodded at their reflection. "When did I catch you?"

"The moment we met," Hannibal told him.

Will laughed and elbowed him playfully. "I mean my hair is as gray as yours now. When did I catch up to you? You look just the same."

“There’s a plateau when it comes to aging,” Hannibal said as they resumed their walk through the bustling market, still arm in arm. “A man of fifty looks quite different from a man of forty, but a man of fifty could be the twin of man aged sixty years. It is like a period of idling, when the face, hair and body are deciding just how quickly they want to barrel towards complete entropy.”

"By my count, you're sixty-four now," Will said. "That's past the idling stage."

"Am I?" Hannibal asked, genuinely surprised. "I suppose I stopped counting. That means you owe me a rather sizable backlog of birthday gifts. I can't remember getting even one from you."

"You said you had everything you could ever want," Will reminded him. He lowered his voice. "The night we killed the Dragon together."

"So I did," Hannibal agreed. "No birthday gifts ever, then?"

"Perhaps one," Will said, moving to step around in front of him and press a kiss to his lips. He winked and added, "Young man."

***

Of course, he didn't believe at first that he'd stopped aging. Everything aged. Even diamonds would eventually degrade to graphite. But one night, as Will lay sleeping beside him, he had to consider it. Will was as beautiful to all of Hannibal's senses as he ever was, but no longer appeared to be his junior. If anything, a stranger might deem Will the older of them both.

If he had to make an estimate, he would say he'd stopped aging some time after he was arrested. He might have been fifty-one when it---whatever “it” was---happened. He might have been a bit older. If he were still a practicing doctor, or had access to one he trusted, he could perform tests. A bone density screening might have given him some clue, or not. He didn’t have quite the scientific curiosity he once did.

What he had was Will, and that was infinitely better.

***

Twenty-two years and just over four months passed from the day of his realization to the day he had to keep vigil at Will’s bedside.

"You're not going to fight off the Grim Reaper," Will said. His hand was so small and frail as Hannibal held it between his own. "I'm going to die in this terribly boring, usual way."

"Nonsense," Hannibal said. "You'll live forever."

"In your memory palace," Will said, rolling his pale eyes. Sarcastic even then.

"I can't guarantee there's an afterlife," Hannibal said. "So I'll have to live forever and keep you. What is a soul but the memories we hold inside us?"

Will laughed until he began to cough. Hannibal moved to fetch the oxygen mask, but Will waved it away.

"Imagine me as a young man," Will said when he'd caught his breath again. "Leave this rickety old body in the past where it belongs."

"I love your rickety old body," Hannibal said. "I love every possible iteration of your body because it is yours."

Again, a roll of the eyes. "As a favor to me, then. I want to be thirty-nine or forty again. And get rid of this forehead scar, would you? That's the one I never cared for."

Hannibal brought Will's hand to his face and kissed his knuckles. "Shall I keep the belly scar? Or only the ones we sustained together as we killed the Dragon?"

"I'll leave it up to you," Will said. "One last birthday gift... from me to you."

Hannibal crawled into bed beside him, careful not to jostle him too much, and lay his head on the bird-thin breast that shuddered with every weakened heartbeat. Will started to make a joke about being in bed with a much younger man, but gave a sharp little gasp before he could finish it, and then nothing else.

***

The world shifts. 

Hannibal's world shifts. He lives only in the present tense now.

He takes Will's ashes to Giardino delle Rose and pays a gardener to look the other way when he buries them under the feet of Folon's sculpture of a man seated at a bench.

Will appears beside him, young again and dressed unseasonably in a heavy winter coat. He looks around, squinting at the mountains in the distance, then at the sculpture.

"So this is Florence," he says. The sun is bright and golden on his face. There is no scar on his brow. "Wish you'd brought me when I was actually alive."

"I thought we had more time," Hannibal says. When regret wells up, he pushes it back down and focuses again on the now. "This garden is an old favorite of mine. Inspired by French gardens of the 1800s, yet not so antique that it didn't welcome a Japanese oasis designed by the architect Yasuo Kitayama."

Will nudges the sculpture's foot with his own. "And this guy?"

"A piece titled Je me souviens."

"'I remember,'" Will translates. "Very meaningful, you sap."

"I've always been fond of symbolism, as you know," Hannibal says. 

"You could've just tossed my remains in the ocean," Will says. "Or you could've eaten me, as unappetizing as I was. If I'm going to live in your mind, does it really matter?"

"If I'm going to live forever," Hannibal says with a shrug, "it might matter to me someday."

***

For the first hundred years, he shows Will everything he's ever wanted to show him. Some decades and places are more open-minded than others. They hold hands in public when doing so in the flesh would get others chased off the streets or even arrested. They make love in the sanctuary of Hannibal's mind, rutting on chapel floors and up against museum walls, invisible to all but one another. Which isn't so different from how they were together all so long ago.

Over the next hundred years after that, Hannibal finds himself defying his own commandment to live in the present.

Or perhaps it's not so much a defiance, as it is a kind of exercise. He wants to make certain he can still recall the entirety of his past with Will. He wants to know all the details are still there, just where he left them.

He meets Will for the first time all over again. He doesn't allow himself to change a single detail, as tempting as it is to imagine himself reaching out to brush the hair off Will's brow, right there in the middle of Jack Crawford's office.

He also enjoys going back to the night Will confronted him in his kitchen, his eyes cool and dark, hands steady as they held the gun. He wants to ravish Will then and there, bite up and down the length of his throat and be grasped so tightly in return that his flesh bruises. But it wouldn't be true to what actually happened.

He ducks out of the memory and into the autumn woods behind Will's old house. Will is waiting there for him, ankle deep in leaves as he strips out of his clothes. The belly scar is gone, but the scars on his cheek and chest are still there. They fuck so obliviously and for so long that the falling leaves all but bury them.

Afterward they doze side by side until they find their voices again.

"Have you tried to meet anyone else?" Will asks.

"You would know if I had."

"Humor me."

"I haven't and I don't care to. I have you."

"In your mind."

"There's no difference between body and mind. Not for me, or us."

"So, you haven't gotten laid in over two hundred years?"

"Nobody calls it that anymore," Hannibal says. "I find my liaisons with you more than satisfying."

Will laughs up towards the trees. "Surely nobody calls it that, either!"

Hannibal rolls over onto his elbows so he can gaze down into Will's face. His gleaming hair reflects glints of red from the setting sun and his cheeks are ruddy from exertion. His eyes are the darkest slate blue of the cold Atlantic.

"I'm fond of you," Hannibal says.

Will grins up at him. "I should hope so."

"I would forget every piece of music, every work of art, every magnificent landscape I've ever seen just to make room for you in my memory. You may become as expansive as you like. Live dozens or hundreds of lifetimes. I'll remember them all."

Will reaches up to trace Hannibal's mouth with his thumb. "Don't be lonely."

"I couldn’t be," Hannibal says. "I have you."

He bends down to kiss the crooked bridge of Will's nose, crooked precisely to the same degree it was in life because Hannibal remembers him down to a fraction of a millimeter.

"Do you remember my dogs?" Will asks.

"I believe so."

"Can you bring them to me?"

Suddenly six dogs come spilling out from Will's old house, tails high and waving like flags as they bound through the leaves. They tackle Will with slobbery kisses and happy barks. They haven't seen him in centuries. Hannibal conjures a chain of sausages from his memory and hands them to Will for the dogs.

"If this is your afterlife," Hannibal says, "then I suppose it's theirs, as well."

***

More centuries go by. Hannibal spends a much of the time on one beach or another with Will, sometimes with Will's five dogs and sometimes not. They go to Greece and Italy hundreds of times, and Australia, too. They visit Japan often. Once in a while Hannibal brings them to his best approximation of a beach in Florida, as he's never bodily been there.

He also takes Will to rivers and streams where the fishing is good, and he thinks up wonderful catches for him.

"Bring me to Havana again," Will says. "Go there yourself, for real, and bring me with you. Smell the food and hear the music for me, and not just in your memory. Live there for me."

"It doesn't exist outside my mind anymore," Hannibal tells him. "And in the dusty pages of whatever books still survive."

Will frowns. He's up to his hips in the water of some fabricated stream, casting his line in arcs like a spider throwing out a strand of silk. "I notice you don't take me with you into the real world anymore. Is it that bad?"

"Not everywhere," Hannibal says. "There are still beautiful places, centers of some culture. They're simply harder to reach than they once were."

Will smiles at him. "Good thing you have such a good memory, then."

"Good thing," Hannibal agrees.

***

Hannibal meets Will again for the first time in John Crawford's office. They talk about eye contact and building bridges, just as they did a thousand years ago.

"I loved you from the start," Hannibal says, and brushes the hair off Will's forehead.

Will frowns at him. "Is this how it goes?"

Hannibal thinks. He's revisited this memory so many times, turned it over in his mind as he would a pleasingly smooth stone in his palm. Each time, he replays it just as it truly happened.

"It all changed so slowly," Will says. "I bet you don't even remember when my voice started to sound like your own."

Hannibal gets up from his chair and paces the length of the office. John Crawford gives him a quizzical look, so Hannibal dismisses him from the memory.

"You don't remember exactly how my voice sounded," Will says. "You naturally replaced it with your own, over time."

"I only need to focus to bring it back!" Hannibal snaps, louder than he means to. He kneels down at Will's side and takes hold of his hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't lose my temper."

Will smiles down at him. "I've missed arguing with you."

Hannibal bows his head into Will's lap, lets his hair be combed through with gentle fingers. "I'm sorry."

"It's been a thousand years, Hannibal," Will says, his voice mostly his own again. "You've replayed and reenacted every conversation we've ever had, over and over and over again. Not even you can be expected to have a perfect memory after all that time and repetition."

He looks up to meet Will's eyes. "Then what do I do?"

"Revisit the one memory you've been avoiding for ten centuries," Will says. "Revisit the truth."

Hannibal scoffs. “Avoiding? I’ve never been one to run from the truth.”

“Says the man who never went back to his family home,” Will says. “Who is, incidentally, the same guy who jumped on a plane to France after gutting me.”

“I was running from the law.”

Will laughs, but it's not a cruel sound. “Oh, come on. Your memory can't be that bad even now.”

Hannibal stands up and takes Will's hands in his own to pull him to his feet. "Fine. Then tell me where we're going."

"To my grave," Will says.

***

It takes him a little over three weeks to get to Florence, but that's barely any time at all to a man who seems to be living forever. He hasn't ever been back to the precise spot he buried Will, despite his love for the gardens.

Of course the gardens are long gone now. The roses most likely stopped blooming nine centuries ago, or more. Je me souviens is long gone, as well, although there are scraps of what might be bronze in the place that might have been the bench.

He sits amid the rubble and calls forth Will's spirit.

Will gives a low whistle. "Wow. What a dump. It's really fallen apart since last time, and it's hotter, too."

"Have some respect," Hannibal says, gesturing beside him until Will sits. "This is sacred ground, after all."

Will bumps shoulders with him. "Wanna make out? Close your eyes."

He does as he's told and feels Will climb into his lap, feels Will's solid weight settle against him, and feels familiar lips against his own. They kiss under the blazing sun, in afternoon temperatures that anyone still living nearby is wisely avoiding. Hannibal digs through the sedimentary layers of his memory to call forth the smell of the cologne Will used to wear. Instead, he dredges up the salty, metallic tang of blood.

Will pulls back and gives a satisfied sigh. "I only wish we'd done this when I was alive."

Hannibal pushes away the memory of blood and gives him a soft smile. "What, kiss on your grave? I don't think that's the sort of thing one can do when one is still alive."

Will holds his face in his hands, looks deeply into his eyes.  "Oh, Hannibal," he says. His expression is so kind, and so sad. "This isn't my grave, and you know it."

***

The past came rushing back at him like a rising tide and deposited him on the rocky beach far below the bluff house. He spat out a lungful of the Atlantic and picked himself up despite the pain that gripped his body.

He found Will twenty yards away, face down on the rocks. The waves relentlessly came for his legs, reaching a little further with each surge, trying to pull him back into the sea.

Hannibal stumbled toward him, pressing a hand as best he could to the bullet wound in his gut. He was certain his collar bones were broken, and several ribs, but it hardly seemed to matter. If he could just get to Will, everything would be all right again.

He dropped to his knees and forced himself to take a moment to feel around the vertebrae in Will's neck. If anything had broken, moving him could be disastrous. If he had even survived...

Will jolted at his touch and turned onto his side himself. His face was flayed open from his right cheekbone nearly down to his jaw, but he was alive and nothing else mattered.

Hannibal laughed with relief and moved to lay Will's head in his lap. "We're alive," he said. "We're alive together."

"I feel like I'm drowning," Will said, his voice hoarse.

"You've surely taken in some water," Hannibal told him.

Will gave the smallest shake of his head. "No, I---"

Will coughed then and a great quantity of blood came up with it. The smell of it filled Hannibal's senses, as salty and vital as the sea. Hannibal's doctorly calm abandoned him. Panic rose in a spike that made his body feel colder and more numb than even the sea had left it. His hands shook as he pressed them against Will's ribs, exploring.

"I can barely breathe," Will said, his voice little more than a wheeze.

"Your lungs are punctured," Hannibal said. His gaze went to the house far above them. If he could get back up there... "I'll call for help. I'll turn myself in again. Will, I'll get help, you have to hold on."

He started to move, but Will clutched at his hand. "There isn't time for that, Hannibal."

"There's time," Hannibal said. "We have our whole lives ahead of us."

"In hell, perhaps," Will said. He laughed weakly and brought up another cascade of blood. His face was paler than the full moon that watched over them from its loft perch. Still, he managed to smile. "Promise you'll meet me in hell. Or... or heaven, if we even remotely deserve it. Do... do you believe in an afterlife, Hannibal?"

"Not with any degree of certainty," he said. "We live on in the memories of those we leave behind."

"Then one of us will have to live forever," Will said. He winced and gasped as something in his body failed him. "Oh. I don't think that's going to be me."

"You will live," Hannibal said. He brushed the wet hair off Will's brow and held the left side of his face in his palm. He could feel the pulse fading under the pale skin at Will's temple. "I'll give you an entire life---an entire life and an afterlife, as well."

"W-with you in your memory palace?" Will asked.

"If you wish," Hannibal said. "You can grow to be an old man."

Will nodded. "A good, long, boring life, just the two of us sounds...it sounds..."

"He's gone," a voice says behind him. "That was the moment he went. The moment I went? It's all a bit confusing, if you ask me."

Hannibal glances back to see Will, as he looked in his seventies, in the pajamas he'd once conjured for him.

Will settles himself down onto the rocks, sitting beside the body of his younger self and Hannibal.

"I forgot you died then," Hannibal says.

"You didn't forget," Will says. "You ran from it. Don't try to tell me you don't do that, either. You can let him go now."

Hannibal kisses Will on his cold lips, wishing he'd done it just once when Will was still alive, and eases the body out of his lap. It doesn't take long for the frothing waves to reach them, and to take its prize to a watery grave far out to sea.

When Hannibal looks up again, the Will sitting beside him is young. There are no scars on his face. Most of the bluff has long since eroded and there's no sign at all of the house that once perched there.

"Can you bring me my dogs?" Will asks.

A small white terrier with brown ears and a larger, auburn-haired dog appear before them, grinning and wagging their tails. They bound through the shallower edges of the water, splashing each other in some joyous game.

"I know you had more, but those are the only two I remember with any clarity," Hannibal says. "I'm sorry. After a thousand years, the details escape even my mind."

Will calls the dogs over, rubs their heads and scrubs over their fur with his fingers, laughing and happy as if they were truly there.

"We are truly here," Will says. "Or truly enough. If there's no difference between body and mind, then there's no difference between your mind and my body, is there?"

Hannibal leans to the side and rests his head on Will's shoulder. "What happens now?"

Will shrugs. "I dunno. Nobody's ever lived forever before. I guess we'll just find out, won't we?"

"Together?" Hannibal asks.

"Together," Will promises.

-end-

[frejahertziswritingthistime]

Teenage kicks  Chapter 1

A/N: this was a request from @theboundlesssoul – I really loved the idea, so I’m going to make it into a short series (currently I’m thinking it’ll be between 10 and 15 chapters), and I’m really glad you requested it!

I hope you like it!

This story will switch from Deans POV to Readers POV, and flashbacks will be dated.

Remember, I always say yes to requests, and feedback feeds the writer!

Summary:

Dean Winchester has known the reader since they were teenagers, when their fathers went on a hunt together. Dean and the reader never really liked each other, but twenty years later, something seems to have changed.

MASTERLIST 

Pairings: Dean x reader, Sam, Bobby (mentioned), John (mentioned), Castiel

Warnings: Language

DEAN POV

Summer, 1995

Dean was staring at the crowd of people out front of Bobby’s house – he didn’t think there would be that many people. He didn’t know anyone would be here, at all, actually. He snuck a glance at his dad. He had his brows knotted together as he scanned the crowd; he didn’t know other people would be here, either. “Come on, boys.” He grumbled, laying a hand on Sammy’s back, and Dean trotted along sluggishly behind his brother and dad. As they approached the crowd, Dean could spot a few well-known faces; Bobby stood to the right, talking animated with an older man – Martin Y/L/N, who Dean had briefly met once, when his dad was hunting a Tulpa, when Dean had been ten. On Bobby’s left, Ellen stood – Dean only recognized her because of her laugh, and he waved quickly at her, when she caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it, but Sam had broken into a huge grin and sprinted towards a girl around Dean’s age, who stood next to Martin, looking bored out of her mind. “Y/N!” Sam’s small voice rang through the still air, and she turned, her hair flipped around her face, and smiled gently at Sam. “Hey, Samson. What are you doing here?” Her voice was sweet and clear – Dean didn’t know why she had called him Samson, but whatever. Not that he cared, or anything. Dean stopped next to his dad, and leaned casually against Bobby’s house, running a hand through his hair haphazardly, so it looked tousled, and he glanced at Sam and the girl – again, not that he cared. He didn’t. “Hey, Bobby. Martin.” John said with a nod towards the two men. “What’re you doing here?” He continued, stretching his hand out to shake Martins. Martin shook his hand. “Bobby called, said you might need some backup.” John sighed and glanced at Bobby. “Bobby, I didn’t…” Bobby cut him off. “Yeah, you did. Don’t be stupid, the boys need a little time off, I’ll watch them here along with Martin’s kid. You need the extra hands, so take them for cryin’ out loud, you idjit.” Bobby said dismissively. He turned to Dean, who was still leaning carefully casual against the wall. “Come on, go to your brother and Y/N.” Dean frowned. “I don’t need to be babysat, Bobby.” He groaned and rolled his eyes. Bobby grabbed his arm, and walked him over to the bench, where Sam and Y/N were sitting and talking. “The hell you don’t, boy. Behave.” He said sternly, before returning to John and Martin, briefing both of the men on the case.

Dean sighed and sat down on the outer edge of the bench; he wasn’t interested in talking, he wanted to hunt – not sit here with his baby brother and a strange girl. “And I think it’s awesome. I like reading, you know.” Sam said, clearly deep in conversation with Y/N. “That’s supercool, Sam. I do too.” She said with a smile. Dean snorted. She snapped her head to him, a frown on her face – she had freckles on her nose, and a small bruise was fading from her cheek. Her teeth were a little crooked, and her cheeks were round. Dean rolled his eyes. “What?” She asked in a clear voice. “Nothing. Nerds.” He said, his voice a little lower than usual. She snorted back at him – a very un-pretty-girl sound and shook her head. “What, like you’re any better? I’m guessing you wear that stupid leather jacket to look cool, you have a bad-boy rep, and you’re a pain in the ass, probably to cool to get anything done, other than kiss chicks, drink before you’re old enough to do it and look at cars.” She said bitingly. He rounded on her. “not really, sweetheart.” He said with an air of indifference, but his blood was boiling. Sam snickered. “Sammy, shut it.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t care what a goodie-two-shoes like you think. I bet you’ve never had any friends, have you? Fucking prissy.” He said. Her eyes flared at him, and she stood up abruptly. “Fuck you, Winchester.” She spat. “Fuck you too, no-name.”  

She turned to Sam. “Sam, I’m happy you’re at least a decent human being, when you’ve got ass-clown over there as a brother.” She stomped off. Sam slapped Dean on his arm. “Dean, seriously? I really like her, she’s cool, and know you’ve gone and made her mad!” Dean rolled his eyes and stood up. John and Martin were packing the car, getting ready for the hunt. “Whatever.” He didn’t care, he told himself, but he couldn’t help but look over at her as she stalked off, somewhere far away from him.  

 Present day

“Dean, hello? Can you get your head in here as well?” Sam sounded annoyed with him, but Dean flashed him a quick smile. “Sorry, Sammy.” He said and cocked his gun. “Let’s do this.” He moved quickly and quietly to the back of the barn, where the werewolves they were hunting, supposedly camped out – Sam took the left, his gun held high. Dean heard a loud grunt and a sound somewhat reminding him of a body thumping onto the ground, before he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head, and his vision went black.

When he came to, it was dark; a few lanterns had been lit within the barn, but it barely provided any light. He tried to twist his head around to see Sam, but he couldn’t see past the beam, he was tied to. “Sam? Sammy?” A low moan came from the right. “I’m here.” He grunted. Dean sighed, a small wave of relief flooding him, and he wriggled a little; he was bound on his hands and feet, around his ankles and knees, and a rope was around his neck as well – he was standing against a wooden beam, which was thick and sturdy; no way he would take that down with just his weight. He tried to get to his back pocket, but his hands were tied very tightly, almost cutting on the blood supply to his hands. Either way, he was sure, the goddamn werewolves had been clever enough to take any and all weapons from them. Shit. “Sam? Can you get loose in any way?”” He asked – a few grunts followed his question. “No, I’m tied up pretty good. What the hell are we going to do?” Dean looked around – his eyes had adjusted to the low light, and he could see a few figures huddled together in the shadows. “I don’t know.” He said. One of the figures, a big, burly and huffing man, moved closer to Dean – despite his size, he moved graciously and silently; when he got closer, Dean could see a sheen of sweat on his browbone. Good, nerves were good. “Who are you?” The man spat at him, his breath smelling like rotten eggs and spoiled meat. Dean gagged slightly and craned his neck to the side, trying to avert the stench wafting over him. “Dude, have you heard of a goddamn toothbrush?” He hissed. A big hand grabbed his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and he was eye to eye with Mr. Burly. “Who are you?” Dean spat him in the eye. The werewolf groaned in anger and dried his face with the back of his hand; Dean noticed the layers of grime and the tattered clothes, he was wearing. They must’ve been holed up here for a while. “Fuck it, I don’t care. You won’t tell anyway.” The man spat, before he ran a finger along Dean’s throat, his grimy nail skidding along the sensitive skin. “Buy me dinner first, then we can get to the fun part.” Dean grunted, as a fist collided with his stomach – he had a grunt from his right and guessed Sam had gotten the same treatment.

His ears picked up a sound, that was unfamiliar with this place – it was as if someone was tip-toeing on the roof of the barn, and he saw a little drizzle of dust trickle down from above him. Fuck it, a distraction it was, then. “Eating kids, huh?” He said with venom. “That’s pretty low, even for a pack of mutts like you.” Another fist collided with his body, this time his ribs, and he grunted in pain. “We eat what we can.” Dean sighed at the obvious answer. “Wow, profound.” Another fist, this time on his eye – he yelped in pain. “You are going to die, and we are going to eat you, until your bones are clean.” Another hit. Mr. Burly moved closer to him, sniffing the air around Dean. “You are going to be a great dinner.”

“Or maybe not.” A clear, sweet voice rang through the barn, before the echo of a shot, and the burly werewolf fell in front of Dean, slumping on the floor. Dean jerked his head up and gaped; a beautiful woman stood in the low light, dressed in all black. A pair of black leggings hugged her legs, and a goddamn gun-holster was around her thigh. A leather pouch hung loosely from her belt, a blade, bigger than Dean had seen before, swaying lightly with her movements. Her upper-body was covered by a black leather jacket, that honestly looked like some form of body armor, and she was wearing black boots, small heels driving into the grimy floor under her. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and it swayed as she looked around, training her gun at the few, who dared to move closer to her. She looked lethal, and Dean was enthralled. “If any of you fuckers even move a fraction of a millimeter, I will personally deliver you to purgatory. If you stand still, I’ll do it quick.” She said and moved sideways, her legs criss-crossing in a rapid motion, until she was right next to Dean. She smelled like a dream; her perfume was like a field on the spring. Her small fingers fumbled behind him for a minute. “You get the mountain either out, or you two dumbasses fight.” She whispered as she let her blade drop to the floor next to him – he felt the bindings give way, and he quickly picked up the blade and walked towards Sam, who was bleeding from a cut over his eyebrows, and cut him loose. They both stood up, Sam swaying lightly – Dean wasn’t feeling too hot either, and his eye was already halfway to being shut completely by the swelling, but he didn’t care – he was ready to kill some bitches. “Catch!” Her voice rang out, and Sam caught the small gun, she had thrown over her shoulder – she started firing off her gun quickly, dipping down to her knees, swiping her right foot out and tackled the werewolf, who had tried to attack her from behind. Dean was mesmerized as he watched this vixen fight her way through the pack of werewolves. She ran out of bullets, but had in one, swift motion opened her jacket, pulled a small, silver knife from the confines (a lantern light up the inside of her jacket, and an array of knives in different sizes lined it), and threw it at the last standing werewolf, who fell to the floor with a thump, the knife buried to the hilt in her forehead. She turned to Sam and Dean. “Well? Come on.” She said and stomped out of the barn, leaving the door opened. Her stomping stirred a memory with Dean, but it was hazy and fuzzy.

Sam shrugged and left the barn too, with Dean tailing him. When the were outside in the fresh, crisp air, they looked around for the woman, who had saved their lives. They heard a roar of flames springing to life, and turned around – fire was licking the barn, consuming it faster and faster, and a figure stepped out in front of them, arms crossed. She stared at them. “Fat load of help, you were in there.” She huffed with a casual nod back to the barn. “You seemed capable, sweetheart.” Dean smirked, trying with all his might to charm this perfect woman in front of him. She bent down and pulled a tiny knife from her boot, placing it gingerly inside her jacket before zipping it back up. “Listen, smart-ass, I’m not a flirt. So, you can pack that do-good attitude right back in your ass.” She bit at Dean, who stepped a little back, hands outstretched. Sam had pursed his lips, trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have any idea how much you could have fucked up tonight? I have been tailing these assholes for a month and you decide to just waltz in there, unprepared, clearly horribly armed, and get kidnapped, so I had to save your sorry asses, which meant that the fucking pack-leader got the fuck away.” She spat at Dean, stepping closer to him, pointing at his chest. “And know, I have to check both of you to make sure you haven’t been mortally injured, because you got caught, which means I have to haul both of you lumberjacks back to my motel-room to stitch up your stupid faces.” She narrowed his eyes at Dean, who was taken completely aback; she was something else. “You knew we were hunters?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course, you moron, your car is full of goddamn casefiles and the trunk was jampacked with weapons. Besides, I’ve kept an eye out for you two, since you were apparently just looking for trouble.”   She sighed and turned to Sam. “You seem like the normal one. You haven’t tried to flirt with me after a near-death experience. How’s your head?” She asked and frowned as she stood on her tip-toes to see Sam’s forehead. He frowned back. “Wait, I know you.” He stated. She raised her eyebrows. “Really?” She answered, stepping back a little. Sam’s face lit up with a smile. “Wait a second, Y/N?” Dean blanched. No fucking way. No fucking way, that the annoying, smart-mouthed little bitch-ass girl from his teenage years had become a hunter. No fucking way she looked like that either – last time he saw her, she still looked like a kid. “Wait, who are you?” She asked, clearly confused. “I’m Sam!! You used to call me Samson, I think. We met a few times at Bobby’s!” Sam explained. Her face lit up as well, and she laughed, hugging Sam the best she could. “Holy shit, you’ve gotten tall, Sam! What the hell?” She said with a smile. Dean had kept quiet, but of course, Sam had to draw him into the conversation. “Dean, don’t you remember Y/N?” Y/N turned slowly towards dean with a wicked smile and narrowed eyes.

“Ah, yes, dickwad. Hello, again. You haven’t changed a bit.”

CHAPTER 2

 TAGLIST: @trustnobodyshootfirst, @hobby27, @wingedcatninja, @supernatural-idjit-95, @mypage-myfandoms

FOREVERLIST: @supernaturalmagicfolk, @redeyedvixen, @al1y, @roonyxx

[gallavichpain-blog]

Mickey wants to smoke. But, as luck would have it, only an empty pack in your pocket, and a red asshole that fell apart on a narrow bench, releasing another portion of smoke from your mouth, you will not fucking fuck up until you ask. But Milkovich never asks for anything, he always takes everything himself. The mouth is filled with saliva, and the jaw begins to narrow down by how much the brunette grasps them, watching the long thin fingers that repeatedly smack a smoldering cigarette to Gallagher's lips, as cheeks are drawn on the sharp face of their possessor at the moment when he does Another puff, as for a fraction of a second a bright light illuminates the pale skin with barely noticeable speckles of small freckles on the tip of the nose. - You want? - Ian asks, turning his head to the young man, and holding out the cigarette that has already managed to be halted. Of course, he felt this displeased glance from under his bosom, which made him squeeze his entrails, and could even hear the barely perceptible clattering of teeth that came at a time when Milkovich had transferred him to the hand that clutched the Marlboro bull-calf. Witty rhyme, immediately invented on the pronounced red word, as luck would have it, was lost somewhere halfway from the brain to the tongue, leaving the brunette only a chance to pursue her lips in an annoyed manner, and with an angry stub of a cigarette butt, after a few seconds of his silence and one movement of Gallagher's shoulders, Flew to the next podium, lost in the tall grass, as well as an acute desire to fuck as follows from the brazen face of the redhead, on which his famous crooked grin began to creep. - Are you fucking horny? Growled Mickey, walking to the bench, his fists clenched tightly. "If you want to smoke, just ask," Ian said, shoving his hand into the front pocket of his jeans to get a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, knowing full well that Milkovich would never do it. - Suck, - so inappropriately awakened somewhere inside the rhymelette ahead of Mickey with an answer, depriving the brunette of the opportunity to get the desired portion of nicotine, because the hand that fumbled on the pocket, immediately froze in place, and her owner frowned with displeasure. "Yes you have gone," Ian snapped, throwing off attempts to treat Milkovich, glancing at the dark sky, where one small star began to appear one by one. "Fuck, Gallagher, give me your fucking cigarettes!" - blurted out the brunette, taking another step towards the redhead, looming dangerously over the relaxed body of the young man lying on the bench, hands starting to fumble through the thick fabric of Gallagher's trousers in an attempt to reach the coveted pack. "Niher," he answered, grasping Mickey's hand with his cold fingers, which had already reached the pocket cut. "The shop is closed," he grinned, throwing her aside, and lowering his legs to the ground, assuming a sitting position. "What kind of an asshole are you, huh?" - Milkovich indignant, pushing the redhead back, with one hand pressing it to the wooden surface of the bench, and the second again returning to his jeans. With a deft gesture of his hand, ignoring the guy's not so persistent attempts to resist, Mickey slipped into his pocket, clutching at the lighter, which, to his surprise, was for some reason much larger than he expected. - Fuck, - broke out against the will of the brunette's chest at the moment when the "lighter" twitched slightly in his fingers. "The bitch is lascivious," he breathed, feeling the impulse in his underpants, a kind gesture of greeting to the younger friend of the fucking Gallagher, suddenly abruptly resisting. "Cigarettes in another pocket," Ian muttered hoarsely, feeling the pain of Milkovich's hand clutch at his cock, that he had already begun to harden from an innocent touch, hoping for a quick continuation of caresses. "Redheaded," Mickey could only answer, already forgetting the throat-torn desire to inhale the poisonous smoke, focusing his attention completely on the bulge of Gallagher's pants, and his arm that was sticking out of his pocket just around the corner. - Fagot fucked, - the second hand, starting to unbutton the red belt, he added through clenched teeth. No kisses, hugs and other romantic nonsense. In this pair, there was never even a simple gentle touch. A pair of insults, insults abundantly flavored with threats; Perhaps a few strokes or, if there is a good mood, a prolonged mahach up to the first blood-such a kind of prelude. "Bitch, fuck," growled Milkovich, unsuccessfully trying to unbutton the Gallagher's trousers with trembling fingers in impatience, pulling hard at the little tail of the dog, which he strove to slip out. "Give, I," Ian said, grunting loudly, watching the efforts of the brunette already kneeling before him, licking his parched lips, not hiding his excitement. On the first attempt, having coped with the lightning boltless Milkovich, Ian rose from the bench to pull the jeans to his knees, but was immediately brought back by a sharp thrust of the brunette's hand, accompanied by a sensitive blow of the bony ass about the wooden surface at the moment of landing. "What are you ..." he wanted to ask the redhead, but, unexpectedly, he was stopped by the cold hand that climbed into his panties, trying to get to their contents. A little pulling back the cotton cloth, the brunette grabbed for the already solid member of Gallagher, smearing the first finger with the thumb around the small hole, staring hungrily at the fruits of his labors, swallowing the drooling that stood out in abundant quantities in the oral cavity against his will. Never before, to anyone Milkovic did not do blowjob, and, in fact, the desire to try his hand at this pidoresticheskom occupation he never arose. But now, for some reason, he completely forgot about this: with a lecherous gaze licking the long trembling trunk in his hand that he so loved to feel in his ass, Mickey could only think about what it would be like to touch his tender skin with his lips. Realizing that she would regret her sudden impulse within an hour, but not having the strength to resist the desire that was pressing inside, the brunette tilted his head, dying a few millimeters from the pink head, from which he could not take his eyes, but, nevertheless, hesitating to make the latter Movement. "We can just ..." observing the boy's confusion, whispered Ian, who had been silent before, being shocked by the unexpected manipulations of the young man, somewhere deep inside secretly hoping for a refusal and for the fact that Mickey, nevertheless, would realize Conceived. "... as usual, if you want ..." But the negative answer to him was the first touch of a rough tongue against a shiny skin, causing a loud groan, immediately flown from his lips, echoing now from the metal beams of the subtribune space of the dark stadium. First, barely touching the tip of the head of a redhead with the tip of the tongue, Milkovich tried it on taste, ignoring the idea of ​​how much all this was wrong, which was easy enough, because now they all revolve around a solid organ that was tightly compressed by a cold palm with an uncomplicated tattoo On knuckles. Gradually getting used to the new sensations, which, however he wished, the brunette could not call unpleasant, Mickey decided to continue the research, lowering his lips to the delicate skin, feeling her unusual softness and tart male smell from the small curls of solid red hairs, To which he approached with every new movement down. Slowly, unhurriedly, he let the member of Gallagher through millimeter by millimeter, opening his mouth wide and pressing his tongue, feeling a pleasant glide of the head across his sky, which immediately resonated with his already visibly pinched pants, where he was exhausted with impatience and vexation An excited riser, which, for reasons completely incomprehensible to him, the owner did not pay any attention. Just too unusual and unusual for Mickey were these new, uncharted, earlier sensations, to be distracted to meet their needs. He wanted too much to feel for him every moment of a dirty, vicious occupation, which he could not even openly talk about before. He just liked his reaction to his actions too much to stop it all. With the last of his strength restraining himself from lifting his hips, Ian clenched his teeth, feeling his cock plunge into Milkovich's mouth. Too slow… To a painful ache in his joints, Gallagher clutched his fingers with a wooden bench, on which he continued to sit, feeling his cock plunge into Mickey's mouth. Too fucking slow ... The red-haired man shouted loudly, tearing his voice when the head reached the throat of a dark-haired man, nose buried in hard short hairs on his redhead pubic. Too unexpected ... "Mick, no, please, just do not stop," Ian whimpered as Milkovich's lips suddenly disappeared after prolonged caresses and now the active movements of the head up and down, with characteristic smacking sounds, and the fingers that had recently caressed the testicles followed their example. "Do not stop, please," he breathed, moving his lips to meet the saliva-bright lips that stretched out in a broad smile as their owner enjoyed the beautiful spectacle: Gallagher, who was languishing in pre-orgasmic convulsions, poured along the dirty bench, begging to continue. - Nihuya, red-haired, - grunted brunette, rising, completely without feeling stiff legs. "I will not let you cum in my mouth." - The words differed too much with the young man's desires, but Mickey did not want to admit Gallagher in his secret vices. Not now. "Raise your ass and come here," he said, pulling down his pants on his hips and walking to a metal net on which it would have been possible to hang up a sign with their names for a long time, from whom they fucked more often than anywhere else. Not having the strength to argue, Ian obeyed the imperious voice, jumping from the bench in an instant and overcoming a slight distance, which separated him from the guy standing with his back to him, arching his back in an inviting pose. - Fuck, bitch, faster - it was the turn of the red guy to torment that wriggled under him, sticking out his ass, pounding hard on his long cock, loudly growling and swearing at every new jolt. "Can you move faster, fuck?" - hissed Milkovich, actively moving his hips, feeling the approaching discharge. - THE BITCH! FASTER! - he yelled that there was urine, leaning lower, arching harder, with his hand, which he himself had recently screwed up, grabbing Gallagher by the balls, tightly squeezing, and pulling for them a disobedient guy, whose chest immediately burst out inhuman roar, and his fingers felt tangibly Squeezed the hips of the brunette, promising a few bruises for tomorrow morning. "Yes, fuck, like that ..." Mickey croaked, finally getting what he wanted. Savory slaps accompanied each new movement of the red, deep and sharp entering the uncovered brunette, pulling out the shining from the saliva, which invariably served them as a lubricant, the term almost completely, and immediately drove it back to the very bottom. And Milkovich took it in himself so selflessly: placing his legs wider, curving, revealing himself so much that Ian began to seem that the guy was about to burst, and never complaining about discomfort or sharp pain caused by lack of preparation. "Stronger, fuck" only and could be heard from a lover of strong words, in moments of intimacy. "Bitch, Gallagher, you asshole," growled Mickey, pushing back to meet his pale thighs, trying to deepen the penetration, returning his hand to his own penis, which continued to pulsate from every new touch of the head of the redhead to the swollen prostate, ready to explode with orgasm. "Pidoras fucking," he gasped with excitement and tension, he muttered, starting to move his palm against his trunk, clutching his fingers tightly. A few movements of sweaty palms up and down, and a couple of slides along the protuberance of the long penis inside Milkovich, sufficed Milkovich, to swear loudly only now, with a swear word, to flow into his palm with a powerful jet, incidentally sprinkling droplets of semen that seeped through his fingers, hanging on Grid of the fence and falling on the grass, perceptibly squeezing around the continued pounding from the rhythm of the shock of Gallagher. "Ohpfh," Ian could not say anything more coherent, feeling every muscle contraction with the inflamed nerve endings of his swollen organ, accelerating, rising to his toes and clutching the thighs of the brunette in his fingers, already biting into them with fingernails, continuing to move inside Milkovich, spewing curses , Feeling the balls tighten in a moment, and the member stiffened, before shooting a powerful stream of viscous whitish liquid into the depths of the guy. "Will you smoke?" - Taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Gallagher asked, without even trying to hide a smile that did not leave his face for several minutes, again settling on the bench. "I will," replied Milkovich, buttoning his pants, trying not to look at the satisfied face of the redhead, remaining to stand aside, propping up the iron girder. "Catch," said Ian, throwing Mickey's cigarettes, watching the colorful bundle that landed exactly in the broad palms of the brunette. "Next time you can just ask," he snorted, narrowing his eyes. "I would treat you without it ..." he added, immediately receiving a savory kick under the ribs and falling from the bench to the cold ground. "Mudak," Milkovich growled, pulling a cigarette out of the pack, flicking the lighter, and, finally, pulling deeply at the first portion of the coveted smoke. To ask? Yeah, right now. Milkovich never asks for anything, he always takes everything himself. Or gives ... like in the case of Gallagher.