#Also I just learned what sauntering means today isn’t it such a cool word

[truegoist]

Validating my cats feelings by punching ppl he doesn’t likes in the face

[thesoftestpunk]

Co-Aquatainenceship 3.

Summary: You’re just two ex-assassins trying to navigate your way through normalcy, but you’re also huge idiots. In an attempt at getting Bucky out of his shell, you offer to catch him up on everything he’s missed. Including trashy YA novels.

Pairing: cw!Bucky Barnes x female!Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: canon-typical injuries, mentions of smoking and kidnapping. Lots of fluff and humor (I'm trying)

A/N: someone take my keyboard away from me. I didn't want to stop. Also sorry for using a gif of mr cannibal himself.

“Hey, Buck,” You come sauntering in the common room, keys swinging around your pointer finger. “You know how to drive?”

“Is this a serious question?”

“A car, meathead.” You roll your eyes. “I know you drive a motorcycle everywhere like it’s the only transportation that exists.”

Bucky puts down his book, knowing he wasn’t going to finish it any time soon. Not when you’re around. “Why do you need to know?”

“Sam was supposed to do driving lessons with me today but he got called out, as you know. You’re the only other person I can find around here. It’s only around the compound. Can’t go on the streets yet.”

“You never learned to drive?” He sounds almost annoyed by this, but you're used to that tone being used for everything.

“Well, considering I was someone’s science experiment when I was sixteen, I happened to miss my drivers test.” That came out harsher than you intended, wincing at how his eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “It was never an issue until recently!”

He’s certain someone has tried discouraging you from asking him, but you’re here in front of him. Nearly begging. If you started with Sam, he figured you hadn’t gotten to do much driving in the first place. You’re nearly bouncing on your toes out of eagerness, waiting for him to say yes.

“You have me for an hour.”

“Really?” You nearly squeal in excitement, but stop yourself at how he looks like he regrets agreeing already. “I swear. I’ll be cool about this.”

“Just so I know where I’m starting,” Bucky asks once you’re both buckled up. “How many times have you driven with Sam?”

“Oh. Never.” Immediately, you put the car into drive and look over at him with a sweet smile but he sees the evil glint in your eye. “How hard can it be?”

You hit the gas too hard, causing you both to jerk back further into your seats. Bucky blindly grabs for the handle on the ceiling of the car, and you’re hardly letting off the gas, swerving the wheel slightly at the unexpected speed.

“Stop the car!” He shouts, jerking forward when you slam on the breaks. As you open your mouth to ask something, he roughly pushes the gear into park and glares at you. “Did you get lead injected into your feet or do you think that’s how driving works?”

“Bucky!” you balk, not expecting that sort of insult. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Sighing deeply, he realizes yelling at you isn’t going to get them anywhere. If anything, it’s probably going to make you want to learn even less.

“Just take it slower this time. You ease your foot on the pedal. This isn’t the fast and the furious, no need to floor it.”

“It’s just Fast and Furious, Buck.” Instead of being insulted, you just laugh. You’re beginning to realize that maybe you took it a little too fast. Too eager to finally be behind the wheel instead of behind a book. “Have you been watching without me?”

“No,” he hesitates to remove his hand from the handle as you start slow and everything is jerky for the first little bit. “But ever since you brought up watching them around Sam, it’s all he talks about.”

You start getting the hang of starting and stopping smoothly. Bucky even gives you a smile when you do good. You keep driving down the road, him occasionally making up intersections and having you demonstrate what to do.

“You nervous?” You ask out of nowhere as you pull into the garage, ending the lesson at exactly one hour. Even if you went over, you were certain he wouldn’t say anything. “About being reinstated in the field, I mean.”

“Worried about me?” He gives you that teasing crooked smile that makes you roll your eyes. “No, sweets. I’m not nervous.”

Putting the car in park, neither of you make a move to exit. It sits idle while you both sit in silence, the engine barely making any noise to disrupt it. You chew the inside of your cheek because, yes, you are worried for him but you’re too afraid to let him know that. Afraid that he might read it as you thinking he’s weak. You love being friends with him, but you don’t exactly love having to open yourself up to someone all over again. It felt embarrassing to care.

“Not worried, per se.” you speak softly. “I just want you to be ready.”

“What, you want to come to the gym with me after this and critique my training? See if I’m up to par?” Leaning his head back against the headrest, he looks at you from the side of his eyes, amused.

“Yes.”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head, but then he realizes you’re serious. His brows scrunch together in confusion, wondering how on earth he’s found someone who cares so much. Although he wouldn’t exactly use the word found, since you were the one to search him out and almost force a friendship on him. He just happened to not fight it, and he’s glad he didn’t.

“We’re, like, friends now, right?” You nearly choke on the word, as if saying it hurts, but he nods. It’s a sad relief when he agrees, not exactly expecting a rejection, but he was also hard to read sometimes. “Friends look out for each other. I think. It’s… been awhile.”

“Yeah.”

“Can we do this again?” You sound nervous, fiddling with the keys in your hand, like you’re expecting a rejection from him at this point. Anytime you ask him to join in on movie night, or if you can sit with him during a meal, he always says yes with that little shy smile. Rejection was always something you handled well, but when it comes to Bucky, it’s almost painful to think about. “You’re a pretty decent teacher, sargeant.”

Bucky breathes out a laugh, “you should’ve come to me in the first place, agent. Only thing Sam can teach you is how to fly.”

“Well, if that’s the case, we should be on a motorcycle right now.”

Bucky gives a fake grimace, the idea of you speeding on a bike terrifying. “Baby steps. For my sake, doll. Thinkin’ of you on a bike might stop my heart right in its tracks.”

“Because of my amazing driving skills, I hope.” You tease before getting out of the car, a semi-flustered Bucky following closely behind.

As the two of you re-enter the building, he tells you he’ll need to change, and you offer to train with him, needing to get your exercise in for the day. Passing by the kitchen, you see Sam is back early, snacking with Steve as they’re both still in their uniforms. You continue on, saying hello to them before waving at Bucky so you can go get changed.

“You two besties now?” Sam teases as Bucky rummages around in the fridge.

“Just filling in for you.” He straightens back out, leaning against the counter. “Drove around for a bit.”

“Wait, you let her drive?” Sam's eyes nearly pop out of his head when Bucky casually mentions this. He’s careful enough to keep his voice down so you don't hear him from down the hall. “I let her in the car for five seconds before moving to the books because she nearly stalled out on an automatic, Buck. An automatic!”

“I think she did well,” he shrugs. “It was a little bumpy at first, but once she got the hang of it, she was fine. You need someone fast, she’s your girl.”

“She’s got a lead foot.”

“Sam,” Steve warns. “Come on.”

“No, she definitely does.” Bucky laughs. Sam isn’t sure he’s ever seen him laugh before. “But we’re working on it.”

“We? Am I suddenly fired as her teacher?”

“You made her study for over a month and gave her a written test. Twice.” Plus he couldn’t say no when you begged him to drive with you again. Not when you looked at him the way you had. Fuck, he thinks while Sam starts rambling off about whatever, honestly he couldn’t care to listen because he’s gone soft. Over you. You, who laughs at every single lame dad joke, and actually wears the brightest colors on the most dreary days. Somehow you’ve crawled under his abrasive skin, and nestled perfectly around his heart without suspicion.

“Buck,” your voice interrupts his thoughts and Sam’s ranting. “I’ll meet you in the gym?”

All you get in response is a nod, so you leave him once again. He finds Steve and Sam glancing at each other, having an entire conversation without words, but Bucky is fully aware of what they’re saying. That they’re also aware he’s gone soft.

“Don’t.” He warns sharply.

“Don’t what?” Sam plays dumb.

“Never mind,” Bucky grumbles, leaving the two captains practically giggling in the kitchen.

You sit on the couch in the common room, watching everyone do their own prepping for the upcoming mission. Not everyone was going, just Steve, Sam, and Bucky were but they were pretty much the only people you talked to. You had tried convincing Steve to let you go, but no matter how much you begged, he stood his ground, insisting it was an in and out infiltration. It was going to be a long two days, and taking down hiding Hydra agents was a pretty decent pastime. While reading your book, you see a blur of black from the corner of your eye. Looking up, you just barely catch Bucky slipping into the kitchen. A few moments later, he comes back out, a to-go cup of coffee in hand. He runs a hand through his hair, struggling to get it out of his face. It’s been getting long and you both know it. He had been struggling while the two of you trained the other day.

“Come here.” You gesture for him to sit on the floor in front of you. He gives you a confused look but compiles. You have him turn his back to you and immediately start sectioning his hair off. “This will keep it out of your face during fights. I know you’ve been struggling.”

“Sam’s gonna give me shit for it,” he says matter of factly.

“Send him my way. I’m not scared of him.”

Bucky chuckles and lets you work in silence. Once finished he runs a hand over your work, careful to not mess it up and stands. You follow him, the blanket on your lap falling to the floor.

“Hey, be safe out there.” You softly punch his bicep, feeling awkward suddenly. “I’ve actually started getting used to having you around.”

Bucky looks like he’s about to say something equally as mushy, a light blush on his cheeks, but Sam walks in. Seeing his hair tied up with a forest green scrunchie, a shit eating grin breaks out on his face, which makes Bucky groan. They both wait for a joke, but Sam just quickly grabs a picture and runs before the soldier can react. He goes to wrestle the phone from Sam’s grasp, leaving you alone. Laughing to yourself, you grab your book and blanket, moving to be alone in your room for a while. You’ve said all the goodbye’s you wanted to, Bucky having been the last, and with your lucky scrunchie, you feel better about him leaving.

It’s agonizing as you try distracting yourself the next two days. You know Bucky is in good hands with Steve and Sam for his first field mission, but you can’t help but worry. It wasn’t the trigger words that worried you. It was seeing him hurt. Anytime anyone on the team got hurt, your stomach churned in sympathy. You keep telling yourself this as you end up going on a run since you couldn’t sit still. It felt stupid to worry so much. You never reacted this way when Steve would go on solo missions, or when any of them are gone for days at a time. Sure, you may have chewed your nails to the quick in an attempt at avoiding the cigarettes hidden in your drawers, but you never got so uneasy to want to go run.

You give up pretty quickly, going back to your room and sitting by an open window to look out for a quinjet, cigarette placed between two fingers. It’s not the best spot, but you wanted to be close enough to be there to greet them by the time they landed.

A quick knock startles you and you don’t have the time to get rid of the evidence before Natasha is opening the door.

“I just got word from Sam that they’re almost back. Someone’s hurt, but—“

You move quickly, not hearing the rest of her sentence as you toss what was left of your cigarette out the window and follow her out. Heart racing, you both rush through the building and all you can think of is the worst case scenario.

“Thought you gave those up.” Natasha has a sly smile, but you know she’s trying to distract you as the elevator seems to take forever to arrive.

“I don’t- just when I’m stressed.” You never lie to her. Not that you were afraid to. She always cared for you and you saw how big her heart was to those she cared for. You were taken under her wing pretty quick, and she let you hide away when all the men’s testosterone became too much. It was nice to have another girl around sometimes. “Which one got hurt?”

“Didn’t say. My money is on Rogers.”

The elevator doors open, and you stay silent, trying to not vibrate visibly with anxiety. You’re certain she can already tell, but you avoid any further small talk. Just as the doors open on the jet, you’re bursting through the door. While it lowers, you try looking through to see who is being held up by Sam and another agent. Halfway down, you see it’s Steve. A small relieved sigh escapes but you feel guilty for feeling that. It was a pretty normal occurrence by now for him to come back pretty banged up, unfortunately.

“You okay?” You walk up to meet him at the bottom of the ramp while Natasha moves past inside. “I came as soon as I heard someone was hurt.”

“Yeah, just need to rest up,” he groans. You look to Sam, knowing he was the more logical of the two. He just shrugs and looks away, but you know he’s saying ‘don’t look at me.’ “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Right,” you cross your arms. “No need to brag. Go get fixed up, Mr. America. Sam, make sure he actually gets to the med bay, please?”

Sam helps drag him through the doors, and Nat returns with a few men in handcuffs, pushing them along. Now it’s just you and Bucky. It’s painfully quiet for a moment, the both of you just looking at each other. You had sent him off with good wishes, and you’re glad he’s back but you’ve suddenly forgotten how to act around him.

“Come here,” you nod to the side, pulling up a stool and searching below through a cabinet. “Your nose got a bit busted. Let me clean it for you.”

Standing back up, you find him sitting, his face just about level with your own. You get out some cotton swabs and wound wash, setting everything up neatly and carefully. Turning back, you lift his head up by his chin and get to work. Bucky finds your hands are just as delicate as the rest of you when you’re doing anything but fighting. Looking up at you, he watches you concentrate, melting into your touch by accident.

“There,” you wipe some excess cream off with a pinky finger and step back to observe your work. “Try and keep em from your face, Barnes. It’s your money maker.” Tapping the dimple on his chin playfully you turn to clean up your mess.

Without thinking, Bucky grabs your free hand, making you turn back to him. He’s looking up at you, eyes soft and vulnerable. It’s the first time he’s touched you like this. You hadn’t even shook hands when you first met. Of course, sparring with you a few days ago was different.This was tender, like he was even afraid of holding your hand. It’s warm and covers yours completely. Finally, he speaks, swallowing thickly first.

“I’m glad you were here when we came back.” So bad does he want to say how much he missed you, but it gets caught in his throat. “Wasn’t the same without you.”

A small smile appears, turning up the corners of your lips, and you look down to his hand enveloping yours.

“Yeah, it’s not the same here without you either.” Then your expression gets very serious, eyebrows scrunched together in worry. “I was scared, you know, when I heard someone was hurt. I was just hoping it wasn’t…” you, you can’t quite form the word. So instead you go with, “worse than it actually was.”

“Steve’ll be fine. How’re you?” As if holding onto your hand like a lifeline wasn’t enough, he places both hands over your rib cage, palms flat and warm. Even the vibranium warmed your skin.

“Well, I didn’t get stabbed, so… good I think.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face before it falls, pain moving to his eyes. That’s where he held everything, in his eyes. An array of emotions, all in those two small places.

You hope Bucky can’t feel how fast your heart is still racing right now. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it. The two men had more enhanced senses than you had. All you seemed to get was the extra strength, the rest going to your mind to be able to be a useful weapon in other ways than brute force. It’s almost unfair how he can figure out how you’re feeling right now, while you just have to try and search past his downturned lips.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Something else happen?” You tuck some loose hair behind his ear as he looks up at you, hand falling naturally to rest against his jaw.

“One of ‘em got away,” he mumbles.

“You’ll find him.” Your reassurance brings the smile back, tugging at one corner before the rest follows. “Just focus on the win. You brought in four other men.”

“There’s still dozens more.” His eyes darken, but you can’t blame the pessimism coming through. “The fact that Operation Paperclip was something that was even approved…”

“You’ve got every right to be angry, Buck.”

“How do you do it?” He sounds frustrated.

“Do what?”

“Seem so happy with it all?”

“Oh, I-“ you pause, the answer not coming to you right away. “It’s really just an act. I guess I just feel better around you.” It’s out before you can even stop it, but it feels natural to tell him you’re comfortable enough to be happy. “Knowing you’ve been through the same. I don’t have to talk it through like with Sam or Steve. You just get it. So I get it. I’ve felt your anger already. Still do sometimes.”

Bucky hums, processing everything you’ve said. That your hand is still on his jaw, thumb tracing the dimple on his chin. It’s comfortable, and he’s been yearning for a reassuring touch like this. He can’t remember the last time he’s had that, everything is still too fuzzy to recall properly. His thumb copies yours and you tense up, trying to not laugh at how it tickles, but he misreads the situation. Afraid he’s made you uncomfortable, he drops his arms.

“I have to go debrief,” he sighs.

“We can hang out after. If you want.” You aren’t sure why he won’t quite look you in the eye so you panic.

“Save any of that cigarette?”

“Fuck you.” It gets a laugh from him, though. “I tossed it in a panic, but I’ve got plenty.”

“Oh.” Bucky stops just before leaving, turning back to you. He pulls down his hair, combing out the braid with his fingers, some small curls having formed. “This is yours.”

Bucky comes to your room not long after he leaves you alone in the hangar bay, freshly showered and in comfortable clothes. You leave your window open and play some old music, insisting he would love Queen, and let him spread out on your bed. For a while, he nods his head along to the music while you attempt reorganizing your bookshelf. Eventually he nods off, the excess adrenaline wearing off completely. You take a small blanket, placing it over his large frame and make sure to turn the volume down just enough that he won’t notice. You aren’t sure how much time has passed, enough that the sun was starting to touch the tops of the trees outside, and Bucky grumbled in his sleep.

Looking over, you find his eyebrows drawn together, and despite the cool air circulating throughout the room, there’s a thin layer of sweat collecting on his forehead. You know it isn’t a good dream by the looks of it, but before you can gently wake him, he startled. His eyes dart around your room quickly, causing him to jump out of the bed, breathing shallow until his eyes land on you. Moving forward just quick enough to not cause more panic, you sit him down.

“Hey.” You take his face between your hands, and if this were any other moment, you would laugh at how his cheeks squish up a bit. “It’s alright. Just a nightmare.”

“No, it’s-“ he shakes his head, and tries pulling your arms away. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t. Just breathe.” You breathe in deeply through your nose, nodding at him to do the same. It’s shaky, but eventually you get them to even out. “We don’t have to talk about it, but you feel better?”

“I didn’t recognize where I was at first and panicked.”

“Sorry,” you grimace. “You just looked so tired. I shouldn’t have…” trailing off, your hands drop to his, weaving your fingers together with no pattern in mind. “Didn’t realize you still had nightmares.”

“Always do.”

“I usually run, but after the day you’ve had…” you chew your lip as you try to think. “Let's go for a drive. I’m sure there’s a motorcycle down there we could borrow. No hot wiring is necessary either since the keys are left unattended.”

“I’ve still got a week left on house arrest, doll.”

Holding up a finger, you move across your room and rummage through your signature jacket, pulling out your mini lock picking kit. As you sit back down, you gesture for his arm, pushing up the hoodie sleeve and carefully get to work on looking for the small tracking device. It takes a long moment, the record playing having stopped long ago, and you find it with success.

“Easy peasy.” You toss the device on one of your pillows before standing to close your window and turn the speaker off. For a second, you think Bucky is going to decline, even after all of that work, but then he’s following you out the door and pretends to not care at your over exaggerated sneaking around. After pausing and clearing every corner, you make it to the large garage, debating almost too long which keys to take. Once you do, Bucky steps close to you with a helmet in his hands.

“Way better than a cab.” Your head is tilted up as he clasps the strap, grinning up at him. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a motorcycle and you're looking forward to it. Especially knowing how skilled he was at riding it.

“Don’t get too excited.” Still, he can’t hide the hint of a smile at your giddiness.

Bucky climbs on first, his own helmet fastened to his head, and instructs you where to place your feet so you don’t burn your legs on anything. It’s when he explains that you have to wrap your arms around him, you hesitate, suddenly rethinking this whole idea.

“You’ll fly off,” he deadpans.

“I- I know it’s just…” You haven’t gotten this far. You were under the impression Bucky hated being touched in general, and you tried to be careful, but after all the little touches you’ve exchanged today it made you nervous.

“I don’t bite.” There’s a smirk as he looks over his shoulder, making you want to punch him in more than a friendly light way.

You scoot forward on the seat, loosely wrapping your arms around his torso. Just enough to hold on, but he takes your arms and wraps them around tighter. It pulls you forward, your front pressing against his back. He looks you over, checking that everything is okay before turning the engine. It makes your stomach do somersaults just by the noise and excitement of it all. He starts off slow, letting you get used to the feeling but once they pull off onto a small road to the city, he speeds up. If he makes a couple exciting but risky maneuvers on purpose, he doesn’t say anything about it.

You’re stopped at a light, and his ungloved hand finds the underside of your thigh.

“Let’s stop somewhere for food!” He speaks over the engine and you nod along in agreement. “Holding up back there?”

“Barely!” You can feel his laughter vibrate through him. You feel him turning his body, making his hand move up the underside of your thigh unintentionally.

“Y/N, look at me.” His voice is soft enough to make you comply slowly. The softness in his eyes catches you off guard. “I’ve got you.”

“I know, I—“ the reflection of the green light on your face makes him turn back, removing his hand from your leg and driving forward.

It’s actually a little beautiful out tonight. For New York at least. There’s groups of people leaving bars, couples walking down the sidewalks and friends lounging on apartment stoops. The lights of the city fly by, the speed making it all mesh together into one large mixture of colors. In the late hours, the city was still alive. The streets are a little less so, but that just made your trip faster. It isn’t too long before he’s stopping in front of a diner. It takes you a moment to process what’s going on before letting him go. Your legs are a little wobbly from the adrenaline and long ride. Bucky's hands find your forearms, keeping you steady.

“Good?” He asks with a crooked smile, looking more himself than he had nearly an hour prior.

“I’m starving.” The smell of burgers wafting from the diner made your stomach growl intensely, and you know he probably heard it over the noise of the city.

You had been feeling good about venturing out into the real world. A city full of crowds, you began to realize. You had been taken in the middle of a crowd. This he knows, so it was pretty uncommon for you to willingly go into the city. While being forced to work under Kirsh, crowds were a blessing in disguise. Sometimes it was your only tool as an assassin, but ever since you became free, you always worried about being taken again. Your stomach lurches for a different reason now, but before you can dwell on it too long, he’s leading you inside, taking two empty seats at a bar area. A waitress hands out two menus, but he gives his order without even looking, and then the two of them are staring at you.

“Uh, I’ll have the same.” You panic and hand the menu back, not even sure what you got, and watch the woman walk away. “Okay, what the fuck?”

Bucky chuckles, “Steve took me here a couple weeks ago after therapy.”

“Your friendship with him is so cute.” It makes him roll his eyes, but the smile is still there. “I’m serious! ‘Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.’ I mean, when I read that…” you let out a small whistle.

“You went?” He knows which exhibit you’re quoting, almost cringing at the memory of Steve telling him about it.

“Oh, of course. Sam took me just for teasing material. He goes completely red when I bring up he has a whole section of a museum dedicated to him. And I guess you sort of do too.”

“Well,” he gives you a bashful look. “You said so yourself, we’re friends.”

“Yeah,” you give a soft smile. “I did.”

The waitress comes back with your drinks, not surprised that Bucky asked for coke. It isn’t much longer until your food arrives, a heavily dressed and hefty burger with an ungodly amount of fries on the side. While you eat, you have him pull out his phone to give him a quick but brief lesson on social media, letting him choose the one he promised he would make an account for. You help him set it up, laughing at his cluelessness.

“Yes, so then you can search someone from here,” You click on the little bar and type in your own name. “And you can follow whoever you’d like.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be very good at this,” Bucky mutters.

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it.” You click away from the app quickly, moving to his text messages. They had very few conversations via text, but the curiosity was getting the best of you now.

“What are you—“

“I just want to see what my name is on your phone!” You bat his hands away, finding the messages easily. “Well that’s disappointing. It’s just my full name?”

“What else would it be?” He snatches his phone from your hands, suddenly not trusting you with it anymore.

“I don’t know! I’ve got Steve set as Cap with a little flag emoji. Sam is just ‘bird boy.’ So on and so forth.”

“So, what am I then?” He’s a little afraid that you used his old moniker, despite how much you complained when news outlets did.

“Well, now I just don’t wanna piss you off.”

“Y/N, how bad can it be?”

“I…” you breathe out a laugh, moving so that you’re fully facing him. As you try gathering your words, your phone rings, a picture of a sleeping bucky with shades on and arms crossed over his chest covering the screen. It always made you laugh, thinking about the time they were stuck in a van for several hours on his first few non-hostile missions.

“Rasputin?” He gawked at the screen, not sure whether to laugh or scream. He wasn’t too sure how to feel about the picture either, but it wasn’t his main concern.

“Listen!” You let out a nervous little laugh. “First it was just buckaroo but I thought it was a little boring, so I went with Plum because Sam told me how you never actually got your plums in Romania and got pretty upset about it. But I wanted it more personalized and, I dunno, it fits! Especially after getting to see you fight in person, I mean…”

“Jesus,” he chuckles, running a hand over his face. “Can’t it just be Bucky?”

“I like the cute little names.” You clutch your phone to your chest, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “Plus having a full name feels old.”

“I am old, sweetheart.” Pulling out his wallet, he throws a few bills on the counter. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” He sounds disappointed at the suggestion of having to go back.

“For senior citizens, yes.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll change it if you want me to.” You say as you move toward the exit, him holding the door open for you to slip through. “And the picture too.”

“It's just very… russian.”

“Here.” You stop him before he places the helmet back over your head, pulling him in close and opening the camera on your phone. Directing him where to look, he gives a soft smile while you snap the photo quickly. He watches you expertly change his contact picture and name to Buck with a pink heart emoji. “See? Rasputin is dead.”

“Very brave of you, sweets.”

As you ride back to the compound, you lay your head between his shoulder blades, eyes closed as the wind whips around you. The two of you tiptoe back to your room, careful to not get caught. You aren’t sure how you took the tracking device out just by rolling his hoodie sleeve up, but he has to slip halfway out of it just so you can reach the right spot. He watches you carefully as you work and you find it hard to keep your eyes on just his arm. You’re successful, but you guiltily indulge in sneaking a peak at his abs and the trail of hair that continues past the waistband of his pants while he stands and properly gets his hoodie back on.

Leaning down, he gives her cheek a kiss and rushes to the door. “Thanks. You know, for…” He trails off, feeling awkward at the sincerity.

“Of course. Night, Buck.”

“G’night, doll.”

Just as you slip into bed, you feel your phone vibrate with a notification.

James started following you!

"Idiot," you mutter to yourself, endeared by the fact that he decided to use his first name for the account.

[doubleleoenergy]

iv. Lolita, Lolita Series

Hey Lolita, hey! Hey Lolita, hey! I know what the boys want, I'm not gonna play.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: bestfriendsdad!Andy Barber x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, mentions of alcohol, mentions of relationship violence, oral (female receiving), pet names, dirty talk

Words: 2240

Summary: Andy’s falling at y/n’s feet, just like all the other boys before.

Six days. It had been six agonizing days since their encounter at the club, and Andy Barber was losing his cool. The nightly, and sometimes midday, jerkoff sessions weren’t quite enough to satisfy his hunger.

Things with y/n had been the same, as if their little blowjob fest hadn’t happened. They continued to carpool to the office, continued to be friendly back at home, and y/n continued to tease him as always. She’d wear her tight and barely there clothing around the house and the office and had even started walking around in her towel after her showers. Andy didn’t mind the view, and neither did the boys, stuttering and stammering at the sight of her. But again, it wasn’t enough. 

That morning y/n greeted him with another breakfast and coffee before work, donning a black long sleeve crop top with a slit across to give him the view of just a bit of cleavage. Her light denim jeans were practically painted on her body, her perky ass bouncing with each step in her black strappy heels.

“You look good, y/n. As always.” Andy commented, taking a sip of his coffee. He thought a bit of flirting might help his case of getting closer to his little Lolita, though she didn’t seem phased by the compliment.

“Thanks Andy, we should get going. I’m shadowing you with your clients today, remember?” Her internship had been stellar, learning valuable information about the field and her future career. The only problem occasionally was Neal, who tended to linger too long at her desk and always stared down her shirt as he talked. Normally she would put the man in her place, but it offered a good source of jealousy from Andy, which she couldn’t pass up.

Their ride to the office was filled with conversation as Andy briefed her on their clients for the day, y/n taking notes in her notebook of all the critical details. Though she probably wouldn’t need the notes, she had read over the client’s files for the past two days in anticipation.

Y/N sashayed down the hall in front of Andy to his office, and he watched her ass the entire time she moved, trying not to pop a boner before the workday even started. After arriving at the office door and unlocking it, the two got comfortable for their first client of the day.

“Are you nervous?” Andy questioned, eyes focusing intently on her.

“Of course not. I’m just eager to please.” Her tone was heavy with seduction, lips curving into a huge smile when Andy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

By the time they had finished up with their clients for the day it was nine o’clock, a much later day at the office for them since y/n had started her internship. The two were both starving since lunch, stomachs growling as they headed home for the evening.

“Jacob said he and the boys are going to see a midnight movie showing after the bar, won’t be back till late.” Y/N announced, fingers typing out a quick reply to Jacob.

“Alright, are you interested in going out for some food? I think it’s way too late to start cooking something. We can go to that Mexican restaurant up the street from the house if you want.” Andy suggested, glancing over at y/n as he parked the car in the driveway.

“That’s fine, let me go change really quick and then we can go.” Y/N walked straight through the garage doors and up into her room, getting herself refreshed for dinner. Andy decided to change as well, pulling on a pair of dark denim jeans and a grey Henley long-sleeved shirt that accentuated his muscles. He was honestly hoping that y/n might consider this a date but given how she seemed to avoid any movement in their relationship, it seemed unlikely.

Andy scrolled through his email on his cell phone, leaning against the kitchen counter as she walked down the stairs. His eyes met hers before traveling down to the tight burgundy floral mini dress, the thin spaghetti straps barely holding in her braless breasts as they poked out slightly above the fabric. Andy’s eyes continued lower to the slit in the dress, staring at where the slit hit mid-thigh and ended right at her hip bone. Was she not wearing any underwear?

“Okay, I’m ready.” Y/N’s black stilettos clicked against the hardwood as she made her way towards the door, headed towards his car once again. Andy trailed behind, his eyes roaming over her backside while his cock stirred in his jeans.

The restaurant was less than a mile from the house, a quick drive for them both, which was a relief considering how hungry they both were. The waitress came up shortly after they sat, a young perky blonde who seemed to be a little extra attentive to Andy, though he didn’t pay any attention to her. He was too busy watching y/n scanning the menu, chewing her bottom lip as she figured out what to eat.

“I’ll have a Coors Light and a southwest salad, please.” Y/N’s voice was soft as she spoke to the waitress.

“I’ll have a Coors as well with the street taco trio. Thank you.” Andy handed over their menus before returning his attention back to y/n. “Did you like sitting in on the meetings today?” He asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Definitely, it’s nice to fully see the process at work. Usually I’m filing the paperwork after a meeting, but today gave me the chance to start from the initial meeting to the filing.” The waitress arrived with their drinks as she finished her sentence, taking a long swig from her beer.

“I’m glad. We make a good team, don’t you think?” Andy had to admit, she was the most impressive intern they’d had since he started there. But the question isn’t just about work, hinting at the possibility of them together.

“We’re alright.” She responded, shrugging her shoulders. Andy sighed, six days of waiting to figure out anything between them was torture, just like the mind games she was playing with him now. His thoughts are briefly interrupted by the arrival of their meal, using the break in their conversation to consider his next words carefully. It was like he was building a case as he had done hundreds of times at work, though this case was a bit higher stake for him.

“Look, in the club I know I said we couldn’t do this...do us.” Good start, Andy-boy. “But we’re both adults as you said. It’s not weird, unless we make it weird, and if we keep things private for a while so as not to hurt Jacob...why don’t we give it a try? Us, I mean.”

Y/N chewed thoughtfully on her meal, listening to his case and reflecting on his words. “I’m not a relationship girl, you know that.” The thought of being in a committed relationship with anyone terrified her, a trigger from her family trauma. What happens if Andy is kind at first, but later turns into a monster like her father? Would she really want to end up like her mom? No thank you.

“I do know that, but I also know that there’s something between us, y/n. You can’t deny that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have done what you had.” Andy retorted, taking a bite of his tacos.

“Everything I do is because I want to do it.” She declared, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. “A relationship is different, Andy. Why tie yourself down to someone? It’s not like it ever lasts, you should know that firsthand.” She’s referring to his divorce, the thought that Andy even wanted to be committed to someone else after that was confusing.

“Maybe that’s true, or maybe we’re just waiting for the right person to change our minds.” He’s leaning on the table now, his eyes locked on hers to gauge her reactions.

Y/N’s eyebrow raises at his response, her head tilting to the side. “And you’re trying to say that I’m that right person?” Her eyes roll back into her head, straightening her body and digging back into her meal. “You’re thinking a little too highly after one hookup.”

Andy knows they’re going in circles with the conversation and so he drops it, finishing up their meals in silence and not protesting when y/n asks to split the bill. Definitely not a date.

The ride back to the house is uncomfortably silent, y/n playing Candy Crush on her phone to distract herself from any further talk about a relationship. Y/N is about to go up the stairs to her room when they arrive, but Andy stops her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back over to him.

“What are you doing?” She asks, brows furrowed as her eyes meet his blue hues. Andy tugs her closer by her waist in response to her question, lips hovering inches away.

“Think about it, we’d be good together, you can’t deny that.” And with that Andy is leaning in, pressing his lips passionately against y/n’s own. Without any hesitation y/n reciprocates the kiss, hands instinctively wrapping around his neck to pull him in closer, if that was even possible.

Their lips dance together in the perfect rhythm for a moment before Andy breaks the kiss to pepper wet kisses to the flesh on y/n’s neck. She rolls her head to one side to give him better access, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck when he nibbles on a sensitive spot. She lets him continue for a moment before pushing him gently off her, confusing laced across his face.

Y/N’s heels click against the hardwood as she starts walking down the hallway towards his bedroom door, stopping right in front of it and looking back at Andy, a cocky grin spreading across her swollen lips.

“I think it’s time you return the favor from the other night.” And with that she slips into his bedroom, Andy following quickly on her heels and shutting the door behind them. He watches, eyes blown wide, as she saunters over to the bed, sitting right on the edge of it. She leans her body back, her weight against her elbows, opening her legs to reveal her bare core, her heels firmly placed on the floor in front of the bed for balance.

“Don’t just stand there and stare, Andy. Get to work.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, practically crawling across the room, his knees hitting the soft carpet a foot away from her outstretched legs. His strong hands move from her knees up her thighs, pushing her dress up to her stomach to reveal her wet heat to him.

It was glistening like diamonds, just as beautiful as the rest of her body. He rests his hands on each of her inner thighs, pushing her legs slightly wider and locking his eyes with hers as he leans forward and licks a strip up her slit. His first taste of her is incredible, better than he could’ve imagined, and he wastes no time on diving in further, lapping at her core.

Andy’s beard tickles her pussy as he works his tongue into her, sending shivers down her spine. Her fingers instinctively grab at his hair, her grip tightening whenever he lapped at a spot that made her moan. She kept her eyes on him the entire time, loving the way he looked between her legs. She could get used to this.

Andy moved his head back, his pointer and middle finger rubbing against her wet folds before they dive in, curling deep and releasing a satisfied moan from her lips. “Your pussy is so pretty, so wet and delicious. My little Lolita.” There goes the pet name from the other night, though it was quite fitting for her.

His fingers find a good rhythm inside her, eliciting the prettiest moans from her lips. His cock is painfully hard in his jeans, though he knows right now it is all about her pleasure. He can tell her orgasm is building, moving his face back to suck at her clit while his fingers keep their pace in and out of her dripping core.

Her walls start to tighten, y/n seeing stars as she feels that familiar buildup in her stomach, tightening her grip on his hair. Andy’s eyes lock back on hers, a seductive smirk spreading across his lips.

“Let go, Lolita. Cum for me.” And just like that her orgasm rips through her, her walls tightening around his fingers as she pushes his face flush against her folds, allowing him to lap up her release.

She’s shaking by the time he pulls away, his beard covered in her slick, the sight alone giving her a sense of pride and ownership over him.

“That was incredible.” Y/N announces, adjusting her dress and standing back up, stepping towards the door of the bedroom. Andy’s jaw drops, his cock twitching as she walks away. “Where are you going? I’m hard as a rock right now.”

Y/N stops to look at him, her eyes trailing to the bulge in his jeans, shrugging her shoulders. “Guess you’ll have to jerk off to your fantasies of me as always.” And with that she opens the door and exits the bedroom, leaving Andy kneeling with frustration against the carpet.

Tagging those who may be interested. Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list: @midnightf @my-divine-death @saamwilsonn @fierylibraa @fuckandfluff​ @rattlemyb0nes​ @rootcrop @goldenboysteve​  @turtoix​  @jeremyrennermakesmesmile​  @ccmarvelxx ​

[intheticklecloset]

Haikyuu!! Sentence Starters #1-10

A collection of the Haikyuu sentence starters I've done, compiled for the sake of ease. These are all stand-alone stories.

~~~

1) Lee Noya, Ler Hinata

“Not such a tough little libero now, huh?”

The tease slipped out of Hinata’s mouth with ease as he grinned down at his friend, who was curled up in a giggling ball on the floor.

“S-Shuhuhuhut up, Hinata!” Noya protested, his face bright pink as he tried to hold back the flood that threatened to burst at any moment.

“I think you’re even more ticklish than me, Noya, and that’s saying something!” Hinata giggled along with his upperclassman, easily able to keep up with his squirmy movements. This was way easier than trying to tickle Kageyama. At least in this situation, he had a whole inch of height to his advantage!

Noya squealed and arched his back when the redhead found his lower ribs, crawling up from his sides. “N-Nohohohoho, nononono – Hinata, stahahahahap!”

Hinata beamed. “Why? I like seeing you smile and laugh like this!”

“T-Tickles – it f-frihihihihihicking tickles, Hinatahahahahaha!”

“Oh, really?” Hinata started dragging his fingers up and down the libero’s ribs, thrilled when Noya couldn’t hold back anymore and started squealing with high-pitched laughter. “I would never have guessed.”

“Hinata!” Noya managed before giving up the fight and laying back to take it, shockwave after shockwave of ticklish sensations lighting up his nervous system and making him laugh and squirm involuntarily. But – if he was honest with himself – he really didn’t mind the distraction.

*

2) Lee Noya, Ler Kageyama

“What’s wrong?” Kageyama smirked, holding Noya’s feet in his lap and trailing his fingers lazily up and down the soles. “I thought touch was your love language.”

Noya blushed furiously. “Y-Yeah, but not that kind of touch. Jeez…”

Kageyama replied by scratching his fingernail in the center of the libero’s left sole. “No? Really?”

“S-Stohohohop,” Noya giggled, covering his face with his hands and tugging at his feet half-heartedly.

In the spirit of keeping up the playfulness, Kageyama wrapped one arm around both of Noya’s ankles and held him tighter, scribbling his free hand over both feet at once.

Noya bucked his hips and tried to roll over but quickly wound up on his back again, too weak with laughter to do anything more than protest. “Nohohohohohoho!”

“I don’t know, Yuu, you do seem to be loving this just as much as if I were kissing you.”

“I ahahahahahaham not!”

“You are.” Kageyama grabbed his toes and dug in fiercely. “You should be punished for lying to my face like that.”

Noya tossed his head back and finally started laughing, gripping his stomach as if it would save him somehow. Through screechy giggles he pleaded, “Stohohohohohohop, that s-seheheheheriously tihihihihickles, Kageyama!”

The setter merely chuckled. “I know it does.”

*

3) Lee Hinata, Ler Suga

“No, I’m not giggling!”

Suga grinned. “You sure? It sounds like you are.”

“Well, I’m not!” Hinata insisted indignantly, trying desperately to reach the beetle that was crawling on his lower back, exactly where he couldn’t reach it. Another chuckle escaped him, making him blush. “Get it off of me, Suga! Why are you just standing there?”

“Because it’s cute that a bug is tickling you and you’re giggling,” Suga replied, taking out his phone. “I’ve got to show the guys.”

“H-Hey! Wait!” Hinata whirled to stop him, but his sudden movement caused the beetle to skitter a little further up his back, even more where he couldn’t reach it, and he arched his body and definitely, absolutely giggled. “S-Stohohop! Get it off of mehehehe!”

Suga laughed, holding his phone steady for the sake of his video. “Oh my god, just when I thought you couldn’t get any more fun to be around, Hinata. You’re getting tickled by a beetle.”

“Shut up, Suga!” Hinata felt the heat of his embarrassment on his cheeks, pouting as he crossed his arms, struggling to stay still as the bug crawled up towards his shoulder blades. “P-Please just get it off. Please?”

“All right, all right.” Suga stopped his recording, pocketed his phone, and went to shoo the beetle away. It flew off, unbothered, having no idea the cute scene it had just caused. “There. It’s gone.”

“You’re so mean. Are you really going to show that video?”

“Of course I am.” The silver-haired setter smirked, scribbling his fingers up and down Hinata’s spine quickly, making the redhead shriek and jolt away from him. “How can I resist?”

*

4) Lee Daichi, Ler Suga

“I told you, you didn’t have to try that,” Suga said in exasperation. “Now your arms are all red.”

“But Noya made it look so cool; I wanted to give it a go.” Daichi gave him a look. “You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never wanted to do rolling thunder before.”

Suga pressed his lips together. “Well, since you didn’t want to hear my warning, you’ll have to learn a lesson for not listening to me.”

“Isn’t nearly breaking my arms enough of a lesson learned?” The captain retorted, eyes widening when he saw wiggling fingers approaching him. He took a step back. “Suga, you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

The setter lunged after his friend, and the two ran around the gym together, sprinting at top speeds to try and catch up to and evade each other. Eventually Suga tricked Daichi into going around the net while he ducked under it, and that finally closed the gap between them.

“No, nohohohoho, wait!” Daichi burst into giggles the instant the silver-haired setter grabbed his sides. “Dohohohohon’t do thahahahat!”

“You deserve it,” Suga shot back, grinning, “for failing to heed my oh-so-sage advice, captain. If you really want to learn rolling thunder, I’m sure Noya would be willing to teach you.”

“G-Gehehehet – get ohohohohoff! Suga!” Daichi twisted and writhed in the setter’s surprisingly strong grip, but he wasn’t going anywhere. “Stohohohohohop!”

Suga only held him closer. “Nope. This is what you get.”

*

5) Lee Daichi, Ler Ennoshita

“Leave me be!” Daichi snapped, turning his back and striding away.

Ennoshita blinked, surprised. He’d been watching the captain a lot more as of late, knowing his fellow second-years were looking to make him Daichi’s replacement once he graduated. He’d of course noticed how hard his upperclassman worked to remain a levelheaded, fair leader to the team – something he wished to do as well. But in the midst of his observations he’d also noticed that Daichi worked himself almost too hard trying to be the perfect example, and when he’d decided to suggest that he take it easy, “leave me be!” was the response he got.

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it,” he muttered. “I’m just trying to help.”

Daichi paused, then let out a sigh and looked back at him. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Ennoshita.”

The second-year smiled and put a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I know you’re stressed. But that’s exactly why you should take it easy.” Then, inspired by something he’d seen Hinata doing quite a lot lately, he reached out to grab Daichi’s side and squeeze. “To start, you could smile a little more, you know?”

“Ah! W-Whahahahahahat?” Daichi sputtered, helpless against the wide smile that took over his features. He tried to squirm away, but Ennoshita gripped his shoulder even tighter.

“There you go, just like that! Next, you can laugh.” The younger boy grabbed both of his sides then, digging in deep, and Daichi shrieked before doubling over, loud giggles pouring from his mouth.

“Ennoshihihihihihita!”

“That’s my name,” Ennoshita confirmed, grinning, and kept tickling his upperclassman.

*

6) Lee Hinata, Ler Tanaka

“Come on! I see that smile! Give me the smile!”

“Stohohohohohohop! Tanakahahahahahaha!” Hinata squealed, trying his best to double over and fall to the floor. Tanaka wasn’t having it, holding onto him firmly with one arm and digging into his side with the other.

“Come on, Hinata! Stop being so mopey. We all know you’re sad and depressed because Kageyama’s sick today—”

“I’m nohohohohoohohot sahahahahad and deprehehehessed!” Hinata protested, his cheeks flaming red as tomatoes at the callout.

“—but don’t you think he’d want you to be happy and smiling with us instead of pouting all day?”

“I’m nohohohohohohot pouting!”

“Well, not anymore, you’re not!” Tanaka grinned devilishly, scribbling up to Hinata’s underarm. “Tickle, tickle, little lovebird~”

“Stahahahahahahahap!”

“Daichi!” Tanaka turned his head to his upperclassman. “You getting this?”

“Already done,” replied the captain, storing his phone away.

And Kageyama – sick in bed – opened up the video sent to him via text message and smiled, seeing his boyfriend giggling hysterically and already feeling leagues better for it.

*

7) Lee Yamaguchi, Ler Tsukishima

“Stop laughing, this is serious!”

Tsukishima’s harsh words only made Yamaguchi laugh even harder, gripping his stomach as he doubled over. “I-I cahahahahan’t hehelp it…t-thehehehehehey’re r-right – pfffhahahahaha!”

Tsukki growled in irritation. He could barely see Tadashi, having lost his sports glasses and his normal ones stowed away in his duffel bag. “They’re right where? If you see them then tell me where they are! I’m getting impatient.”

Yamaguchi finally regained enough breath to manage, “T-They’re…right there, Tsukki. Around your neck. They just fell, that’s all.”

Blinking, Tsukki looked down and felt around his neck for his spectacles, and sure enough, that’s exactly what had happened. He let out a sigh and put them back on, adjusting them so he could see his friend’s face, pink from laughing and with a wide smile still in place.

“You think this is funny?” Tsukki sauntered up to him. “I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

“Huh? W-Wait!” Tadashi tried getting away, but his blonde friend was taller and stronger and way more intimidating, and it wasn’t long at all before he felt fingers in his ribs, tickling deeply, precisely, drawing out unintentional giggles and squeaks. “Nohohohohoho! I’m sohohohohorry – plehehehehehehease! Tsukkiehehehehehehehe!”

*

8) Lee Tanaka, Ler Daichi

“Dude, you’re way too soft on them,” Daichi said, shaking his head as he watched their two wild first-years sprint out of the gym, no doubt racing to the lockers as though their lives depended on it.

Tanaka shrugged. “Eh, so they’re a little nuts. So was I, when I first started. You were easy on me then.”

“I wasn’t the captain then.”

“And I’m not their captain now. Hopefully ever, dear god.” Tanaka laughed, clapping Daichi on the shoulder. “Relax, dude, they’ll turn out fine. I did, didn’t I?”

Daichi looked at him, and his expression softened. “Yeah, I suppose you did. Still…” He reached for his underclassman’s sides, digging in deep and enjoying the surprised yell he got in return. “I think you could use a lesson yourself, knucklehead.”

“Ack! N-No, ha-hahahahang on a second, I d-dohohon’t need – god, Daichi! Stahahahahap!” Tanaka sputtered and finally broke down into giggles, trying to worm his way out of the older boy’s grip. “Cahahahan’t you lehehehet me d-defehehehend myself for f-fihihihihive seheheheconds?!”

“Mmm…no,” Daichi decided, grinning, tickling even harder. Tanaka finally began to laugh, doubling over and trying to bat the captain’s hands away. “No, I don’t think I can, my friend.”

*

9) Lee Suga, Ler Daichi

“Okay but look, guys – it’s so deep!” Daichi exclaimed, drilling his finger even deeper into Suga’s navel.

Suga was lying on the floor, back arched, head tossed back with throes of laughter, hands pushing weakly at Daichi’s while the captain straddled him, pinning him in place for this ticklish torture.

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!” Suga screamed, laughing louder and harder than anyone on the team had ever heard before. He kicked his legs uselessly, face turning red. “PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

“Holy crap, dude,” Tanaka laughed, kneeling down a few paces away to get a better look while the others simply stared on from behind him. “Are you kidding me with that laugh? You sound like a hyena!”

“I DOHOHOHOHOHOHO NOHOHOHOHOHOHOT!!” Suga cried, but he knew he did. He let out a loud squeal, then a snort, and his laughter turned so hysterical it was practically wild.

The others started laughing with him, catching his infectious giggles.

Daichi finally let up after another few moments, scribbling over his belly lightly to bring him gently back down from his tickle-high, and then at last easing up completely. “Your hyena laugh is the best, Suga.”

The silver-haired setter gasped for breath and let out a few residual giggles. “I’m glad you like it, you bully,” he groaned, but he was smiling.

*

10) Lee Tanaka, Ler Hinata

“Don’t poke me!”

Hinata grinned, proceeding to poke Tanaka again anyway. “Why? Does it tickle?”

“You little—!” Tanaka tried to grab him and tickle him first, but Hinata had always had speed on his side, and the redhead had scrambled behind his upperclassman and latched onto him, drilling into his ribs and sides. The second-year let out a yelp, trying to keep from laughing. “Gah! Get off! Hinata, this isn’t funny!”

“I think it’s funny,” Hinata replied, giggling as though to prove his point. He reached up even further into Tanaka’s underarm, and that’s when the upperclassman finally broke and started cackling.

“Nohohohohohoho! You lihihihihihittle jeheheheheheherk!”

“Aw, you’re ticklish, Tanaka!”

“I knohohohohow that! You dohohohohon’t need to tehehehehehell me!”

The redhead beamed, tickling under both arms now. “Tickle, tickle, tickle!”

“Stahahahahap it, you fihihihihihirst-year brahahahahat!”

Hinata laughed. “You sound like Tsukki.”

“I sohohohohohohound nothing lihihihihike that stuck-up – ahahahahahahaha nohohohohoho!” Tanaka tried to wiggle away from Hinata’s fingers along his neck and shoulders but found he was attached quite firmly and couldn’t be shaken off. “Hinata, stahahahahahap already!”

“Okay, fine…” Hinata relented, finally letting him go, grinning. But when Tanaka whirled on him, evil smirk in place, the redhead knew he’d made a mistake in conceding so quickly. He turned on his heel and ran.

[obeymeluv]

Signs they Love You (Pt. 2)

This semester is almost over and while the teacher is a bit disorganized, I have a semblance of breathing room. I thought I’d pop this out real quick and maybe something smaller. Baby-related thing still pending. I want to do it, just not quite enough time yet.

Part 2 has Asmo, Beel, and Belphie.

Belphie’s is not long AT ALL because...well, it’s Belphie. And it’s me. I’m so-so with Belphie.

Asmodeus

For once, his charm and sin is a double-edged sword

Yes, he’s very experienced and has had many lovers--many splendid little things over hundreds of years--but how to make it unique? How to tell you?

Asmo is very calculated in how he flirts, from what he wears and what he plans to say. He personally believes every relationship should be special. No repeated dates unless both people have a preference for it

So when he decides he likes you, the first thing he does is pull out this BIG ASS BOOK he’s kept for centuries and leafs through it to see what he’s done before

 No, it doesn’t matter that 99% of these dates were AGES before you were born. He’s checking the list because YOU DESERVE A SPECIAL DATE!

He’s secretly hoping you’ll get some of the many hints he’ll be dropping, but consulting the book is also a good idea for an official first date

After two weeks of shopping with you, taking spa days, trying to weasel his way into more cuddles, Asmo decides it’s time to pull out The Book idea because you’re not getting it

You’re just distracted by his beauty to see the fact that he’s trying to flirt. It’s fine.

This date idea requires the big guns (really only Diavolo, but he needs Lucifer to get to Diavolo). He’s setting his plan into motion, trying to sweet-talk Lucifer into taking him by Diavolo’s castle but Mammon overhears

The second-eldest is very unimpressed, DARES to mock him while sipping noisily on a soda, and just asks him why he doesn’t tell you straight up.

“Because it’s a stupid, tasteless idea.” Asmodeus scoffs and shoos him away like an annoying little thing as he amps up the charm and resumes his conversation with Lucifer.

“Bet it’ll work.” is all he hears Mammon murmur.

“Look,” Mammon shrugs. flicks his eyes to Asmo and then just nods his head towards you as you come around the corner into the dining room. “You just man up and say, ‘Do you--SMFF!”)

Asmo has never strangled anyone to death but today it might happen

Or he’s going to break this new six inch heel off in Mammon’s mouth (or his ass)

With Mammon sufficiently strangled (or choking on his soda, he’s not sure which) Asmo, plays it cool (barely) as you pass through to do something else (thank god!)

Highly amused, Lucifer agrees to help him

By the end of the week Asmodeus has a cute greenhouse picnic planned. Only Satan and Lucifer know

He’s pretty scarce around the House of Lamentation, even turning Solomon down once or twice, but it’s all worth it for the set up. He even bought special flowers

Barbatos escorts you through the winding greenhouse that almost seems lush and trim enough to be part of the Royal Gardens. He stops just before a manicured arch of flowers, the walkway studded with garden lights, stepping stones, and beautiful roses

He goads you forward, sending you on your way. The little roses perk up and explode into gorgeous blooms

And they’re talking?! One of the notecards say they’re a Devildom brand of rose--a mimicrose. The flower acts like a recorded, hiding a secret message, and blooms when it’s delivered to the right person

Your face lights up a gorgeous flattered color as you make your way down the trail compliments popping up every step

Asmo’s waiting at the end of the arches, looking like the cat that ate the canary with his catered spread. Sitting pretty on the classic checkered blanket.  

You only kind of hear the last rose confess--Asmo’s voice going quiet and shy as he swears he really, really loves you

The demon in front of you seems very far from that shy voice but you catch the tinge of pink on his cheeks. He saunters up to you and says something witty about how only he could be perfect for you, and that only perfect him could set all this up!

You two have a cute, quiet date with little cakes and finger foods

Diavolo sends Lucifer a text with a blurry photo saying he ‘photobombed’ you two, but doesn’t realize he has to be in the photo for it to count. Lucifer still thinks it’s a cute picture

Beelzebub:

It takes Beel a while to come around to the fact that he might like you

Not because he doesn’t like you, but because he’s equally comfy being friends. Friends are fine, too.

Even as a friend he still gets that giddy rush when he holds you, that flood of warmth when he impresses you, so for a while he thinks he has the best of both worlds

When that balance starts to feel threatened, the realization creeps in

Then he realizes there’s no going back and if he doesn’t say anything, you get caught up with other people and he’ll miss you. You just won’t be around as much anymore!

 When someone on the Fangol team starts getting a little too curious and close, the red flags go flying in Beel’s mind. He needs to tell you and tell you now!

Probably doesn’t have an extensive dating history and is, in general, the best sweet boi, so he’ll ask around for ideas. The second someone suggests a cupcake message or cake message, he’s done. No more ideas! That’s the best one!

To put his feelings in it, Beel decides to make the cupcakes himself. He buys enough to make 3 or 4 dozen cupcakes because he anticipates stress eating at least two batches

And the ugly ones. Can’t give you ugly ones!

He takes full advantage of Asmo or whoever getting you out of the house, throwing on a little apron and getting to work. Belphie supervises, occasionally scolding him

Beel eats a few cupcakes more than he’s supposed to and decides to draw frosting people so the space doesn’t feel empty

His frosting spelling isn’t that great. One of the words look weird. More than one, actually

Trying to write over it just makes extra frosting, unreadable globs

Beel eats that one, then realizes he messed up some of the topping, so he smooths it out and tries again

Belphie plays wingman, fully aware of his brother panicking over presentation and trying to spell (and not squeeze the life out of the frosting bag), and writes little love messages on the wrappers

It’s stuff he’s heard Beel say in his sleep for at least a week.

Beel resigns himself to a mash of cupcakes that are kind of readable and way less than what he planned to have. He doesn’t know Belphie’s done a gradual bait and switch of the cupcake liners since he’s eaten just as many as he’s made

You see a smiley face and the frosting people and it’s enough to melt your heart

Beel is speckled in flour and frosting (he’s got crumbs on the corner of his mouth), and he looks adorably awkward in the apron. He’s so nervous he’s in his demon form, wings buzzing frantically behind him.

It’s like he wants to take off and make nervous circles around you.

He stutters out an awkward ‘I like you’ and mumbles other things. Belphie, who’s curled up under the prep table, grumbles out ‘READ THE LINERS!’ before snuggling down again

You and Beel go on a cute little hunt to pick and read the wrappers, splitting cupcakes with each other.

At the end of it you’re very full and very happy. And Beel’s extra delighted because you smell (and taste) like cupcakes.

Belphegor

Does he like you like you, or just like the fact that you don’t bother him?

In his book, you’re not terrible. Not annoying. You don’t wake him up on purpose, and you seem to get along with Beel.

Not bad, right?

Maybe this means he just doesn’t have high standards?

He knows he wouldn’t mind napping with you. Maybe that means he likes you?

One night, when he’s hit that ‘slept all day’ high and he’s awake and thinking it over. He asks Beel about it because who else would know him better than his twin?

Then he learns. OH BOY DOES HE LEARN!

Apparently he talks about you in his sleep? And he blushes? CUDDLES THE PILLOW?

Beel is hardly worried about the threats, the finger pointing in his face, and the way he’s bobbing his head like a bull about to charge. It’s just standard little brother things! Very cute!

Belphegor feels bad and a little unworthy to date you. His sin is very taxing and he spends a lot of the time napping. Is it really a good idea?

It’s a heavy issue to think about, and he dreams.

Belphegor has always believed that dreams are a way for you to work out the issues you have when you’re awake, so he’s not surprised to dream about you

The dreams are so vivid, so heart-warming, and he’s so happy. It’s all about you and him--snippets of dates that he can’t completely see. He’s not sure where you’re at or what led up to the moments, but they’re all a happy, quiet cuddle that gives him more energy than he’s felt in a while

He knows, then, that he should at least ask you. When he gets his next burst of rested energy, he’s going to confess

Belphegor’s nearly scared straight out of bed when he sees you tentatively approaching it. He musters up enough concentration to hold a conversation and is VERY embarrassed to find he basically called you here

Almost like a subliminal message, or sharing a dream, you just simply had to come and tell him about the adorably awkward dream. It was very cuddly and kind of put you in a cuddling mood

Belphegor’s got a major case of sleep brain but it sounds like YOU actually just confessed

Plays the big card--go big or go home!--”If you like me, get in the bed.”

Realizes about 3 seconds later how that sounds. Is very embarrassed and wants to hide under his blankets and die. 

He’s already wormed under them and is firmly cocooned (so he doesn’t have to look you in the face or see if you stay) “You know...if you like me. Want to cuddle and stuff...like a couple...”

He feels your weight spread out along his bed and scoops you up like a blanket monster. It’s like being swallowed by a fitted sheet, blanket coming at you from all sides, and you both laugh about it.

Belphegor is a big fan of the private cuddle pile

[hopekiedokie]

The Dreaded First Day of School (single dad!jimin)

SUMMARY: On his son’s first day of school, we learn that the badass, leather jacket wearer, and tattoo clad single dad might not be so tough after all. Or maybe, his soft little son isn’t as pure as he ought to be. (In short, Jimin’s baby is growing up and he’s not prepared for it.)

GENRE: fluff, humour, maybe angst if you squint hard enough

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

NOTES: So Jimin isn’t supposed to be a mean or awful dad here. He’s just still not totally equipped to be one even after five years now. This might become a mini series with Ms. Y/n being Haneul’s teacher in the future. Who knows? Also, the photo is not mine.

POSTED ON: 26th March, 2021

What the actual heck is this??

Jimin has seen a lot of crazy things in his life but this, whatever is happening in front of him, is something he truly cannot believe.

You see, today is his son's, Haneul, dreaded™ first day of school.

The kid was up until 3 in the morning, crying his eyes out. He kept begging Jimin to not let him go, saying things like “I’ve been a good boy.” or “I don’t know those people.” or “Please, daddy, I don’t want to go!”

Half of the time, Jimin didn’t even understand what he was saying because he was crying so much.

The worst part is that Jimin had half the mind to give in to all these excuses and to just let Haneul attend school next year.

Contrary to popular belief though, he’s not entirely an awful example of what a father should be. In general, yes, he’s done a lot of questionable things. But in particular, as a father, he does like allowing his son to eat whatever junk food he wants, watch whatever is on the tv, or letting him up way past his bedtime (as late as 4am).

BUT he still has a smidge of decency left in his being and he actually wants his son to grow up decent.

(Which for the most part, is going along fine since Haneul is probably one of the sweetest and softest kids he’s ever seen. How though? Jimin has no idea.)

So with tired eyes and barely 4 hours of sleep, he dragged his son to school.

Even during the drive, Haneul was still adamant about skipping school and all the while, he kept using his cute crying voice that ALWAYS turns Jimin into mush.

Not this time though.

“It’s gonna be okay. You’ll meet a lot of friends and you’ll play with them! It’s gonna be fun, I promise.” This is one of the many things he said to lift his son’s spirits up.

All his efforts are still not enough to pacify Haneul as the tiny boy kept throwing a tantrum. Jimin even had to carry him after getting out of the car and during the entire walk to the school gymnasium where the assembly is, Haneul held his arms tightly around his neck.

To be completely honest, Jimin thought that it would be embarrassing but actually, he found the entire thing quite endearing.

Maybe it’s the narcissistic prick inside him that’s talking but seeing and hearing his son say that he’d rather spend time with him makes him feel like perhaps he’s not so bad of a dad after all.

Which brings us to the present.

To reiterate, Jimin cannot believe what’s happening.

One moment, his son is clinging to him for his dear life, then in an instant, he watched him grow up right in front of him.

In the worst way possible.

Not to be dramatic, but it was like watching his entire life slip away from his grasp.

The beginning of the end started when Jimin pointed to these three boys and insisted Haneul to introduce himself.

Boy, oh boy, oh boy, BIG mistake on his behalf!

He probably should’ve pushed his son to the “nerdier” looking kids. That would’ve helped him in the long run, as well!

At first, he watched in awe from a far as Haneul progressively turned less tense and more comfortable with those boys. They started with cute small smiles but it quickly turned into wildly animated gestures while comparing their Paw Patrol themed trolley backpacks.

“That’s my boy! Already making friends and it’s only been 5 minutes.” Jimin proudly thought to himself.

Okay, maybe Haneul is going to be fine. All that crying thinking Jimin did the entire night was for nothing! His cute soft son can totally do this.

Now, Jimin’s life altering moment comes. The time to actually say goodbye is here.

A teacher announces that they’re taking the kids to their respective classrooms and even if they cry or make a huge fit about it, the parents or guardians should stay where they are. They should refrain from “babying” their child.

Alright, now’s the time for Haneul to cry again! There’s no way he doesn’t cry even just a tiny bit…....Right?

Jimin makes eye contact with Haneul and, without any second thoughts, proudly mouths “I love you” while pointing to him.

Normally, Haneul is quick to return the gesture. Heck, he even goes as far as drawing a huge heart with his tiny pointer fingers!

But today, he doesn’t do that. No no no no no!

Instead, Haneul discreetly looks around him to check if anyone is watching him then……….

He shakes his head towards his father then faces back to his new friends.

Gasp! What is this???

Jimin has never felt so betrayed in his entire life! Not to mention, by his OWN son too.

This irks him so much.

So much so that he stands and gets close to his son, opposing the teacher’s instruction of letting their kids be.

Bitch, no. He’s getting his “I love you” from his son no matter what.

As he walks towards Haneul, it’s apparent that the kid had somehow done a complete 180 from his mood 10 minutes ago.

How can this be? How is he suddenly so cold towards his own man?

When he finally gets to Haneul, he literally, no joke, had to call his name 4 times to get his attention. The actual audacity of this kid!

“Hey, Haneul. Daddy’s gotta go!” Jimin says with his world famous “no eyes” smile.

Haneul’s face drops.

Bingo!

This kid is about to get a huge reality check or so Jimin thinks he is.

He’s waiting for any signs of despair, a sniff or maybe some glassy eyes but nothing happens.

Come on, where are the water works?? Where are all the hugs and kisses???

Haneul is like (・-・) to Jimin.

O-okay…….

“...”

“...”

“...”

Nothing???

“There’s a lot of scary strangers here……”

Okay, so that was really mean for Jimin to say bUT HE ONLY WANTS TO SQUEEZE EVEN JUST A DROP OF AFFECTION FROM HIM. Sue him!

Haneul finally opens his mouth.

Jimin quietly anticipates his son to return to his warm and loving self that he still doesn’t quite know where he gets from...

“So what, daddy? I’m a big boy! I don’t need you.”

(´⊙ω⊙`)?！

Uhm exCusE mE, but W H A T??

Needless to say, that statement hurt Jimin like a buttcheek on a stick.

However, he’s not gonna break away from his badass persona in front of all these people, especially around these little shits that they call “children”. He has an ✨𝓪𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬✨ that he strictly abides to, people!

And frankly, he’s not gonna let his son walk all over him.

So without any word, Jimin leans down to give Haneul a kiss. If he’s not gonna receive any affection through words then fine! He’s gonna get it through a different way.

Jimin’s lips are almost in contact with Haneul’s plush cheeks. They are literally a hair away that Jimin can feel the heat emitting from it but all at once, that heat is gone.

You know why?

Because Haneul is quick to do that matrix shit where he bends his back to avoid his father’s lips.

Then he saunters away, leaving Jimin hanging.

(๑´⊙ ₃ ⊙`๑)

Jimin calls him a couple times but again, he did not look back.

S I G H

Alright, then. He doesn’t normally raise his voice towards his son (nor disciplines him tbh) but oh boy, oh boy! This kid is practically asking for it.

He doesn’t give a fuck if he’s five, no son of his is gonna be allowed to treat him like that!

“HANEUL! GET BACK HERE. NOW!”

Well, that got him looking back towards his father.

Jimin points in front of him to which Haneul begrudgingly complies after taking a peek from his new found friends.

Haneul hears the other boys snicker behind him as he trudges towards his slightly pissed father.

When he’s standing right where his father wants him, Jimin leans his cheek down again for him to kiss.

Now, the other boys are blatantly laughing at him.

Maaaaaaaan. He can’t be a laughing stock on his first day of school! He needs to be as cool as his daddy!

As Haneul contemplates his life choices, Jimin patiently waits for his kiss. There’s no way Haneul is gonna reject him for the third time in a row within a span of two minutes!

Within a few seconds, he feels Haneul’s lidol babie hand against his cheek.

O M G

How 😭 cute 😭 is 😭 this 😭 ??

This has got to be one the softest moments they have shared together. AND it’s in front of all these people!

Take that Namjoon hyung for saying I can’t be a gentle and tender loving father!

Jimin is about to place a hand over Haneul’s small one to caress it but then Haneul pushes his face away.

“Just go, daddy!”

Before Jimin is able to process what just transpired, Haneul is already strutting towards the other kids, feeling like a king or a boss for bitch-slapping his own father.

This little fUqer!!!

Who does he think he is to act like this towards Jimin iN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE??

This is what happens when he lets his son spend too much alone time with his Uncle Jungkook and Uncle Taehyung.

But to be fair, Haneul is still Jimin’s son at the end of the day so…..like, maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised??

Yet, still, he truly cannot believe it.

All it took was 5 minutes and a rowdy set of friends, then his kid has grown up.

He apparently “doesn’t need him” anymore, according to the kid.

To think that Jimin got up early to make him those cute bento boxes. He even specifically made them look like various pokemons that Haneul fancies!

Wow. Just. WOW.

Excuse him, but he’s just gonna get in his car and crank up “Slipping Through My Fingers” by ABBA while he ugly sobs.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 - “Flowers, Ink, and Window Panes” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Aziraphale opened his flower shop across the street from Crowley’s tattoo parlor three months ago, and in that amount of time, they’ve said a grand total of six lines to one another - the same six lines they recite every morning before they start their day. That’s not to say Crowley hasn’t been trying to find a way to break the ice, invite the man out on a date, but past anxiety is holding him back. What in the world would he say to him? What could they possibly have in common. Until one day, Crowley finds a way to talk to Aziraphale without saying a word. (9777 words)

Notes: Written for @scribblemakes and their prompt ‘Florist/Tattoo artist AU’. I hope you enjoy it <3 Fluff, light angst, human AU.</b>

Read on AO3.

Crowley sits at his work station and watches the clock, the second hand hopping from dash to dash, ratcheting up his heart rate with every jerky bounce. He hasn’t opened his shop yet, doesn’t normally open up in the mornings without an appointment, and even then, not before eleven.

He’s a man who appreciates his sleep.

Normally.

But for the past three months, he’s gotten up early, showered and dressed, to sit at his station and babysit his wall clock until ten.

When the man across the narrow street from him unlocks his doors.

The last five minutes are the hardest as the minute hand creeps toward the twelve and the hour hand lingers, hovering close to the ten but not quite touching it. A bizarre anxiety builds in Crowley’s chest that it might never get there, that his clock might break down and throw everything out of whack. Irrationally, he has imbued his clock with far too much power; that its running out of battery may cause the man across the way to show up late.

Or not at all.

Crowley can’t even recall the last time he changed the batteries in that thing. Or his smoke detector. Or the remote to the in-shop telly.

Half the time he’s convinced these things run on sheer will alone.

But after the longest five minutes of his life, his clock finishes its journey to ten a.m., and across the street, thankfully, the man with the keen sense of punctuality makes an appearance.

Crowley doesn’t rush outside to greet him, not even after all that waiting and clock watching and sweating through questions of battery life.

No.

He rises up from his stool leisurely, rolls his neck on his shoulders, takes a deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out through his mouth. He counts to five, then counts to five again. He grabs his leather jacket and strolls towards the front door, unlocking it and sauntering outside as if he, too, were simply opening up shop for the day.

Calm, cool, and collected (on the outside) he raises an arm in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Fell!”

The man turns, catches Crowley’s eye, and smiles.

Smiles as if he’s just seen the sun for the first time and fallen in love.

That smile alone is worth getting up early for.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley!” the man answers, waving back with his whole body as if Crowley were standing on the bow of a ship across a channel as opposed to the curb across a single, one-way street.

It’s worth acknowledging, as Crowley zips up his motorcycle jacket, bracing himself against the chill morning air, that the constantly cheery and pleasantly plump object-of-Crowley’s-affections dresses like an unfortunate toddler saddled with a generous but drunk grandmother. Every day with him is a new adventure in tacky, floral-themed jumpers (today’s selection something resembling daffodils if they were featured in a Tim Burton movie) accompanied by khaki pants and a pair of Derby shoes that last saw their heyday when Vaudeville died.

But his jumpers, and the fact that he can go an entire month without wearing the same one twice, are part of his charm.

“Mr. Fell!” Crowley leans forward so far off the edge of the sidewalk, a stiff breeze might shove him into the street. “How many times have I told you? Call me Anthony.”

“And I’ve told you as many times to call me Aziraphale, my dear boy, and yet … here we are.”

Crowley laughs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and busies himself with the mindless task of inspecting the sidewalk outside his shop for trash. But the sidewalk isn’t just clean this morning. The cement is immaculate, the city having come by in the night and done their jobs well for once. Still, he slips on a pair of the latex gloves he keeps in his pants pocket and starts collecting up infinitesimal pieces of debris – the curled corner of a Snickers wrapper, a cigarette butt smoked way into the filter, and a decrepit piece of what could have once been chewing gum, and carries them to the wire trash can by the curb. Then he inspects his window, checks the edges of the decals that spell out his shop’s name – Eden Ink.

For what, he hasn’t a clue.

Anything to keep him outside until Mr. Fell, doing much of the same, calls out to him again.

“Have a lovely day, Mr. Crowley!”

“And you as well, Mr. Fell!”

Except this time, this one time, as Crowley turns to go back inside, he distinctly hears Mr. Fell say in a soft voice, “I mean, Anthony.”

Crowley stops in his tracks. He spins around. He catches a glimpse of white teeth biting into a pink lower lip before Mr. Fell hurries into his shop, the bells above his door tinkling behind him.

“And you as well,” Crowley repeats, watching Mr. Fell’s back as he begins lugging flower buckets from his cooler to start working on his orders, “Aziraphale.”

***

Three months.

It’s been three months since Aziraphale Fell opened the florist shop across the street, and those few lines of dialogue, recited daily, are the farthest Crowley has gotten with regard to asking the man out on a date.

God! He’s gotta come up with better material!

And maybe grow a pair. That’d help, too.

But Crowley doesn’t know how to talk to the bookish man who owns the flower shop. It shouldn’t be that difficult to strike up a conversation with him. Crowley talks to people all the time. Occupational hazard and all that. If he could get Aziraphale into his chair, then he might have a chance at learning the man’s secrets. People seem to equate the tattoo artist’s chair with the therapist’s couch. The second his gun starts buzzing, they spill their secrets.

Maybe, in Aziraphale’s case, he’d find an in to spill some secrets of his own.

And if he ordered coffee and donuts from the deli down the street, it would come close to something like a date.

Crowley sighs at this plan.

Sure. On the off, off, off, off, off, off chance Aziraphale ever wanders over looking to get a tattoo, coffee and donuts might be considered a date.

In the truly pathetic sense.

Which could mean that Crowley and the bubbly grandma who came in a week ago to get the Tasmanian Devil on her upper arm (altered here and there to resemble her late husband, Arnold, since that was his favorite cartoon) and offered him a butterscotch candy had also been on a date.

She’d been sweet and everything (and from the pictures she’d shown him, a looker in her day) but a world of no.

As much as Crowley would like to start a relationship with Aziraphale, even if it were simply the coffee and donut kind, he can’t seem to find a jumping off point. It sounds cliché, and a hundred rom-coms have done it better, but what in the world could they ever have in common?

Rationally, looking past the shallow, they both own small businesses in the exact same neighborhood. That’s one thing they have in common. Sounds like a pretty big jumping off point.

Crowley could find out the rest by talking to him.

But it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Not for Crowley.

People tend to assume Crowley is fathoms more exciting than he is because he owns a tattoo parlor and drives a motorcycle. But nothing could be further from the truth. His business and his bike are the limit lines where interesting things end. Otherwise he’s a simple man who spends much of his time outside work tending to a few small plants and watching retro 80s television.

(Plants! That’s another thing they have in common! Wait – are flowers the same as plants? Must be. They both have leaves, right?)

But the persona his job earns him, which he plays no active part in cultivating, is one of the reasons it’s difficult for him to open up to anyone, particularly potential love interests.

He doesn’t want to show people the real him and risk their being disappointed in what they don’t see.

So, Crowley watches Aziraphale instead of risking rejection, has turned watching him into a sport. Not in a creepy way. He’s not stalking him or anything. But watching the man assemble his arrangements is cathartic, seeing him interact with his customers mesmerizing. Fell’s Flowers became popular overnight when Aziraphale moved into the neighborhood. He must have brought clientele with him from a previous shop that stayed loyal to his business because Crowley has never seen any store apart from the food markets do the kind of business Aziraphale’s does daily.

There was a time when Crowley thought Aziraphale might be a drug dealer, using his shop as a front. If he is, then he’s the kindest, friendliest, most compassionate drug dealer Crowley has ever met. Some of the people who stop by stay for close to an hour while they pour their hearts out to him. And Aziraphale listens to every word while he puts their orders together.

But that’s not all he does.

He makes them feel at home – serves them tea, feeds them biscuits, and, from the back and forth Crowley has observed, gives them advice. It must be good advice, too, because there hasn’t been a single person he’s seen who hasn’t left smiling.

Looking back at it now, Crowley feels the odds of Aziraphale being a drug dealer are very slim.

But if Aziraphale is a drug dealer, that wouldn’t make Crowley admire him any less.

***

Aziraphale runs his shop on a schedule Crowley could set his watch by. With the exception of which customers come in and when, he opens his shop at ten, has his buckets out of the cooler and lined up by 10:15, and starts putting together arrangements by 10:30. These aren’t estimations. These are on the dot times. Once or twice, Crowley has used them to keep track of his own schedule, like how long his kettle has been on the stove, how long his tea bag has been steeping, how long he’s been shading, how long his pizza rolls have been cooling, and the like. Aziraphale takes lunch promptly at noon, closes up to go for a walk around the block at noon thirty, starts his cleaning up at five forty-five, and closes at six.

So it definitely attracts Crowley’s attention (even though there’s a man in his chair getting the wrist portion of his sleeve touched-up) when, at around three in the afternoon, Aziraphale pops out of his shop carrying a bucket and a rag with him. He puts the bucket down, dips the rag inside, then starts scrubbing his window – as far as his arms can reach, anyway. When he’s done, he stands and stares at it with hands on hips, contemplating something.

The pigeons nesting on the fire escape? Have they been messing his window? No, that doesn’t seem the type of thing that would bother Aziraphale. Crowley can’t see him putting up bird wire or anything like that. More than likely he’d invite them in, give them birdseed on toast, and ask them about their day.

Crowley turns off his gun and makes a few adjustments as an excuse to watch Aziraphale without distraction. He sees Aziraphale pull a square of paper from his pocket, unfold it, and tape it to the bottom right corner of his window. Crowley squints to read it, but the writing is so faint, he can’t make it out from this distance. From the same pocket, Aziraphale pulls out a black marker and begins writing on the glass.

‘What in the world?’ Crowley thinks as he watches Aziraphale draw an outline, referring back to the picture from time to time. He shakes his head, pulls the rag out of the bucket, wrings it out, and erases a few lines. He waits for the window to dry, then goes back over the same lines slowly. Without even looking at the picture to check his progress, he shakes his head again, mumbling to himself, and erases what he’s drawn. He waits for the window to dry then starts sketching again. Halfway through, he steps back to take a look.

Crowley can’t see the window clearly. But from Aziraphale’s posture, he seems positively defeated.

“Hey! What’s the hold up? I’m paying you by the hour!” the man in Crowley’s chair grumbles when he sees Crowley motionless, staring blankly out the window.

“Hold yer horses, a’right?” Crowley snaps. “My gun’s gone dodgy. I’ve gotta switch it out. I’ll comp you fifteen minutes.”

“You’d bettah.”

Crowley gets up from his stool and grabs his spare gun to save face. He’ll comp the man thirty in the end to shut his pie hole. He is a repeat customer and besides, Crowley is eating up his time. He’ll admit that.

From this change in perspective, Crowley snags a better look at Aziraphale’s drawing on the window and … yikes.

It’s not … bad.

It’s just …. not … good.

But drawing on windows can be difficult. It takes practice. A few more tries and Aziraphale will get it right.

Crowley thinks so anyway.

He wishes he could stick his head out the door and tell him so, but that might be awkward, all things considered.

Aziraphale drops his head.

He tears the paper off the window, crumples it up, and tosses it in the wire trash can by the curb. He fishes his rag out of the bucket and scrubs his window clean, eliminating all traces of the black outline. Then he grabs his bucket, walks sadly to his front door, and goes back inside his shop, leaving Crowley to wonder what in the world happened.

And how can he fix it.

***

It’s close to eleven o’clock when Crowley leaves his shop and ventures across the street. Aziraphale closed up precisely at six, went upstairs to his apartment, and had his lights out by eight, but Crowley had appointments till well past. After his final customer bid him adieu, Crowley could finally investigate the picture in the trash can.

The picture whose presence has been burning a hole in his brain ever since Aziraphale tossed it away.

Unlike the trash on the curb outside Crowley’s shop, few people use the trash can outside Aziraphale’s, so the crumpled ball sits right on top a stack of abandoned newspapers, courtesy of the douchebag who dumps his daily haul without delivering and then cashes his paycheck. Crowley reaches a gloved hand in, snatches it out, and straightens it, smoothing the wrinkles between his fingers. He holds it up to the light of the street lamp overhead to get a better look.

It’s a picture of a rose – line art printed off a computer, simple enough to recreate. But drawing on glass, especially a large window like Aziraphale’s, can be a challenge. Plus use the wrong cleaner and the paint won’t stick. Crowley should know. He’d been doing the art on his window for years before it became too much of a chore. Now he mainly sticks to throwing stuff up for the major holidays, or paints something silly on nights when he gets sentimental and drunk, which hasn’t been in a while.

He’s curious why Aziraphale thought to paint his window now, at the tail end of February, with nothing particularly spectacular going on. Curb appeal? He definitely doesn’t need to attract new business. Or maybe he wants a change. Something fun to look at.

Something new.

The neighborhood outside their window isn’t always the most pleasant. Not that it’s a bad neighborhood. There’s not much crime, they don’t need gates. But it can be dull. Uneventful. That’s one of the reasons Crowley had started painting his window to begin with. He’d wanted something different to look at, a new vista every once in a while.

Crowley smiles.

He has an idea, and a whole load of paint in the back room of his shop.

Maybe he can’t find the courage to ask Aziraphale out for coffee, but he can definitely change his view.

***

Crowley takes longer than he anticipated finishing up his masterpiece, so by the next morning, he goes straight from his endeavor into a shower. He gets dressed, makes himself a fresh pot of coffee, grabs a cheese Danish from the fridge, and sits at his station.

There he waits.

He doesn’t watch the clock this time. He watches the window, the rising sun touching the glass and making it twinkle. As the new day dawns, brimming with promise, so does Aziraphale, coming down to open up at ten o’clock exactly. He rounds the well of the staircase that leads to the upstairs but before he gets anywhere near the door, key in hand, he stops.

And he stares.

Stares so long that Crowley begins to worry.

Aziraphale approaches the window, a careful hand outstretched, but he doesn’t touch the glass. Fingertips tremble within reach of a single petal but they don’t make contact.

Roses.

Crowley had painted roses.

A waterfall of tea roses rendered in multiple shades of red and pink, shaded in white, yellow, and blue to give them depth. Aziraphale looks around, searching for the person responsible, his face glowing from a smile that doesn’t seem to stop. When Crowley strolls out of his shop, fighting to remain nonchalant in the presence of that smile, Aziraphale calls out, “Anthony! Oh, Anthony! Did you … have you seen what someone’s done to my window?”

“Good morning, Mr. Fell. I …” Crowley stumbles in the midst of his usual script when he realizes Aziraphale called him Anthony. Not once, but twice. “Y-yes, I have,” he says, switching gears to accommodate. “Do you like it?” He can’t help asking though it might seem an odd thing.

But he needs to know.

“Oh, it’s remarkable! Simply breathtaking! I had wanted to do something just like this myself, only I don’t have a talent for drawing!”

“Nonsense,” Crowley rebuts, saying what he’d wanted to say yesterday. “Art is a pursued interest. If it’s something you want to do, keep at it. I’m … I’m sure you could find yourself a teacher. You know, to get you started.”

It’s an invitation, and he tries to make it sound like an invitation. Of course, saying the words, “I could teach you to draw. I’d be happy to!” apparently never occur to him.

“I might do that,” Aziraphale says, a blush to rival the roses rising to his cheeks. “Have a lovely day, Anthony.”

“You, too, Aziraphale.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks deepens, blossoms into a full-fledged flame as he turns shy eyes back to his window one last time, then opens up his shop.

***

The roses stay up for over two weeks, the paint keeping its brilliance long past what’s stated on the can, and during that time, Crowley and Aziraphale add more lines to their morning dialogue.

“Fine weather we’re having.”

“We are, aren’t we? Quite surprising considering the cold.”

“Good thing. Keeps my roses from wilting, so to speak.”

“Yes.” Crowley smiles. “That is a good thing.”

“By the way, I meant to tell you, if you know someone who might be willing to teach me to draw, I’d be quite interested in learning.”

“I …” That one catches Crowley off guard, the batting of Aziraphale’s blue eyes nearly knocking him off his feet. Crowley had been musing over Aziraphale’s adorably awful bright yellow and orange sunflower jumper when Aziraphale said it, so it didn’t sink in right away. But now, with those words out of Aziraphale’s mouth and hanging in the air, Crowley can’t seem to cough out an answer.

The answer he’s been dying to give.

“I … I’ll give it some … I mean, if I think of anyone, I’ll … uh … yes. Right. A teacher.” And with that, he turns back to his shop yelling, “Coming, coming, I’ll be right with you,” as if someone called his name from inside.

Of course, there is no one, so he looks like an imbecile.

When the roses start to chip, Aziraphale tries to patch them up with paint he’d bought to begin with. Crowley is sketching the template for a complicated piece he’ll put on a customer later in the day and doesn’t catch him before he tries.

By the time he sees, it’s too late.

Mixing the two paints makes it chip even more. Eventually, Aziraphale’s patching does more harm than good and he’s forced to take the painting down. He gives the paint job one last, longing look, then starts to scrub, his shoulders hanging as the roses bleed away.

And Crowley watches him. Watches him when he should go outside and offer to help, or reassure him that he’ll replace it for him. But even though he has no customer to monopolize his attention, he can’t bring himself to. He simply sighs and frowns along with Aziraphale as he scrubs his window clean and then retreats inside his shop, going back to his arrangements, his wistful expression heart wrenching from across a street with two plates of glass between them.

***

Crowley gazes at Aziraphale’s window throughout the day, every time he has a moment free. He knows he can’t leave it bare. He just can’t. He’s been dismal as a neighbor, a coward as a potential romantic interest. If all he can do to bring joy into this man’s life is paint his window then, by Someone, he’s going to do it.

He waits until Aziraphale’s lights are out and his own customers have gone. Then he pads his way across the street, paint in hand, and heads straight for the window. He’d made a decision over his choice of flower about a week ago, inspired by one of Aziraphale’s disastrous jumpers.

Sunflowers.

Yellow and orange sunflowers. As many of them as he can fit in the space between the red brick. That way, Aziraphale can wear that horrendous jumper as many times as he likes and he and his window will match.

Besides, Aziraphale’s smile reminds Crowley of the sun.

***

“Sunflowers have to be one of my favorite flowers in the universe.” Aziraphale sighs, staring at the field on his window, painted to look like it goes on for miles and miles beneath milky clouds and a blue sky.

“Really?” Crowley asks, taking a few steps out into the middle of the street so he can talk to Aziraphale without yelling. “And why is that?”

“They make you happy, for one.” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley inching closer to him. “They’re bright and cheerful. You can’t help smiling when you look at them.”

“I suppose …” Crowley takes another step.

“In the language of flowers they mean friendship. And faith and loyalty. Those are such lovely messages to give. People get so caught up in this need to only express passionate love, which, let’s be honest, is usually passionate lust.”

Crowley chuckles at hearing the word lust pass over Aziraphale’s lips. Never in a hundred years would he have pictured that happening. But Aziraphale’s statement reminds him how many times over Valentine’s he’d put someone’s name, or their face, on a customer’s arm, knowing he’ll be covering it up again come April.

He’s already done a few and it’s barely the middle of March.

Most artists would turn down a request to do some of the portraits he’d done last month, but for Crowley, who’s famous for his impeccable cover up work, he sees them as guaranteed business.

Humans can be impulsive creatures.

Stupid ones, too.

But he doesn’t judge his customers based on their poor decision making skills.

They pay his rent.

Aziraphale tilts his head and sighs again. “It’s so nice to be reminded that passionate friendship exists. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” Another step.

“Seed-bearing sunflowers carry a sophisticated mathematical pattern in their centers. The Golden Ratio. I used to sit in my mother’s garden and stare at it for hours. Still do when I get them in my shop. It mirrors the stars in the Heavens, the swirling galaxies. To my eyes, at least. Of course, what do I know about the stars? I own a flower shop.”

“You’re not wrong,” Crowley agrees, stepping onto the curb. “The Fibonacci sequence. I learned about it in art class.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale’s gaze travels over his shoulder, assessing Crowley’s progress. He motions with his head to the space beside him in what seems like a request.

To come stand beside him.

And Crowley accepts.

“Yes,” he says, sauntering over. “You don’t need to be an astronomer or a mathematician to understand it. Patterns and sequences? They occur everywhere in nature. You probably see more of them in your line of work than most people.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I never realized. Well, then …” Aziraphale winks at Crowley “… maybe that’s something my new art tutor will be willing to teach me.”

***

Crowley no longer waits for the paint on the flowers to chip before he changes them. He does it weekly, too impatient to bring joy into Aziraphale’s life to wait for the old flowers to degrade on their own.

After the sunflowers, he paints poppies.

Then posies.

Azaleas.

Carnations.

Gerberas.

Orchids.

Every morning after, Crowley sits at his station and waits to see Aziraphale’s reaction.

And Aziraphale never disappoints.

It gets to the point Aziraphale rushes down his staircase on Monday morning to see his new flowers. Crowley wanders out after Aziraphale has time to examine his creations and they talk, Crowley crossing the street proactively so he and Aziraphale can stand side by side.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I’m beginning to think you don’t want me to learn how to draw.”

“Why’s that?”

“You haven’t given me the name of a teacher. It’s been weeks!”

“Well, I …” Crowley stutters, not sure how to answer that one. He doesn’t want to recommend anyone. He would love to teach Aziraphale to draw himself. Of course he would! But sharing that with him seems so intimate, much more so than grabbing a coffee, which he also hasn’t asked him to do. So for lack of a better answer, he comes out with the lamest thing he could possibly say. “I’m sure you could Google someone in the area who could teach you. Or look on YouTube. There’re some good how to videos on there.” Then Crowley closes his eyes, praying that a hole will open up beneath him so he can disappear into the concrete.

“I think I’ll wait until you come up with someone,” Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice. A forgiving one, thank the Lord. “I’d rather get a teacher on the recommendation of someone I trust then go hen pecking through Craigslist. Probably end up in the boot of someone’s car then.”

“Ngk …. you have a point.”

“Thank you, by the way.”

Crowley opens his eyes to check why. What has he done since he made that asinine YouTube suggestion that warrants a thank you? Aziraphale is still staring at Crowley’s latest creation – bluebells swaying gently in an unseen breeze. He’s getting better. Crowley has to admit that about himself.

Then again, putting paint on paper is something he’s always been good at.

The only thing, it turns out.

“What for?” Crowley asks, nervous because he thinks Aziraphale has him figured out. Why that would be bad, Crowley hasn’t the foggiest idea. Aziraphale loves his paintings. But Aziraphale knowing that he’s putting them on his window fills Crowley with anxiety nonetheless.

“For coming out and talking to me. To be honest, I’ve thought about crossing the street and stopping in so many times, only I … I just couldn’t seem to …” Aziraphale swallows the end of that sentence, seems to jump on a different horse and change course. “I’m not very good around people.”

Crowley snorts. Is Aziraphale kidding him? Not good with what now? He said car engines, right? Speaking Greek? Training ferrets? “Now that I don’t believe.”

“It’s true. Even people I get on with right away, I just … I get so nervous. I’m so afraid I’m going to mess things up and they’ll never want to speak to me again.”

“Rough owning a shop that people like then, huh?”

“Yes, well, I opened the shop because I love flowers, not because I like people. Don’t get me wrong, people can be great. And I like my customers. But I love being surrounded by flowers. And I do need to pay the rent but …” Aziraphale pauses, leans in towards Crowley’s ear “Can I tell you a secret?”

Crowley’s heart races. One of Aziraphale’s secrets? “Of course. Anything.”

“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

“No, I won’t. I promise.”

Aziraphale’s eyes dart to Crowley’s face, double-checking to see if he’s being sincere. Crowley schools his face into the most genuine mask of sincerity he can muster. He’s not going to blow this chance at finding out one of Aziraphale’s secrets.

At this rate, it might be the only chance he gets.

“I switched neighborhoods because my last shop was so popular, it became overwhelming. It was nerve wracking opening the doors every morning. I thought the change would do me good, but everyone found out where I was headed and followed me here. If I could own my shop and never sell a single flower, I’d do it in a second. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so in love with these paintings.” Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the bluebells and looks at Crowley with an expression that tugs at Crowley’s heart. “Does that sound weird?”

“No,” Crowley says softly. “Not as much as you think.”

***

Crowley starts carrying a sketch book with him everywhere he goes, and he’s filled it cover to cover with drawings of flowers. He thought it prudent to get his thoughts down ahead of time, get the painting he wants under his fingers so it’ll take him less time to copy it.

Painting a window in the middle of the night – a window that belongs to a shop other than your own – can be a tricky business.

The idea came to him weeks ago when he was stopped by cops while trying to paint angel’s trumpets on Aziraphale’s window. It took him forever to convince them that he wasn’t a vandal and that yes, Aziraphale knows him, and also yes, Aziraphale would approve, but please don’t call him to verify because the man is asleep and there’s really no reason to wake him. Barely did he convince them not to haul him off to jail, but he had to stop where he was, with the angel’s trumpets nowhere near finished to his liking. He waited hours till shift change, then snuck back out after sunrise to get them done.

He may have gotten a few strange looks from passersby, but it was well worth it.

When Aziraphale saw them the next morning, he gasped; stood with a hand to his mouth, staring at them until well after opening. One of his customers, arriving to pick up a communion bouquet, had to remind him to unlock his door. That’s how long he stood. And when they left, he went back outside and stared some more.

Later, Aziraphale told Crowley that they’d taken his breath away.

Knowing he’d had that effect on him was more than enough to ensure that Crowley would die a happy man someday.

Carrying a sketch book is something Crowley had done most of his life, during high school and college, through till he first opened his shop. It’s something he did when art was a passion for him and not a job. He still loves drawing. Nothing in the world could ever take that away from him. But he does much less in the way of work on canvas now than he did when he first became a tattoo artist to pay the bills, bushy tailed and determined to someday have his own show in a famous gallery.

He hasn’t wandered too far from that dream except his shop is his gallery. He still puts original art up on the walls from time to time.

And his art isn’t stagnant, doesn’t hang in a single location.

He has canvases all over the city.

The jingling of bells signals the arrival of a customer. Crowley has no one on the books so he has no clue who it could be. He figures it’ll take whomever never a minute to decide on what they want so he steals a moment to flip through his sketchbook and survey the latest flowers he’s drawn. He found most of them by doing a search on his phone so he didn’t have the benefit of accurate colors or lighting. How much easier (and better) would it be if he could lamp in Aziraphale’s shop and draw the flowers from the arrangements he has there! But all in all, Crowley is pleased with them.

He’ll put them up in his shop, offer them as tattoos. They’re beautiful, some of his best work.

But they’re not quite worthy of Aziraphale’s window.

“I’ll be right with you,” he murmurs, putting the finishing touches on an iris, giving the yellow eyes on the petals dark rings, like kohl liner. “I’m just … I need to … oh, what the fuck do you care …”

“Hello, Anthony.”

That voice saying his name sends a rampant twist up his spine, torqueing it so tightly it gives him an immediate headache.

“Ugh …” Crowley groans with not a single care that anyone can hear. He takes a reluctant gander at the person strolling about as if they own the place.

The dreaded ex … sort of.

They never properly dated. Crowley took her out for coffee, but it was apparent five minutes in that they had no connection. At least, Crowley didn’t think so. His date, however, has other opinions on the subject …

“Whaddya want, Carmine? Happen to be very busy, me.”

Carmine stops, looks around, taking in the sight of the empty shop and Crowley, sitting in his chair with a pad on his lap, doodling flowers.

“Looks it,” she says dryly. “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by. See if you’re free for coffee … tea … me …”

“Well, I’m not. So why don’t you run along? Find some other poor sap to harass? There’s hundreds of willing victims on Tinder. Go. Be fruitful and multiply. Just not here.”

“You know, Anthony,” Carmine starts in that tone Crowley knows means she has no intention of going anywhere, “it’s been a while. We’ve taken a break. Re-grouped. Don’t you think you’re being a tad childish?”

“Childish?” Crowley sets his pad and pencil aside so he can stand and continue this argument eye to eye. Besides, the faster he gets this witch out of his shop, the faster he can go back to finishing up his latest piece for Aziraphale’s window.

“Yes, childish,” Carmine repeats, raising a hand to pat down flyaway strands of crayon red hair on the column of her complicated up-do. “You don’t return my phone calls, you don’t answer my text messages, you’ve blocked my number … Childish.”

“Seeing as I’ve changed my number twice, you’d think you’d get the hint.”

“About what, dearest?”

“We don’t have a relationship, Carmine! We never had a relationship!”

“That’s because you never gave us a chance!”

“I gave you the chance you deserved!” Crowley argues as he tries to usher Carmine out of his shop without actually having to touch her. “Five whole minutes wherein I introduced myself, gave you a brief rundown of my likes and dislikes, and paid for your triple-shot espresso with cayenne pepper and three packets of Splenda! Like that’s a real coffee order! Meanwhile, you started a long and frankly scary rant about feeding homeless children to their parents! And when I called you on it, you said it was a metaphor!”

“What can I say?” Carmine shrugs. “I’m a journalist. A writer. An artistic type, like you.” She runs stiletto nails up the lapels of Crowley’s flannel shirt while she speaks, toying with the soft fabric between the tips of her fingers. “I deal a lot in metaphors. I like to make people think. Shake them up a bit.”

“Feeding children to their parents is not a metaphor, Carmine! And it doesn’t shake me up! It makes me think that you’re a disgusting, heartless human being!”

Carmine pouts, but then she grins, too white teeth gleaming viciously through blood red lips. “Oh, but I do like it when you get all hot and bothered, dearest!”

“Grr! I’m not hot or bothered!” Crowley growls as he herds Carmine towards the door and throws it open. “And don’t call me dear—“

He bumps her accidentally with his hip. She stumbles back on five inch heels. As a reflex, Crowley reaches out to catch her, his arm circling her waist. He may detest her, but he doesn’t want to see her slam her head on the pavement.

Especially not right outside his shop. His insurance premiums would skyrocket!

Her hands curl into the lapels of his button down. Before he can put her back on her feet, she cuts him off with a more painful than sensual kiss on the mouth. He balks the second her lips touch his and tries to yank himself away, but she’s surprisingly strong, locking him against her for a full ten seconds before he manages to get her upright and at arm’s length.

She smiles at him coolly. Crowley pants in shock and anger, wanting nothing more than to lock his front door and hide between the pages of his sketch book. She runs a finger over her lips, then blows him a kiss.

“Why don’t you ring me when you’ve calmed down a bit. You can take me out to dinner, hmm? That way we can talk about this in private.”

“Private?” Crowley’s eyes snap up, his stomach sinking to his knees as Carmine turns on her heel and struts away, shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out. With her out of his line of sight, he can see straight through the window across the street. He doesn’t make out Aziraphale’s expression fully. Aziraphale turns away too quickly. But in profile, he looks as wistful as he did that first time he had to scrub the roses off his window, his effervescent smile, the one that lingers like a shadow on his mouth regardless of what he’s doing, conspicuously absent.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit!” Crowley spits, slamming his front door with such force he’s sure he’s cracked the glass.

Irony.

It knows no bounds.

Why does he keep fucking up!? If he’d just had the balls to talk to Aziraphale in the first fucking place, invite him out for coffee, this wouldn’t even be an issue! Aziraphale would be rushing over to make sure he’s okay instead of possibly thinking that Carmine is Crowley’s girlfriend!

His volatile and possessive girlfriend!

What does Crowley do now!?

Does he run across the street and explain?

Does Aziraphale even care as much as Crowley assumes he does?

What can he paint on his window that would convey the sentiment, That person you saw me talking to? The one who kissed me like they were trying to remove my tonsils? They mean nothing to me!?

He pulls out his iPhone and jumps online in an attempt to find such an eloquent and expressive flower, one that will say all the things he’s been trying to say for the past few months, but, unfortunately, no such savior exists.

Since he can’t seem to find one, he decides to go in a different direction.

And he prays it works

***

When Aziraphale arrives at his shop in the morning, he is confronted by an intricately painted, hyper-realistic Drosera – a uniquely fascinating (according to Crowley’s research) carnivorous plant, commonly known as the sundew, one of the largest genera of carnivorous plants, with at least 194 species. Crowley didn’t actually care about any of that. He didn’t care about its country of origin, its temperature requirements, its soil pH, or its preferred humidity levels. He cared about the fact that it appeared frighteningly alien, mildly grotesque, and thirsty for blood (he was projecting). He drew its prehensile leaf-parts shimmering with venom, one curled around a plump and wriggling fly.

A fly with the faintest suggestion of a crayon red up-do.

Crowley has no idea what came over him when he painted it. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s style. But in all its glory, it took him less than an hour to complete.

And whether or not Aziraphale understands the message (unlikely since he doesn’t know who’s painting his window as it is) he doubles over with laughter when he sees it. When he’s done laughing, he shakes his head, his face nearly as red as Carmine’s hair, but his smile returns.

And it doesn’t leave.

***

“Oh my goodness! Come in! Come in! How have you been! I never thought you’d finally find time to visit!”

Crowley hears the words so loud and clear, they sound like they’re coming from his own front door. He peeks around the side of his work station and out his window at Aziraphale’s shop and spies the man dressed in a red and brown fall themed jumper standing on his landing, arms wrapped around a young couple stopped from entering his shop by the whole of his body embracing theirs.

As friendly as Aziraphale is with his customers, Crowley has yet to see him touch anybody. Watching him now, he can’t help feeling jealous.

Aziraphale looks like he gives incredible hugs.

What would he have to do to earn one of those?

Crowley doesn’t know who the couple are to him. Children are his first bet. That would open the footlocker to a slew of questions and he hasn’t even gotten answers to the first ones yet! They don’t look a thing like him, but the couple seem to know Aziraphale well. The young woman wraps her arms around him, then pulls away and shows him her finger.

And Aziraphale squeals for joy.

A wedding.

The couple are getting married.

And Aziraphale couldn’t be more thrilled.

He drags the couple into his shop and locks his door, flipping the sign on it to ‘Closed’, adding another one underneath that reads, ‘For pickups, knock twice.’

Crowley feels like a voyeur as he pulls his stool around to the front of his shop, almost in front of his picture window, and watches Aziraphale excitedly show the young couple buckets of flowers – roses in every shade, tulips, irises, carnations, daisies, and other seasonal blooms Crowley doesn’t recognize, but which he makes a mental note to Google later.

The couple stay for over three hours, and in that amount of time, they laugh and reminisce, look at pictures on the young lady’s phone, call someone on the phone of the young gentleman, and present Aziraphale with a bottle of champagne and what looks like a piece of their wedding cake.

“Is he … is he not going?” Crowley asks out loud as if expecting an answer. “Is that why they brought the champagne? Why wouldn’t he go to their wedding? That seems so cruel!”

Crowley decides to reserve judgement until … until when? When in Hell is he going to get an answer to that? Who’s going to tell him why if he doesn’t …?

He gets up from his stool, turns away from the scene playing out across the street, and brews a cup of tea.

When he’s less agitated, he returns to the window.

As close as the couple seem to Aziraphale, Crowley manages to determine that neither man nor woman are a relation of his. Not by blood. But they’re close. So close that watching them leave, watching them hug Aziraphale good bye, knowing that he’s not going to be present on one of the happiest days of their lives, brings tears to Crowley’s eyes.

When they depart, Aziraphale stands by the door to watch them go, calling out Good bye! and Take care! and Be safe! and Have a good time! till they’re well and truly gone.

And then he watches a while longer.

Crowley assumes Aziraphale will clean up and head upstairs to his apartment when they’ve gone. It’s close to eight-thirty as is, long past closing.

But he doesn’t.

Aziraphale drags an antique gramophone out of his back room, sets it up in a corner, and puts a record on. Muffled strains of romantic jazz music fills the air as he pops open the bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass. He reaches underneath his counter, in a drawer beneath the cash register, and pulls out a binder. With its puffy white, quilted cover, its pages overflowing, it’s stuffed beyond closing correctly. Crowley has seen it before - from a distance, but he knows what it is.

He has one himself.

Only his isn’t white and it’s much less puffy.

It’s an idea book, filled with photos cut from magazines to help inspire customers when they’re stumped. Aziraphale opens it to the middle and starts browsing from there. Crowley slides up closer to his window, to a corner that best looks into Aziraphale’s shop, leaning forward as far as he dares to get a better look.

Aziraphale flips through page after page of wedding arrangements – bridal bouquets and groom boutonnieres, centerpieces for tables and church pews and altars. Aziraphale pours over each one with a trembling smile on his face.

A smile that becomes smaller and smaller with each page he turns.

These aren’t his memories. They’re mass produced for the wedding market, which makes how long Aziraphale lingers over each one even sadder. But somewhere between the captions and the msrps lie his own hopes. His own dreams.

He sniffles, raises his glass in the air … and toasts nobody.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn’t catch it before another one follows.

Crowley turns away.

He curses himself for watching. For intruding.

For doing nothing worthwhile to help.

For being so blind.

He’d been searching for a middle ground – something in common that they shared while somehow overlooking the most glaring.

That even with all the customers that stop into Aziraphale’s shop, day in and day out, Aziraphale is lonely.

Terribly lonely.

Crowley is, too.

He doesn’t mind being alone, but being alone and being lonely are two different things. Crowley doesn’t have any friends. No one he can call at a moment’s notice to grab a drink with, no one to text after a rough day. But the mornings he’s spent talking to Aziraphale before they open their shops have been the most fulfilling of his life so far.

That has to count for something.

***

Around midnight, Aziraphale puts his gramophone and his idea book away, and carries his bottle of champagne upstairs to bed. Crowley had opened a bottle of wine himself, toasted Aziraphale whenever he raised his glass.

His bottle is much more full than Aziraphale’s by the time Aziraphale calls it a night.

While he watched Aziraphale drink away the day, Crowley shelved the painting he’d been working on in favor of something new.

Something with the potential to be a bit more melancholy, but perhaps a bit more apropos.

He thinks back to the flowers Aziraphale had been showing the young couple. He’s not too certain what they settled on, but what had he shown them?

Which flowers in particular had made Aziraphale smile the most?

Tulips.

Pale pink tulips.

And calla lilies - bright white and light purple.

Roses. Pastel yellow roses, buds holding hard to their youth a hair longer, not ready to bloom.

There had been others, flowers Crowley had to look up, and he includes those as well: paper thin gladiolus, sweet pea, lily of the valley, buttercups, freesia, gardenias, larkspur, baby’s breath. Crowley crafts a wedding bouquet on Aziraphale’s window deserving of the young woman with the olive skin and the flowing brown hair who had walked up to Aziraphale’s shop and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Deserving, he hopes, of the kind but lonely man who secretly longs for companionship.

Just like him.

***

Crowley’s stomach has rolled itself over and over throughout the night till, by morning, it’s one hard bolt, wringing itself to nausea. And even though his pounding head begs him to abandon his ego this one time and go to sleep, he can’t.

He needs to know that he did the right thing putting that bouquet up on Aziraphale’s window.

He needs to see Aziraphale lay eyes on it for the first time.

Aziraphale shows up to work late for the first time ever and Crowley doesn’t think to blame his clock. He trudges down his stairs at a crippled snail’s pace, a hand holding up his head as if it’s pounding as hard as Crowley’s.

Probably polished off that bottle of champagne, Crowley thinks.

If that’s the case, Crowley hopes his painting will help take some of the sting off his hangover.

Aziraphale shouldn’t be expecting anything new on his window since it’s not Monday. He doesn’t even look, the throbbing in his head tunneling his vision so that he turns the corner and heads straight to the front door.

Crowley, holding his breath since he saw the toes of Aziraphale’s Derbys start to descend the staircase, begins feeling lightheaded.

Suddenly he realizes he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Aziraphale aims to stick his key in the lock but misses, fumbling them in his grasp and dropping them on the ground. He looks down at the mess of metal at his feet and sighs, debating between bending over and picking them up or climbing upstairs and going back to bed, praying that one of his more honest customers will find them and slip them in the mail slot for him.

Crowley knows this. He’s been this drunk before.

He decides to pick them up, crouching at the knees, lowering his body like an elevator. He doesn’t make it to the bottom floor, however, swaying forward and backward, threatening to keel over. He reaches slowly between his legs and sweeps left to right. His key ring catches on his right middle finger and he scoops them up.

In his shop, tucked behind his picture window, Crowley cheers for him.

Standing is easier, the bricks in the wall spaced perfectly, giving him holds to hoist himself up with. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door, glancing subconsciously around to see if anyone noticed his little ballet.

That’s when he sees the window.

It draws him out to the sidewalk.

And like with Crowley’s first masterpiece, Aziraphale stares – stares so long, Crowley begins to sweat. Aziraphale puts a hand out, reaching for the petals as his eyes take in the elegant wedding bouquet. He doesn’t touch it, but unlike the first time, his fingers curl around air like he’s trying to grab hold of it.

His empty hand clenches into a fist.

His shoulders shake.

He begins to sob.

He runs inside his shop, straight to his back room.

And Crowley’s heart, bouncing on an emotional trampoline since Aziraphale first called him by his name, stumbles over the side and shatters.

‘What have I done?’ he thinks, slamming his hand on the counter, breaking his pencil in two.

He considers rushing across the street, scraping off the bouquet, and replacing it with something else. Or maybe not. Maybe he should wash it off and leave the window bare. Leave the poor man alone.

Give him a fucking break from the burden of Crowley’s unspoken affections.

Crowley knows Aziraphale loves his paintings. The bouquet was one mistake. One setback. But is it worth the grief behind making another mistake if he can’t find the guts to walk across the street and ask the man out for coffee? Or apologize? Or fuck it! All those times he’s walked across the street to talk to him, why didn’t he bring a damn cup of coffee with him!?

Is this really about the fucking coffee!?!?

Why is he overthinking this?

Aziraphale likes him. Likes his company, anyway. They have to be something in the vein of friends by now.

Acquaintance-friends.

There. That’s his open door.

Now walk across the Goddamned street and go through it!

Why can’t he get up off his arse and do it?

He leaps up off his stool and walks towards the door. Reaching a hand out for it, he sees red.

Literal red.

On his hand.

He’s bleeding.

His broken pencil speared his palm.

He stares at it. It’s a scratch, not all that deep. He should wipe it on his pant leg and continue on.

But he doesn’t.

He turns around and heads for his back room in search of a bandage he doesn’t need.

This isn’t an emergency. He isn’t bleeding to death.

Why does he overthink everything?

That’s his problem. His big problem. It’s what builds walls between him and other people when he hasn’t consciously lifted a trowel.

It’s what pushes people away when he would like them to get closer.

But that doesn’t matter, does it, since not a single person he’s met in his life has tried to climb those walls. Or break them down.

Except for Carmine, but she’s got issues of her own.

And that sort of emphasizes his point.

It’s not up to other people to climb his walls. He needs to take them apart, build a door or lower a rope ladder.

But he doesn’t know how.

Professional help? Therapy? A support group?

Good. That’s a start.

But until then, companionship would be nice. Someone to talk to, share a meal with, watch a movie with.

That’s all he’s looking for.

It’s all he wants.

Why is that so damned …?

“Hello?”

Crowley’s head jerks up, his neck cracking with the speed. He stands in silence, Band-Aid open in his hand, waiting for another word.

“Is anyone … Anthony?”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Aziraphale?” He peeks out the doorway of his back room. Aziraphale’s voice somehow preceded the sound of the bell above the door. Crowley doesn’t know how that could have happened, but …

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale walks in the rest of the way, cradling a large bouquet of flowers in his arms, of all things. “Am I interrupting anything? I know I don’t have an appointment.”

Crowley’s gaze meets big blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep.

But also a Heavenly smile.

“An appointment? Appointment for what?”

“I … I would like to get a tattoo, please. Also, I wanted to bring you these.” He hands the flowers to Crowley. “As a thank you for all the work you’ve done on my window. You’re quite talented.”

“How did you know it was me?” Crowley asks, tongue-in-cheek since his gig is obviously up.

Aziraphale shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

“Thank you for parting with these,” Crowley says, giving the flowers a gentle hug when he turns his back in search of a vase to put them in. “I know how you feel about your flowers.”

“Well, you’re across the street. I can stop by and visit them, replace them when they wilt … like you’ve done for me.”

Crowley finds the vase he’s looking for and sticks the flowers in. On his way to the sink to fill it with water, his eyes find the window, and the wedding bouquet that brought Aziraphale to tears.

Crowley sighs. “Look, about your window. I’m sor—”

“Do you have time to do my tattoo right now?” Aziraphale interrupts, his eyes watery but his smile effervescent. “Or would you prefer it if I came back another time?”

“I have time,” Crowley says. Aziraphale doesn’t want to talk about it. So they won’t talk about it. “Do you have any idea what you’d like to get?”

“I do.” Aziraphale walks over. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his gallery. Crowley tries not to look over his shoulder, but at the angle Aziraphale is standing, he can’t help catching a glimpse at a handful.

They’re pictures of the paintings on his window.

Every single one.

And the more peeks Crowley catches, the more he begins to notice a theme.

Aziraphale has taken a photograph of each painting from two perspectives - one from outside his shop looking in as well as from inside looking out. And in each inside picture, somewhere in the background, Crowley can be seen looking out his window towards Aziraphale’s shop.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale noticed.

He wonders if he framed the photos that way on purpose.

The tips of Crowley’s ears begin to burn.

“This one.” Aziraphale settles on a picture and turns the screen so Crowley can see more clearly.

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale’s choice. It seems fitting. “The angel’s trumpet?”

“Oh no, my dear. That’s a devil’s trumpet,” Aziraphale corrects with the slyest of grins on his face. “They’re very similar until you know what sets them apart. Sometimes Google search switches them around. But that’s what it is.”

“And you would like it where?” Crowley asks, leading Aziraphale to his chair.

“I was thinking my right bicep would be a nice fleshy place to get my first tattoo.”

“Sounds good.”

“You know, dear boy, if you wanted to come over and talk, you could have just popped in and said hello. It would probably have saved you time. And paint.”

“I don’t mind sparing the time. Or the paint.” Crowley sits on his stool and readies his gun. He peeks over at his iPhone sitting beside his pots of ink and gets an idea. With a few swipes across the screen, he places an order on the website of the deli down the street for two coffees and a dozen donuts. He smirks when he receives a confirmation text.

Just because it’s a pathetic plan doesn’t mean it isn’t actionable.

Crowley looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale reclining in his chair, smiling at him the way he’d pictured dozens of times.

His heart does a double thump, and he smiles back.

“It didn’t go to waste.”

[thenoctambulist]

Just a J, Really

Read on AO3

Summary: Aziraphale pops by Crowley's apartment and he isn't there. Upon further investigation, Aziraphale discovers a journal that might hold the answers to the question he's been seeking... what is Crowley's middle name? He isn't prepared, however, for what he does find.

(Disclaimer: it’s 3k words)

“Crowley? Are you in there?” Aziraphale knocked three times on the apartment door. “I know it’s a bit of a surprise, but I thought I’d just stop by.” He waited for an answer, but none came. 

“I-- I brought biscuits!” he added. After being faced with another minute of silence, he tried the knob. To his surprise, it turned easily, and soon he was staring at the minimally furnished, completely quiet abode of his friend.

“Crowley?” he called again, still expecting an answer. He wandered down the hall, through a verdant sea of various potted plants. He glanced into the adjacent rooms at the end of the corridor; both were empty. He set the biscuit tin he had brought on the nearest table and wandered into the kitchen. Crowley wasn’t there.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well then,” he said to no one in particular. He exited the kitchen and returned to the main room. A large flat screen TV was hung on the wall, perpendicular to a sketch of the Mona Lisa. A large throne-like chair was positioned slightly away from a grand desk, as if someone had just gotten up. Soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds opposite the desk. Aziraphale inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of paint, rain, and wood. 

Aziraphale decided he better check all the rooms, just to make sure Crowley hadn’t fallen asleep or was too far to hear him. He turned on his heel and went back to the area with the plants. They seemed to sway in his presence. He fingered a waxy leaf and smiled to himself. This was his first time in Crowley’s apartment, and he never would have guessed the demon would keep plants. 

There was another doorway across from him; a quick peek revealed that it was Crowley’s bedroom. A large, dark wooden bed with sharp corners was centered in the room, laden with various throw pillows with exotic patterns. Dark curtains twirled in the breeze coming from the window. A dresser was across from the foot of the bed, and there was another desk right under the window. 

Aziraphale wavered at the threshold. He wasn’t sure whether Crowley would appreciate his snooping. But really, was it snooping? The door had been left open, after all. He could hardly blame himself for Crowley’s carelessness. Besides, what did Crowley have to hide?

He entered cautiously, stepping lightly on the cool floor. The walls were charcoal grey. He made his way over to the desk, smiling as he approached. Upon it was a stack of papers, underneath a snake paperweight he recognized as one he had given Crowley after seeing it in a shop downtown. The papers underneath it were half filled in memos to be sent to hell. Aziraphale clicked his tongue, dismayed at Crowley’s sloppiness. 

His eyes traveled over the desk’s surface until they landed on a journal. It was sleek and black and looked well-used. The edges of the pages were rough, as if various clippings and papers had been shoved haphazardly into it. It was obviously something private.

Aziraphale felt his hand gravitate towards it. He wanted to know what was inside, but wasn’t sure how Crowley would feel if he knew he had read it. There wasn’t really any particular thing he was looking for anyways. He was an angel. He could tell wrong from right, and this was most certainly wrong. 

Though, he supposed, there was one thing he had always wanted to know. 

Ever since the forties, when Crowley had adopted his alias, Aziraphale had wanted to know what the ‘J’ stood for as his middle name. When he asked the first time, Crowley had shrugged and claimed it was ‘just a J.’ Aziraphale was still convinced it stood for something, and had the inexplicable urge to know what it was. It wasn’t that he needed it for any particular reason, or was going to use it; he was just tired of not knowing and felt that, maybe, one day, it could come in handy. 

His heart sped up in anxiety as he reached for the book. He felt as if he were stealing something, though he wasn’t planning on taking anything except information. 

He turned open the cover. Written, on the inside, in a dark, loopy script, was property of Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale huffed. He had thought that that would have been the place to find the answer to his query, but Crowley had unknowingly made it more difficult than that. 

Then again, people didn’t normally write about their middle names in journals. Why would they? But, Aziraphale convinced himself, Crowley was not exactly a normal person. (And he needed a good reason to justify looking through the journal.) 

The first page contained illegible thoughts and random mutterings, penned with what looked like a quill. It was dated a good many centuries before Crowley had adopted his human-esque name. 

Knowing he wouldn’t find the information he wanted, Aziraphale began to fan through the pages, only stopping when he caught sight of his name.

The page that referred to him was from 1793. Racking his brains, he recalled their meeting in the Bastille and the crepes they had afterwards. 

He turned back to the journal and started to read. 

Dined with Aziraphale today. That idiot, he got himself stuck in the Bastille. Seemed grateful when I rescued him, though. And his smile is so perfect as he eats. I told him I was in the area, and he seemed to believe it. No need for him to know I’d been dropping by without him knowing to see how he was doing. 

With that, Aziraphale’s heart leapt. Crowley had been… checking on him? He continued reading. 

The job demands it, after all. 

Aziraphale’s face fell. Of course. Part of the job. Crowley was watching him on hell’s orders and nothing more. 

Still, it gives a good excuse for me to see him. I might load off a couple temptings on him, tell him it’s payment for his rescue. 

Aziraphale huffed. Crowley had indeed done that after his rescue. He had sauntered by the bookshop a year later claiming he ‘owed him one.’ Frustrated, he flipped through more pages until he got to the ones just before he learned of Crowley’s name.

Apparently Angel’s been doing some shady business with some Nazis, Crowley had stated at the top of the page. I’ve been asking around and it seems some of the operatives here are planning on scamming him out of books. I’ve narrowed down their meeting places, and from what my sources have gathered, they’re meeting in a church. It’s just my luck they’re meeting on consecrated ground. Why couldn’t they do it at a bleeding park or something? Az probably thinks no one would double-cross him in a church. Still, I wonder if I could get some holy water there? I honestly don’t know why I’m doing this. I haven’t really forgiven him for the whole “refusing to give me holy water” ordeal. Worst part about it was that he said he didn’t need me. Oh, to be one of the ducks on the pond that day, wading about, eating bugs… sounds like the ideal life to me. I bet they don’t have to deal with insufferable angels. 

“Well, really!” Aziraphale said indignantly, not realizing he had spoken aloud. No one was there to hear him, anyways. 

I wonder if he’ll ask me to lunch again. Maybe if I get him drunk enough he’ll bless some water for me. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He couldn’t help but be annoyed by Crowley, despite him being the one looking through private thoughts. He turned a few more pages. There was another entry a couple days after.

We didn’t have lunch was the first sentence. I would have hoped, but no. He did allow me to chauffer him back to his shop, though. That’s something. 

He ALSO learned about the name I’ve taken to using lately. I always thought it was sharp, but the look he had when he first heard it? I could tell he hated it. Maybe I should change it. I don’t know. I just think ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ sounds so nice, you know? I suppose I haven’t even thought about what the J stands for. He asked about that, you know. Maybe I should come up with something. 

Here it is, thought Aziraphale. He could find what he’d been looking for, and then he could wait for Crowley in the sitting room. No need to let him know he’d been reading his journal.

Anyways, I saved his books. He looked pretty pleased. I hope I didn’t let on how pleased I was, too.

Aziraphale frowned. He was so disappointed on the change of subject he didn’t completely register the subject it had transitioned to. Upon a quick scan of the rest of the entry, nothing else about his middle name appeared. 

A little pissed off, Aziraphale aggressively flipped through the journal and slammed it gently back on the table, dejected. He massaged the bridge of his nose and hmmphed, looking back at the journal. It had fallen open to a wrinkled page, obviously one that had been visited many times before. It had places where the ink had run, suggesting the writer had been either crying or messily sipping water while penning out the entry. 

Aziraphale pulled the journal towards him and eagerly began to read. 

Dammit, Angel. Damn it all. Too fast for him. Too bloody fast. What the heaven is that supposed to mean, anyways?  I’m sorry our relationship doesn’t have a speedometer, Angel. If you can call it a relationship. It feels pretty one sided, with you constantly reminding us “oh, we’re not friends.” You idiot. 

No. No, I’m the idiot. I’m the idiot who couldn’t help himself. Who always asked the wrong questions. Who always wanted what I couldn’t have. I didn’t mean to become a demon. And I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, Angel.

Aziraphale’s heart beat faster and faster. Love? Crowley? He felt the instant need to take a break and keep reading all at once. He decided with the latter.

Damn. I guess it’s true, innit? I do love you. Ach. It feels wrong to even write. I think it’s love, at least. Who knows if demons can even love?

Aziraphale touched his heart and gasped softly. Oh, Crowley, he thought. If only I’d known sooner. 

“Angel?” Aziraphale was so caught up in his own thoughts, and so used to hearing Crowley’s voice in his head, that he didn’t realize it was actually Crowley until he looked up. 

“Crowley? Crowley!” he exclaimed, shoving the journal away like it was burning him.

Crowley’s mouth opened in shock. His eyebrows puckered in the center. He looked scared.

“Angel! Did you--” Crowley could barely get the words out. “You shouldn’t be here. Why--” 

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley this flustered before. He was always so smooth, so unflappable. It wasn’t natural. Of course, Aziraphale was also ashamed of himself. Not only had he been snooping, he had been caught doing it, which was infinitely worse.

“I- well, you weren’t home, and I- I left the biscuits on the table, and--” 

“Biscuits? What biscuits?” Crowley asked, arms spread. “Just--” He strode forward and ripped the journal from Aziraphale’s hands. 

“You left the door open,” Aziraphale cried. “So how was I supposed to know--”

“General socially accepted RULES, Angel! Ever heard of ‘em?” Crowley spoke in a loud tone but was avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “You don’t just go into people’s houses on a whim; you knock, and if they aren’t there, you leave.”

“You come into my bookshop!” Aziraphale countered. 

“It’s a public space!”

“Well…” Aziraphale was running out of subpar reasons to pardon his behavior. “You left the journal just out in the open!”

“Because I never thought you’d come here and see it!” yelled Crowley. His tongue was forked and his eyes were slitted and yellow. A sheen of sweat was present on his forehead. He looked down. “Please go.”

“Crowley--”

“Go, Angel.” Crowley pointed at the door. Aziraphale’s mouth wavered, and closed. He got up to leave. 

“Crowley,” he said when he reached the doorway, turning to face the back of Crowley’s head. He took a deep breath. “The things you wrote? The feeling is mutual.”

Crowley became rigid. He slowly pivoted until he was facing Aziraphale. His face was a mask of indecipherable emotion. 

“The feeling’s- what now?” he asked. He looked almost pained, as if it was too good to be true and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Aziraphale smiled gently. 

“It’s mutual, my dear.” Aziraphale studied Crowley as he strutted closer. He tried not to grin with self-satisfaction, as Crowley’s eyes were welled with tears and he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment with one of his stupid smiles. Crowley cupped his face. Aziraphale could see his reflection in his glassy, reptilian eyes. 

“Say it again,” Crowley whispered, clutching Aziraphale by his lapels.

“I love yo--” started Aziraphale, but was interrupted by a low growl from Crowley as he swept closer and pressed his mouth to his. 

Crowley’s lips were rough, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Aziraphale slowly grew accustomed to their feel on his own. And, oh, his tongue. Crowley had a certain awareness over it that Aziraphale guessed was from being a snake. 

Aziraphale’s hands had lingered, unsure of what to do, on Crowley’s arms, but soon Aziraphale found them wound in Crowley’s hair and stroking his neck. Crowley’s hands remained gripping Aziraphale’s lapels, doing it so tightly as if he was afraid to let him go. 

They were pressed together as close as humanly (and inhumanly) as possible, but they longed to be closer. Aziraphale soon slid his hands under Crowley’s jacket and felt his formed back muscles and sharp shoulder blades. Crowley shivered and shrugged off the jacket, barely pausing to toss it on the ground before winding his arms tightly around Aziraphale. 

Crowley stumbled backwards and sank into a leather bench at the foot of his bed, pulling Aziraphale with him. Aziraphale’s jacket and bowtie were also abandoned, and Crowley started to unbutton his waistcoat. It was rather hard, as Aziraphale had grabbed him by his tie and placed a hand under his chin, keeping their lips together. 

After his fingers had finished fumbling with the waistcoat buttons, they found their way up Aziraphale’s soft form. Crowley had finally moved his mouth away from Aziraphale’s and now planted his kisses right along his jawline. His skin there was especially soft, and Crowley couldn’t resist taking the occasional gentle nibble. He relished the satisfied noises Aziraphale would make in the back of his throat. 

Aziraphale buried his face in the side of Crowley’s head and inhaled his scent deeply. He smelled of the rain and salt and alcohol with a hint of subtle cologne.  

Crowley reached a hand behind him and tried to hoist himself up on the bed, but found himself still under Aziraphale’s weight. Aziraphale sensed what he was trying to do and got off him, scooped Crowley up, and slid onto the neatly pressed sheets and covers with Crowley draped in his arms. He leaned down and kissed him tenderly. 

Crowley’s face was flushed and his chest rose and fell quickly. His eyes were bright.

“Angel--” he started, gasping. “I never--” 

Aziraphale smiled coyly and cut Crowley off with another kiss, covering his mouth completely with his own. Crowley moaned into Aziraphale and slithered his hands beneath his shirt, which was already hanging quite loosely, staying closed because of a few small buttons. His golden curls were disheveled but he looked entirely perfect to Crowley.

Crowley, meanwhile, still had his necktie and shirt on, and Aziraphale felt the need to do something about it. Not wanting to break his touch and focus, he gave a snap and miracled them away, having them reappear neatly folded on a nearby chair. 

A laugh rumbled in Crowley’s chest. “Did you just miracle my shirt away?”

“I might’ve.” Aziraphale looked sheepishly away, and then turned back, the passion in his expression multiplied. He moved predatorily over Crowley and pushed him back onto the mountain of throw pillows. And then, he did what Crowley least wanted him to do. He paused, as if he had suddenly realized what exactly they were doing. 

“What is it? What’s wrong, Angel?” Crowley asked, worried. He propped himself up on his angular elbows. 

“Are you sure you want this, Crowley?” Aziraphale glanced away, obviously nervous. He fiddled with a tassel on the corner of one of the pillows. 

Crowley scoffed. “What kind of a question is that, Angel? Do I want this? You read the journal, you tell me.”

Aziraphale looked worried. “I don’t know… I just think...”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Wait, do you not want to do this? Because we don’t have to. Things can go back to the way they were before. I promise. I understand. I’ll just--”

“Crowley! I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. I just- don’t want to be the reason it all falls apart. What if you decide I’m not good, or I’m not enough, or--”

“That’s what this is about? For Satan’s sake, Angel, you can be awfully thick sometimes. Of course you won’t muck it up. Love like this…” Crowley’s voice grew soft. “It doesn’t just fade in a day.”

“Are you certain, dear?” Aziraphale looked up with misty eyes, and Crowley’s heart melted. 

“I’ve waited six thousand years for this, Angel,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear as he rested his arms loosely on his shoulders. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” 

Aziraphale gazed into Crowley’s eyes. Their noses touched, and their arms were slung over the other’s shoulders and clasped behind their heads. His legs were stradled around Crowley’s thin torso. He felt… safe. He smiled, and leaned in for another kiss. 

Crowley fell back into the pillows with a thump, Aziraphale following suit. The various embroideries on the decorative cushions scratched at his bare back, but he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for having Aziraphale on top of him.

Aziraphale’s kisses slowly moved from Crowley’s mouth to his jawline, and then down his throat onto his chest. Crowley felt his back arch and he gave an involuntary moan and shiver. Aziraphale planted his mouth lower and lower, until it lingered at Crowley’s waistband, and invitation and question all at once. 

Crowley gave a slight nod and soon, his pants had joined his shirt and tie on the chair in the corner. Aziraphale ran his hand along Crowley’s side and buried his face into his stomach.

Crowley’s thoughts were a mixture of oh Satan it’s finally happening and what could only be described as mental keyboard smashes as Aziraphale caressed him. It was both heaven and hell on Earth, and Crowley didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was completely lost in the moment. The only thing he knew was Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. The low rumble he could hear in Crowley’s throat as he kissed every inch of his cool skin he could find; the hard, bony planes of his chest; the way Crowley’s olive eyes widened with every touch. Aziraphale felt he could stay this way forever, and wasn’t sure he would be able to leave. 

They eventually found solace wrapped around each other, Aziraphale hugging Crowley’s midsection and resting his head against his chest. Crowley was stroking Aziraphale’s hair gently. 

“Dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was foreign to his ears; he felt as if he had simultaneously ruined the moment and made it more tender. 

“Mmm?” was all Crowley replied.

“What does the J stand for, anyways?” Aziraphale asked, glancing up at Crowley’s face. 

“In my name?” Aziraphale nodded. “Well… it’s just a J, really. I told you before.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, not noticeably, but enough for Crowley to place a finger under his chin and tilt his head up to face him. 

“But for you, Angel,” he whispered, “that J is anything you want it to be.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth turned up. He nestled further into Crowley’s bare chest.

“I love you,” he said. Crowley smiled. 

“Love you too, Angel.”

[shortstuff-ss]

Learning To Travel Alone

George places a large cardboard box on top of his and Charlotte’s bare queen-size bed. Inside, he notices, snug in the corner, a beat-up Adidas shoebox. Never seeing this box before, George curiously nudges at the lid. It easily comes off and displays some lighters, pictures, concert tickets, postcards and other, well George hates to think it, but, junk. It was noticeably Charlotte’s property, due to the photo on top being of her as a pre-teen, braces on her teeth and hair slicked back with a thick elastic headband.

George sifts through the items, his index finger landing on a colorful postcard. His middle finger, he notices, also rests on a colorful postcard. He rifles a bit more and sees that there is in fact, a series of colorful postcards. About ten or twelve.

He looks up and listens for Charlotte. It sounds like she is still unpacking in the kitchen.

He picks a postcard out of the box. The front is decorated with tall towers that semi-resemble the Sky Needle in Seattle to him, but they are filled with vines or some kind of greenery, like gardens spilling out of a ludicrous State Fair attraction. George’s eyebrows furrow as he reads the bright pink script text “Greetings from Gardens by the Bay.”

He flips it over and his eyes meet a paragraph written in sloppy penmanship. Obviously male. George takes a deep breath and thinks about reading it.

He looks back into the box and takes some more postcards. They all have the same penmanship. Han Noi, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam again.

George knows Charlotte had a fling with a guy she met while she was studying abroad in Japan her senior year of college. He’s not an idiot, he decides, these postcards are from this character from Charlotte’s past. George sneaks a peak at the signature. Tomas. No, sorry, Tomás.

“Hey, babe, wanna help me with the table?” Charlotte stands in the doorframe, her thumb pointing in the direction of the moving van parked outside. She looks at George’s hands and folds her arms. “Whaddya got there?” She takes a step closer.

“You tell me.” He hands her the Singapore postcard.

She looks at it and smiles. “What?” She shrugs.

George sighs. “I don’t know. Why do you still have these?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

“Well, why don’t you throw them away?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t know. I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to? Why not?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“What? Just tell me - why don’t you want to throw these away?”

“I like them!”

“You - like them?”

“I don’t think about him, please don’t get jealous, it’s not that. I just like the postcards. I think they’re cool! I mean - look at them!”

George shuffles through the deck of exotic places he’s never been. He silently agrees that they are cool.

Charlotte quietly says, “I think they’re cool...and I like that they’re a part of me. They’re part of my history.”

“Yeah, exactly, your history.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes. “The events happened to me, whether I keep the postcards or not-”

“Exactly! So why not just throw them away?”

“Why not just keep them?”

“Well, what about me? I don’t want you to have them.”

“Why not? That hurts me. No feeling is connected to the man behind those postcards. I just like being nostalgic. I like reading them-”

He glares at her.

“Sometimes! I haven’t read them in a long time, though, I swear!”

“Why do you insist on keeping them then?”

“I told you! I just like them. I don’t know. I don’t want to burn them, I don’t want to throw them away. I just want to keep them!”

“You like reading these?” George points at the scribbles in front of him. “What is this even? ‘Ten New Year Resolutions to make every year.’” He rolls his eyes. “Oh, brother! What was he doing, telling you how to live? What is he? Some kind of guru?”

Charlotte throws her arms up. “It was New Years! I thought it was a nice sentiment.”

“‘Always be grateful for the sun that stirs you internally and outworldly.’ What is this bullshit? This isn’t nice. This is douchey.”

“Douchey?” Charlotte crosses her arms.

“Yeah, he talks like he knows, but you can tell, he doesn’t know anything.’”

“You can say it was immature. Not douchey.”

“Either way.” He sighs. “I don’t know why you’d want to keep them.”

“Just let me keep them.” Charlotte pouts and saunters up to him. She reaches out, snatches the postcards out of his hands and sets them back into the shoe box. She puts her hands on his arms and pulls him in.

“Babe, I’ve been with you for three years now. And, those postcards are from… six, seven years ago. I’m not thinking about him. I’m not hung up on the past. I’m looking at the future, always. The. Future. With. You.” She kisses him with each last word. “We’re moving in together today.” She smiles.

George looks down at his feet. “And it doesn’t bother you that I’ve never been to,” he hastily looks at the pile of cards. “...Kuala Lumpar?”

She giggles. “Not one bit.”

His shoulders slump. “Okay.” He sighs. “So, you just want the trophy.”

“The trophy?”

“Yeah, the trophy of Your Cool Past.” He puts the phrase in finger quotes. “The postcards, they’re… momentos.”

“Yeah, you can think about it like that, I guess. If it helps.”

“It makes me feel a little better.”

“Then, fine. These are my trophies of my past - and this - is my trophy case.” She shuts the shoe box and picks it up. “I’ll put it in my desk drawer.” She turns to leave.

“No. You shouldn’t.”

She looks over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“Well, like you said. They’re your trophies, and trophies should be on display.”

Charlotte dons a forced smile and a 1920s accent. “Oh, not these trophies, kind sir, these are kept in an exclusive, opaque trophy case, as you see here.” She gestures around the Adidas box like a Price Is Right model.

George takes a step closer to her. “I’m not kidding, Char. Like you said, the postcards are cool. I agree.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows furrow and she gives him a questioning look.

“Let’s hang them up.”

“Uh, no. Look, I’m sorry. I know you want me to throw them away...and I… don’t want to. I don’t know. Maybe we should see somebody about this.”

George rushes up to her and clutches her face in his hands. “No, no, babe. I don’t want you to throw them away, I mean it.” He whispers, “I like them. I think they’re cool.”

He grabs the box from her hands. He pops off the lid and scoops up the postcards. He hurries into the front living room with Charlotte on his heels.

“Look, hun,” he announces. “We’ve got all this empty space in our new apartment - a blank slate! We can put these wherever we want!”

He holds up Ho Chi Minh City above the fireplace. “Whaddya think?” He swaps it with Bangkok. “Oo, I like this one because of the green. It really pops with the light coming in from the window.”

He looks around the room and spots a roll of packing tape. “Ah! Perfect! Will you hand me that tape? I don’t want to lose this positioning.”

Charlotte stares at him. “No.”

“C’mon it’s right there.”

“No!”

“Okay, fine, I’ll get it.” He runs over, grabs the clear roll and runs back. He rips off a chunk of tape with his teeth and presses it simultaneously to the postcard and the wall.

“No!” Charlotte lunges in and rips it off the wall. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re the one being weird! You said you wanted to keep the postcards, I want to keep them too-”

“No! You want to hang them for some, some sick, twisted reason I can’t even wrap my head around!”

“I want to display them! I want to celebrate them! Like you said, they’re a part of you and I just want to show them off! Look at them! They’re so cool!” He shoves Cambodia into her face and runs to the kitchen.

“Do we have any magnets? Nevermind, I’ll just-” he rips off another piece of tape. He sticks Cambodia on the fridge.

He hangs Han Noi on the mirror in the bathroom, tacks Bangkok to their headboard, tapes Bali in the hallway and lastly, Singapore on the sliding door to the balcony.

He steps back at the final hanging place and admires his work.

“Fine.” Charlotte whispers from behind him.

He turns around. “What?”

“I admit it.” She places her face into her palms. She looks up, her eyes wet. “Maybe I’m still in love with him. Or at least, the idea of him.”

“Huh?”

“I had to leave Japan. My semester abroad was over. He moved on after I left. I mean, what did I expect? I expected to move on, too. I thought I did. Not only with you, but with others, too. I thought I was over him.”

George’s shoulders drop.

“I guess I’m not...I mean, I still have his postcards for crying out loud. Maybe you’re right - that does mean something. They’re from seven years ago. I couldn’t believe it when I said it, earlier, just today. Seven years? Wow.” She sinks into the couch in the bright front room. “Maybe I should see somebody about this.”

George sinks into the other side of the couch. The two stare ahead at the wall in front of them. Above, the ceiling fan shakes violently at its highest speed.

“How many guys have you slept with?” George’s face is straight.

Charlotte’s mouth gapes. “What?”

“Counting me. How many?”

“What? Why are-”

“Does it even matter anymore?” He throws up his arms and gestures towards himself, her, the postcards, the empty apartment.

“I’m not telling you.” She folds her arms across her chest.

“Fine, then. Get out.”

“Get out?”

“I don’t have to be well-traveled to know that…you’re well-traveled,” he says snidely.

“Excuse me? What are you saying?”

“How many guys have you been with?”

“George! Why are you asking?”

“You don’t want to answer because it’s a lot.”

“I don’t know how many girls you’ve been with. And, I’ll never ask.”

“Three. Including you.”

Charlotte hesitates. Then, “Look, George. I am who I am. Sure, I’ve been around I guess you could say. But who gives a shit? You love ME. All those experiences - the ones including and not including guys - have made me who I am. The girl you fell for. So really, what were you expecting?”

“Someone with a cleaner slate.”

Charlotte’s mouth opens in shock.

“Get out,” George says.

“Gladly.”

Charlotte plucks every postcard from its hanging position, shoves them in her bag and leaves George’s empty apartment.

[lainelannister]

So as I mentioned earlier today...I did some #MeToo-inspired re-writing to an old modern AU of mine, “Slayers and Stones”. You’ll find the edited version below- I’d love any feedback anyone can provide! If you’ve read the old version, I’d love to hear if the edits are working for you...and if this is your first time reading, those responses are also super valuable!

Her father calls her into his study early in the morning, a rare smile on his serious face as he passes her a laminated name badge.  “Your internship begins tomorrow.”

 Sansa looks down at the red-and-gold tag.  The Lannister Inc. logo emblazoned across the top, her pseudonym  (“Alayne Stone,” she likes the sound of it well enough) in bold font below, and beneath that...

 “Marketing and PR?”  She cannot keep a dark frown from pulling at her lips; Lannister Inc. has a top-notch corporate analysis program, and she’d hoped that she might have a chance to experience it first-hand...

 But of course, this isn’t strictly a learning experience, is it?

 “It’s the best place for you.  You’ll be privy to every nasty rumor that passes through that place, which is very, very useful to us.”  Ned Stark still wears his smile, but it has yet to reach his eyes- corporate espionage is not attractive to him, and if not for Jon Arryn’s urging, she doubts that he’d be encouraging her to do this in the first place.  

 “Besides, the PR department handles press releases, events, parties...it would be the most fun for you, love.”  

 Sansa grinds her molars together at that; she may have graduated cum laude from Bryn Mawr with plans to start at Harvard Business School in the fall, but in her father’s eyes, she’ll always be that giggly, vapid seventeen year old, throwing a tantrum because another girl wore the same dress to the prom.  

 But she just smiles back and nods.  “I’m sure you’re right, Daddy.  I’ll go and do my best.”

 “That’s my girl.”  And in spite of her annoyance, Sansa feels a flush of pride at her father’s affectionate words, and she eagerly steps into his open arms and lets him hug her tight.

-

“You’ll fit right in over at Lannister.  They’ve got a thing for blondes.”

 Sansa glares at her brother, who leans casually against the doorframe of her bedroom.  She reaches up to run a self-conscious hand through her newly-highlighted hair; auburn curls now shine strawberry-blonde, and she has yet to become used to it.   

 When she doesn’t answer, Robb steps into the room and crosses his arms over his chest, a bright smile on his handsome face.  “What are you planning to wear?”

 “That.”  She gestures to her closet door, where she’s hung the sensible pantsuit that her mother gave her right after graduation- “Classic, good for interviews,” Catelyn Stark had said.   

 Robb plucks at the fabric before shaking his head in distaste.  “Sansa, I’ve been to Lannister Inc.  You can’t wear that...you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

 It’s not like her brother to pay attention to women’s fashion; the novelty of the conversation is enough to hold Sansa’s interest.  “It’s a high-powered corporation.  You’re telling me that the women don’t wear business suits?”

 “They do...but not like that.”  She’s starting to understand his implication, and her cheeks blush, just a little.

 “Then what should I wear, Robb?”   

 To her surprise, her brother opens her closet door and begins to rifle through her clothing.  It’s a comical sight, and she laughs.

 “You seem to know your way around a girl’s closet.  Do you pick out outfits for Jeyne, too?”

 He makes some retort, but his head is buried deep enough in the closet that she cannot make out the words.  Finally, he re-emerges, passing her a set of hangers and a pair of shoes.  

 “There.  That’s what you should wear.”

 Sansa huffs an incredulous breath through her nose- her brother has selected a black cocktail dress, short and tight.  The other hanger holds a fitted black blazer, and the shoes are four-inch stiletto heels.

 “What, is Lannister, Inc. an elaborate cover for a fancy prostitution ring?”   

 Robb rolls his eyes and smirks before heading to the door.

 “Fine, don’t listen to me.  But you’ll go there tomorrow, and you’ll see that I was just trying to help.”

 When Robb leaves, Sansa evaluates her options.  And with a beleaguered sigh, she places the sensible pantsuit back in her closet.   

 - 

 When she arrives at the skyscraper that houses Lannister Inc., Sansa realizes that Robb was completely correct.  There are more svelte, leggy blondes here than there are at Conde Nast, everyone dressed to the nines.  And not just the women; every man here looks like he walked off the set of a GQ photo shoot.  She thinks for a moment of the lax dress code at Stark Incorporated: her father’s worn Frye boots, Robb’s polo-and-khaki uniform, Theon’s leather jacket.  The comparison makes her giggle under her breath.

 After a brief meeting with Kevan Lannister, the head of HR (an older, somewhat stern man, but pleasant enough), she’s ushered into the office of Genna Frey, the director of marketing.  She takes a seat beside a handsome blonde man who appears about her age; her heartbeat skips when he smiles at her and asks her name, but the excitement quickly abates when he continues to speak, and she realizes how dreadful, pompous, and unpleasant he is.  She makes a mental note to stay clear of this one ( Jeffrey, was it?) and turns her attention to the heavy-set, no-nonsense woman behind the wide mahogany desk.  

 The tasks she sets for the interns are very menial at first: archiving press clippings, calling publications to follow up on print deadlines.  Sansa is a good listener, always has been, but even her best efforts at eavesdropping reap few results.  She returns home each evening with dread building in her stomach, for she hates to look at her father and Uncle Jon night after night and tell them that no, she still hasn’t learned anything new.  Failure sits heavily on her shoulders and keeps her awake deep into the night.

 And yet she forces down coffee after coffee (even sneaking the occasional Adderall from Arya’s medicine cabinet) and throws herself into the work.  Tedious as it is, she strives to surpass the other interns, and when Ms. Frey lectures her co-workers, holding up Alayne’s work and declaring, “This is how you document.  I don’t want to see any more half-assed shit from you people, I want to see this ,” she blushes as brightly as she does at her father’s praise.

 Finally, at long last, Sansa receives a reward for her hard work.  There’s a meeting scheduled with the senior executives to discuss “the family matter”, and Genna invites her to come along and take notes.  

 (She does not invite Joffrey into the closed-door session, in spite of his Lannister blood, and Sansa feels a sudden admiration for Genna’s value of talent over nepotism.)

 Sansa is, of course, well acquainted with the PR disaster that has befallen Lannister Incorporated.  In fact, it would not exist at all without Ned Stark and Jon Arryn; they gained knowledge of the story from an executive at the Baratheon Corporation, and they’ve installed Sansa at Lannister to report on the fall-out.  

 Goosebumps prickle up and down her arms as she takes a seat beside Genna.  The CEO is not present- in the weeks since she started here, Sansa has never once seen the mysterious Tywin Lannister, and she finds herself imagining him as a disembodied head surrounded by smoke, like the Wizard of Oz.  But Kevan is here, along with CFO Petyr Baelish, Junior Vice President Tyrion Lannister, and Senior Vice President Jaime Lannister.

 Everyone at the table appears tense, but as she looks at the man seated directly across from her, she thinks that she’s never seen a person more drained and empty-looking than Jaime Lannister.  

 She’s noticed him before, of course, sauntering down the hallways in his perfectly-tailored Italian suits, golden hair neatly combed back, tall and confident and devastatingly handsome.  The junior associates whisper his legend in the break room and by the water cooler- he’s a ruthless, predatory raider, known for crushing smaller companies beneath his feet and pillaging the spoils.  “The Slayer,” they call him in tones of hushed reverence.  She’s watched with distaste as assistant after intern after associate tries to flirt with him, only to be rebuffed by a distant smile and words of cool courtesy.  He’s only spoken to Sansa once, asking to borrow a pen and Post-It.  But he winked at her when he handed the pen back, and she’s sure that the smile she gave him in reply was every bit as insipid as the ones she’d seen from all those other silly girls.

 But now he does not look at anyone.  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as Tyrion catalogues the leaked information.  And it is, as Genna would say, an absolute shitstorm.  The former junior vice president, Cersei Lannister, had listened to some extremely bad advice and made an absurd, careless power play for the company.  Her illicit dealings and failed investments cost Lannister Inc. millions of dollars, and reports of her questionable character and distasteful personal life brought shame and derision upon the mighty Lannister dynasty.  

 Tyrion concludes his report by informing everyone that Cersei has been removed from public view and will be unable to do any more harm to the family or the company.

 “Where is she?”  

 Jaime’s voice rings out rather more loudly than is appropriate, and no one can bring themselves to look at him.  

 (Sansa thinks of some of the more salacious rumors that Jon Arryn has drummed up about Cersei Lannister and her handsome brother, but Uncle Jon has always had a flair for the dramatic...)

 “It doesn’t matter, Jaime...”

 “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”  He turns on his brother, emerald-green eyes flashing with rage, and Tyrion, usually so poised and glib, actually appears a bit frightened.

 But the moment passes quickly, and the younger Lannister brother speaks in as even a tone as he ever does.  

 “I mean that we need to distance ourselves from her, for the sake of the company.  Any outward show of support would make us all look weaker...but if she’s just the bad egg, that’s something that could happen to any family.  She’s an embarrassment, and we need to acknowledge that.”

 Suddenly, Sansa feels a discordant twang in her stomach at the coldness of it all.  Yes, Cersei Lannister is a class-A fuck-up, but she’s still their sister, still one of them...and to just abandon her like that...

 Her voice sounds strange in her ears, as though it belongs to someone else.  “But she’s your sister.”  

 Every head whips around to stare at Sansa; Genna’s face glows red with rage as she mutters, “Alayne.  Be quiet.”

 “What was that, Miss Stone?” Tyrion asks.  

 She knows that she should shut up, that she must shut up.  But the words fall from her lips of their own accord- “She’s family...how can you just hide her somewhere and...and throw her away…?”

 “Alayne.  Go get my Starbucks order and leave it on my desk.   Now, ” Genna seethes.

 As she rises from her chair, trying and failing to keep from shaking, she happens to glance across the table.  Jaime Lannister watches her, beautiful eyes unblinking and intense.

 And then his lips curve into a smile.

 - 

 When she arrives at work the next day, Sansa finds herself immediately re-routed to HR.  Her stomach sinks; she hasn’t told her father about the disaster of yesterday’s meeting, and she has no idea how she’ll explain getting fired...

 But Kevan Lannister barely even speaks to her before directing her to a conference room.  “Go in, please,” he says.

 She mentally steels herself for an apoplectic Genna or a sneering Mr. Baelish, but she finds herself face to face with Brienne Tarth instead.

 Sansa took an immediate liking to Jaime Lannister’s executive assistant; she rejects the couture that is the office standard in favor of loose, comfortable suits (“Probably buys them at the Big and Tall Men’s Wearhouse,” one of the catty, pretty office drones once snarked), and she gives off an undeniable air of competence.  She’s calm, collected, capable, and discreet, and Sansa considers these qualities far more valuable than any pretty facade.

 “Please sit down, Miss Stone,” Brienne says, gesturing to a chair.  Sansa sits and waits for the other woman to continue.

 “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve just been promoted.”

 “Oh!  Congratulations,” Sansa replies, and Brienne’s pretty blue eyes crinkle in a grin.

 “Thanks.  It’s a great opportunity for me- I’ll be a junior associate in the Boston office.”  

 “Then you’re leaving?”

 “Yes, I move at the end of the week.  And that’s why I’ve called you in.”

 “Oh?”  Sansa lifts a brow in surprise, while her insides jiggle in a hopeful dance- maybe I’m not getting fired...oh, thank God...

 “The thing is, this all happened really suddenly, and HR’s been so backed up lately that they haven’t really had time to deal with new hires.  Finding a replacement for me will definitely be a long process, lots of interviews...I’ve been with Jaime for five years, and he’s...very particular.”  

 “Of course.”   Five years, that’s a long time...but it makes sense, he obviously relies on her so much...

 “Anyway, until we can find someone he’ll like, we need a person to sit at that desk and answer his phones and manage his calendar.  It will be a lot more hours than what you’re used to, at the same intern pay rate, so I completely understand if you don’t want to take on the added responsibility-”

 “You want me to be Jaime Lannister’s assistant?”

 She must be quite a sight- eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar- because Brienne laughs brightly before nodding.

 “He asked for you specifically.  Will you do it?”

 Sansa thinks of the locked folders on the company drive, filled with information only available to the top executives and their assistants- she imagines having access to Jaime’s calendar, intimate knowledge of the second-in-command’s comings-and-goings...she begins to salivate, and she swallows it down.

 A red-gold ponytail bobs up and down as she eagerly nods.  

 “Oh, yes.  Thank you.”

 - 

 She should have known better.  Sansa curses herself for her naivety; just because Jaime gave Brienne the password to the locked files doesn’t mean he’ll hand it over to a twenty-three year old intern he’s barely met.  She lets herself wallow in disappointment for a few brief moments, but then forces the feeling aside- there’s got to be another way.  She’ll just bide her time; she’s good at being patient.

 And so she fields phone calls and handles his e-mail correspondence and schedules meetings.  The scheduling is by far the most interesting part of the job; he’s on the board of numerous organizations, and every night is a different gala, a different opening night, a different photo op.  

 She’d seen his picture on Page Six that morning, taken at a heart-disease benefit the evening before.  He wore a tuxedo- he’s even better-looking in a tux than in a suit- and stood with his arm wrapped around his date’s narrow waist: Margaery Tyrell, the heiress to Highgarden Communications, beautiful and striking in Alexander McQueen.  The Lannister PR machine desperately wants New York to believe that Jaime and Margaery are romantically involved, but when she considers that she must always arrange for a separate car for Margaery at the end of these events, Sansa thinks it rather unlikely.

Maybe he’s gay, she thinks to herself as she returns from the dry cleaner and enters Jaime’s vacant office, hanging his tux on the door and placing the newly-shined dress shoes beneath it.   He certainly dresses well...and Margaery’s gorgeous, but he’s definitely not sleeping with her...

She crosses the room to water the little tree in the corner; Brienne schooled her carefully in the care and keeping of the plant.  

 She bends over to tip the watering can toward the back of the tree, and she does not hear the door open behind her.  When she stands upright, she locks eyes with Jaime, who watches her with a peculiar expression.  

 “I think it has enough water.  You’ve been very thorough.”  Sansa nods and places the watering can down as Jaime furrows his brow, gesturing to the tuxedo.

 “Where am I going tonight?”

 “The opera, Mr. Lannister,” she replies, taking a small step toward the door, in spite of the fact that he’s directly blocking her path.  

 “Fuck, that’s right.”  He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and sighs.  “Which one is it?”

 “’La Boheme’,” she replies.  

 “Hmm.  I haven’t seen that before.”

 “It’s beautiful,” Sansa volunteers with a soft smile.  “It’s one of my favorites.”

 “You like opera?”

 “Yes.”  She’s nearly at the door now, but he still hasn’t moved- she’s near enough to catch the scent of his cologne- musk and sandalwood- and her mouth begins to go dry... snap out of it, you’re being an idiot...

 “Duly noted.”  He grins at her, pivoting his body just enough to give her space to slide through the doorway, but not enough to keep her from brushing her chest against his arm as she tries to pass.  “I’ll get you tickets next time.”

 “I..I would like that very much.  Thank you.”

 When she closes the door behind her, Sansa falls into her chair and presses her palm to her heart.  She scowls at the quickness of the beats and restrains the urge to smack her head on the keyboard over and over again.

  -

 It’s nearly midnight, and she’s completely alone.  She’s sure of it- even the cleaning people have left for the weekend.  Still, her eyes dart about anxiously as she retrieves the zip drive from her purse and plugs it into her computer.  It will work...it has to work.

 Bran had been surprised, when she approached him to ask about computer hacking.  “I hack into gaming sites, Sansa,” he’d sighed with exasperation.  But the same principles must apply, she imagines- she adjusted the codes, tweaked the infrastructure on her own computer, saved it all to the drive.  And now she’ll be able to get into the locked files and secure her father some information far more valuable than the Cersei Lannister gossip.  

 Her toes tap and her fingers twitch with exhilaration- this is it, this is it, I’ll really prove myself now...

 So engrossed is she that she does not notice the door behind her swinging open, not until a low voice echoes through the empty office-

 “Still here, Alayne?”

 She shrieks, whirling her chair around.  Jaime stands in the doorway of his office, tie loosened and shirt untucked, a tumbler of scotch in one hand.  

 But no, I saw him leave for the museum gala, I called the car and got his tux...when did he have time to come back?  When I was in the bathroom, maybe...God, I should have checked his office first, stupid, stupid, stupid...

 She tries to push her self-loathing aside long enough to answer his question.  “Yes, Mr. Lannister.  Just trying to finish up the agenda for the next board meeting before the weekend.”

 “I appreciate your dedication,” he drawls with a smile.  “But can I persuade you to take a break?”

 He opens the door to his office wider and gestures to her to enter.  She hastily closes the open windows on her computer and complies, shutting the door behind her.  

 “Do you like scotch?” he asks.  She doesn’t really, but her brothers and uncle are fond of it, and she knows she can hold it down when necessary.

 When she nods, he fills another tumbler from a crystal carafe and hands it to her.  “It’s good, smooth.  Aged seventeen years.”  

She takes a sip, trying not to wince at the burn of the liquid as it courses down her throat.  

“Thank you.”  

He sits on the sofa at the corner of his office and nods pointedly to the space beside him.  As she lowers herself down, he removes his tie and tosses it on a side table, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt.  Sansa fights to keep from staring at the glimpse of his chest left exposed...she takes another sip and regrets the squeakiness of her voice when she asks,

 “Why aren’t you at the gala?”

 Jaime replies with a dry laugh.  “I’m not in a very festive mood tonight.”  His eyes darken a bit, and Sansa is reminded of the calls she’d forwarded to him that day from the private investigator.   They still won’t tell him where she is, he has to hire his own detective...it’s insane.   

 She finds herself unable to keep the sympathy out of her expression when she nods.  His gaze sharpens, but his tone remains calm and still.

 “So, Alayne.  Are you enjoying yourself here?”

 “It’s a great opportunity for me.  I’m learning a lot.”

 “And what is it that you want to do?  What’s your big career dream?”

 Sansa answers with more candor than she originally intended.  “I want to go to business school, then become an analyst.  And eventually, I want to run a company like this one.”

 “Not exactly like this one, I hope,” he sniffs derisively.  “But you’re ambitious...everyone loves ambition here.  They eat, sleep, and shit ambition.”  

 He refills her glass before she has time to protest, and the hard set of his jaw prompts her to change the subject.

 She’s an easy conversationalist, and she turns the talk to music, art (he has an impressive collection), higher education.   He makes her laugh with stories of his undergrad fraternity days at Yale, recommends business schools (he went to Harvard himself, and she bites her lip to keep from revealing her acceptance and inundating him with questions).  And he keeps the liquor flowing, until Sansa drops her heavy head onto the back of the sofa, just a hairsbreadth away from his shoulder.

 “May I ask you something?”  She looks up at the clean profile of his face and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of peat and alcohol and expensive cologne.

 “Whatever you like.”  

 “Why did you ask for me?  When you were picking an intern to help you, I mean.  Why me?”

 He reaches for her tumbler, and she relinquishes it.  After placing both his glass and hers on a nearby table, he reclines back against the sofa and runs a hand through his thick golden hair.  

 “It was what you said in the meeting that day.  About family...there are plenty of ambitious people around here, like I said.  Lots of smart people and driven people, but there aren’t a lot of compassionate people.”  He props his elbow on the back of the couch and leans closer; she can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she inches nearer...

 “What you said...it was very human of you.  And that’s fucking refreshing.”

 Their knees are touching now; if she moves her head just a fraction, her brow will fall against his.  She sees the prickling of stubble along his jawline, the way his eyelashes become light at the tips. A lock of her hair falls across her face, and he reaches up to smooth it back behind her ear.  

 “You’ve got a lot of red in your hair,” he comments, twisting the strands around his finger.   “Very pretty.”

So, so tacky, a cutting voice reverberates at the back of her mind. Powerful executive trying to get into his young assistant’s pants...he honestly couldn’t be more cliche if he tried.

His mouth barely hovers over hers at this point. And she’s not sure whether it’s defiance against those bitter voices coursing through her head or simply a total lack of fear (a middle-aged guy acting inappropriate with an intern, even in this day and age...that’s just sad), but she figures that she has nothing to lose.

She tilts her chin up and brushes her lips against his.  Jaime cups her cheek in his hand, and the way he kisses her- soft, patient, gentle- stokes a fire in her belly, sending tingles up and down her limbs and between her legs.  

 Jaime’s tongue teases at the seam of her lips, and she opens her mouth for him willingly, knotting her fingers in his soft hair.  He massages her tongue with his, and when he wraps a strong arm around her and eases her down onto the sofa cushions, she’s almost embarrassed by the ease with which her legs fall to either side, giving him unambiguously-direct access.

 “Oh-” she sighs when she realizes that he’s settled his hips into the space between her thighs, his mouth lavishing attention on her neck, kissing and biting and sucking (enough to make her whimper and writhe, but not enough to leave marks- won’t have to break out the concealer, at least....).

It’s all moving along at an alarming pace, and the sensible side of Sansa, the one that regularly talked Arya down from her more fantastical flights of fancy and stopped Mya and Jeyne from becoming the subjects of especially-vicious high school gossip, urges her to slow things down-

“Mr. Lannister,” she begins (not very convincingly- she doesn’t actually want him to stop, although she knows it’s the right thing to do)-

“Jaime,” he pants into her skin, his tongue dipping into the groove of her collarbone.  “It’s Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she repeats- it’s a good name to whisper nearly breathless, a good name to sigh- she imagines herself screaming it as she comes, and she spreads her legs wider, quivering with anticipation.  

(And the practical part of her slinks into the wings, completely forgotten for the time being.)

Her nimble fingers slide between them, unfastening the buttons of his shirt.  Her hands roam over the perfectly-contoured muscles of his body, and she’s momentarily distracted by the thought of the personal-training appointments Jaime’s had her schedule for 4:30am every day. “Who gets up that early?” she’d asked Kevan’s assistant Joy after sharing this story at one of their impromptu mid-afternoon coffee breaks. Joy had replied with a smirk, rolling her green eyes as she muttered, “Someone with something major to prove.”

 He fingers the hem of her camisole, and she helps him pull it up over her shoulders, nearly surprised by her own lack of hesitation- she hasn’t been touched so intimately since she broke up with Harry almost a year ago, she should probably be more reluctant, more shy...

 But the way Jaime presses his face into her chest and softly kisses the tops of her breasts...the way he mouths her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra...the deft way he reaches beneath her to pull the hooks open- nothing like Harry at all.

 “You like that, don’t you?” he breathes as he scrapes his teeth over her left nipple.  She pulls his hair tight and whimpers in response, and he laughs, taking one breast in each hand and pushing them together until he can suck both nipples into his mouth at once.  

 She lets out a little peep of objection when he releases her breasts, but then his lips trail lower, skimming over her stomach, tongue swirling into her navel.  He lifts her skirt up and slides his fingers over her through her underwear, and she digs her nails into the leather of the sofa.

 When he replaces his fingers with his mouth, kissing her through her boy-shorts, she growls his name low in her throat, surprised by her own abandon. The tip of his tongue teases at her clit, and the warmth, the soft pressure, the friction of the fabric- she reaches down to grip his shoulder, scratching at the golden skin, while her other hand kneads her own breast.

 “Oh, please...”  she begins, but soon interrupts herself with a sigh of delight as he catches her underwear in his teeth and pulls them down her legs.  Jaime peppers soft kisses on her ankle, the inside of her knee, all up and down her inner thighs before spreading her folds and licking into her.  

 He’s slow and patient in his exploration, taking his time to discover the way she likes to be touched.  When he curls his fingers inside her just so, his tongue softly massaging her swollen outer lips before resting flat on her clit, she finds herself moaning just the way Harry always wished she would, bucking her hips up and feeling her wetness pool over his fingers and his lips.  

 He kisses his way back up her body and then captures her mouth- she licks her own release from his lips and tongue.  She can feel him pressed against her belly, and she quickly unbuckles and unbuttons until he’s in her hand, hot and hard.  Sansa kisses along his jaw and takes his earlobe in her mouth as she begins to stroke; her other hand pinches his nipple, and he grabs her hip tight and releases a breathy trail of obscenities.  

 Then she brings her hand to his face and looks him in the eye, those gorgeous cat’s eyes, set in this laughably-perfect face- “The Slayer”, they call him, he has no soul, no conscience...but would a man with no soul care so deeply for his disgraced sister?  Would a man with no soul place such a premium on compassion, on “human” behavior?  

 She kisses him again, hungrier than before, as she rubs the head of his cock against her.  He moans into her mouth- “Alayne”, and she tries not to feel a prick of sadness- and his hips start to shift-

 “Do you have a condom?” she thinks to ask him, just in time. His brows knit together, and she’s blessedly able to stop herself before she rolls her eyes. There’s something strangely vulnerable about him as he leans down to retrieve his wallet from the back pocket of his pants and fishes within until he finds a Trojan.

 “Not sure how long this has been there…” he begins, trying to sell the curve of his lips as a gesture of good humor...but he’s fragile in a way she can’t quite understand, and she chooses to be merciful.

She takes the rubber from him and tears the package open with her teeth, sprawling flat on her stomach to apply it with her mouth.

Once this crucial task is complete, she guides him into her and lifts her knees to her chest, savoring the deep thrusts, the hard grip of his hands on her thighs.

Jaime lifts her legs so that her ankles rest on his shoulders, and he lowers one hand to caress her, turning his head to kiss the side of her calf.  She comes again, even harder than before, and when he slides out of her, she wraps her hand around him and pulls off the condom before raining kisses over his shoulders and neck and chest until his ejaculate leaks over her fingers, pooling in the spaces between.

 They do not move right away, content to stay coiled around each other, exchanging leisurely kisses with generous tongue.  Sansa starts to truly consider what she’s done- this man is her father’s rival, a top executive in the company that Stark Incorporated is trying to destroy.

 And these facts shouldn’t make her want him more.  That’s childish nonsense...but there’s an appeal here that she can’t deny, can’t ignore.   Between the leather and the sandalwood and the musk and the scotch and this powerful, beautiful man sucking on her lower lip-

 But then she remembers the red zip drive conspicuously plugged into the side of her computer, and she pulls away.

 “I should finish up and go home,” she murmurs.  He does not object, but he keeps his arms around her as she tries to put her clothes back on, slowing down the process with his kisses and touches and wicked insinuations.

 After she slips her top back on and wraps her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss, he whispers,  “Come home with me.  I want to fuck you in the back of the town car-” He brushes his lips beneath her ear- “-and in the elevator-” His stubble scratches at her collarbone as he moves down- “-and in every room in my apartment.”  He gently squeezes her breast, and she shifts closer, nearly sitting in his lap-

 But then she stops.  She pulls away and stands, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt.

 “Not tonight,” she replies with a soft smile.  He looks disappointed, but when she reaches down to brush an errant lick of golden hair out of his eyes, she can feel him smile against the thin skin of her wrist.

 “We ought to clean ourselves up,” she says, watching as he tucks his cock back into his pants and crosses toward the closet.  He drops a kiss on her shoulder as he passes her, opening the closet door and retrieving a clean white dress shirt.

 “Very sensible, I’m sure.”  He slides the shirt over his arms, and the fabric clings to his sweat-dampened chest as he fastens the buttons.  

 Before she loses her wits entirely, Sansa hastens out the door, shutting it behind her.

   She gathers her things quickly, shuts off the lights, powers down her computer (but not before ejecting the zip drive and slipping it back into her purse).  

 Jaime emerges from his office a few minutes later in perfectly-clean clothes, briefcase in hand.  He approaches her, graceful steps putting her in mind of a lion stalking its prey.  When he closes in on her, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist, her lower back pressed against the desk, she feels that she wants to be ravaged and savaged and ripped apart.   Of course, she reflects as she observes a thin scratch on his neck, courtesy of her sharp fingernails, I’d be able to give plenty of my own back, too.

 “Will you let me drive you home, at least?” he asks, and she forces her head into a vehement shake.

 “No, thank you.  The cabs are lined up around the block at this hour.”  She tries to straighten her posture, but he holds her fast against the desk.  Just one more, she thinks as she pulls his face down to hers, the force of the kiss pushing her up onto the desk, her leg rising to wrap around him again-

 A clatter of metal, and they both look down- she’s knocked her stapler and tape dispenser onto the floor.  They separate, and she leans down to retrieve the supplies.  When she stands back up, Jaime places a thumb on her lips, just a gentle pressure.  

 “Good night, Alayne,” he whispers before turning on his heel and heading toward the elevator bank.  

 She waits by the window until she sees his town car pull away.  Only then does she leave; she opts against taking a cab, choosing instead to walk the thirty blocks to her parents’ townhouse.

 Sansa strolls out to the river park, walking along the water that frames the west side.  She slips a hand into her purse and closes it around the zip drive.  And then she thinks.

 Regardless of what just occurred between them (a #MeToo moment waiting to happen...she’s ashamed of the flippant nature of this thought, at the ease with which she left her own complicity out of the equation), Jaime seems to be a decent person.  And Genna is decent in her way, and Kevan and even Tyrion...is it fair, is it right to help her father tear their company up like this?  The information she’s stolen has the potential to obliterate Lannister Inc....  Can she...will she...?

 She rests her hand on the railing that separates the pathway from the water below.  The little red drive nestles in her fist, and she loosens her fingers-

 But instead, she returns the drive to the inner pocket of her purse.  Shutting the bag with a resolute zip, Sansa continues on her way home.  

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Watford Cove

Chapter 5: not so typical love song

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 5365

Chapter: 5/13 [All chapters]

Summary: Baz goes to Simon's house to work on the project.

Read on AO3

AN: So as some of you may know/remember, I work at an amusement park. I was supposed to work today but it's literally raining all day so the park is most certainly closed. Which means I can post early! Hooray! This is personally one of my favourite chapters. I enjoyed writing it quite a bit, though I had trouble writing Baz's emotions. The boy is a weird self destructive mess and it's difficult getting that across lol. Finally, we learn a bit more about Simon. Plus some fluff, of course. Hope you all like it!

Tagging: @wayward-son-61​ @lunar-lover394​

———————————————-

“Where are you going?”

I lazily turn towards Mordelia. She’s standing next to me with her arms behind her back, rocking on her heels. The picture of an adorable, unassuming child. You can hardly tell she's a brat.

“Out,” I reply.

“Mum says you go out too much.”

I do feel a bit bad about that. Daphne does legitimately care about my well being. “Well, you can tell her I’m not going out drinking. She can stop worrying.”

“Drinking what?”

I sigh. Right, she is still seven years old. “Nevermind. I’m just going to do schoolwork at someone’s house. I might be home for supper or not, I don’t know.”

“Okay. When can I ride on your motorbike?”

I smirk and buckle up my helmet. “Let's wait until you can reach the pedals. Then we’ll talk.”

Mordelia pouts pathetically. I ruffle her hair, which only makes her pout become an impressive scowl. I flip down my visor with flare and rev my engine. I give Mordelia a salute before driving off down the country road.

Simon’s house isn’t that far from mine, actually. Maybe a twenty minute ride, the way I break the speeding laws. I zip down the hill at ludicrous speeds, and keep that pace up across the country roads until they become moderately paved. Soon I’m on the sparse outskirts of Watford Cove, not the bloody fucking wilderness like mine. A much nicer place to live in my opinion.

Only a few minutes in, I arrive at the address Simon texted me. The house is actually quite posh. It’s not the terrible extravagance of the Pitch mansion of course, but it’s nice. Red brick, white shutters, some fancy curtains. There's a silver mailbox at the end of the drive with "Salisbury" painted on it in annoyingly bright green letters. The handwriting looks childish, as in a child probably wrote it. The initials "LS" are under the words like an artist's signature. Hm, interesting.

I park my bike in the driveway then make my way to the oak door. The doorbell chimes deep and loud. There’s some steps and soon it swings open. Oh. This is...not Simon. Because Simon is not an older greying-blonde woman.

This woman reminds me of portraits my own grandmother. She was also tall, straight backed, and respectful looking. But my grandmother never showed an ounce of happiness. This woman has a very kind smile on her face though, her wrinkles more from the expression rather than age.

“Hello,” she says kindly. “May I help you?”

“Um, I’m here to see Simon.”

Both her blue eyes and smile widen. “Oh right, Simon said you were coming. Simon! Your friend is here!”

There’s a crashing sound, like someone falling on the ground. Rapid steps come down the stairs until a beaming Simon jumps to the bottom.

“Hi Baz,” he says breathlessly. “Glad you found it.”

“I have Google Maps, Salisbury,” I deadpan, but with a smirk.

“Oh yeah, right, let’s go.” He motions for me to follow him inside. I nod to the woman. She looks up towards the stairs, hands on her hips.

“Simon,” she says with mock accusation, “are you not going to introduce me to your friend?”

Simon freezes halfway up the steps and whips his head around. “Oh right! Sorry, Gran. Um, Gran, this is Baz. Baz, this is my grandmother, Ruth Salisbury.”

I reach out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Salisbury.”

Her brows rise up in surprise. I suppose she didn’t expect politeness from a guy wearing a black Ramones shirt, leather jacket, and ear piercings. But she still takes my hand. “Pleasure to meet you as well, Baz. You two have fun.”

Simon scoffs. “It’s school, Gran. We’re not supposed to have fun.”

“School can be fun if you try, darling. Maths has made me very good at cards.”

“And you fleece Mrs. Jones every week at your games, I know. We gotta go.”

“Yes yes, go do your schoolwork. Don’t break anything.”

Simon and Ms. Salisbury smile good naturedly at each other as we go upstairs. He runs at a breakneck pace, nearly tripping over the green carpet. I follow more slowly, looking over the walls. Unlike my house, there are many personalised things. Landscape art, funny knick knacks, and some pictures. There’s one of Ms. Salisbury with an older man, who I assume to be her husband. Next to that, there’s the couple again but in their younger years. A boy and girl stand in the foreground, both as blonde as Ms. Salisbury. The last one at the top of the stairs is obviously the two kids as teenagers, grinning with arms around each other. The woman looks weirdly familiar. Her freckles, they remind me of...stars.

“Baz, c’mon!” Simon yells.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming. You’re quite bossy today, darling,” I say teasingly. I hear his gasp, then fall into a coughing fit.

“I-I just want to start working.” His voice is still a bit hoarse.

“Alright.”

I saunter down to the hall Simon went down. I step into his room, and...well, I’m not sure what else I expected. The bed and desk look old, but everything else is new. The floral blanket, the multicoloured rug, the IKEA shelf filled with comics, all quite fresh. The walls are bright blue and covered in posters. Troye Sivan, Lana del Ray, Hayley Kiyoko, and assorted pastel coloured art. Equally pastel clothes are spread out across the floor. The whole room is so...bright. It sort of hurts my eyes. I’d prefer everything a bit darker. I guess I like Simon’s colour palette in small doses, just not all in one room.

I look up. Simon’s at his desk. I finally notice that he’s wearing a new shirt. It’s like the sunflower one, but pink and with bright red rosebuds instead. It works with the copper undertones of his hair. He looks perfect in it.

“Pretty,” I whisper.

“What?” Simon asks sweetly.

Fuck, I hope my face isn’t as red as his shirt right now. “Um, nothing.”

He looks confused for only a moment then shrugs. “Okay. I woke up late and forgot breakfast, so I'm starving. Want some of this? For brain food and stuff.” He holds up a mint aero bar. My smile is instantaneous.

“Sure. Mint aeros are my favourite.”

He grins to his ears. “Mine too!

I sit in the chair next to him. He breaks off a large piece for me. We eat the chocolate at the same time, but Simon gets some around his mouth. (Of course he's a messy eater.) I want to slowly lick it off his cheek then kiss him so hard we run out of breath. I quickly look away to resist temptation. “So, you got the project up?”

“Oh yeah!” He turns back to his laptop. I see that the desk is covered in scribbly note paper, candy wrappers, and nail polish bottles. He’s got almost every colour in his preferred pastel shade. He’s actually wearing the pink one right now. It matches his shirt. I have to keep myself from making an out loud comment again.

“So I’ve started making the powerpoint,” Simon says, bringing up the application. “And I think we should start with Watership Down. The actual place. Cause it’s like, the most important setting right?”

I bite my tongue, because I...disagree. Strongly. Watership Down should be in the middle, because it is the end of their first journey and the beginning of the next. It’s important to illustrate that, I think. But he doesn’t know I would think that.

“Sure, cool,” I mutter.

“O-Okay. Then, uh, for characters, we should start with General Woundwort.”

Wrong, very wrong. He’s important, sure, but others should be discussed first. Maybe Hazel, Bigwig, or Fiver. Fuck, Bluebell should come before Woundwort.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I hope there isn’t a strain in my voice.

“Awesome! And I thought for analysis, we could talk about the archetypes and shit.”

No! Archetypes are Jungian! We’re supposed to do Freudian! Oh, fuck it.

“Give me that,” I hiss, snatching the laptop away. Simon blinks at me confused. I type furiously, barely thinking really, just spouting out the knowledge I have onto the slides. Some of the stuff is very smart but not well put, so I redo the wording. Not good with words, just like Simon said. I don’t know how long it takes, but when I’m done, I put the laptop back on the desk with my arms crossed.

“There,” I say curtly.

Simon looks through it, jaw falling open wider and wider with every slide. I shift away. Christ, this is embarrassing.

“Holy shit,” Simon whispers. I wait for him to start laughing, or yelling because I change his work. But he just turns to me with big awe filled eyes. “You’re...really smart.”

My cheeks must be as red as tomatoes now. I scoff and look at the Hayley Kiyoko poster. “Yeah, whatever.”

“No, no, I mean it, Baz. This is bloody brilliant! You’re super smart!” His brow furrows. “Why do you never show up to class? You could be getting As in like, everything.”

I press my lips together, digging my nails into my bicep. “I don’t care about school or grades. That’s all.”

“Really? You just, don’t care?”

“No, I don’t.”

Simon sighs, and I hate how close to pity it sounds. I don’t need his pity or anyone else’s. I made my choice a long time ago, and I don’t regret it. Well, I mostly don’t regret it. Certainly don’t regret because of where I’m going when term is done. Not at all...

“So, uh,” Simon says rapidly, obviously trying to break the forming tension, “I'm also mostly done the drawings. I’ll scan them later and put them in the presentation if you like them.”

He pulls out a sketchbook from his desk and flips through the pages. He shoves it in my face once he’s found the right one, making me jolt back in my chair. I snatch it from him.

“Christ, Salisbury, let me actually look,” I chuckle.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.”

I look at the picture, and it’s my turn to be awestruck. It’s...amazing. Rough, raw, a bit messy, but amazing. He’s captured Watership Down in just pencil. Sure, it’s just a hill, but Simon has drawn it from the perspective of the rabbits, so it looks looming and majestic. There are little shapes at the top, and I realise it’s a few of the rabbits looking out into the distance. A cute and perfect addition.

“Wow, this is incredible,” I say with absolute reverence.

Simon blinks at me. He seems genuinely surprised. “R-Really?”

“Yes. You’re very talented, Simon.”

“Oh, uh, well, thanks. I’m...really glad you think so.” He fiddles with his fingers nervously. “There’s a-a couple more if you want to see them. Three pages after.”

I flip through a few more pages. There are a lot of rough, abstract sketches. They look more like feelings than specific things. Waves of smoke, angry scribbles of pencil, over and over. He must do that a lot. Eventually, I land on what I think I'm supposed to see. It's obviously Fiver, based on the photo he showed me. But it's not an exact replica. It's a gorgeous interpretation. He's emphasized Fiver's large, sad, all knowing eyes. You can almost see everything terrifying and wonderful happening in them. To say I’m impressed doesn’t really cover it.

I go to the next page, and I immediately recognise it as a scene from the animated movie. When El Ahrairah, the first rabbit, was given physical gifts to survive predators from their fictitious god Frith. This one is in colour, and somehow even more stylised than the movie. El Ahrairah himself is a deep rich brown with grey loops, the sun is swirl of orange and yellow, and the sky is ripples of vibrant blue. The same colour as his eyes.

“These,” I say, “are perfect, Simon.”

Simon chuckles nervously, fiddling with his fingers. “I’m glad you think so. Think Miss Possibelf will approve?”

“If she doesn’t, she’s completely incompetent. And I don’t think that’s true.” I absentmindedly turn to the next page. It’s the start of another unfinished drawing. It’s of someone’s face. Someone with sharp cheekbones and dark wavy hair. Wait, is that-

Simon snatches the book and quickly flips it closed. He hides half his scarlet face behind the leather cover for a long moment, until he nervously coughs and lowers it. “Okay, good,” he stutters. “Glad you think so. I, uh, guess we’re done now. Man, we really could just do most of this over text.” Mother of God, must he keep doing that hair tuck? It’s torture.

“I suppose that's true," I chuckle.

"Wanna hang out?" He asks very quickly, gripping his sketchbook with ghost white knuckles.

I shouldn't. Fuck, I really shouldn't. I should go home, avoid him, keep my toxic self far away from Simon. But fucking hell, I'm weak for this boy, and just weak in general.

"Sure." My voice stays impressively neutral. "Any ideas?"

Simon twists his lips, looking around the brightly coloured room. His eyes drift down to my hands and he smiles mischievously. “I could redo your nails.”

I look down at my hands. Well, my nails are definitely chipped. I forgot to repaint them a few days ago. I look back at him with a raised brow. “I doubt you have a bottle of my ‘Chanel Le Vernis in Gris Obscur’, Salisbury.”

“Nah, definitely no Chanel. But I got some pretty good stuff from the drugstore.” He lifts up some obviously cheap but pretty nail varnish bottles. They’re all his pastels colours though.

“Not really my style.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’d like to try something new?”

I bite the corner of my mouth. The colours hurt my eyes a bit. But he looks so adorable with that hopeful grin and glint in his eyes. I sigh, and put my left hand out. “Very well. I want your darkest shade though.”

Simon literally bounces with excitement. “Awesome! So, uh, how about...” He messes around with the bottles, almost dropping a few. Eventually he settles on a pale blue. “This one, and,” he holds up a unused looking dark grey, “this one? We can alternate.”

“Hm, sure. That grey doesn’t really match your style, though.”

He shrugs. “Eh, came with the set. Glad it did. It, uh, matches your eyes.” He looks pointedly at the desk instead of my face. That’s good though. I don’t want him to see the blush that’s spread across my cheeks. “Now gimme your right hand.”

I do as he says, placing it on the desk. He puts down some paper towel then pick up his nail polish remover and cotton balls. I have the exact same supplies at home. He reaches towards my hand, but quickly hesitates. He’s shaking actually. I can’t blame him. Every time we’ve touched, it’s been accidental or very quickly. This is different. This isn't a shoulder pat or playful shove. This is long and sustained and purposeful. And I may not be showing it, but I’m just as nervous.

“I can take it off myself,” I say quickly, reaching for the bottle. But Simon pulls it away.

“No no, I’m good. Just sit there and look...badass, alright?”

My lip twitches up. He’s so sweet. I leave my hand where it is. “Very well.”

Slowly, shakily, he slips his finger under mine. His skin is callused but still much smoother than my rough palms. It feels weird, but very nice. Almost electric. He dabs the cotton ball on the nail, rubbing off all my high end black nail polish. Huh, they look odd. it’s been awhile since my nails have been clean. After wiping them dry, he starts on with the blue. It’s a nice colour. Not something I would pick, but I can see the appeal. Simon drags the brush against my nail slowly but surely, making sure the coat is even.

“Hm,” I say, “you’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. “Self taught. A lot of trial and error, y’know? Took me ages to figure out how to do my right hand.”

“I learned from YouTube videos. Those makeup gurus know their shit.”

“Huh, smart. Oh, y’know what.” He stops painting and spins in his chair. Even with his back to me, I now he’s fiddling with his phone. Suddenly, the honeyed voice of Lana Del Rey is resonating through the room. He spins back with a grin.

“Your weird music is necessary?” I raise an eyebrow for sarcastic emphasis. Simon chuckles.

“Yeah, helps me concentrate. And it’s part of my continuing effort to convert you to good music.”

“Oh, is that your grand mission?”

“Yup! Slowly pull you away from all those screamy boys with bad haircuts and towards the beauty of Troye and Lana.”

I scoff. “You keep trying that, darling.”

He gives me a shy but sort of playful look from under his long eyelashes. “I certainly will...darling.”

Oh shit. I hope my complexion hides my blush enough. I smile back and try to look calm, hiding the storm in my chest.

We switch between chatting and companionable silence. Though Simon is never truly quiet. He hums along with the song, or makes noises of contemplation and frustration while trying to get my nails right. His hands slowly get less shaky, which helps. When we’re not talking, I take the opportunity to just watch his expression. How he sticks his tongue out in concentration, and his brow pulls together, and his face adorable pinches together when he gets something wrong. He always tries his best to fix it though, even with his clumsy fingers. It’s really sweet. Just like him.

I'm so unbelievably fucked.

“And...there!” He pulls back with a flourish. “Topcoat and everything. What do you think?”

I examine my hands. Huh, the blue is actually nice on me. And he’s right, the grey matches my eyes. It’s very well done. Maybe black isn’t the only colour I should use. I look up. Simon is staring at me wide eyed, chewing on his lip, leg jittering.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “You did a marvelous job, Salisbury. Maybe you have a future as a nail artist.”

His nervous expression breaks, thankfully. I’ve found I prefer his grin to his genuine agitation. Blushing smile? Adorable. Wide eyed leg jittering? Not so much. “T-Thanks. Maybe...you could do mine sometime?”

Our eyes meet, and there’s no deception there. He’s always so genuine. It’s amazing. “Sure," I say before thinking. "If you can learn to like black.”

She shrugs. “Well, if you can learn to like blue, I guess I can try black.”

He grins, and I grin back. There’s a stretch of silence. It builds between us, making the air thicker and thicker. I’m torn between what I want to say and what I should. That I want more from this, more than just winks and smiles and “darlings”. But I know it can’t work. Simon should know that. I should tell him, all of it. But...he'll hate me. For not telling him about Switzerland, for using him like a plaything, for being an utterly stupid reckless prick. Can I handle him truly hating me?

“Simon, love! It’s nearly supper! Are you and Baz done your work?” Ms. Salisbury’s voice carries quite well. It jolts me from my depressive pit. Simon sighs and leans out towards the door.

“Yeah! Be down in a minute, Gran.” He looks at me, and I swear I see genuine sadness. “Looks like it’s time to say goodbye.”

I try to hide my own disappointment. “Yeah, looks like it.”

He bounces out of his chair, then offers his hand. I inhale sharply. Did not expect that. But after only a second of hesitation, I take it. He pulls me to my feet with ease. I’m still disturbed by how much his strength excites me.

“C’mon, let’s get you back on your motorbike, Pitch.”

“Should get you on it one day,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

I straighten up, hands in my jacket pockets. “Nothing, Salisbury.”

We walk down the stairs quickly. Well, Simon more jumps down them. He’s a never ending ball of energy. Ms. Salisbury is at the bottom.

“How was the work, you two?” she asks sweetly.

“Wonderful!” Simon chirps. “Talked about bunnies and stuff, and Baz let me do his nails.”

My brow shoots up to my hairline. I can’t believe he’s so open about this. If I told my father or Daphne the same, they would not say anything at best and lecture me at worst. But Ms. Salisbury looks positively elated by Simon’s words. “Oh, marvellous. Finally you can practice on someone other than me, love.”

Simon rolls his eye. “Yeah, like you don’t like it.”

“Of course. But it’s good you have another guinea pig. May I see your work?”

Simon looks at me in silent question. I shrug in response, then hold out my hand for his grandmother. She flips the glasses down from her head. “Amazing job, Simon. You’ve gotten so much better. And it looks great on you, Baz.”

“Thank you, Ms. Salisbury.”

She pulls away, waving dismissively. “Please, call me Ruth. Now, Baz, will you be staying for dinner?”

“Uh.” I turn to Simon. “Am I staying for dinner, Simon?”

Simon’s face turns red. “Oh, sure, if you want.”

I shrug. “I’m certainly in no rush to get home, and if it’s no trouble.”

“Oh it’s none at all,” Ms. Salis- Ruth says, waving her hand dismissively.

“Then I guess I’ll stay for supper.”

Ruth claps her hand once loudly. “Wonderful! Let me put out another setting.”

She saunters off to the kitchen. I decide to actually take off my jacket and boots and stay awhile. Simon leans in close to my ear, making my pulse spike.

“Hope you like roast beef,” he whispers. “It’s the only thing Gran knows how to cook well. Grandpa was a chef, and she’s been on her own since he died, so she’s never had to cook anything else. But she’s been learning more since I’ve got here.”

I shrug like he does. “I think I’ll live.”

“Good to hear.”

Simon leads me to the small dining room table. When I go to the left side, Simon grabs my hand and drags me to the right. I jolt slightly. Wow, that’s bold for him. Not that I’m complaining. I sit next to him as Ruth brings out a platter of delicious smelling meat and mash potatoes. Simon immediately shovels the food on his plate, licking his lips like a starving animal. I on the other hand take only a few slices delicately just like my mother taught me. But Ruth gives me an odd look.

“Are you not hungry, Baz?” she asks.

“Um, no, I am,” I reply slowly.

“Then please, take as much as you like. I always make a lot because of Simon’s endless appetite.”

Simon rolls his eyes, speaking with a mouth full of roast beef. “I’m a growing boy!”

“Growing monster more like it,” Ruth chuckles.

Huh, okay. I decide to be polite and take some more. Dinner proper starts, and it's...weird. My family is never this talkative at supper. We’re mostly silent and sullen. But the Salisburies are the exact opposite. Ruth and Simon chat, though Simon has trouble responding through all the the food in his mouth. (The boy has zero manners. It’s adorable.)

“So, Baz,” Ruth asks, facing me, “how’s school for you? I’ve only ever heard about it from Simon and Miss Penelope.”

No one’s ever asked my opinion of school either. I shrug. “It’s alright. Not my favourite place to be, of course. I think English is my favourite subject.” I tap Simon’s foot under the table. His breath hitches slightly, and he flashes me only a small smile. But it’s enough.

“Glad to hear so. Simon loves English too. He’s always eager to get to first period for Miss Possibelf’s class every morning.”

I flick my eyes over to Simon. His cheeks are flushed as he bites into his roast beef.

“Hm, glad to hear I’m not the only one who loves literature.” I let my voice drawl a bit, hopefully enough for Simon to notice but not Ruth. He doesn’t look up from his food, but I feel his toe tap my foot. And once again, it’s enough. Everything Simon does seems to be enough for me.

“I’m just glad Simon’s adjusting to Watford,” Ruth sighs. “It’s not easy moving schools most of the way through the year.”

Simon sighs in return. They sound almost exactly alike. Though Simon is more exasperated. “I told you, Gran, I’m fine. My grades are much better than last term.”

“There’s a good reason for that.” Ruth aggressively stabs her beef, and Simon looks sad as he nods slightly. This is the only crack in Ruth's kind demeanour I’ve seen all day. It’s strange, and the curious brainiac in me wants to know more. But the sensible part knows to just keep eating my food.

“Hey,” Simon chirps, “did I tell you about the kid who gave himself a wedgie in gum class yet?”

Ruth’s playful smile immediately returns. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

“Oh man, it was hilarious! Baz you’ll love this too.”

I lean my cheek into my palm. “I’m sure I will.”

Simon launches into the rambling anecdote, using mostly weird noises and illustrative hand gestures instead of words. Ruth and I both laugh along genuinely. This is the first time I’ve enjoyed a family meal in ages. It may be unusual, but it’s certainly not unenjoyable.

Soon enough, dinner is over, and Ruth brings out dessert. They’re sour cherry scones from Pritchard Bakery. Simon takes three immediately and starts slathering butter all over them.

“You like scones?” I ask mockingly.

Simon nods, scone crumbs all around his mouth. “Uh-huh. Gran got me some my first day here. They’re absolutely incredible.”

“My cousin owns the bakery, you know.”

His eyes go impossibly wide. “Really?! Could you get me some free samples?”

I shrug, a playful smile on my face. “Maybe.”

“Simon, you eat enough, you don’t need any more,” Ruth kindly berates. Simon frowns.

“There’s never enough scones, Gran.”

Ruth and I exchange an understanding look. Maybe I will bring him to see Cousin Pritchard before I go though. Something to make him happy before I’m gone.

Soon enough, Simon’s eaten all the scones, the dishes are done, and it’s my time to go. I’m a gentleman, I know when to take my leave. Simon and Ruth walk me out of the house.

“It was lovely having you, Baz,” Ruth says. And I have to admit, I’m a bit taken aback. Most parents and/or guardians aren’t this friendly to me. Dev and Niall’s parents barely acknowledge my existence nowadays, and they’ve known me since I was a baby. It’s a warm feeling I never thought I’d miss.

“Thank you for having me, Ruth,” I reply, smiling graciously.

“Anytime. Simon, feel free to invite him over again.”

Simon smiles sweetly at me, cheeks unabashedly scarlet. “Yeah, okay. Maybe we should meet up before the presentation on Wednesday?”

I nod, hoping my cheeks aren’t as bright. “I think I’d like that.”

Because I would. I regretfully very much would.

“Awesome! See you later!”

My lip twitches up without thinking. “See you.”

I get my helmet on. I don’t rev my engine as loud as usual to be respectful. Simon waves with his entire arm, while Ruth’s looks more like the queen. I salute in return. (That seems to be my thing now. I’ve embraced it.)

As I drive back towards my home, my mind stays with the Salisburies. With nail polish, roast beef, and a sense of peaceful happiness that lingers in me long after the house is in the distance.

I get to the Pitch hill and just sit there, looking up at the looming little bastard. I know what I’m supposed to do. Go back to all the misery there. But fuck that. I turn to the left, not back towards Simon’s, but at least somewhere my father isn’t. Somewhere I can keep this feeling for a little longer. And maybe get really pissed.

———————————————-

“Basilton! Where have you been?!”

If I didn’t already have a migraine, I’d assume my father’s voice had just given me one. Going on a two day bender will do that to you. I stop walking but don’t turn around. Honestly, I look like a wreck right now, and I don’t want him to see it.

“Away,” I say curtly.

“Away where?! We haven’t seen you in days! No calls, no mail. We’ve been worried sick!”

I groan and turn on my heels finally. To my utter surprise, he looks genuinely concerned. His eyes are wide and his hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Huh. Actually worried about where I’ve been. That’s a first.

“Well, I’m home now,” I sigh. “Happy?”

“Certainly not.” He puts his hands on his hips like a pissed off school teacher. “I’ve been getting calls from your school. You’ve missed almost all of your classes, including tests and projects. I thought we had an agreement.”

I whip around, scowling with as much menace as I can muster with a hangover. “No, you gave me an ultimatum. And I refuse to be threatened into doing what you want, Father dearest.”

I start stomping away again, but we Grimms refuse to not have the last word. “Are you sure you haven’t just been...distracted, Basilton?”

I stop halfway up the stairs. The tone of his voice could imply many things, but I have a sinking feeling I know what he means. I chuckle, shaking my head. “Daphne told you about Tuesday, I suppose.”

“That you brought a boy over to our house without our knowledge? Yes. And I find it a bit disrespectful that-”

“That I what?!” I yell, probably louder than I should, considering it’s late at night and I have four younger siblings. “Dare to be gay?! Sorry it’s harder to ignore my sexuality when I’m actually acting on it.”

My father takes a deep breath, something he always does when he’s trying to keep his slipping composure. “Basilton, that is not what I meant.”

“Oh really? So you’re actually okay with me bringing guys around? Maybe I’ll start having big gay nightclub parties in the receiving room.”

I can see my father losing his cool. Bit by bit, his perfect British man composure is slipping. It’s the effect I certainly have these days. “That would not be appropriate, Basil. And I merely meant that maybe this ‘Simon’ is distracting you from your studies and causing your poor grades.”

For a second, I don’t know whether to laugh or be furious. Fire bubbles in my gut, my fingers curling on the bannister. Yup, let’s go with righteous fury. I stomp down the stairs and push my face into his.

“No,” I growl, “Simon is not at fault. You are. You are the catalyst for all the things I’m doing now, Your bullheadedness, your pride, your prejudi-”

“Oh for God’s sake, Basil!” He roars. “For once in your life take some goddamn responsibility for your own actions!”

I step back a bit. I haven’t seen him this outwardly angry in a year, but he’s practically seething. If he was the kind of man to throw a punch, he would have just clocked me. But instead he just stares me down in an attempt to intimidate. That won’t work.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, turning on my heels and stomping towards the door.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Out!” I turn to glare at him. “And I’ll be back when I feel like it!”

I make sure to slam the door very loudly, hoping my message is clear. I know exactly where I want to go. And who I want to see.

———————————————- 

AN: Is Baz being a total brat here? Yes. Is his bratiness sorta justified? Also yes. Things are complicated. And finally we meet Ruth! I loved reading everyone's comments speculating about Simon's home life cause this was planned from the start lol. But why is Simon living with Ruth? Well, that will be explained shortly. Tune in next time for answers :)

Chapter title is from "Alfie's Song" by Bleachers.

[cottonpadenthusiast]

Home

Word Count: 3434

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915576

The tension in Draco’s shoulders finally seeped away, as the smell of worn books and wood filled his nostrils. Thank Merlin for Muggle libraries, he thought, squeezing himself deeper into the old leather chair. Today had been a Bad Day. One of the worst in a while actually, and it wasn’t as if Draco’s daily life was all that great either. He had decided to venture out for food after he had realised that half a Chocolate Frog and a can of Butterbeer was the only food left in his two-bedroom apartment in London. Draco hadn’t left his house in four days, knowing that outside he would be met with hexes and curses and hatred, nothing unusual for Draco Malfoy. But this time he knew it would be worse. The Daily Prophet had published an image of a very drunk Draco making out behind a club with someone who was very much a man. And put on the front page. And used the headline, “EX-DEATH EATER, NOW ASS-EATER “. How imaginative. It wasn’t as if Draco was trying to hide his sexuality, he just wanted to tell Mother before every wizard and witch across the country knew he was gay. She had been extremely understanding of course, and Draco hated to admit the number of tears he had shed when she told him she still loved him, no matter whom he loved. If Father hadn’t died a year earlier the situation might have been slightly different, but Draco refused to think about that. Aside from the immense relief of his mother’s approval, Draco now knew that he was even more vulnerable to abuse. Abuse that he was met with immediately after entering Diagon Alley that day. Men spat at his feet, mothers steered their children away from him and not only was he now a “murderous bastard”, but a “disgusting faggot”. He didn’t even reach the shop before someone had punched him in the face; his left cheek was now a gruesome shade of purple due to the blow. Draco was used to guilt and shame and regret, but never before had he been punished for doing the only good thing in the world; loving someone.

Draco brought his thoughts back to the book he was holding in his pale hands. A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It was in pristine condition (Draco hated bent spines and tattered covers) and he was over halfway through. His upbringing had prevented Draco from ever reading Muggle literature, but on a particularly stormy day a few months ago, he had run into this Muggle library, seeking shelter from the rain, but what he found was more than just a place to stay dry. This library had turned into Draco’s safe place, almost a second home. He was a nobody in here, not a criminal, or a Death Eater, just another reader, except with a slightly eccentric taste in fashion. Draco visited this library twice a week, and Marge, the elderly librarian, who always smelt of roses and rich tea biscuits, now even kept books for Draco that she thought he would like. She had recommended this particular book to Draco while providing information on Wilde’s background and “preference of men”. Draco was already enchanted with the story, while relating almost a little too much to Dorian’s wish to remain young and sinless. But Draco already had the scars. Draco wasn’t given a choice. It was too late for him.

Draco was just learning of Dorian’s desire to sell his soul when a mop of black unruly hair floated by in the corner of his eye. No. No, it couldn’t be. No way in hell. But as Draco jerked his head up to search for the blob of black between the shelves of paperbacks, piercing emerald eyes caught grey ones. You have got to be kidding me, Draco thought, as Harry Potter, the Saviour of Wizarding World, sauntered over to Draco.

Potter was wearing Muggle jeans and a white top that accentuated his broad shoulders and contrasted with his dark skin. Bloody Potter, Draco thought, tearing his eyes away from Potter’s abs. Draco swiftly set the book down and straightened himself up. Whatever insults Potter wanted to throw at him, Draco would be ready. He didn’t want to deal with Potter’s petty nonsense, today of all days. Potter finally reached Draco, looming over him with a wicked grin on his face.

“Hello, Malfoy.”

Draco glared. “What do you want, Potter?”

“Well, I was just wondering what the hell you are doing in a Muggle library,” Potter replied, his voice full of amusement.

“I could ask you the same thing. I thought only read newspaper clippings retelling your remarkable acts of heroism,” Draco retorted. He was not going to be a source of entertainment for Potter’s sick humour.

Potter snorted. “I know it may seem surprising, but I actually do enjoy books other than textbooks and biographies about my life. I was more confused about the fact that Draco Malfoy is sitting curled up in a corner of a Muggle library, reading a Muggle book.”

“People change, Potter,” Draco replied, his chin raised indignantly.

“I know,” Potter murmured softly. The gentleness made Draco look, really look, into the scarred face. The last Potter had used that voice with him, which made Draco feel warm and fuzzy inside, was over a year ago. Potter had run up to him at the start of the eighth year, his breath ragged, and thanked him for not identifying him that day in the Manor. Potter’s soft, “thank you” had been the first time Draco had felt appreciated in a long time. Those two words, from that one person, often provided Draco with a source of comfort during the dark times of that year.

Potter must have noticed the foreign look on Draco’s face as he bent over to see what book Draco was reading, snapping the blonde back to reality.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde?” Potter’s voice was questioning but there was a hint something Draco couldn’t quite catch.

“Yes… It is a highly enjoyable read. Wilde’s wit and humour really are-” Draco stopped. Oh shit, he thought, because Draco had just realised why Potter was looking at him like that. Oscar Wilde was gay. Draco Malfoy had been outed as gay less than a week ago. He has seen it. Oh Merlin, he’s seen the Daily Prophet. Draco’s brain had gone into panic mode. Harry Potter, his childhood enemy and crush, knew he was gay and had come over here to laugh at him. And the fact Draco had been reading The Picture of Dorian Gray had not helped matters. It was like Draco had been trying to achieve the world record for, “The Gayest Man on Earth.” He needed to leave. Right. Now.

Draco mumbled a quick, “Goodbye, Potter,” before leaping out of his chair, and bolting out of the library. He would not, could not stay to watch the look of disgust on Potter’s face that would appear when Draco’s sexuality was made evident. Draco knew Harry would never feel the same. He had dealt with the turmoil and heartbreak that was involved with being in love with Harry Potter, but he was beginning to accept the unrequited love, beginning to learn to live a life without Harry Potter in it. He had faced Potter’s hatred and suspicion and loathing, but Draco would not survive if he ever saw Harry look at him in repulsion. Draco may be gay, but he did not deserve to be treated like nothing.

“Malfoy, wait! Stop!” Draco was halfway down the stone steps when Potter’s shouts reached him. He quickened his pace, the cool summer’s breeze whipping across his face.

“Please Draco. I’m not angry about you being… gay. I just want to talk.”

“Leave me alone, Potter.” Draco tried not to let his emotions show who through his voice.

“Please, Draco.”

Draco slowed to a stop and glanced over his shoulder. Potter was standing a few feet away, shifting nervously on his feet. He ran a hand through the unruly black hair.

“I’m sorry for scaring you off. I just- I think we need to talk. About everything.” The green eyes were imploring Draco to stay. He seemed genuine. Draco’s heart clenched painfully at the sight of Potter, his shirt rippling in the wind. He sighed heavily.

“Ok, Potter,” he said reluctantly. The two trudged over to the wooden bench opposite in silence. The shadow of an oak tree provided them with shelter against the sun, and the only noises were the rustling of the leaves and the whirring of cars as they drove by. Draco closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass.

“I’m sorry about the Daily Prophet article.” Draco opened his eyes and turned his head to face Potter. “It’s not right what they did.”

“It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful,” Draco replied. They stared at each other, something unknown passing between them, before Draco broke the gaze and glanced ahead.

“Draco… how did you get that bruise?” Potter asked carefully.

Draco reached up to touch the sensitive skin but swiftly pulled his hand away when a sharp pain spread across his cheek. “That is none of your concern, Potter.”

“It is my concern if someone I care-,” Potter paused. “If someone I know is getting hurt.” Draco could feel the tension rising.

“Well thank you for your concern, Potter, but I am very capable of looking after myself,” Draco retorted.

“Evidently not if you’ve got that on your face. Who was it, Malfoy?” Potter demanded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Malfoy, would you just bloody tell me!”

“Just drop it, Potter. For Merlin’s sake!”

“No. I’m not dropping it. Who was it?”

Draco spun round to face the black-haired man. “It. Was. No. One.”

“Just tell me!”

“Fine, Potter! I’ll tell you. I was walking to the shop this morning when some stranger came up and punched me in the face. And do you wanna know why? Because I like men.” Draco laughed but there was no humour in the sound. “It’s funny, isn’t it? And it’s not even the first time. But you know what is even funnier? The fact that I’m gay means that I’m not only a “criminal” but also a “vile human being”. Fucking hilarious! I wonder if my life is yet horrendous enough to make up for all the lives my family has ruined. What do you think, Potter? Do you think I can ever make up for all the shitty things I’ve done? Or am I damned to live a life I deserve? A life of suffering and guilt and hurt.” Draco stopped abruptly when he saw the horrified look on Potter’s face. He felt tears prick behind his eyes as he leant back against the wooden bench. I’m going insane, Draco thought, closing his eyes and allowing the darkness to overcome the light of the evening. How did his life end up this way? It was his own fault, he supposed. He was never brave enough to do the right thing and now he had to pay the price. A single tear fell down his cheek, but he didn’t care about Potter seeing him cry. He had lost everything, so what would it matter if he lost Potter too?

Draco heard Potter rustling in his bag, probably getting ready to leave, but he refused to open his eyes, knowing that if he did, more tears would fall. However, his eyes shot open whenever he felt warm, calloused fingers spreading a jelly-like substance on his bruised cheek. Potter was so gentle, Draco could hardly feel him rubbing the cream into his skin.

“What are you doing?” Draco croaked. He could feel Potter’s hot breath fan across his face.

“It’s Hopkins’ Bruise Paste. I always carry some since I have a tendency to knock into things.” Potter chuckled. Green eyes met grey ones, and Draco could almost feel the warmth that passed between them.

“Thank you,” Draco said softly, as Potter pulled away. He could already feel the skin begin to heal, yet he craved the warmth of those rough hands on his face again.

The sky around the two was alive, pinks and oranges and purples spread like paint strokes. Draco wished he could stay here, in this moment, with this boy forever.

“You never did tell me why you were in a Muggle library,” Harry stated, a smile toying at his lips. So Draco told him of the rain, and his refuge from it, and the sweet Marge, and the comforting solitude he found in the library. They talked, and laughed, and Draco realised how much he adored the sound of Potter’s roaring laugh, and how much more he adored it when he was the one causing it. Draco was enchanted with the way Harry’s dark skin glowed in the golden rays of the evening, and the way his hands moved with a gentleness that contrasted with his strong build. Most of all, Draco remembered why he had fallen in love with Harry Potter in the first place, and found more reasons to fall deeper in love with him.

When the sky had transformed to lilacs and purples, Harry turned to Draco and asked him tenderly, “How did you realise you were gay?”

At first, Draco was taken aback by the question. He searched the face for any signs of cruelty but found none, only genuine curiosity and something in the emerald eyes Draco couldn’t quite place. How was he meant to answer this question? He could lie and tell Harry that he had just always known, but he didn’t want to do that. He knew that Harry deserved to know the truth, whatever the consequences.

“You,” Draco whispered. He studied the pavement, not daring to meet Potter’s gaze.

“What?” Potter replied, after moments of agonizing silence.

“You. You made me realise I was gay.” Draco paused, gathering all the courage he had. “I’ve had a crush on you since fourth year, just took me a while to realise that I would much rather be kissing you, than hexing you.”

“But how? How did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Draco sniggered. “You are hardly the most observant, Potter. I could have worn a sign saying, “I AM IN LOVE WITH HARRY POTTER,” and you still would have been as oblivious as always. And I didn’t tell you because you hated me.”

“I never hated you, Draco. Maybe disliked you, but I never hated you.” Draco could hear the sincerity in Potter’s voice. He was silent for a few moments. “It’s just-well, I think I might be…”

“Yes, Potter?”

“I think I might be bisexual.” The tremor in Harry’s voice had Draco spinning his head around.

“What?!” Now it was Draco’s turn to be shocked and utterly confused. This had to be a joke. But the terrified look on Potter’s face proved otherwise. “You are… bisexual?” Draco said questioningly.

Harry nodded.

“And I’m guessing from the look on your face that I’m the first person you have told?”

Harry nodded again.

“Ok. Well, I’m proud of you for coming out I suppose. Congratulations.” Draco was not the best at giving emotional support. It seemed enough, however, as Harry sighed heavily in relief, as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was a stark reminder to Draco of his own reaction when he told Pansy in sixth year.

“Thank you, Draco. It means a lot,” Potter said, his voice filled with gratitude. Draco gave him a small smile in return. The two sat in a comfortable silence, words seeming unnecessary and inadequate for the emotions they were feeling.

“Wait…” Draco arched his eyebrow at Harry, waiting for him to finish.

“You said you were in love with me. When you were talking about the crush. Do you… Are you in love with me?” Potter exclaimed. Oh shit. He did not mean to say that. At all. This was not good. He had only meant to tell Harry about the crush, not the fact he was head over heels in love with him.

“Fuck, I don’t- I can’t. Shit.” Draco didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t exactly deny it.

“Are you?” Potter persisted.

“Yes! Ok? For Merlin’s sake, I’m completely in love with you. Are you happy now? Do you know how hard it is to pretend I hate you? That I don’t care about you? It is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ruining everything. ” Draco swallowed and breathed out heavily. “Sometimes the pain of watching you hate me was worse than any Crucio.” Draco’s voice was soft. He had lost everything. Even the joyful tune of the birds did little to console his aching heart. He had never felt so alone.

He had lost everything.

Potter’s face turned serious and he inched his body closer to Draco’s crouched form.

“Like I said before, I never hated you Draco. But how do you know I wasn’t pretending too?”

Draco’s heart lurched. What? A flutter of hope rippled across his chest.

“You see, for the past few years, I’ve been convincing myself that my obsession with you was just suspicion. That I thought you were up to something.” Harry’s voice was less than a whisper. “Until last year, when you obviously were not doing anything evil, and yet I still had a strong urge to be near you all the time. It seems we were both hiding the same thing.”  

Draco stopped breathing. Harry’s face was inches from his own, and those green eyes were staring at his lips. This can’t be real, Draco thought as he gradually brought his face closer and closer to Harry’s own, until their noses were touching.

“I love you,” Harry murmured, before slamming their lips together.

Draco raked his hands through Harry’s black curls, the way he had wanted to since he was fifteen. Potter’s lips were soft and hot, sending shivers down Draco’s spine while Harry gripped his hips, pulling their bodies against each other. Although the sun was setting, Draco felt as if the sun inside his chest was beaming brighter than ever before, casting away the shadows inside his heart. Finally, Draco thought as his tongue searched Potter’s mouth. Finally, Draco thought as Harry pulled away, trailing kisses down his neck. Finally, Draco thought as he rested his head on Harry’s shoulder and felt as if he had found his way home.

Draco looked up at the stars, the constellations vivid in the clear night. His long legs were draped across Harry’s and his head tucked under Harry’s own.

“I’ve always wanted to learn the constellations,” Harry said, breaking the silence. He was looking at the stars in awe, but when he turned to face Draco his expression didn’t change.

“I could teach you, if you like.”

Harry grinned. “Really? I would love that.”

“Come to my place tomorrow at eight. Although we will have to go somewhere where there is less light pollution, if you really wanna see the constellations. Maybe we could get dinner after,” Draco suggested. He smirked as a flush spread up Harry’s cheeks.

“Yeah, I’d love to. I mean, yeah, sounds good.” Draco sniggered at how flustered Harry seemed at even the mention of a date.

Draco lifted himself up, stretching his tired muscles. “I suppose I better be on my way. A man needs his beauty sleep after all.”

Harry swiftly got on his feet, and pulled Draco into a sweet, but deep kiss. “See you tomorrow. I love you” he whispered into the blonde’s ear. Before Draco had even responded, Harry had Apparated away.

“Cocky bastard,” Draco muttered, touching his lips. He Apparated into his own living room, the warm air closing around his body and a smile still plastered on his face.

As Draco’s mind whirred with thoughts that night in bed, unable to sleep, he knew with a shocking certainty that he had found a home in Harry Potter. Not long before, he had felt he belonged nowhere, his life destined to be one of isolation and solitude. But as he closed his eyes, finally drifting off, he realised he had more than one place to call home; his cosy flat, Pansy, his mother, the Muggle library and, most recently, in the arms of Harry Potter. And he would never let anyone take these away from him, not even a stupid, magical newspaper.

Thank you for reading this. It means the world! I have never actually read, “A Picture of Dorian Gray so I feel like a bit of a fake fan, but I freaking love Oscar Wilde. He’s a gay icon for this gay month. Anyway, hope you enjoyed xxx

[itsbaobeibei]

SPOILERS FOR HOTARU’S "LOVER’S GUIDE” ES

Please note this is pretty in-depth so it’s a long post. Also note there may be some misunderstandings of the plot of quotes on my part. I am not fluent in Japanese, my level is probably only above N3.

This is some real cute fucking shit. So KAKUGO YOURSELF. TN: Kakugo means prepare

So this current ES theme is about deepening your love and all of them revolve around this guidebook which I’m assuming is Saizo’s Lover’s Guide but I can’t confirm since I don’t know the name of his book in Japanese.

So things start off with Hotaru and MC enjoying a morning together having fun and some light making out. MC is not really used to doing this sort of thing in the morning and gets a little embarrassed, telling Hotaru they have to get up to get ready for the day. She notes to herself she should probably tell Hotaru when it’s okay and not okay to do these sort of things because it leads to...THAT.

Later on in the day Kagetsugu, Yoshichi and Kageie are being noisy in the hall. MC wanders over to see them holding the Lover’s Guide and eventually Hotaru sneaks the book away to see what the fuss is about. MC naturally gets a little embarrassed because they somehow get on the topic of Hotaru’s love life and what they’ve done...while MC is right there. Things only get worse when Kenshin comes and decides to help Hotaru deepen his love for MC by helping them study. So they start trying out things from the book. For example first they introduce themselves and bless his poor little soul Hotaru keeps slipping up. Like he just says “Hotaru” instead of “My name is Hotaru” which is more polite. Then he has to compliment MC so he does what he always says “MC...ah no...MC-san, you’re very cute.” and Kageie’s like

“That’s a bit...too childish” and everyone suggests “beautiful” instead.

Next they have to write letters to one another and have it sent to each other. Since MC and Hotaru share the same room, they agree to split up for the time being. MC will move to a new room, they won’t speak to each other or even see one another to ensure that they are following the book properly. Hotaru will learn how to write letters appropriately and MC will decide when they are ready to meet and move onto the next step.

MC moves out but Hotaru comes to her fucking room cause HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT HER EVEN THOUGH THEY’RE IN THE SAME CASTLE AWWWWWW. He delivers MC a letter and she says “You brought this yourself? Ah, you should have someone else send it instead.” So Hotaru realizes he forgot they weren’t supposed to meet and takes out a notepad and writes “Sorry” on it, like how he was at the beginning of his MS when he would never speak out loud. MC feels a little sad and tries to cheer him up by telling him “I’ll read your letter with the utmost care” *She says 大切にする so that means to treasure/cherish it. He starts to leave but as he does so, he keeps turning and looking back at MC sadly. Wahhhh

Not too long after he leaves Tora comes to visit MC AND THERE’S A LETTER TIED TO HIS LEG, OH MY GAAAAAWD SO CUTE. HOTARU SENT TORA WITH A LETTER IMMEDIATELY AFTER HE LEFT.

MC and Hotaru continue to exchange letters as the days pass. Their letters are sort of like “How are you feeling today? I’m doing fine but when you’re not here I get so lonely.”

Now prepare your hearts cause it’s about to get real cute. It’s at night and MC sees a sudden shadow at her door. She guesses it’s Hotaru and wonders why he might be here since they can’t meet but his figure suddenly disappears. When she slides her door open she finds a flower with a letter waiting for her. In the note Hotaru writes “I saw this flower and thought of you. I hope it brings a smile to your face.”

YOU BIG CUTIE YOU! I WOULD FUCKING DIE FOR YOU

MC decides it’s time to finish the letter exchange, Hotaru has passed and new they can finally meet. She sends a letter via Tora to Hotaru (who is training with Kageie, Kagetsugu and Yoshichi telling him to meet her later. HOTARU IS SO EXCITED HE STARTS RUSHING OFF TO MC’S ROOM. But everyone calls Hotaru, telling him to come back. Poor baby boy was so excited he forgot it said “Let’s meet at the tea house later” and he starts sulking.

Then it’s finally time for them to meet! Hotaru is already waiting for MC, he says the Lover’s Guide said it was a man’s duty to do the waiting. He also gives her a flower because the book said women are happy to get them. “I wanted to see your smile so I also brought you a flower today.”

MC gets a little lonely when she sees that Hotaru brought the guidebook since he starts referring to it and reading it from it. So their conversation becomes stiffened and a bit unnatural. Hotaru goes to place the order for food and tea and some creep comes sauntering over “Oh hey babe, you alone?”

“No, I’m with someone”

“Haaa? Are you really, even though you have such a sad and lonely expression. How about playing with me? Hmm, not saying a word? Well someone’s shy. What a cutie. I know some place more fun than this, let’s go.”

MC tries to refuse but ya you know...MEN, some can’t take a hint. Luckily Hotaru comes to save the day and sends the creep off. “She’s taken.”

MC is safe and Hotaru is relieved but is suddenly saddened. He forgot to follow the rules of the book. When saving a girl, check to see if a situation becomes dangerous, if you step in you’ll look cool (SAIZO YOU PIECE OF SHIT THAT’S HORRIBLE). He despondently says “I didn’t wait and see. I’m so lame.”

"No, don’t say that, Hotaru! You were amazing! In fact, I think men who just wait around and do nothing when someone’s in trouble are the lame ones! Not everything in that guide in true, you know!”

MC feels a pain in her chest when Hotaru asks if he’s made any other mistakes with her. The Hotaru she loves isn’t the one who is desperately following the book. It’s the one who is pure and good-hearted. This lover’s guide Hotaru simply isn’t him. She thanks Hotaru for what he’s done for her and apologizes for causing so much trouble and takes his hand in hers. Hotaru starts to blush. Voltage has blessed us with 3 blushing sprites of Hotaru

OH BOI THAT LAST ONE SAYS YOU ARE MINE AND NO ONE ELSE’S

Upon seeing Hotaru blush, MC starts blushing. It’s basically whenever MC and Yukkin get embarrassed and Saizo makes fun of them for being ripe apples. For awhile they don’t even say anything. The conversation literally goes

“.....”

“.....”

“.....”

“.....”

Hotaru then takes MC’s hand and places it on his chest. “My heart’s pounding...when you touch me, it starts beating even more. Does this mean our hearts are connected?” This is the result of their love deepening thanks to the guidebook. They’re grateful for the lover’s guide but MC and Hotaru decide to do love their way instead of relying on a book.

“I want to touch you more, is that okay?” Good for you, Hotaru. Constantly practicing consent.

“Ahh, only when we’re alone, just the two of us....also not in the morning”

“Oh...so MC prefers it when it’s dark.”

Oh Hotaru, my sweet summer child. He then starts asking MC embarrassing questions like “Does your heart also beat for me? What makes your heart race? When we hug? When we kiss?”

MC is super embarrassed but manages to avoid answering when two women gush about how cute they are and changes the topic wondering if Hotaru really ordered their tea.

Later they return to the castle and Hotaru returns the book to Yoshichi. Everyone celebrates Hotaru’s success but fucking Hotaru says “Kenshin, MC won’t answer my question. Does her heart beat when we hug, when we kiss?”

MC’s mind (literally): WAAAWWAAAWAAAAAA!!!!!

Kenshin just smiles and says “Just by thinking of her her heart’s already pounding for you.” **Translation, not sure

SO HOTARU LITERALLY PRESSES HIS EAR AGAINST HER CHEST...IN FRONT OF EVERYONE “Ahhh, it’s true!” Goddamn someone please save MC.

After death by embarrassment, MC and Hotaru return back to “their” room and talking about their experience. How they were lonely without one another but they were glad for it. They start to get touchy-feely and start exchanging kisses.

Hotaru asks “Is your heart racing?”

“Yeah.”

“Mine too. I’m glad I got to fall in love with you all over again. I want your heart to race even more. I want us to be even closer.” The story ends with MC mentally noting that:

This loud, beating heart of mine has become even more so.

END.

My rating of this ES out of 10: “I've only had Hotaru for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

[shelleyseale]

12 Days of Giving: The Gift of Nature Through the Japanese Art of Forest Bathing

This is the first in our special "12 Days of Giving" series running for the holiday season. It's a little different from what you might think of as traditional presents or giving. We aren't really talking about stuff you buy or a gift list. Rather, on these 12 days, we will be talking about different gifts that you can give to yourself, or others — gifts that have a deeper meaning, that can help you live with intention, be happier, be healthier. Soul gifts, you might even call them. Join us on the journey. The Gift of Nature: Connecting with the Natural World Through the Japanese Art of Forest Bathing

It's that moment when you step away from the man-made world and into the natural one, that your senses seem to heighten, your body's stress levels lower, and your mind's always-churning to-do list begins to quiet. Whether  it's a five-minute walk through your local park or sit in your own backyard, a miles-long hike in a forest, or a multi-day or week camping trip: there's always that sense of peace. Relaxation. Of coming home. This, my friends, is what we were born into — the natural world. This is where we originated from, and where we are meant to be. Our ancestors had no skyscrapers, cars, shopping malls, computers. They were fully engaged with nature for everything: their food, medicine, homes, livelihood and very existence. But for most of us living in today's busy, modern society, that world seems all too far away most of the time. And so we become more and more disconnected. More harried and stressed. More tied to technology, until we're unsure if we own our devices or if they own us. There's always something else to do, to think about, somewhere else to go, another mission to accomplish. But sometimes, we need to just slow down. Don't get me wrong here — I'm no hard-core outdoors type of person. Don't think I'm coming to you as one of those bad-asses who runs marathons or wild camps in the remote wilderness. My idea of camping firmly includes hot, running water, a comfortable sleeping spot, and wine. At the same time, I connect with nature at a primal level, and on a regular basis. We all do. But if you're anything like me, it's not nearly enough. You may sometimes wonder, like I do, how we can more easily disconnect for an hour, even, and let the healing, calming force of nature root us down again.

Welcome to shinrin-yoku, a Japanese tradition that is loosely defined as "forest bathing." I was introduced to this concept a couple of weeks ago — I had never heard the term before. What is this forest bathing, I wondered. Is it some kind of weird ritual where I have to go in the woods and jump in a river or unclothe and roll around in the grass or something? It sounded a little hippy-dippy, to be honest — but I'm kind of a granola, hippy-dippy kinda girl and always interested to learn something new. So, I was intrigued. Shinrin-yoku, forest bathing, as it turns out is simply this: a full sensory immersion in the beauty and wonder of nature.

It's experiencing nature with all your senses — not just seeing it, or touching it as you walk through it, but hearing it, smelling it, even tasting it. A raindrop on your tongue. The way a stream sounds as it gurgles over the rocks beside you. That hint of pine in the air as you enter a stand of conifer trees. It's letting nature wash over you. Rooted in the ancient Japanese reverence for nature, the practice of shinrin-yoku was started in Japan in the early 1980s, as a program to try and get the overworked citizens of Tokyo and other large cities to leave the urban areas for short periods of time, to spend some quiet, healing time in a nearby forest. Today, there are many designated shinrin-yoku forest and trails throughout Japan, and hundreds of thousands of people immerse themselves in them each year — taking advantage of the way nature restores mental equilibrium and physical health.

Melanie Choukas-Bradley I learned all of this from Melanie Choukas-Bradley, a Certified Nature and Forest Therapy Guide. Based out of Washington, D.C., Melanie has traveled throughout Japan participating in forest bathing walks led by shinrin-yoku guides; and she's the author of The Joy of Forest Bathing: Reconnect With Wild Places & Rejuvenate Your Life. I was invited on a forest bathing walk led by her, taking place at YMCA's Camp Moody in Buda, Texas, just south of where I live in Austin. I arrived at Camp Moody that morning with an eagerness to learn more about this practice, connect with nature and explore something new. Melanie, who had what she calls a "free-range childhood," writes in her book that most of us have very early, strong memories of experiences with nature. For her, it was the first time she saw a perfect snowflake. I was walking home from school on a path through the woods when a single snow crystal landed on a flat, dark rock in front of me. I knelt down and watched more snowflakes fall from the sky and land on the rock, each one perfect, each one unique, but perhaps none as perfect as the first. The dream-like quality of the snowflake memory is much like my other childhood memories of nature enchantment: finding the first woodland wildflowers just after snow melt in the spring; lying on a bed of moss and looking up into the leafy branches of a white birch tree; diving into a cold ocean wave and then burying myself in the warm sand. Childhood nature memories can easily be called up by a specific fragrance, a sound, a sight, or a general feeling of well-being. Melanie was there to greet our small group of about eight at the main pavilion of the camp, which is pretty much undeveloped land right now — seeming to make it a perfect location for forest bathing. Camp Moody is an 85-acre multi-use site for day and overnight camps, group events, retreats and outdoor education. Nestled along Onion Creek and scenic limestone bluffs, the YMCA has big plans for some really cool development of the property that was donated by George Yonge in 1999, which includes cabins, dining and recreational facilities to fit in with the natural world around it.

Photo courtesy of YMCA Camp Moody Megan Arnold with the YMCA said that the goal of Camp Moody is to connect families to nature. "With kids being connected to technology about seven-and-a-half hours per day, we're raising a generation that isn't connected to nature," she said. "They might not care about preservation, our national parks, etc. We want to change that." In keeping with the Y mission, they are also making sure Camp Moody is accessible to all, financially, geographically and physical ability-wise.

Before we began the walk, Melanie set our expectations. "This isn't going to be a vigorous, aerobic 'hike,'" she said. "It isn't goal-oriented; the point is to go slow, to take it all in, to be aware of the surroundings and discover the nature around us." What she was saying reminded me of what John Muir said about hiking: "I don't like either the word or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike! Do you know the origin of that word 'saunter?' It's a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, 'A la sainte terre — To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers, or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them." ~John Muir And so we set out on our "saunter" — or rather, our forest bathing, a notion that I suspect that John Muir would have liked a great deal. Melanie invited us to walk in silence, to just enjoy the peace of nature and use all our sense to take it in as we moved through it. After a few minutes we reached the banks of a gurgling creek and paused for the first of her invitations. As we moved along our walk through nature, Melanie would issue an invitation for us to choose to take or leave. Listen to what you hear; notice what is moving around you; choose something that speaks to you. Every so often we would stop, and each person could share with the group if they so chose. At one spot down by a small running stream, we took a longer pause to find our own little spot and spend silent time immersing ourselves in the forest. The water running over the rocks was so soothing, and already — after less than half an hour in nature — I was feeling gloriously, refreshingly disconnected from the outside world. It would all still be waiting for me when I got back to it. so there was no need to do anything except be fully present in this moment. To enjoy the feeling of being once again primally connected to the earth and where we came from, and away from the hustle-and-bustle of modern life. I listened to the water, breathed in the clear air deeply, and became intrigued with a fuzzy caterpillar making its way over leaf by leaf in the little stream. Melanie had told us a little about the mountains of research that has shown what a real, measurable positive effect time spent in nature has on us. It's been proven to lower our blood pressure, pulse rates and cortisol levels; increase heart rate variability (this is a good thing!); and improve mood. As her book on forest bathing says, plants generate compounds called phytoncides to protect themselves from pathogens, and when we are in nature, these same airborne phytoncides that we breath in may even help protect our human bodies in ways that could increase our immunity to things like cancer and other diseases. The physical, mental and emotional health benefits of time spent in nature have been corroborated by researchers in North America, the U.K., Europe, China and South Korea. I believed it. I felt it. As our walk came to an end, we gathered in a clearing to enjoy a tea ceremony, and one of our group read the very appropriate poem, Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. You can start your own forest bathing practice in your own adopted “wild home,” encompassed in three steps: 1. Disengagement from your daily routine 2. Deep breathing and nature connection through a series of quiet activities or “invitations” 3. Transitioning back to your daily life This restorative activity can be enjoyed by people of all ages and abilities: children, teenagers, and even senior citizens with limited mobility and people recovering from illness and surgery. And you don’t need to travel to the Japanese alps to experience the benefits of forest bathing. All you need is a small patch of untouched (or lightly touched) nature to adopt as your “wild home.”

Read the full article

[firesoulstuff]

Could you do a CC where Len kidnaps Sara and they end up falling in love?

Sorry this took so long anon!

The Amazo

Read on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12378978/chapters/31904202

How it is that Leonard Snart foundhimself stuck on a freighter that goes by the ridiculous name “The Amazo” is along story, one that he would rather not tell. But he will say that it wasmostly Mick’s fault, and if he ever makes it back to Central City his friendbetter have a good hiding place.

The Amazo is supposed to be aprison ship, and to an extent it is, but the Captain and the guards are all onthe payroll of resident scientist Anthony Ivo and if they like you enoughthey’ll let you onto their side.

Len has long made sure that theylike him enough.

He doesn’t particularly care fortorture, doesn’t have any desire to inflict it just for sadistic pleasure, buthe knows better than to try and dissuade the others. He’s a good navigator, andwhile he doesn’t like practicing torture himself he is willing to play the goodcop whenever Ivo or The Captain is seeking information from a “forgetful”prisoner. Sometimes they talk to him, he has a way with people, but if theystill keep their mouths shut then hey, it’s not like they weren’t given achance.

Now, being in the middle of TheNorth China Sea, Len hadn’t considered that their numbers might increase anytime soon. Decrease yes, it isn’t unusual for people to turn up dead aroundhere, but picking up a new prisoner in the middle of the ocean seemed highlyunlikely.

But, he supposes, not impossible.

They found her floating on a pieceof metal, a pale blonde little thing wearing nothing but her underwear and sometattered and tiny sorry excuse for a robe. She was shaking and crying like afrightened animal from the moment Butcher and his friend pulled her up onto thedeck. Len barely got a look at her before they started dragging her off to thelower deck where they keep the prisoners, but he saw enough to know that she’sbarely grown and wearing next to nothing. That’s a bad situation in a goodscenario, but to make things worse she’s just been dragged onto a ship filledwith some of the worst men on the face of the earth. He can hear her cries evennow as they’re dragging her away and his gut twists sickeningly.

There is no way she’s going tosurvive.

“Snart?” Ivo asks curiously when heshows up in the man’s cabin, turning in his desk chair away from some chart orother. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Butcher found a girl in the watertoday.” Normally he doesn’t like to be so blunt, he’s found in his experiencethat it’s better to string people along and toy with their minds when trying toget something, but he’s kind of on a clock here.

Ivo nods, not looking the least bitconcerned. “I’m aware.”

“I need you to grant herprotection.” His voice is cool, casual, and disinterested, the way that italways is as he takes one sauntering step into the room. Ivo is laughing at therequest but he doesn’t let that deter him, even if outright demanding somethingwhen he has no bargaining chip isn’t a usual Snart tactic he still knows how todo it.

“And why would I do that?” Ivoquestions, “Let the men have their fun, they need it after all this time on theship.” Leonard feels the anger flood his veins at that, pissed beyond reason atwhat Ivo is insinuating, but he doesn’t allow it to show.

“Besides,” Ivo continues, “I sawthem pull her up, she won’t last a week. She’s useless to us.”

“Right now, maybe.” Leonard halfagrees, wandering around the room until he reaches the desk and leans justslightly onto it. “But consider this.” He meets Ivo’s gaze, an almost evil grinslowly creeping onto his face. “We have a problem with secrets around here, andeach new victim takes longer and longer to break. Not to say it doesn’t work,no it certainly does, but it’s starting to get time consuming. Now as you knowI have a sister, one who uses her pretty face to get what she wants, and ifthat doesn’t work, well… hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

The next time that he sees her it’sin Ivo’s cabin, not that the old storage room is really a cabin, but it’s stillinfinitely better than anyone else’s living arrangement around here. Whetherthe girl has chosen to stay in here or if Ivo has ordered her to he isn’t sure,but it’s probably for the best either way. From what he knows Ivo doesn’t havethe stomach to do to her what the other men will. She jumps out of her skin theinstant that he opens to door, a high squeak of fear coming from her mouth andhe wonders if maybe she isn’t going to be able to adapt to her new position inthis place. She won’t have the luxury of being able to turn a blind eye to thetorture like he does; if she wants to stay alive she is going to have toinflict it.

“Relax,” he practically whisperseven though she’s all the way on the other side of the room, curled up in achair with that pathetic robe of hers wrapped around herself. “Ivo sent me withyour dinner, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She’s eyeing him warily, and hedoesn’t blame her, not after hearing from Ivo about what was happening on theprison floor when he took her from Butcher. She still looks very much like afrightened animal, and just like an animal she unwinds herself by only a hair atthe sight of the bowl in his hands. He suspects that she already knows itscontents are barely edible, but he also suspects that it has been days sinceshe last ate anything.

He takes one step forward and shecurls back into the chair once again, but one he stills and raises an eyebrowat her she slowly unfolds herself and allows him to approach. He doesn’t get tooclose to her, just enough that she can take the paper bowl from hisoutstretched hand. She looks skeptical for all of three seconds before raisingthe bowl to her lips and tipping it back greedily, and the promptly choking onthe vile concoction.

“You get used to it,” he commentsdryly, admittedly a little impressed that even in her near traumatized stateshe is still careful not to spill too much of her soup while choking.

Once she’s recovered she triesslurping her dinner down much more slowly, picking at the bits of questionablemeat with her fingers since she lacks a spoon. She makes an array of faces atthe substance, none of them good, but she eats without complaint.

Maybe she will stand a chance.

Whilst the girl finishes her dinnerLeonard’s eyes fall onto a heap of clothes on the floor beside her seat. Hedoesn’t touch them, but he does wonder where they came from. They are clearlywoman’s clothes, and suddenly the sick feeling returns to his stomach as herealizes they must have been pulled off one of Ivo’s previous failures.

She’s watching him now, but hedoesn’t react. They fall into a long, almost companionable silence.

“This place is hell,” he finallytells her, though he still doesn’t look at her. “If you do what you’re told,whatever that is, you might get out alive.”

He sees her fairly often afterthat. Apparently since he’s the one who told Ivo to protect her that means heis also protecting her.

That, of course, puts a target onhis back.

Her first lesson is fighting, hedecides, because until she proves herself the crew and captives alike are goingto have her in their sights. Her small stature, while the others will see it asa weakness, actually gives her an advantage. Len remembers Juvie, he remembersnot hitting his growth spurt until he was nearly seventeen, and he remembershaving to learn the hard way how to take down an opponent bigger than himself.He can teach Sara, that’s what she tells him her name is, how to do that.

“Alright,” he practically growls ather on only her second afternoon here. He’s dragged her up to the flat roof ofThe Amazo, it’s sturdy enough for sparring and he needs to show her right offthe bat that this isn’t going to be easy. She’s looking around anxiously, butsnaps to attention at his words. “At the moment you’re the only woman on thisship, which means that if you want to stay alive you have to do more than showthese men you’re just as good as them, you need them to believe you’re better.They’ll respect Ivo’s protection over you for a few weeks, a month at most, butsooner or later they’ll go after you just to show that they can. You need to beready.”

She looks very, very scared by thisidea, and she should.

“Why do you care?” She asks, herwords carried off by the wind and he almost doesn’t hear them.

“About you?” He asks incredulously,“I don’t.”  Her face falls a little, butnot much, not like she wasn’t expecting the answer she’s gotten. He takes astep closer to her, allowing his face to become just a hair softer. “No womanshould ever suffer at the hands of men.”

She doesn’t quite look like sheknows what to do with that, but it doesn’t matter. He turns away from her witha spin of his heel and then turns back.

“Now,” he drawls, all business andcold persona perfectly in place, “Let’s get started.”

When they aren’t training Saramostly stays by Ivo’s side. This isn’t for lack of trying to talk to him, oh noshe tries, but Len is persistent in keeping her at an arms length. His distastefor torture already made him a subject of gossip long before the blonde showedup, he doesn’t need her making things any worse by trailing after him like alost puppy. She looks a little disappointed the first time that he brushes heroff, and even more so the second, but upon the third she only shrugs and splitsoff into Ivo’s room. He’s admittedly impressed by how quick of a learner she iswhen it comes to combat, getting better every day and rarely making the samemistakes twice. He starts to notice her confidence growing as well; she comesto the deck at mealtime instead of Ivo bringing her ration to his room for herafterwards. She is still at Ivo’s side, but much less glued to his hip thanLeonard would’ve expected.

It’s a start.

She’s been here for a few days shyof a month when he passes her in a hallway; it’s the first time he’s seen heralone.

“Snart,” she regards as she passeshim, like nothing is out of the ordinary.

They keep training on the roof, aswell as some less popular areas of the deck, and after awhile the day comeswhen midway through a session of sparring Leonard suddenly realizes that he ishardly holding anything back. He’s not trying to hurt her, he’s on thedefensive, and just as he realizes this stars suddenly erupt in his vision andhe lands with a hard thud on the metal of the back deck, blood trailing fromhis nose.

He takes a second to reorienthimself, to try and process what just happened, as he sits up and finds thatshe’s standing over him with an arm outstretched.

“You good?” She practically snortsas he accepts the hand and she helps him up.

“Yeah,” he says, a littlebreathless, and the taste of blood dripping onto his lips as he speaks. Hesniffles and wipes it away, shaking his head and immediately regretting it.

“Nice shot,” she beams at his wordsand he knows he should tell her not to, but for whatever reason he can’t bringhimself to do such a thing. It’s rare that you find a smile as bright and happyas hers in a place like this.

The smile doesn’t last for long.

Another dock, another colleague ofIvo’s, and another plan gone south.

Surprise, surprise this informantisn’t being too forthcoming with information and is going to need persuading.They chain him up in an empty cage, allowing the other prisoner’s to watch theshow. Len gives questioning a go but the guy isn’t cracking, so naturallyButcher steps up to the plate with his knife.

“Hold on,” Ivo’s demand is calm,but serious, and he steps forward studying their newest prisoner. “Let Sara doit.”

The entire room freezes.

Len can’t help but to look in thewoman’s direction. She looks just as shell shocked as the others by Ivo’sdeclaration, but she shakes it off and steps forward without a word. Butcher ishesitant to hand over his knife, but with a little prompting from Ivo it makesthe transfer into Sara’s grip. Now Leonard doesn’t normally keep his eyes gluedto the torture, usually he finds a few interesting patches of rust on the wallsto give his attention to. But today he watches, and he hears as the man screamsout in pain while Sara carves into him. It’s her first time, so she has to becorrected a few times before she accidently stabs something major and losestheir chance at intel. But by the time she’s done the prisoner is singing likea canary, and if anyone on this boat was still entertaining any funny ideasinvolving her, well they know better now.

He doesn’t know what it is thatcompels him to go and seek her out later that night, not quite guilt or sorrow butsomething close. He takes a bottle of whisky from his stash and heads off forIvo’s room, knowing the man is still busy talking with the captain. He knocksonce and she answers after only a few seconds, looking genuinely surprised tosee him. A voice in his head is practically screaming that he shouldn’t bedoing this, that he is not the type of man who helps people when there isnothing for him to gain from it, but he can’t bring himself to listen. Insteadhe just holds up the bottle and a deck of cards he always keeps in his jacket.

“Roof?” He asks with an eyebrowraised and she considers him for a moment more, and then she nods.

They get through a little more thanhalf the bottle, just passing it back and forth over a game of war, beforeeither of them speaks. But, eventually, somebody has to break the silence, andSara decides she’s going to be the one to do it.

“A few months ago I was studyingfor finals,” she practically mutters, they’ve now moved to playing scat and shekeeps considering her cards even as she speaks.

“Funny how fast things can change,”Leonard drawls with a sigh, he flicks his eyes up to see if she gives areaction but aside from a slight nod she doesn’t.

They remain in silence for sometime after that, the only words being spoken the occasional uttering of “scat”whenever one of them wins a game.

These card games start to become amore and more frequent. Sometimes at night, sometimes in the middle of the day,sometimes on the roof, and sometimes in a back corner of the ship. Leonard isfinding that he doesn’t really mind spending time with Sara these days, thatshe isn’t making him any bigger of a target than he ever has been. She has verynearly reached the goal he set for her when they began and she’s starting tocarve out a place for herself on the crew as more than Ivo’s pet. Still, Lenhears the whispers. She’s only tortured the one man, she isn’t in the clearyet. It helps immensely that she went through with the whole thing until theman cracked, never once crying, passing out, vomiting, or anything else thatmight indicate to the other’s that she is anything less than them. But notbeing less, unfortunately, isn’t going to be enough, and he’s told her from dayone that if she wants to survive here she is going to need to prove that she’smore.

Of course in order to provesomething like that she needs a chance, meaning somebody needs to go after her,and tonight during dinner as she’s standing in line for her nightly rationLeonard sees it about to happen.

One of the ship’s many “guards”,Theodor, starts creeping up along side the haphazardly formed line until he isjust behind her and then with a sniggering laugh he swings out an arm and slapsher ass.

She whirls around, and on pureinstinct Len starts to move, but then he realizes that there is a cry of painringing out from the scene and it isn’t Sara. It’s Theodor, because Sara hashis wrist bent back so far that his knuckles are practically scraping hisforearm.

“Hands to yourself,” she tells himcoldly before she shoves him onto his back on the ground. She keeps herexpression neutral, if only a little on the pissed side, as she collects herdinner and walks over to where he’s seated at the edge of the deck, a smallsmirk finally breaking through her features as she gets closer.

He smirks in return.

“Not bad,” It’s probably the nicestthing he’s ever said to her, and for that he feels a tad guilty, but it’s beennecessary.

“Why thank you,” she is being fartoo smug about this, but it just might work for her. This woman slurping downdirty water like it’s nothing, occasionally opening her mouth wider to get apiece of the meat, is certainly not the same terrified girl who they found inthe water months ago. This woman, he’s starting to think, could rule this placeif she wanted to.

It may sound like one, but he isn’tso sure that’s a good thing.

More months pass by and Sarabecomes something of a friend to him, not that he has friends but whatever.They still spar every day; she’s kicking his ass a lot more often than not now.She’s gotten much better at her job, something he’s grateful for but it stillleaves a vile taste in his mouth every time she picks up that knife. He’swatched that kid they yanked on board months ago disappear from her eyes withevery passing day, replaced by this stone cold woman who could probably carveout at least five of his organs before killing him. He knows it’s stupid tohold onto the memory of that kid, to wish that she didn’t have to go, becauseif she didn’t than Sara would be dead. Still, he hates that this has happenedto her. Most of them here, not all of them but most, belong here. If theyweren’t on The Amazo then they would be rotting in some other prison. But fromwhat she’s told him during their card games Sara had a promising life beforeall of this. She has two loving parents who he’s sure mourned her when she wasundoubtedly reported dead. She has a sister as well, whom she insists wasprobably too angry with her to mourn but Len knows that isn’t true. From whatshe’s said it sounds like she and her sister are close, apart from the whole“running off with her boyfriend” fiasco, and he knows that if Laurel cares forSara even half as much as he cares for Lisa she would’ve been devastated whenshe heard the news.

“What do you think will happen tous once Ivo gets his super serum?” She asks one night as they’re lying out onthe rooftop just looking up at the stars, their cards long tucked back intoLeonard’s pocket.

“Well, you’re assuming that itactually exists.” He points out, turning his head over just enough to see her chuckle.She knows by now that he thinks Ivo’s Mirakuru is nothing but a wild goosechase.

“Well assuming it does,” shebegins, pausing so that she can roll onto her side and face him, propping herhead up on her hand. “Humor me.”

He thinks it over for a second, notthat he hasn’t already thought about this small possibility; he does plan forevery conceivable eventuality, after all.

“Hopefully he won’t use us asguinea pigs,” he wishes he were kidding about that. “Otherwise… I don’t know.”He does know, actually, or rather he has an idea. If Ivo finds the super serumand it actually works he just might let anyone he no longer needs go home ifthey wish. That would include a navigator, since he won’t be sailing anymore,but he’ll still have use for a right hand.

He’ll still have use for Sara.

She nods and settles back onto herback, a frown on her face like she knows what he’s thinking but doesn’t want tohear it any more than he wants to say it. Suddenly the silence between themdoesn’t feel comfortable, and he has this urge to make this situation better,somehow.

He can only think of one way, andit goes against every sensible fiber of his being.

“If something goes… wrong.” Heeventually speaks up, “If Ivo turns on us, I memorize maps of our stops beforewe get there. Stay behind me.” She nods, her face serious, because us suddenly doesn’t mean the guards orother members of the crew, but the two of them. This is dangerous territorythat they’re treading into, maybe even deadly, and they both know it.

So why do they just keep going infurther?

[esbion]

Hey @snochako​ Happy Holidays! I'm your (late) secret santa! it's not much but here's some fluffy-ish miritama. thanks for giving me a new rarepair!! hope you enjoy :) @boku-no-secret-santa​ thank you for running this!! 

All Tamaki had wanted was to cook a turkey.

He never wanted this-- a dozen people crowded in he and Mirio's small apartment strung with garlands and mistletoe, with a makeshift tree set up in the corner.

He never wanted a party.

Tamaki stares around at his friends stuffing their faces. Mirio is, of course, sitting among a group of people, talking animatedly about one thing or another. The sounds of laughter and conversation fill his ears, threatening to overwhelm him. There's a three-year-old tugging at Tamaki's sweater with sugar-dusted fingers, asking for another cookie.

Tamaki sighs. He almost, almost regrets having the idea in the first place. 

***

"I'm going to make a Christmas feast," Tamaki announces, lying on the couch with his head in Mirio's lap.

Mirio glances down at him. "Yeah?"

"I mean, a feast. With a lot of food, and a turkey."

"Really?" Tamaki nods, eyes shining. "Like in American movies."

"Sounds good to me," Mirio says, grinning. They don't even do Christmas, but Tamaki sounds excited and Mirio will happily eat anything his husband makes anyway.

 ***

This week Tamaki's grocery list is even longer than usual. Mirio's eyes scan the paper. There are a bunch of words he doesn't recognize, which is fine (hopefully), he'll just ask one of the employees about it.

"Wait," calls Tamaki, just as Mirio is about to exit. "I'm coming with you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to," he replies, slipping into his warm black hoodie which Mirio gave him in high school, the word SUNEATER printed on the back over the image of an eclipse. Tamaki is pretty sure he looks like a narcissist wearing it, but oh well. "Even you can't carry all those bags yourself."

He's not quite sure that's true. Mirio can carry a lot of things (including Tamaki) by himself. Despite tragically losing his Quirk all those years ago, he's one of the strongest heroes in the country, if not the world. It was amazing what one could do with gadgets and brute strength. They were both pro heroes, but if Tamaki lost his natural abilities, he'd be screwed.

"Come on," he says. Outside, the snow is just beginning to fall, dusting the ground and the trees and the buldings with white. Flakes land on Tamaki's face, melting like powdered sugar when it touches his warm skin.

"It finally feels like winter," Tamaki says, sighing contentedly.

"Yeah, it really does," Mirio says, putting an arm around Tamaki.

 ***

Mirio comes home, carrying a whole box bursting with colorful lights and sparkly things. "...do we really need this many decorations?" Tamaki asks.

"Yep," Mirio says cheerfully. He unpacks the box, exploring the various goods.

Mirio has, apparently, made it his duty to Christmas-ify their place as much as possible. So while Tamaki is hoarding recipes and learning how to cook sweet potatoes, Mirio is stringing lights along their balcony railing and hanging mistletoe in their doorways.

He's standing on a ladder to affix tinsel on the wall when he spots a movement in the corner. "TAMAKI, YOU'VE GOT TO SEE THIS," he yells accross the apartment.

Confused, Tamaki heads to the other room. Mirio points at the wall. Tamaki's eyes widen. "A butterfly?" he breathes, stepping forward to get a closer look. "Is it alive?"

"I think so. It was moving." Mirio has an urge to reach out and touch it to see if it moves again, but Tamaki has always said how delicate butterfly wings are.

"It's a peacock butterfly," Tamaki whispered, marveling at its rusty-red wings adorned with tricolored eyespots. "Aglais io." He reaches out and the insect just comes to him like he's some kind of butterfly whisperer, just flies into his palm. "It was probably hibernating in this building and woke up when the central heating came on. Peacock butterflies are one of the few species that hibernate in the winter..."

Mirio listens to him talk about butterflies, the way his eyes light up as he describes his favorite subject. People who think that Tamaki is quiet have never seen him like this, because once you get him started on bugs, especially butterflies, he'll talk your ears off.

Since the butterfly needs a place to hibernate again until the weather's good enough to release it, he fetches one of the many clear plastic boxes they own from the closet. Tamaki sets the butterfly down gently. "There you go." He places the box in the closet, a cool dark place where the cat can't get to it; the insect can sleep in peace.

When he comes back to the living room, Mirio is on the step stool again, attaching some odd-looking plants above them. "Umm, what's that?"

Mirio gets down and flashes him a wide grin, his eyes gleaming just a bit much. "Mistletoe."

"...Mistletoe," Tamaki echoes. "...I thought it had red berries? Not white?"

Mirio is giving him That Look, and Tamaki feels his cheeks start to heat up, as if he's a schoolgirl with a crush rather than a grown adult who's been married to Mirio for three and a half years.

Mirio finds Tamaki's embarrassment cute. "I guess it can be both," Mirio steps closer to him, grin growing wider as he leans in to kiss him. 

***

December 25th. Mirio wakes up with the sun, as usual.

The best thing about waking up next to your best friend every morning, Mirio thinks, is not just feeling his hair brushing against your face and his warmth against your bare chest, but also that you get an extra moment to gaze at him sleeping, perfectly content away in some dream world.

He’s in deep sleep, body worn out from his long night of patrolling. He squirms in his sleep, shifts from side, then opens his eyes to see Mirio sitting there looking at him.

“You’re awake,” says Mirio.

Tamaki yawns. “Still tired though.”

“Go back to sleep,” Mirio says, getting out of bed. “Sleep in. You have the whole day off.”

He got up, heading over to his closet. Tamaki frowned. “Where are you going?” he asks blearily. “Work.”

“Oh,” Tamaki says, remembering. He’s got to patrol today, even through a lot of the other people got to have a break on the 25th. Of course Mirio's the one to volunteer for an extra shift. “But it’s snowing.”

“A real hero doesn’t let something like snow stop him,” says Mirio.

“Yeah, yeah," Tamaki said, getting up he walked over to the window, shivering as he left his warm cocoon of blankets. “Still. No one should have to go out in this weather."

Snow is building up on the windowsill. The gusts of wind so loud that he could hear it howling through what few trees there were planted in the grassy strips outside their city apartment. Walking in this cold would be awful, even through the window Tamaki can almost feel the sting to his face.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Mirio randomly ending up naked somewhere after using his powers now that he was Quirkless.

Mirio finishes zipping up his hero suit and saunters accross the room to join Tamaki at the window. "I'm gonna go now, okay?" Mirio says softly, curling his hand around Tamaki's fingers.

"Okay," Tamaki sighs. Lately it feels like they've been seeing less and less of each other.

"Even Pro Heroes need a break sometimes," Tamaki says, reaching upwards to kiss his husband on the cheek.

"I know," Mirio says, putting his arms around him for a quick hug. "I'll be back soon. You just rest, okay?"

***

Tamaki does not rest. He stays in bed a little longer with the cat curled up in his lap, before he nudges her off and gets up to go the kitchen.

He opens the refrigerator and checks on the thawing turkey. Alright. Time to work. It's never too early to start prepping food. Tamaki is sitting on the counter, flipping through one of his fourty-two cookbooks, when a loud ding-dong! disturbs his pondering over the merits of spinach vs. cauliflower as a side.

It's 8 am, who could that be? Tamaki shuffles over to the door and peers through the eyehole. A big blue eye stares back at him. "Hello?" says a girl's voice.

He opens the door. "...Nejire?"

Tamaki braces himself as Nejire throws herself at him and hugs him tightly, hands full of shopping bags. "Oooh, Tamaki, I haven't seen you in like, a whole month! Happy Christmas, I brought you guys lots of stuff and I hope you like candy canes 'cause they had nine different flavors and I bought them all."

She walks in, throws her bags--most of which appear to be from sweet shops--on the table.

"Candy canes?" Tamaki says. "I love candy canes--but, why are you here?"

"Because it's Christmas!" Nejire says, practically bouncing with energy. "So, when's everyone else coming?"

Tamaki frowns. "No one's coming. Mirio isn't even going to be home until later..."

"Really? But--oh, nevermind...hey, did you change your hair?" She reaches up and touches his hair.

"No? Anyway, I thought you'd spend Christmas with your girlfriend."

"Oh," for the first time, Nejire's smile falters, just a little. "About her..."

"What happened?" Tamaki sits on the couch. Nejire plops down beside him, accidentally smacking him with her abundance of pastel-blue hair. "Well..." Nejire regales him with the tale of her love life, the two of them sharing the candy between them. Tamaki has the brilliant idea of breaking up candy canes and putting them in hot chocolate, gulping down steaming cupfuls. There's nothing better, in Tamaki's opinion, than a warm drink when everything else is cold and gray.

After a while, Tamaki remembers that he's supposed to be cooking. Nejire follows him into the kitchen. He assigns her some veggies to cut. She continues talking and talking and talking. Tamaki doesn't mind, he's used to listening. The doorbell rings again.

"I'll get it," Nejire says, running to the door.

For a second Tamaki thinks it's Mirio, back from work early, which makes his heart jump.

Then he hears a booming voice greeting him. "...Fatgum?" He says in surprise, before he's pulled into a crushing hug. 

***

Mirio has fifteen whole minutes to kill during this break. He's restless, thinking about Tamaki at home by himself. He debates between calling and texting. Probably Tamaki is busy cooking and wouldn't see the notification. Sighing, he picks up his phone and calls.

Tamaki answers on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Mirio smiles into the phone. "Hey."

"Mirio, why are you calling me?" You know phone calls make me nervous, were the words he didn't say.

"I just wanted to hear your voice."

A pause.

Mirio can practically feel him blushing through the phone, suddenly not knowing what to say. He laughs, changing the subject for him. "So, how's your turkey coming along?"

"Mirio...we have guests."

"Guests?"

"At first it was Nejire, and then she invited Fatgum, and she also told Uraraka and Deku so now they’re here and I think--"

"Tamaki, calm down--"

"--and now we're gonna have nothing to eat!"

"Listen, everything will be fine--"

"...or I could make two turkeys."

"Isn't it a bit late for that?"

"...or, or, I could just make a lot of pasta and hope it makes up for it?"

"...you could, or I could pick up some fried chicken on the way home."

"...Hmmm...yeah, yeah that's good."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"I have to go. Love you."

"Love you too." 

 ***

As the day goes on, more and more people start to show up. At first it's just a few of their old schoolmates and his mentor, Fatgum. And before Tamaki knows it, Nejire's inviting the neighbors whose names Tamaki barely remembers. He doesn't want to kick them out, so he lets Nejire and the others entertain them while Tamaki stands in the kitchen.

For their part, the guests are all willing to pitch in. The neighbors brought a strawberry shortcake, Kirishima and Deku are making appetizers, wrapping up sausages with phyllo and filling mushroom caps with cheese and breadcrumbs. Fatgum gives Tamaki advice from his extensive turkey-roasting experience. Uraraka is using her antigravity to lift a garland that's fallen off the wall. 

"You know what we should make?" Uraraka says. "Popcorn balls! And hang them like ornaments."

"Ornaments? Where are we going to put them, the wall?" Bakugou walks in from the living room, holding his and Kirishima's daughter.

"Where would you put them, then?"

"A tree."

"We don't have a tree," says Tamaki.

"I can go out and get one," volunteers Kirishima.

Bakugou looks at him. "What, you're gonna rip a tree out of the ground?"

"From the store."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, no, you stay with Mai."

"Fine. Take...someone else," he gestures vaguely.

"Come on," Deku says. He puts down the flour. "Let's go." 

***

They return twenty minutes later, treeless. Apparently, there are none left. They decide they'll just have to make their own. 

"It's beautiful," Kirishima brims with pride. The "tree" consists of a few large branches haphazardly tied together. They've draped leftover tinsel, fairy lights and pompom garlands over the tree, with plastic-wrapped popcorn balls and glittery ribbons tied to the branches.

Kirishima hands Mai a star cut out of an aluminum foil tray, and picks her up so she can place the finishing touch on the masterpiece with a look of pure joy. 

"Good job!" he says, and places her back down. Mai runs off, chasing the cat currently slinking into the hallway.

Tamaki watches them, sinking onto the couch with a sigh of relief. He's done everything he can think of doing, for now--prepping food and sticking the turkey in the oven, hiding his messy pile of clothes in the closet in case anyone goes in the bedroom.

Nejire is beside him, leaning against his shoulder like she often used to do in high school, her hair falling over his shoulder and getting in his face. It's comforting, a familiar thing in this room that's suddenly too full. Tamaki closes eyes, listening to the cheerful rhythm of her voice among the other sounds. He can't wait until Mirio gets home. 

***

When Mirio gets home, arms laden with buckets of KFC, it turned out not all the guests had come empty-handed. There was a huge stack of pizzas on the table.

"Who brought the pizza?"

"We did," said Kirishima. "Mai's going through a phase, she'll only eat pizza."

"Only pizza? That's not healthy," Tamaki said, as he puts down the plates.

"Exactly. You're just spoiling her," Bakugou mutters. Mirio is surprised the man even came tonight; he's not known for being the friendliest person. Though his presence may have more to do with the girl currently clinging to his leg than with a desire to socialize.

 "Pizza?" Mai's eyes widen. "Daddy, can I have a pizza?" She asks Kirishima.

"No, not now, you already had some."

The girl scowls and switches tactics, turning to Bakugou. "Papa, I want a pizza."

"You heard your dad. NO."

She looks up at him with pleading, watery eyes. Bakugou tries to resist.

She keeps staring at him.

"Oh, hell." He yanks a slice out of the box and shoves it towards her. "You better eat that."

She munches away, reveling in her victory.

Kirishima gives Bakugou a look. He glares. "What? I'm not gonna let her starve!" 

Mirio shakes his head in amusement. He glances to his left, wanting to share a glance with Tamaki but his husband is gone.

***

"Hey," Mirio says, walking into the kitchen.

Tamaki looks up at the sound of his husband's voice.

He puts a hand on Tamaki's arm. "Are you okay?"

He stiffens. "Of course?" It comes out sounding more like a question than he intended.

Mirio stares at him for a long moment. "Come on," Mirio says eventually. "Let's go for a walk."

Tamaki hesitates. Can he really leave the apartment? 

"It's okay. Our friends aren't going to set anything on fire."

"Mai already burned a hole in the curtain." Tamaki says. "But okay."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. Fire Quirk."

They head out the door. A few people give them weird looks as they pull on their winter coats, but no one says anything. They walk down the sidewalk, Mirio taking him by the hand and leading him down the path to the nearby park. It's a winter night, so the sky is inky-black despite it being only 7 pm. The air is cold and crisp, and tastes refreshing. Colorful lights sparkle along the edge of the water.

The two of them stand on the bridge hand and hand, looking over the water.

"Remember when we used to come here a lot, when we were younger?" Tamaki says.

"And you would tell me the names of all the bugs."

"Yeah, and one day you found a flower patch with lots of butterflies and you sent me like ten photos because you knew I would like it?"  

Mirio squeezed his hand. "Yeah."

"And over there," Tamaki points vaguely in the direction of a specific bench. "Is where you proposed." 

"Yeah," Mirio fidgets. "And I was going to do it later when we were in the gazebo to make it romantic but it just kinda slipped." 

Tamaki nods. "Yeah."

They fall silent.

"I kinda wanted it to be just me and you today," Tamaki admits. "I mean, we're always busy and...and..." 

"...and?"

 "I don't cook for people, usually."

Come to think of it, Mirio can't remember the last time he'd cooked for more than one person. "Everyone loves your food. Don't worry."

"Christmas dinners are supposed to be, you know, grand and fancy--"

"...I think you're idealizing Christmas."

Tamaki sighed, looking out onto the river. "I just want this day to be okay."

"It'll be fine. I know I'm having a good day because I get to spend time with you," Mirio said, putting his arms around him.

"...Mirio..."

"Look at the lights. Aren't they pretty?"

Tamaki nods. They gaze in the their direction of their building. "Which one's ours?"

"That one, I think." From far away, Tamaki sees a light on inside, with vague silhouettes of people moving around. There's mutliple apartments like this--lit up and full of people. All these people celebrating, just because they can.

"We can have some time alone, next week," says Mirio. "We're going to your parents' on New Years Eve, but the day before..."

Tamaki smiles, intertwining his fingers with Mirio's. "That would be nice."

"Let's go back in."

***

 You wouldn't think so many people could fit inside their small kitchen, but they do. Everyone gathers around the table, admiring the array of dishes. There's so much to eat. Even Tamaki is impressed by the amount of food. They heap their plates with buttery mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, green bean casserole, creamy mac and cheese, dinner rolls, fresh steaming rice, baked fish, scallops. And of course, the turkey.

"Here, I'll do the carving," Fatgum says, and Tamaki breathes a sigh of relief because he hadn't thought this far.

They dig in. Fresh out of the oven, the roasted meat is lovely and tender--a bit dry, but that's what gravy is for.

"This gravy is really good," says Deku.

Nejire pipes up. "Hey, Tamaki, what happens when you eat gravy? It has chicken broth, right?"

Tamaki shrugs. "It's just the broth, it's not like I'm eating its meat. The turkey, on the other hand..." He holds up his arm, revealing a three-toed turkey foot.

Nejire recoils. She's seen him with tentacles and claws and all sorts of things but apparently a bird's foot is disturbing.

"Can you do feathers?" asked Kirishima curiously. Tamaki nods, holding out his arm as long brown feathers begin to appear. The others watch in fascination.

"But you can't fly."

"Turkeys can't fly anyway."

"Oh yeah."

"If you eat fish, would you be able to breathe underwater?"

"Last time I tried I almost drowned, remember?"

"No," says Nejire.

"No," says Mirio.

"No," says Fatgum.

"...seriously? You guys don't--?"

"Tell us," Kirishima says eagerly.

All eyes are on Tamaki. He squirms. "Okay, fine, it was during that swimming training we had one year. It was the midterm and for some reason, I was 100% sure I could grow gills so I had fish stew for lunch..."

By the time he finishes, everyone is cracking up.

Before they know it, they're swapping stories, reminiscing about their past and the little things that made them who they were today. The time they fought so-and-so, and the times they dueled each other.

Looking around, it's clear, at least to Tamaki, that though they've changed they're still all the same. Nejire is still wide-eyed and cheerful, Kirishima still has that disarming sharp-toothed smile. Even if they've recieved scars and slight wrinkles near their eyes from witnessing the things that they did, they haven't lost their will or their personalities.

Mirio hasn't lost his bright smile, or the way he naturally draws people towards his warmth.

He has, however, lost a very important thing: his Quirk.

Tamaki thinks that right now when everyone is discussing their pasts, Mirio must be pondering over what could've been. It's been years, but it probably still hurts. He gets up, all of a sudden and walks across the room.

There's no space on the couch and he doesn't attempt to force himself between Deku and Ochako. Tamaki sits on the armrest, places his hand over Mirio's. It's a small gesture, one most people won't notice. But it says what he wants to say, and he hopes it's enough: I'm here. Mirio stops talking, glances at Tamaki, and starts talking again with a bit of a smile on his face.

***

"Are you eating gravy with pizza?" Nejire asks Uraraka.

"What? It's good."

She looks around the room, at everyone shaking their heads.

"Pregnant people sure eat weird things," Bakugou says.

The room goes instantly silent.

"Y-You're pregnant?" Deku turns to Uraraka, his jaw dropping.

She nods. "I was going to tell you. I don't know how he found out."

"Don't look at me, it was Eijirou."

"It was just a guess," Kirishima says. "And you weren't supposed to tell, Katsuki." He gives him a look.

Bakugou shrugs, attempting to feed his daughter a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

Nejire looks at Mirio and Tamaki. "So when are you having kids?" she says bluntly.

Tamaki nearly spits out his cider. "We--we're only twenty-five!"

"So?"

"We had Mai when we were twenty-one." Bakugou informs them.

"You guys are different." Tamaki's parents would like to be grandparents, but he and Mirio weren’t making that happen, not yet.

He gets up. "Time for dessert." 

Though everyone insists that they have no room, not a single person (including the child) refuses a slice of strawberry shortcake, or pumpkin pie topped with vanilla ice cream. (Tamaki had been unsure about including the ice cream, but it seems fine in this house with the heat cranked up all the way.)

Tamaki even brings out cookies, which were frosted with the help of a certain little girl who squeals when she sees the messy, sprinkle-laden treats. "Cookiecookiecookie."

"Just one," Bakugou says.  

***

Before they leave, Uraraka and Deku pause under the mistletoe to kiss, and continue to kiss until they notice Tamaki standing there on his way back from the kitchen.

"Sorry," says Deku, hastily moving out of the doorway, still staring into her eyes.

Next, Kirishima and Bakugou, unwilling to be outdone by the other couple, do the same. They're interrupted by Mai coming in between them, so of course she gets kissed too, as Kirishima picks her up and gives her a peck on the cheek. It's grossly adorable.

Then everyone is looking at Mirio and Tamaki.

"I can't believe we have to do this again." Tamaki says as he turns to Mirio. He's smiling though, and this time he's the one pressing his lips against his husband's, his hand curling around his arm, moving in close. Their friends are staring at them, which would normally make Tamaki feel a tiny bit self-conscious but for the moment he doesn't care.

***

The door shuts, and then Tamaki and Mirio are the only ones left. It feels empty now, but somehow Mirio feels the distance between them is smaller than ever as he pulls Tamaki towards him. "Well, it wasn't what you expected but this was nice, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Tamaki agrees, leaning against him, half asleep. Then he opens his eyes and declares, "I want cake."

He's about to get up and go to the kitchen but Mirio says, "I'll get it" and comes back with two plates piled with leftover cake.

They sit on the couch. There's dishes to be done, but they'll do it later. Tamaki feels too tired to talk so they eat in comfortable silence, forks clinking against their plates.

Mirio is considering taking another slice of cake when suddenly Tamaki speaks. "Mirio," he says, voice serious. "You're the strongest person I know."

"What?" Mirio looks at him in surprise. Now he knows Tamaki's tired, otherwise he wouldn't be saying random stuff like this. "And not just physically," he places a hand on Mirio's buff chest. "When you lost your Quirk--"

Oh. So that's what this is about. "It's not a big deal..."

"No," Tamaki is suddenly wide awake, his dark eyes fixed on Mirio. "It does matter. I don't know what I would do. But you? You just kept going, even after everything--"

"It was a long time ago."

"You're amazing."

"I think you're exagg--"

"No. I'm just saying that you shouldn't regret anything in your life and you did the best you could do and--"

"Okay, okay. I don't regret anything." Mirio feels warmth rising inside him, stroking his husband's hair. "Why would I? I'm a Hero, I've saved almost a million people, I have a perfect husband..."

He glances down. Tamaki has already closed his eyes and before long, he's fast asleep.

Mirio lets him sleep. It's been a long day and Mirio thinks that as far as holidays go, this one has been pretty great.

(fin.)