#Does he just fucking leave immediately with some witty remark?

[your-friendly-sociopath]

Part two was so good I’m invested I need to know how it ends please make part three to running when you have the time!

Sincerely 🕷anon

You bet part 1 , 2

Channeling my inner demons for this one

Red text is alastors pov/dialogue

Slanted red is when he is mentioned or refered to

Tw: yandere themes, possessive behavior, slight PTSD, reader got issues, so does alastor really

Running Pt 3

A week had passed since your leg had been chopped off

It was weird, getting up every morning only to fall in your face immediately

You were right about your father leaving his shadow on you

You swear every time you fell each morning, it would laugh at you

This morning was no different

You woke up, sat up, went to stand on the side of your bed, and promptly fell flat on your face

The shadow in the corner made a strange hissing sound

Which you had now come to identify as laughter

Grumbling, you flipped off the shadow as you, shakily, got to your feet

Well, foot

You figured that the only good thing to come out of all of this, was that your remaining leg would be super beefy from carrying all your wait

You hopped over to the bathroom connected to your room, and did your business

When you reentered your room, you noticed alastor sitting on a lavish armchair in the corner by your bed, sipping a dark red liquid (blood, most likely) and reading a book

You had half a mind to just close the door and hide in the bathroom

You did that the first morning after your leg was sawed off, he didn't take to kindly to being ignored so rudely

Instead, you let out a grumpy sigh, and hobbled over to the edge of your bed, waiting for him to notice you

Or to decide to grant you the honor of his attention

He did this every morning

Let you fall in your face, use the bathroom, then appear out of fucking nowhere and wait for you in your room

After that he either got your wheelchair and took you to the kitchen, it would just let you stew in your anger for ten or so more minutes while he read

Both options were a little awkward for you

Seemed like this morning, he found himself content with simply letting you be while he read

You were not in the mood to just sit here

The fucking prick

Instead of putting up with his bullshit, you decided to rush things along

So, you loudly cleared your throat to get his attention

Apparently, he wasn't in the mood for your attitude

Out of nowhere there was a loud static pop, which, admittedly made you jump a little

You could feel your large furry ears go stiff at the obvious warning

Your spine went ridged, and suddenly, memories of the last time he was displeased with you came rushing back

The blood soaked table

The horrific voodoo symbols that surrounded you, preventing you from moving

And the dark..

You wanted to run

To leave, and never have to set eyes on the monster behind you ever again

But it was running that got you into this shit

Running

You'll never be able to run again

He had done something to your leg, weird voodoo symbols engraved in the skin that prevented it from regenerating

You'd never walk again

You were dependent on him, much as you hated to admit it

A creak in the furniture from behind you told you that he was getting up

You flinched, involuntarily, when you felt him lay a clawed hand on your shoulder

"Well my dear, Id say that's enough dilly dalling for today! Why don't we get some breakfast hm?"

You couldn't respond, at least not verbally, so you opted to nod instead

The hand on your shoulder gave you a warning squeeze

Right, you forgot, he hated it when you didn't use your words

"..kay.."

You mumbled

It was the best you could do

----

You used to be so defiant, so fiery

Not that it wasn't a nice change of pace for him, but he did miss your spunky additude and witty remarks

But ever since he had cut off your left leg, you were so quiet and meek

A part of him hated how he had to resort to such drastic measures, while another part was pleased that you were finally in your place

He knew you probably hated him for doing this, but he had no choice

At least, it seemed like that to him

You needed to learn that fighting back and running would only get you in more trouble

A shame though, how it took him needing to physically, mentally, and permanently damage you to get you to listen

He doesn't regret it though, this way, you'll always need him

Forever

----

Weeks went by, then months

The cycle never ends

Except for the falling on your face part, you've broken the habit of getting up then falling down immediately

A relief for you, a disappointment for the shadow that was always watching you

Life (or death) had become boring and mundane

There wasn't much you could do now without assistance

Alastor refused to give you a prosthetic, and your wheelchair only came into use when he wasn't around

And he wasn't around as often anymore

Apparently he had found a new source of entertainment

Which involved a strange hotel ran by a demon determined to rehabilitate sinners

So now, you spent most your days alone in the cabin/mansion/house

You had become a master of hobbling around on one leg

Unfortunately, the house was not "baby" proof, and you found yourself with an assortment of bruises at the end of every day

And thus a new cycle began, every day you'd wake up, your father sitting in the corner of your room, then take you to the kitchen for breakfast before leaving you on your own

It was kind of nice, having your own space again

Yet it was still so incredibly boring

Luckily for you, your father soon decided to introduce you to the demons of the hotel we often went to (you later found out it was called the Happy Hotel)

The only demons you knew there were Husk and Nifty, though you immediately hit it off with a spider demon (PLATONIC)

You started going daily with Alastor to the Happy Hotel

He even got you a prosthetic limb for your visits

(The moment you tried to escape though, it would morph into a ball and chains and trap you)

Even if you weren't exactly free, you weren't alone anymore

And for that, you were grateful

If only you could shake off the feeling of dread, like all these good things would soon come to an end

And done, once more ot 4 is a possibility

Not anytime soon tho cus j have a few asks I need to work on/finish

[thekatebridgerton]

Looking at Yandere AU:

Kate, Sophie, and Simon are pretty much the only sane people here and the most normal ones like they are like “how the fuck I got stuck in this situation”…

Like, imagine each slowly falling in love with their Yandere spouse and it’s so heartbreaking too because Simon and Sophie are like “they are the only one who showed me love regardless” and Kate is mentally telling herself “this is wrong, this can’t be happening, please”.

Sophie was used to Benedict showering, almost suffocating her, with love so when she gently straddled his hips and kisses him… taking her nightgown up to meet his lovesick hot gaze… she gently cups his face kissed him again. Finally, he snapped and rolled them over and made sure she knew how much he loves her as she had her screaming for him for hours.

Kate didn’t know what came over, she was in her bathrobe and hiding herself from Anthony’s burning gaze as he teases her as he sits back on their bed. The more he teases and made witty remarks at every response she gave, she blinked back tears as her heart screamed for him, so she kissed him and it was the first time he fell silent. She hesitated but slipped off her robe he was all over her and she was calling to him, ONLY him, as he likes it.

Simon gazes down at his and Daphne’s little baby girl, Amelia, as he felt his heart flutter. She was so small, so precious, so adorable, so… much like her mother. He loves his baby girl and as he watches Daphne tend to their baby, Simon accepts that he loves her too. Leaving the nursery, he kissed Daphne, taking her by surprise as he took her more surprise as he asked her “would you have another baby with me” and Daphne immediately pushed him on the bed and that’s all the answer he needs.

So you know I already have a Bridgerton Yandere au. Where things reached the natural conclusion of the spouses becoming worse than the Yanderes who loved them (Especially Kate, I mean, criplling Anthony and imprisoning him, as her possible love slave/hostage forever, just because in her mind, killing him would be showing him too much kindness)

But this Anon does bring up another Yandere universe I've yet to touch, but I will. Trust me I will... What if it was the spouses who were the Yanderes. And the Bridgertons just your normal chaotic mess of a family who don't know what they're getting into. I'm not going to lie, I find this concept very good.

Hmm Maybe this September I'll do a Bridgerton Spouses Yandere au post. I'll break it down in all it's scary romantic obsessive glory. Have some fun villainizing my babies. Specially Phillip and Sophie, who you all think wouldn't hurt a fly...They could be bad, I could make them bad...They just needs a little push.

And that's the tea.

[cockasinthebird]

hi!! can you write steve getting all horny in class and billy noticed it and because of the dick he is he throws steve a paper where he says all filthy things and the way he would fuck steve right now and steve’s trying his best to keep himself calm. then of course billy fucks steve in the janitors closet after the class.

Oh dearest anon, believe you me when I say that I have been thinking about this already, and then you come in here to read my goddamn mind, you gorgeous piece of filth!! Hope you’ll enjoy!

-

Steve Harrington is a normal teen in his senior year of high school. He shaves his face every morning, struggles with all of his homework, drinks shitty cheap beer, has a babysitting job, and he owns his fair share of Playboys and watches porn during late nights on the TV in his living room.

And sometimes those images invades his mind when he's sleeping, as is only normal for any typical hormonal 18 year old.

They had been so vivid this morning, only to be interrupted by the blaring of his alarm clock, with no time to fix the situation or he'd be late for class again.

They're there now, halfway through first period and he's sitting with his chin in hand, drooling slightly as he daydreams about things vastly more interesting than algebra.

Soft thighs, exposed tits, plump lips, long hair. It's quite well known that Steve Harrington is easy and frankly a bit loose, but can he truly be blamed for his incessant neediness, when there's a lack of love at home? Who isn't touch starved and constantly seeking heat.

Lesser known fact is how he dreams of things he shouldn't. Hairy pecs, muscular biceps, strong hands, hard cocks.

Girls are nice and gentle and delicate. Laurie, Amy, Becky, Nancy. Pure and kind and good. They smell of flowers, feels like silk, sounds of an angels choir.

But they cannot compare to the way the right guy will reach everywhere. Tommy, Billy. Bending him over, fingers digging inside, stretching him out, slapping into him with such fervor he'll walk funny for nearly a week. Their musky smell, calloused fingers, animalistic grunts.

And it riles him up. Can't help but drift off to think about Billy. Won't even fight it, as he finds himself in Hargrove's bedroom, the place reeking of sweat and cologne and testosterone, Billy standing by his small, cheap bed. Shirtless with the body of a bronze statue, pants unbuckled to expose a blond trail of hair disappearing beneath his tight briefs. A hand caressing the outline of his-

There's a sudden kick to his shin and he's wide awake, still in algebra class, the teacher scribbling away on the blackboard as he drones on about whatever. Steve wipes off the bit of drool that has fallen down his chin and looks to his left to see...

Billy Hargrove, pulling his leg back from having just kicked Steve awake. He's all teeth in a mischievous grin, eyes heavy and intense as he catches sight of amber hues. Quickly he glances down, far down, then up again, as if to gesture for Steve to do the same.

So he does, and oh... He stops moving as if that's any less suspicious than what covering his crotch would have looked like. A bulge in his jeans shows that he's sporting far more than just half a chub, and he can feel his fucking heart beat in his hardened flesh, as he stares straight ahead into the back of the brunette in front.

Perhaps if he thinks really really hard about math and algebra and numbers, he can will it away with a headache borne from straight up confusion as to why x and y matters.

When a paper ball flies in from the east and lands perfectly in the middle of his textbook. He glances shortly over at Billy, who's resting on his hand, blinking slowly and expectantly for Steve to unfold the little crumbled up note.

Steve shifts around uncomfortably, hoping to find a way where his jeans doesn't apply too much unwanted pressure on him. And when he sees what Billy has written down here, his face goes impossibly red with a faster heartbeat.

Need a hand there, pretty boy?

He looks at Billy who has the audacity to wink and stick out just the tip of his tongue. Scribbles out a stern and serious No. then throws it back.

Billy lets out a light huff in disbelief, raises his brows in the same tone, then throws the ball over.

I don't believe you. What were you dreaming about?

And Steve grips his pencil with near breaking force as he considers telling the truth, even though just thinking about admitting to it sends pulses through him. It's been so long...

You.

The way Billy then grins reveals everything he's thinking, and the sight of it only makes the whole situation... harder.

And he brings his pen to paper... and he doesn't stop. Writes and writes and writes till nearly every line is filled out, before tossing it right back with such a masterful flair from basket practice.

Oh yeah? What about? The time in your pool where I proved just how long I can hold my breath?

Steve is quick to throw Billy a rather dangerously wanton glance, and watches how he wags his tongue, then back to the paper.

Or in your living room, where you had been so angry with me at first, for wanting to fuck you right there on a couch that costs more than my fucking car, but you loved every single inch of me. Moaned and cried out as I came inside your tight hole.

He shifts in his seat again and looks around to ensure that no one has noticed how flushed he is, but everyone else here seemed to have dozed off as well.

It's been too long pretty boy. Last time we had any fun was in my bedroom, right? Where you were such a cock hungry slut, spread out on my sheets as I fucked you raw and you complained for days about it, but I know you're just waiting for me to make a move. And maybe I've been teasing you for long enough.

Fuck, would it be too obvious if he decided to run out now? Excuse himself and make a go for the bathroom? Each curve of Billy's meticulous handwriting only making his situation worse, word by word. He can feel how pale eyes stares, and oh he burns under the attention.

Want to feel your ass sucking me in again, clenching so tight around my fat cock baby. I want you all dripping wet and praising my name as I fuck you so good and hard.

And Steve's doe eyes goes impossibly wide at the last line.

Can't wait till after school. Meet me in the janitors closet after class.

Billy is the first to stand when the bell rings out, and he makes sure that Steve catches how he licks his lips, stares intensely, as he struts out of the classroom, winks with a grin before vanishing through the door frame.

Steve is the last to leave, pretending to struggle with getting his books into his bag as everyone else goes without paying him no mind. This has got to be the longest fucking hard-on he's ever had, and it is painful.

When he finally stands up to leave as well, he clings to his backpack as if it's the most precious of his belongings, carrying it low in his arms but in a tight grasp, as he attempts to cover himself up in a less-than-awkward manner, but truly he looks like a moron.

Without ever even thinking about it, he finds his way to the janitors closet, needy and aching for release; to be filled completely and touched finally. Because, as much as it pains him to admit, Billy was right. Steve has just been waiting, patiently so, for the bully to reach for him again and push him around, shove inside.

From the crack in the door, light blooms and illuminates Billy's rather impatient figure that leans against a dirty sink in the darkness of the limited space. But only for as long as it requires to allow Steve through, and once the door is closed they're wrapped up in near pitch black, the only light comes from underneath the door.

But they do not need to see, when they can feel.

Feel firm and rude hands grab on to Steve's gorgeous ass. Feel a moan travel out as bodies collide. Feel teeth bite at his lower lip just to receive an apology by a searing tongue. Feel his chock-full erection grind against where Billy is quick to fill out himself.

If anything, Steve loves how small he feels when he's with Billy. Sure he's taller, with or without the hair all pomp and grand, but the way Billy just manhandles him like he weighs nothing is such an intense thrill that he can't get from being with girls. Tommy has tried, but he's just too soft and caring, and that's dangerous territory.

“Shit, ah- Billy-” Steve fights to keep low, but the way Billy rolls his hips more brutally at his sounds only urges him on. “A-ah fuck!”

“Mmh you're such a fucking pervert, Stevie,” Billy drawls out and scrapes his teeth along Steve's neck, tongue out to taste how his pulse quickens. “Were you really dreaming about me?”

“Y-yes,” his response a whimper, and he pushes Billy away just enough so that he can work at the buttons of his red shirt.

And the bluest eyes to ever exist admires the rushed movement of fingers, stares down and lets Steve do all the work that he's so willing to offer up. Once the last button comes loose, Steve dives right in; wraps his arms around Billy's muscular torso and brings their bodies flush together. He kisses and moans into the heated skin by the crook of Billy's neck, all the while bucking his hips forward to force hardened flesh together. Feels the rough pleasure nearly blind him as he gets lost chasing his high.

Enough soon becomes enough, and Billy growls out, yanks at Steve's hair to bring him away from where he's sucking a bruise mindlessly - too high for his collar to cover it. Branded in a way that might anger Billy, but there's a desire for the attention hickeys bring, for how everyone will stare and wonder.

He doesn't say anything about how badly he wants to fuck Steve right this second, just grabs him by the hips and spins them both around till it's no longer his ass that's getting jabbed at by the sink.

Steve leans back a bit and grabs hard onto the gross edges of metal, as Billy's hands makes short work of his belt and zipper, to allow way for his harsh hand to force its way into boxers wet with pre cum. And Steve takes a sharp inhale and bites down on his puffy lip to keep his voice under control.

“Can't believe how hard and wet you already are, baby,” Billy's own voice a thing of lewd intentions through flashy teeth, and he wraps his fingers around Steve's intense length. “God, you're so fucking hot. Can't wait to feel you stretched out around my cock.”

“Billy...” Steve whines and brings one hand up to pull at Billy's open shirt till their lips meet again in a feverish heat.

His own tongue is quick to surrender and fall into the slippery rhythm that Billy demands, a dance a bit too quick and uncontrollable, but it matches so well with the crazed movement of calloused fingers on sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Steve,” Billy grunts out all impatient. “Turn around.”

And Steve doesn't need to be told twice; the moment that hand is gone from down his tight trunks, he does just that, spins to then bend over, barely catching himself on the sink as Billy shoves him forward. It takes just as short a moment before his pants and briefs pool around his ankles.

The both of them share no more than two things in their lives: ceaseless impatience, and an incessant craving for the other.

“Do you have lube?” Steve asks and twists to look behind, although there's barely a thing to be seen under the cover of darkness.

“Of course, you never know when you'll need to bang a princess real quick between classes,” the grin in his tone so ardently clear, Steve can perfectly imagine what he looks like.

There's a brief rustling as Billy bends down to rummage through his back pack, and next there's a pop, as the lid to the tube flicks open.

Steve breathes something near a moan, as cold, slick fingers run across his outer rim, and his head falls to hang low. Hips move by themselves as they chase that feeling; icky at first but it all ignites something so wonderfully as one digit presses in to the first knuckle.

“Mmh yes, oh...”

“Yeah?” The broad finger moves deeper and deeper.

“A-ah, fuck, yes!” And Steve pushes onto it till there's no more length to swallow.

Billy crooks and curls around inside that velvety heat, one which he has been craving for weeks, and makes a silent promise never to go that long without hearing these noises again. Oh how Steve croons and sings out sweet little things just from one finger.

And oh how his voice increases as a second digit is added all too soon, but he seems just as eager to envelop it just the same. Pleasant little words becomes rough curses and heated pleas. Although unnecessary, Billy squeezes out more lube onto where he's fingering Steve's hole with a rapid speed, and the sounds of it all now an obscene squelching as he thrusts inside. He did say he wanted Steve to be wet.

“Shit baby, listen to that-” He slams his hand harder and works his strong fingers with all his might, coaxing out a dozen little ah's and fuck's. “-you're so fucking wet and dripping, your ass soaked.”

“Billy,” Steve is keen on crying out.

“You think you're ready for my fat cock?”

He nods swiftly. “Yes, please, I need you inside me so bad, fuck.”

Belt unbuckles, zipper runs down, and Billy grunts all too loudly as he strokes himself with even more lube. “Yeah you do,” his voice like tires on gravel; rough and heady. He throws the bottle to the floor and grabs on to Steve's hip to help guide himself blindly through the black void surrounding them.

With no mercy he bottoms out immediately, and Steve loses the ability to breathe at the stretching sensation of a too-unprepared muscle, tears stinging his cheeks, but still he pushes back till he has devoured every single veiny inch.

“I'm-I'm- ah,” he whimpers out, unable to think past where pain and pleasure mixes so deliciously.

Lube tickles as it runs down his thighs, his trembling dick dripping with pre onto the floor, and barely does he get control of his breathing again before Billy pulls out just to snap back in deep.

“Fuh-ck, Billy!”

There's a chuckle to be heard, like thunder from behind sculpted pecs, and he sets a mean rhythm of slowly moving out then shoving back inside, each slap of skin accompanied by a naughty little cry that mixes “Billy Billy Billy” with “shit fuck oh”, bordering on sobs.

“You like that, pretty boy?” Billy grabs on with both hands to ensure every thrust plunges as far as humanly possible into the mess of Steve's clenching ass. “Like feeling my big cock filling you up?”

“Yes, Billy, ahh, f-faster, please,” Steve moans out and tries to move, to increase the frustratingly slow rhythm, but Billy's fingers dig deeper into his flesh with bruising force. He's going to be all kinds of sore tomorrow, but oh how it's worth the pain then.

“Since you asked so nicely...” Billy growls out and thrusts faster, skin slapping together with such salacious sounds as he buries his throbbing erection in Steve's aching flesh.

Steve bites into his worn lip till it cracks and bleeds in his attempt to not make the entire school aware of their situation. His ever so lonesome prick dangles freely, and although he feels a near primal need to jerk himself to a quick finish, he can undoubtedly cum untouched with just the furious tempo of Billy's own lust.

A hand fists around dark locks, and Steve's head gets yanked back to where Billy bends forward to groan hoarsely into his ear, spewing out filth and biting with all too sharp teeth and his lobe.

“God you're doing so fucking good for me, princess,” his voice raw sex and fucked out, “your pretty little ass so tight around me, sucking me in deep, harrh- taking all of my giant cock, yeah?”

Fingers grip harder at the smooth edges of the sink they're bent over, and Steve turns his head to try and find Billy's lips. “Yeah,” he whines.

Billy's scorching hot tongue licks across Steve's bleeding lip before bringing the metallic taste inside, and he moves across familiar slickness and swallows every single sound that cannot be restrained, no matter how hard Steve tries to be quiet.

“Shit, Steve, I'm close,” the hitch in his voice a clear indication of the truth.

“Mmh- me too, ah-”

“Want me to...”

“N-no! I- fuck-” Steve has to pause to fight back a threateningly loud sound as Billy's steely cock hits just right. He raises himself up on his toes and feels the head hit it again and again and again. “Right there! Billy- I-I-I'm gonna...”

He can feel the grin press against his cheek, and the way Billy speaks urges him closer, “That's so hot, pretty boy, you getting off on just my cock alone, like the slut you are.”

It takes no more than that for it all to flow over, and Steve brings up a hand to cover his mouth as he paints the dirty floor in perfect white, the heat gathered between his legs blowing up and coursing through his entire bloodstream as his body tenses, muscles flexes, eyes rolling back to be blinded by fireworks that only Billy knows how to ignite.

And the brute behind him doesn't stop moving; continues slamming inside with the same continued fervor as he stands back upright. The pleasure quickly drains out, leaving Steve behind to become all too over-stimulated by the way Billy continues hitting that bundle of nerves that has already been pressed for all it's worth.

“Fuck, Billy,” Steve complains and his fingers curled around the metal twitches with the discomfort of being used senseless.

“I know, I know, I'm almost- arh-” Billy reaches up to hook his hand on Steve's shoulder for leverage, and it takes him a handful of erratic thrusts before he chokes down a moan, nails digging into supple flesh as he cums, completely submerged in Steve's fluttering hole, hips twitching till there's no more heat trapped inside.

He grabs on to the sink beneath Steve for support, otherwise they'd both undoubtedly fall down together, and he pants for air, laughs a bit too, albeit rather weakly from exhaustion.

Steve is... happy, content, tired, as he bends down to rest his sweaty forehead against his hands. This has been hell, in its own sense, of having spent most of today with a strangled boner, exhausted from too little sleep, and having been fucked till he's near sore in the most unhygienic room of the entire school. Also there's no doubt that his hair is a mess.

And then the bell fucking rings.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Can I ask for drunk Nesta flirting with Cassian in front of the ic and him getting all flustered but being secretly pleased about it???

Hell yeah you can! I love this idea! It wasn’t specified so I’m going modern here just because I’m not really sure where this could’ve happened in the canon timeline without a bunch of other factors impeding. Also I’m throwing in a dash of my fav jealous Cassian 😏

It wasn’t that Cassian didn’t want to be there. Well, no, actually that was exactly what it was. Cassian didn’t want to be there. He was exhausted and he hadn’t gotten to the gym that morning and he had a massive deadline that Rhys kept insisting they could push back but Cassian didn’t want to. He just wanted to go home and finish his report and maybe have a glass of whiskey to close off a truly awful week.

But Feyre’s art exhibit opened earlier that week and he hadn’t even gotten to see it yet and so it wasn’t like he could blow off her big party when he already felt like the world’s worst friend.

And he was completely lying to himself and everyone else. He didn’t want to be there because he didn’t want to watch Eris Vanserra’s slimy ass mill about the elegantly decorated, high ceilinged, natural light dripping, beautiful space, with his eyes glued to Nesta’s ass as if it was the art they were meant to be appreciating.

Did Cassian also appreciate every inch of her body like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo? Yeah but that was besides the point. And he had the respect to do it subtly.

“Remind me why he’s invited,” Cassian grumbled into his overpriced merlot. Because apparently only wine was classy enough for these fancy, classy, art events.

“He’s Lucien’s brother.” Azriel also didn’t look impressed by Eris’ uninvited hand on the small of Nesta’s back. Or the way he kept refilling her glass before she asked or was even done. “And he’s richer than Midas and spends a lot of that money on art.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “We have as much money as he does.”

“Yes but you know Feyre’s rule. No family purchases. She doesn’t want to be a success just because Rhys could buy and sell this entire gallery.” Azriel was stoic as usual. Betraying no opinion on the matter.

It was several hours of carefully constructed comments where Cassian pretended he knew anything about art and pretended his neck wasn’t getting increasingly hot under his collar as Eris kept glued to Nesta’s side.

Cassian had no right to be jealous. He knew that. He and Nesta weren’t anything. Casual flirting. Witty banter. Eternal, pining, unrequited love on his end that she didn’t even seem to notice or care about. So fine. Maybe Eris was her type. It wasn’t his place to interfere.

Except that she really needed a glass of water right now and-

Cassian’s hand darted out on instinct as Nesta walked past him, wobbling a little on her completely impractical shoes.

“Careful sweetheart.”

He braced for the hissed don’t call me that, but When he looked up Nesta was blinking slowly through a hazy wall of the wrong wine.

The wrong wine because Eris had been giving her a Nappa Cab Sauv all night when she preferred old world Syrah. Which was probably why she kept drinking it so quickly, looking for her opportunity to get what she really wanted.

“Cass,” she smiled. It was a little lopsided and definitely off kilter, but even through her wine brain he could see that she was playing at something. Nesta had never called him Cass in his life. “It’s so good to see you!” Her voice went up a full octave and she pressed her entire body against his as she hugged him.

The display turned a few heads in their direction. It was mostly just family at this point, and Eris who couldn’t learn how to take a fucking hint. Technically, he supposed, Eris was family. Nesta’s fucking brother in law. Was that how it worked? Was the brother of the person your sister married also your brother in law? Brother in law once removed?

Not important, moron. Drunk Nesta. Body. Wrapped in a tight sheath dress and clinging to him. Cassian closed his hands around her back and got lost for a minute.

Holding her against him like she was made to fit in his arms. Breathing in her scent like he could capture it in a bottle and spray it on his pillow every night before he went to bed.

Someone cleared their throat. Feminine. High pitched. Mor.

Nesta had already let go and was smirking at him a little. He dropped his hands immediately. “Um, yeah, always a pleasure.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Nesta’s grin was feline. She was definitely up to something. And normally he would make a stupid remark, probably something about how much more pleasurable the evening would be back at his apartment, except that she was drunk and his entire family was staring and Eris was still standing there.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” It seemed like the right thing to say. To offer. Feyre smiled a little, a silent thank you. Azriel was covering a laugh, Mor was watching them both with narrowed eyes like a hawk, and Rhys honestly couldn’t have cared less. Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe throw you into a pool,” Cassian joked stupidly.

“You should probably buy me dinner before offering to get me wet.” Someone dropped a glass. Cassian honestly thought it might have been him and he wouldn’t have noticed. Not in that moment. Not with Nesta looking at him through hooded eyes and talking about…

He could do this. His pants were not getting tight. Not at all. Because he wasn’t a damn teenager.

“I- um- do you-”

Nesta burst out laughing. It was a sound he’d never heard from her. She was usually all sultry under her breath snorts or ironic guffaws. Full, deep, angels singing, laughter was not usual for Nesta.

As evidenced by the fact the no one was even pretending not to be watching them anymore.

“I’ve got her.” Eris pushed himself back to Nesta’s side.

“Does he?” Nesta looked straight at Cassian, one eyebrow raised. “Because I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t have made it past glass two if your family wasn’t here.”

Azriel coughed. Amren cackled.

“You… do you want him to have you?” It came out wrong. The words. He meant did she want Eris to take her to get some water. Like he offered. He didn’t mean, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t…

“I want you to have me.” She was drunk. She was so drunk and it shouldn’t have been hot but fuck him it was. It wasn’t some sloppy college night out messed up drunk. It was a woman whose inhibitions had been soaked in wine just enough that every word out of her mouth was low and hot and honest.

“Find somewhere else to be, Vanserra.”

“Hey man what the fuck? We were talking-“

Cassian scoffed, snapping out of whatever flustered mess Nesta had put him in. “Anyone who gave her that much Cab Sauv doesn’t deserve to talk to her. Get lost.”

“I saw you eyeing the bottle,” Nesta laughed a little, swaying on her toes. Cassian moved his hands from a support on her bicep to a full arm around the waist support. Even if she did try to fall he could lift her with one arm easy. “Thought you might say something after…”

After the night they spent in her apartment with a bottle of her favourite Syrah only a week ago. It hadn’t been on purpose. Feyre and Elain and Azriel and Lucien were all supposed to be there. And they all conveniently cancelled only after he’d already showed up.

Which, judging by the barely contained grins on their faces, was even less of a coincidence than he thought. Busybodies.

“I’d offer you a glass of Syrah now, but I think what you need is a coffee.”

“Oh but then I’ll never sleep. And I do think I’m ready for bed.”

Sensing that he’d lost, Eris swore under his breath and stomped off.

“Let me take you home, Nes.” Cassian whispered into her hair.

“Hmm, your place or mine.”

“Yours,” he kissed her temple, pulling her legs out from under her and not even paying his family a backwards glance. “For a nightcap of 2 big glasses of water and a bottle of aspirin that I’m going to leave on your nightstand for the morning.”

“You don’t want to be there in the morning?”

Cassian groaned. “You said it yourself, Sweetheart. Dinner first.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down.” Nesta sighed, head lulling onto his shoulder.

“Actually go for dinner with me next week and I promise to never bring this night up again. And bribe our friends to do the same.”

“Deal,” Nesta said immediately.

An hour later after Cassian had supervised Nesta drinking her water he was about to leave her apartment when she yawned.

“Hey Cass,” she mumbled, half asleep.

“Yes sweetheart?”

“You made a bad bargain. I would’ve gone out with you either way.”

Cassian chuckled, a low rumble. “I’m satisfied with the bargain I made.”

“Cheesy as hell.”

“You love it.”

Nesta laughed, “I am prepared to tolerate it at best.”

“Good enough for me.”

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic  

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.” 

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze. 

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.”  Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile. 

It’s been a real headache of a night. 

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm. 

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right. 

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County). 

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

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

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.��� Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes. 

“Like-- like-- with a combine?” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.” 

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

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

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big. 

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold. 

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks. 

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow. 

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole. 

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering. 

“What?” Dean demands. 

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive. 

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?” 

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.” 

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on. 

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks. 

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!” 

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out. 

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth. 

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground. 

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat. 

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

[def-initely-soul]

Jungkook, 6th bullet from first link plus "we only have to make it till blah blah 7hours away". Preferably enemies to lovers and he is dressed as a vampire 🤤

hmmm... I see how it is... 👀

pairing: jungkook from bts x reader (f.)

prompts:  we’re in costume and I know exactly who you are but pretend I don’t so I have an excuse to make out with you just once & “We only have to make it until sunrise, which is… 7 hours away.” 

genre: e2l au; murder mystery party au; smut; explicit

warnings: mature language; heavy petting; sexual content

words: 2.4k

.

.

You never should have come to Seokjin’s Halloween party.

You should’ve, you should’ve known he was bound to pull something out of his ass. Besides, that’s what he’s best at. Surprising you with elaborate schemes you never claimed you wanted to be a part of and then being a part of nonetheless.

And now you’re stuck with the one person you’d rather jump off to a tank of piranhas instead of being in the same space as him.

Seokjin, as well, went full-on Halloween mood and prepared an elaborate Murder Mystery party that doubled as an escape room theme as well. Basically, you were supposed to escape the room you were in, together with as many people you were inside with and then use the clues you found to track down the killer.

What Seokjin failed to mention, or deliberately concealed, was that at the time of the announcement, wherever you were, immediately became your personal escape room. So once his announcement over the speakers came to an end, the door to the kitchen where you were currently in, was locked shut, leaving you inside to try and figure out a way out.

And now you’re stuck with Jungkook of all people.

Seriously you’d rather eat rat poison instead of being locked up in a room with him. And that’s a painful death.

Strangely enough, he hasn’t attempted to talk to you for the past fifteen minutes you’ve been locked in here. Usually, he’d try to rile you up with backhanded compliments or straight-up mockery but not tonight. Tonight, he sits at the other side of the room, eyes fleeting over the dark walls and fake cobwebs to hunt for some, any clue. But his gaze never falls on you. Like he’s trying to avoid you or something.

That’s a first.

You sigh with a raise of your shoulders. Yeah, it sucks to be stuck here with him but you should make the best out of the situation and work together if you want to get out. “So, got any idea what to do next?”

Once you speak, the vampire-dressed boy turns to look at you with wide, doe-like eyes. Damn him for looking so adorable in a vampire costume.

Well, it’s not exactly a vampire costume, you guess he couldn’t be bothered enough to buy an actual costume. So instead, he’s dressed in black, leather pants that hug his legs tightly, drawing attention to his thick thighs and his tiny, little, huggable waist. On top, he’s wearing a black shirt with white details and the first three buttons undone, revealing the expanse of his silky smooth looking chest. The audacity of this man! As if he’s not hot enough to have girls dying at his feet, he also has to tease them mercilessly with just a sliver of skin too!

To top it all off he’s wearing a black, leather jacket and his hair is styled with some kind of gel that makes it look wet all the time as if he just got out of the shower. He wears red contacts to complete the look with just a few droplets of red syrup running down his chin and neck.

You resist the urge to slap yourself back into focus and instead you mentally berate yourself.

Don’t let his hotness sidetrack you!

“I, uh...Honestly, no clue…” he says sheepishly, chuckling softly as he rubs the nape of his neck awkwardly. Your eyes widen just a tad and you find it hard to swallow, staring at what seems to be a shy Jungkook, something you never had the pleasure of seeing before. Until now.

Wait, why on earth is he acting shy in front of you? Is this a trick?

“So, how do you know Seokjin?” he says, attempting small talk and you have to physically stop yourself from staring at him bewildered.

What does he mean “how do you know Seokjin”? He was there when you first met, what the hell is he-.

Oh. He can’t recognize you.

It’s probably the mask.

You came into this party dressed as a fallen angel. Wearing a black, thin-strapped, mini dress, a slightly lighter corset on top, paired with black wings, lace gloves, a black halo and also black mask that covers your eyes. You weren’t really in the mood for putting too much makeup on and the mask was the perfect solution to that.

Hm. That could explain why he’s suddenly acting all shy towards you.

So he doesn’t know who you are? This could be interesting.

“Uh, I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you…” you reply teasingly, a thought popping into your mind and you indulge yourself no matter how ridiculous the idea is.

Your reply has the handsome man across from you do a double-take before a smile takes over his lips. It’s sincere, nor teasing or patronizing, and you admit that when he looks like that he’s completely irresistible.

“Ah, then I suppose same goes with your name…” is his witty remark and it’s your turn to smile.

“I’d like to maintain an aura of mystery around me…” you respond, not capable of hiding the loop-sided smile on your lips, as he smiles back.

“Ah, the epitome of a perfect guest.”

“I only try my best.”

A comfortable silence stretches between the two of you as you stare at each other with curious eyes. Jungkook bites his lip in thought and your eyes follow the movement to rest on his soft-looking lips. God, you swear you’d almost-.

“What about your name?” you say instead, trying to chase away any indecent thought.

Jungkook’s smile turns into a smirk as a teasing glint takes over his eyes. “Ah, allow me to maintain an aura of mystery around me as well as you so well put it,” he responds, resting his torso on the wall behind him and crossing his hands over his chest. The muscles ripple with the movement, arms and biceps bulging against the fabric and his chest puffs up to reveal more skin behind his shirt.

You lick your lips unconsciously, not realizing you’re doing it until Jungkook’s smirk turns deadly and you turn your gaze elsewhere to regain somewhat of your bearings.

“So…” Jungkook tries to get your attention again and once your eyes are back at him, he looks satisfied. “Do you have any clue what to do next?”

You laugh out loud at that. “Sorry, all my brain cells have been effectively fried off by the entirety of Seokjin’s dad jokes,” you joke and roaring laughter comes out of Jungkook as he throws his head back, revealing the expanse of his neck in all his glory.

Shit, is he doing this on purpose? Is he deliberately torturing you with peaks of his skin and muscles?

“What do you propose we do now? We only have to make it until sunrise, which is… 7 hours away,” he comments, recalling the rules of the game. The only way to get out is to find the missing clues. Otherwise, the doors unlock once the game has ended or until sunrise as Jungkook said.

A wild, incredible idea makes itself known and you bite your lip guiltily.

Should you? You shouldn’t.

But Jungkook’s looking at you like you’re dessert. Like he wants to strip you off your clothes and devour you whole. Normally you’d never get such a reaction no matter how hard you try.

And the truth is yes. You did try.

When are you gonna have this chance again?

So you push yourself off the wall. “I have an idea…” you whisper slowly, letting your hair fall on top of your naked collarbones as you take a step forward. Jungkook’s eyes widen for just a millisecond but nothing else betrays his thoughts at the moment. Except maybe his tight grip on his chest as he struggles to not make a move yet. You watch with interest as his muscles strain beneath his clothes as he keeps himself back. His eyes though remain glued on you, following your every move, every swing of your hips as they trail down your body in appreciation.

You find a certain level of confidence as you near him.

“...And what is that…?” he replies, almost breathless and finally you realize how fast he’s breathing, chest rising and falling with every breath. His nostrils flare up, taking in your sweet perfume and he almost leans in. Almost.

You resist the urge to tease him. Instead, an innocent look takes over your eyes as you finally stand in front of him. The heat of his body engulfs you, standing so close to you and yet you don’t dare to touch him yet. But with one swipe of your hand, you could feel his biceps, you could trace the muscles of his abdomen, the expanse of his chest, let your nails graze his neck or scratch his thighs.

Instead, with his eyes glued to you, you do something.

You gather the red syrup trickling down his neck on your finger. You let it trickle down your digit as you feel Jungkook’s erratic pulse beneath your skin and as you look at him through your eyelashes, you push your finger in your mouth to lick the red liquid.

Not once taking your eyes away from his.

Jungkook stares at you with heavy exhales, heart beating almost out of his chest as he curses softly under his breath.

Then his palms press against your hips to push you closer. Your body collides with his own, hard muscles meeting supple skin and his lips fall on yours.

A moan breaks free from your mouth, lips moving immediately against him, trying to get a taste of him. He lingers on your tongue, sucking your bottom lip between his own with a roughness you’ve never experienced before. It almost crosses to neediness and the thought has wetness pooling in your underwear.

Your hands fly to grasp at his hair, grabbing at his locks roughly and a high-pitched moan escapes his lips.

You can’t help but curse at the sound, feeling like music in your ears, diving immediately back into his lips as you press him hard against the wall. His palms land on your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh and you roll your hips against him in appreciation.

“Fuck, you’ll be the death of me…” he whispers mysteriously before he dives into the skin of your neck. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on your collarbones alternating between bites and suckling bruises into your skin and another moan rolls of your tongue as you press him more and more against you. As if you want him to mold into you, to fill every empty space and press against your skin until there’s an imprint of him there.

His leg wedges between your own to press his thigh against your mound and you cry out loud once his movements bring delicate friction to your clit.

“Shit, don’t stop…” you mutter softly, grasping tightly at his hair to press him more into your skin.

His big palms knead the flesh of your ass, driving your hips to move more against his thigh, sending electrifying pleasure to your clit, feeling as if your knees are about to give out.

“Fuck, fuck, flex your thigh…” you order him and he’s quick to oblige, flexing his muscles and pressing his thigh more against you. Quickly he turns you around, pressing you against the wall, trapping you between the cold concrete and his warm body.

Your hips begin moving on their own, soft rushed breaths escaping you as you chase your pleasure. Making Jungkook picture how you’d ride his cock, the filthy notion filling every crevice of his mind, his grip tightening on your ass and with another curse, showing how affected he is, his lips return to devour your own.

You moan out loud, hands falling on his shoulders to steady yourself, to get better leverage to move more confidently against him. But then one hand begins moving down, pressing roughly against his neck, dragging your nails down his chest and abdomen. Before your fingers dive into his pants to wrap roughly around his clothed cock.

He cries out loud, head falling on your shoulder as he struggles to breathe, hips moving immediately against your palm as both of you move to reach after your high.

You move your fingers slowly against his length at first, dragging the fabric across his velvety skin. A wet spot forms on the fabric near his tip and you press your thumb on it, a hiss tumbling from his tongue in response.

“Fuck, Y/N, do it again, fuck!”

And you almost do, as the sound of your name falling from his lips arouses you more.

But then your eyes fly open as you realize he’s not supposed to know that.

“What?” you say immediately, hand leaving his cock to push him back to stare into his widened eyes. Still, you don’t push him completely off of you so Jungkook takes this as a good sign.

Though his mouth opens and closes with no words coming out as he realizes he fucked up.

“I, uh…” he stutters, trying to find something to say with not very much success.

“You knew who I was?” you demand with wide eyes and stern voice and Jungkook would be lying if he said that didn’t make him a little bit harder.

Damn it, he needs to focus for a second and stop thinking with his dick.

“I…” he takes a breath before a heavy sigh escapes him, deciding to come clean. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but if I said anything you would’ve fought with me instead…” he says guiltily and you almost go into panic mode thinking what he must’ve thought when he realised you were also into him.

But then you collect yourself. You’re both fully-functioning adults (although the “fully” part is debatable), now knowing that both of you are into each other. There’s no need for acting humiliated and panicked.

You both know what you want.

You huff a stray hair out of your face. “And you think I won’t fight with you now?” you say sternly and Jungkook swallows nervously, but judging by the tent in his pants that thing swirling in his eyes isn’t only fear.

You push him down to his knees as you rest one leg over his shoulder with a heavy, domineering gaze and Jungkook’s eyes widen as he licks his lips in anticipation.

A wicked smirk takes over your lips and your eyes gleam with lust.

“Get your mouth ready, baby boy. It’s time for your punishment.”

[midnightsnyx]

Consequences - Matthew Tkachuk: part 1

summary: you absolutely hate Matthew Tkachuk so it’s just your luck when you wind up pregnant with his child.

a/n: look at me starting a new story when i have three other WIP otg lol

i dont know if anybody has written this already but it just came to me and i wrote it in like an hour. it’s short but it’s more of an intro so there will be more parts if you guys like this one!! leave a comment to let me know :)

Consequences - Part 1

“Fuck me.”

Becca hums from her seat across from you. “Not my thing, but thanks for the offer.”

“Becca, this is serious.” You whine, still staring at your period tracker app. You’ve been busy between school and work so it took you far too long to realize that your period was late and you were never late. Your cycle was like clockwork for as long as you could remember so when you realized you missed your period, you knew immediately something was wrong.  

“It could be worse.” She says, and you stare at her in shock.

“Are you joking? What could possibly be worse than getting knocked up by him?”

“My step-mom always says that getting pregnant is the least of your worries when you have unprotected s-e-x. It’s the STD’s you’ve gotta worry about.”

You grimace and although you agree with her, you’re still freaking out over the possibility that you could be pregnant. And worst of all, with your enemy.

Matthew Tkachuk.

Tall, dark, and annoying, Matthew Tkachuk came into your life like a tornado, flipping everything upside down and making a mess. You knew you would hate him from the moment you met, when he tried to pick you up at the bar you went to with one of your best friends, Johnny Gaudreau. He used some stupid pick-up line and was oh so certain you would fall for his charming personality so you felt quite proud of yourself at his shocked expression when you tossed your drink in his face.  

To be fair, you were really drunk and fresh off a rough break-up so his dumb attempt at trying to get you in to his bed pissed you off. That was two years ago and as time went on, he continued to piss you off every moment you were forced to spend with him.

But three weeks ago, you were accompanying Johnny at a Flame’s charity event and got a little too drunk at the after party and when you woke up the next morning, it was in Matthew Tkachuk’s bed.

You were out of his apartment before he even stirred in his sleep and since then, had been avoiding him at all costs. This included not going to any Flame’s games or going near Johnny’s apartment in fear of running in to Matthew.  

“I’ll run to the store and grab a few pregnancy tests, okay?” Becca offers, standing up from her seat and walking over to where you are sitting. You don’t notice that there are tears streaming down your face until she wipes them away with her thumbs. “Try to stay calm. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Calm. You can do calm.

She gives you a sympathetic smile before leaving your apartment and all you can do is sit and wait.

“Maybe they are false positives.”

“Honey, you took seven tests.” Becca says. “I think that’s unlikely.”

Shock is the only thing you feel right now, staring down at seven pregnancy tests, all with a smiley face clear as day as if it’s mocking you. You just knew before you even took the tests but seeing the proof hit you like a freight train.

“You know it’s your choice what you decide to do, but I think Matt deserves to know.”

You’re shaking your head before the sentence is completely out of her mouth.  

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“Why does he deserve to know? All he’s going to do is tell me to get lost or accuse me of getting pregnant on purpose.” You argue and Becca shakes her head.

“Contrary to what you think, Matt isn’t a complete asshole.” She says. “I firmly believe that he wouldn’t do that.”

You frown and look back at the tests. You’ll do what you want to, but you suppose she’s right so you grab your phone and text Matthew, telling him you need to talk.

It’s less than a minute before he responds.

Sure. Meet at my place in 30?

You sigh, looking at Becca who smiles and gives you a thumbs up.

See you then.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Matt asks, smirk on his face and leaning against the door.  

Normally, you’d answer back with a witty remark but you blurt out your reason for showing up right away.

“I’m pregnant.”

You were expecting a few different reactions from Matt but you weren’t expecting him to look confused.

“Um... Congratulations?” He offers, brows furrowed and a small frown on his face.  

Your jaw drops in shock and you shake your head. “Are you an idiot? Please tell me you are kidding, Matthew.”

You count to thirty in your head before his eyes widen and he takes a step backwards. His face goes very pale and for a split second, you’re worried he’s going to pass out but then he shakes his head.

“No fucking way.” He says, hands coming up to tug at his hair. “No fucking way. You have to be kidding me.”

“I’m not psyched about this either but it’s happening whether you like it or not.” You say, getting a sudden burst of confidence. “I don’t need you, Matt. I have friends and family and I can do this on my own but if you’re half the man that some people told me you are, you’ll own up to this.” Shaking your head, you start to back away. “I’ll give you some time to think. You know where to find me.”

You can feel his eyes on you as you walk down the hallway and when you look, he’s still standing in his doorway staring at you when the elevator doors close.

[ghoulciifer]

Hey! May I request headcanons for Hawks, Shinsou and Dabi, where their s/o is attacked by a villain, please? Thank you ✨

hc: hawks, shinsou, and dabi when their s/o is attacked by a villain

cw: mentions of violence, swearing

notes: i’m sorry this took so long for me to get out :, ( but i hope you still like it!! i need more bnha content on this blog so ty for contributing ily

— i think hawks will for sure go into full panic mode.

— granted they’re all going to be racing to help you, but i imagine being hawks’ s/o means you happened to be the one person he let into every part of his life willingly.

— so when you’re attacked/injured, he will be so terrified and will immediately jump to the worst possible outcome

— he found you somewhere in the middle of what looked like a war zone; trashed pavement, debris from a fallen building everywhere, thick smoke rising in the air, and in the middle of it all was your battered body being held by some villain’s nasty claws

— without a second to spare hawks was sure to snatch you up and pummel the asshole into the ground, both of you unsure whether that cracking sound was from the broken concrete below or the villain’s face buried in it

— he’d fly you out of harm’s way to a place he was certain no one would find either of you, because at this point he didn’t even trust himself - how could he when he let you get hurt?

— hawks would be trembling the whole time he checked your injuries and inspected your body from head to toe for more, completely ignoring the way you tell him you’re fine or you “almost had him”

— he’d try so hard to mask his concern with his usually witty remarks but, seeing you so beaten and bruised made his heart constrict and he couldn’t help but eat himself up with the guilt.

— holding you close to him, both arms firmly cradling you with a gloved hand stroking your hair, hawks would coo about how strong you were and how sorry we was for not getting there sooner. any objections from you would be shut down with an affirming kiss

— “Y/N, I-... I should have been faster, maybe if I’d have just gotten there sooner. I’m so sorry, Dove”

— will want to be with you almost 24/7 after that. not to the point where it’d be suffocating, but will want to keep tabs on you much more than before. but why complain when that meant more attention from the no. 2 hero himself?

— dabi i could also see panicking, for sure. it’d take a really special someone to make him refer to them as his s/o, so seeing them being hurt is very emotionally jarring for him

— he seems like an asshole bc he is but if he’s willing to put labels on anything it means he’s letting you in where no one else has been before.

— going off this idea: i’d imagine the second he sees a hero landing a hit on you, he immediately starts seeing red and he’s determined to burn them to a crisp before removing you from the situation entirely

— surprisingly, he doesn’t try to mask his worry like hawks, he completely bares his concern to you

— even if you’re around the rest of the league; he’s gonna hold and talk to you as if you two are the only people there

— he doesn’t give a shit about himself or his reputation, all he wants is to make sure you’re safe. you’re quite literally his lifeline and he wouldn’t dream of being without you.

— “I’m so fucking sorry Y/N, please be okay”

— “Can’t believe that disgusting fucker even laid a hand on you, I should have been closer”

— will eventually calm down once he knows you’re okay or after you’ve received the care you need, then turn back into his normal laid back demeanor. only thing that changes is he’ll make an effort to check in on you more than he did before

— and the next hero that lays a finger on you? might as well be painting a big red target on their backs, because only someone with a death wish would dare hurt you in front of Dabi.

— believe it or not shinsou’s reaction is actually an even mix between dabi and hawks

— on one hand he’s going to go into panic mode and immediately blames himself for you getting hurt, and on the other he’s going to try and seem like he’s calm and collected for your sake when he’s actually dying inside

— granted by the time he’s a pro he’s definitely built himself a lot of confidence but, such as both dabi and hawks, you’re pretty special if you’re a part of shinsou’s life

— he’ll leave no room for thought when he sees you getting beat by a villain and is immediately wrapping his capture weapon around them to knock them out (takes a lot of self control to not just kill the fucker, tho)

— he’s on his knees trying to make sure you’re okay as soon as the villain’s handled. his whole body’s trembling and he’s beating himself up but he wants you to know that he’s got you now

— “It’s okay, Y/N, I’m here now... you’re so fucking strong, look at you.”

— no shame in keeping tabs on you after, will be shockingly doting on you and do everything in his power to let you know it will never happen again.

— and god forbit it ever does - because he might not be able to hold himself back, next time.

[bubbyleh]

Good Things

angst w/ a happy ending cw for unethical science and trigger phrases word count: 8,569 (nice)

Dr. Coomer knows what he’s doing is very illegal and he could get in a lot of trouble. He does not work in Biological Research, and he has no clearance to be here, especially this late. But what else is he going to do, spend the night in his dorm room?

No way. Not since they agreed to go forward with the divorce. It’s stupid and dangerous, but hey, the worst thing he’s going to find is some half-disected cow or something.

And then he finds the tube.

He didn’t realize what it was at first, the back of it was metal and faced the door Coomer came in from. It was just a weird pillar in the middle of the room, he thought, until he found himself in front of it and realized. Suspended in a green liquid, lit by fluorescent lights inside and sleeping, there was a person. He’s wearing a medical gown, and there’s an oxygen mask and other monitoring equipment strapped to him.

“My goodness,” Coomer says without meaning to.

The person in the tube cracks an eye open, clearly having heard him and woken up. He glares at him before moving his hands in a manner that Coomer recognizes as sign language.

Too bad Coomer’s very rusty. Crap, he thinks he still has his old books somewhere. He waves and shrugs with an apologetic smile.

The tube person rolls his eyes, before exaggeratedly pointing at Coomer. Then, by making a hook with his left hand and a fist with his right, he makes the shape of a question mark.

Clearly this man can hear him, so Coomer clears his throat. “Well, I’m Dr. Harold Coomer,” he introduces himself. “I work in Waste Disposal. Who are you, then?”

The question catches the stranger off-guard. He looks around as if confused by who Coomer could be addressing, his dark hair swishing after him. When he turns back, he points to the base of the tube, where Coomer notices for the first time the placard at the bottom.

BU-33Y

“Huh,” Coomer remarks, squinting at the name slightly. “So you’re Bubby, then?”

He facepalms, but the name sticks.

☆*☆

[B is the department. U is the project designation.]

Coomer nods along as Bubby explains his name. He’d been surprised when Coomer returned a week after their first encounter, doubly so when he could actually understand the signs he used. Bubby still seemed apprehensive to speak with Coomer, but he didn’t tell him to leave.

[33 is my number, Y refers to the batch I come from.]

Bubby had told him a lot about himself, or rather, the project he originates from. The Ultimate Lifeform, Black Mesa’s attempt to make a perfect scientist. Incredibly intelligent, superhuman abilities, and government property. Eventually his testing is going to involve him working among other scientists, a prospect Coomer is thrilled by.

“Batch?” Coomer questions. He feels somewhat awkward, sitting in front of the tube. Bubby doesn’t seem to mind, though.

[Same genetic code,] Bubby winces at the thought. [My brothers, I guess. I’m the youngest.]

“Well, where are the other thirty-two, then?” Coomer asks. “And all the other batches?”

Bubby looks past Coomer, deeper into Biological Research. [Gone. Some of them are around, kind of.] For the first time, Coomer notices fear on his companion’s face. [They were out too long. They died, or fell apart.] He kicks, legs swishing through the green tube goo.

“But you’re not going to, right?” Coomer has to know. He’s just met Bubby, so maybe his attachment is a little much, but this person is so smart, so witty, so intelligent! To think he could just… stop being, one day.

[No,] Bubby’s got a confident smirk on his face, but his hands are shaking. [They’re working to fix it. I’m gonna be out of here for good someday.]

☆*☆

Their meetings continue for months. Coomer doesn't bring up his impending divorce with Bubby, mostly because he doesn't want to think about it. It isn’t a crime to want to hold onto the one person who doesn't look at him with pity these days! Besides, Bubby always redirects conversation away from his own feelings, why the hell would he listen to Coomer’s?

Well, part of that assumption is challenged when Coomer finds Bubby in his tube, fidgeting with his fingers with a distant look in his eyes. He doesn’t even notice Coomer at first.

“Good evening, Bubby!” Coomer grins, putting on his best friendly face. Bubby startles, going rigid almost like a goat. “Is something troubling you?”

Bubby shakes his head almost immediately, but seems to pause upon making eye contact with Coomer. He looks away as he signs, [Actually, you might be able to help me with this.]

“Ah, what do you need?” Coomer takes a seat in front of the tube, as he often does when he comes to see Bubby. He waits patiently while Bubby struggles to find his words.

[Do you remember what you told me last week?] Bubby starts, but after Coomer gives him a lost look, he adds, [About being a man.]

Oh, Coomer remembered! He’d been showing off the enhancements he’d received from the Cybernetics department, because while Bubby was familiar with their work, seeing it firsthand was a whole other thing entirely. Bubby was trying to downplay the fact that he was marvelling his Extendo-Arms™ when Coomer mentioned that they had done a few of his transition surgeries as well.

The look of pure confusion on Bubby’s face would be something Coomer always cherished. He gave him a brief explanation on gender identity, sadly not touching on the more intricate details due to time restraints. But Bubby had gotten the gist of it! And now he was asking to know more? It was a scenario Coomer could only dream of.

“Of course I remember!” Coomer exclaims. “Would you like me to elaborate on some of the points I made? I know I had to leave before we could get into my own lived experience, but I hope the general descriptions were adequate!”

[I’ve been thinking about it,] Bubby is obviously uncomfortable. [I’m not a man. Or a woman.]

Well that’s certainly not what Coomer was expecting, but that’s not a bad thing! Finally, a friend who also isn’t cis! He shakes his fists up and down in excitement, before rushing forward to scoop Bubby up in a big hug.

Sadly, there is still a glass wall between them. Coomer slams his face right into it.

Coomer hears Bubby laugh for the first time. Even though it’s muffled by the oxygen mask and tube, not to mention sounding more like a witch’s cackle than something joyful, it’s still the most beautiful thing Coomer has ever heard.

☆*☆

For a few days, Coomer misses his meetings with Bubby. Although they weren't operating on any real schedule before, Coomer had made sure his visits were occurring most nights. But after the divorce was finalized, well… he needed some time by himself.

Bubby’s rapping their knuckles against the glass the second they see Coomer, clearly trying to get his attention. There are less wires connected to them than before, the vast collection reduced to only their oxygen mask.

“Hello Bubby!” Coomer greets apologetically. “I’m sorry for my absence recently, I had a bit of an issue…”

But Bubby clearly isn’t listening. They’re enthusiastic to the point of stimming, excitedly pointing at the large button on the other side of the room.

Coomer walks over to the button and inspects it. It’s been here all this time, yes, but he’s never really thought much about what it does. “You want me to press this?” he clarifies.

Bubby nods, hands flapping so fast there’s no way they could stop to sign. They have that evil look in their eye again, the one that reminds Coomer how vibrant they are and makes his heart skip a beat. He presses the button without hesitation.

Immediately, the liquid in the tube begins to drain, and Coomer worries for a moment that this is going to kill Bubby. But the way they’re lightly kicking against the tube wall, anxious and thrilled beyond measure, tells Coomer that this is exactly what they wanted.

Finally, the tube water is gone, and the glass drops. Bubby takes one step forward, then slips in some of the liquid left at the bottom.

“FUCK!” they yell. It’s the first word Coomer ever hears them say.

“Oh dear, Bubby!” Coomer’s at their side in an instant, helping them sit back up. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bubby shoos away Coomer’s helpful hands. Their voice is almost exactly what Coomer expected, pointed and snarky. They shoot a glare at him. “Where the hell have you been? I got the all clear that I’m not going to fall apart yesterday.”

Coomer winces, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. Bubby doesn’t even know he was married, let alone in the middle of a bitter divorce up until recently.

“I, um,” he stammers. “I had something happen?”

Bubby rolls their eyes. “No shit.” They take Coomer’s hand. “Can you grab my glasses for me? You’re about to watch me burn shit.”

Coomer tries to ignore the burning feeling in his face and chest when he looks at their hands, instead focusing on the burning feeling that comes from standing way too close to Bubby’s fire.

☆*☆

Things change very quickly after that. Bubby gets their neural implants put in—which they’re rightfully pissy about—but they’re moving forward. After all, limiting the government secrets you can tell is a sign that you’ll soon be around people who don’t know them. Besides, Coomer already knows anything they would have told him without the barrier, so they’ll always have him around!

Just mentioning that halts Bubby’s thrashing against the metal walls and medical equipment. Their hands still, their expression softens, and they tilt their head slightly, as if in wonder of the man in front of them.

Coomer feels seen in a way he never has before.

☆*☆

They wait a few days after Bubby’s “release into the wild” (as Coomer calls it) before visiting with each other again. Give Bubby a few days at work and the plausible deniability that he met Coomer during that time. But now that time is up, and Coomer’s excited to hear how Chemical Engineering has been treating his friend!

His friend. Coomer has long since accepted he has a bit of a crush on Bubby, which is kind of embarrassing to admit as he’s rapidly approaching forty years old. When you constantly catch yourself thinking about running your hand through your friend’s hair, though, or wondering what it would be like to kiss him with all those sharp teeth… it’s obvious at that point.

In stark contrast from before, Bubby visits Coomer’s dorm room. He insists that his own is nowhere near ready to receive guests in, and he’d much rather see what a lived-in space should look like. Coomer doesn’t mention he only got downgraded to this singles’ dorm a month ago.

The second he steps in, while Coomer tries to avoid thinking about how good he looks in actual clothes, Bubby starts complaining.

“What the fuck!? Why do you have a better dorm than me?!” Bubby gestures around him. “You’ve got, like, three different rooms here!”

“I’ve been working for Black Mesa for almost twenty years, Bubby!” Coomer explains. “I have a bit of seniority over you.”

Bubby rolls his eyes. “Big deal, I’ve practically been working here for thirty-eight years! That’s more than you!” He crosses his arms and grumbles about favoritism.

Coomer puts all his energy into ignoring how adorable Bubby looks when he’s grumpy.

☆*☆

“Harold! What do you mean you’re divorced!?”

They’re sitting on the couch in Coomer’s dorm, Bubby clutching one of his throw pillows. It hurt to bring up, but Coomer figures that Bubby would have found out eventually. He really didn’t want them to hear about it from a colleague of theirs that was an acquaintance at best.

“Well, I am!” Coomer attempts to keep a tone of cheerfulness in his voice. “The proceedings started just before I met you, and everything’s been finalized for a few months now.”

Bubby stands, and Coomer’s afraid for a moment that they're about to start lecturing him on trust.

They point a finger at him. “You’re telling me you have an ex we could have been bashing this whole time?!”

☆*☆

Though it takes a while, Bubby finally relents and allows Coomer to come over to their dorm, and while it’s much smaller, he loves it more than his own. It’s cozy! The two of them have to sit on the bed to watch TV, since there isn’t enough room for a couch.

Which is exactly what they’re doing. Coomer has a lot of media he plans on catching Bubby up on, prioritizing his own favorites! But they are currently watching an action movie, which he knows they’ll both enjoy. Acts of heroism and explosions? It’s like the industry was made entirely for the two of them!

They’re sitting very close, Bubby practically leaning against him. Not that Coomer’s complaining, they’re practically a heater. And given how far underground they are, he’s taking any source of warmth he can get. The physical contact is also making him very flustered, and thus, more body heat!

A huge explosion rocks the screen, and Coomer laughs. “See, Bubby! I told you there would be something in here for you!”

“Huh?” Bubby mumbles and sits up. They’re clearly rubbing their eyes.

“Bubby, have you been asleep?” Coomer asks, already knowing the answer.

They blink, the fog clearly leaving their brain. “Oh,” Bubby says, as if realizing that’s what happened. “Yeah, so what? It’s my room.”

“You have company!”

Bubby squints at Coomer, before removing their glasses. “I don’t see any company.”

“Bubby! You can still hear me!”

“The world is just blurry shapes now! For all I know, I’m alone!”

Oh, well if someone’s going to be childish, then Coomer can play their game. Using Bubby’s reduced eyesight to his advantage, Coomer snatches their glasses from their hand. They gasp dramatically.

“Harold! How dare you!” Bubby attempts to swipe their glasses back, but it’s a little hard to do that when their hand-eye coordination is shot. Coomer holds the glasses above their heads, teasingly.

“What’s wrong, professor? Can’t find your glasses?” he grins, waggling the sight aids ever so mockingly.

Coomer was not expecting Bubby to tackle him to the bed. “It’s doctor, shut up!” they growl, reaching for his outstretched hand. “Give them back!”

He does his best to shove Bubby back, but since he’s not putting too much effort in, it’s no use. Finally, Bubby’s hand manages to find purchase on the glasses’ bridge. They yank their glasses back, shouting a triumphant “Aha!” as they do so.

Bubby returns their glasses to their rightful place, smirking with their shark-like teeth showing. “You thought you could-”

Coomer suddenly realizes how close their faces are to each other. And that Bubby’s practically got him pinned against the bed. His hand lingers on their stomach, halted in its effort to push Bubby away.

Bubby seems to as well, as they suddenly stop talking, their cheeks turning a bright red that Coomer’s sure matches his own. After the longest moment of stillness, they abruptly fall back, almost fearful.

“Fuck!” Bubby curls in on themself, gripping their temples with their hands. “That was- it was nothing!”

Coomer sits up, tentatively reaching a hand out. “Bubby…”

They slap his hand away. “Stop it, Harold!” Bubby’s tone is harsh, but Coomer can hear their voice cracking. “Just stop, okay?! It was nothing!” They’re practically about to pull their hair out of their head.

“Bubby!” Coomer grabs onto their wrists, bringing them between the two of them. He looks Bubby in the eye. “Calm down. Breathe with me, alright?”

Clearly biting down whatever they were going to say, Bubby nods as if it’s the only thing they can do. Slowly, Coomer sees the tension fall from their shoulders, their arms going slack. After a few rounds of breathing, Bubby gently draws their hands back, and Coomer lets them.

“Now, what’s the matter with you?” Coomer moves to sit beside Bubby. “And don’t you dare say it’s nothing, again.”

Bubby drops their head onto their knees. “I know you’re in love with me, Coomer. You’re like a puppy, it’s not hard to read you.”

Coomer sighs. This is a rejection, then? As a divorced man, Coomer should be used to this, but… he isn’t. Not from Bubby.

Bubby looks back up at him. “And I know what you want in a relationship, and it’s not me.”

Huh?

“Not you?” The concept is so absurd that Coomer’s sure he must not have heard them correctly.

“Actual person things!” Bubby gestures to the ceiling as they speak. “Like going to the surface, or living together, or going to nice restaurants!” They frown. “I can’t give you that.”

A beat passes while Coomer figures out how to respond to that.

“You know you’re wrong, right?”

Now it’s Bubby’s turn to look confused. “What?”

“While those things are nice, I don’t need any of them in a romantic relationship.” He takes Bubby’s hand. “I just need someone who’s nice to spend time with and is willing to put the effort in.”

Bubby’s face turns bright red again. “Oh,” they say, squeezing Coomer’s hand. “Well, I can do that.”

“Can you?” Coomer’s mostly joking, still riding the high of mutual romantic feelings, but Bubby takes it seriously.

“Of course I can!” They throw their arms around his shoulders, a stupid grin now spread across their face from cheek to cheek. “Just you wait, Harold, I’m going to romance the socks off of you!”

For the second time today, their faces are inches apart.

Bubby doesn’t back away this time. “I can kiss you, right?”

“Oh most definitely,” Coomer responds.

It turns out, kissing Bubby is everything Coomer had hoped it would be and more. Their lips are warm, and the feeling of them smiling into the kiss as they grip the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, is one he’ll never forget.

☆*☆

There are certain things you don’t notice about a person until you spend a night with them. After sharing a bed with Bubby a few times, Coomer comes to several realizations.

The first is that Bubby sleeps like a log. Seriously, Coomer would have expected them to be at least a little bit twitchy. But the second Bubby’s out, they aren’t moving again until the morning.

Which is difficult in combination with the second item: Bubby is a clinger. It’s cute to see someone who’s usually so standoffish be completely affectionate at night, but not so much when Coomer feels pins and needles in his arm and he’s physically incapable of moving it out from between the two of them without waking his partner.

And waking them up is a bad idea because of the third realization, which is that Bubby is not a morning person in the slightest. Coomer already had a sense of this from their first meeting, but Bubby absolutely HATES waking up for the day. They practically need to be lured to the lab with a trail of coffee mugs every morning.

But their annoying sleeping habits aside, Coomer thinks it’s worth it. After all, he gets to hold Bubby for a whole night! Listening to them breathing, running his hand through their hair (they’re starting to go gray), he has never felt more at peace.

☆*☆

Coomer finds Bubby waiting for him outside his dorm room, standing there with his arms crossed and tapping his foot rapidly. His scowl immediately melts into a smile the second he spots him.

“Well, hello there Bubby!” Coomer waves. “What are you doing here so early? I thought our departments let out at the same time.”

“Harold, you will not believe the day I’ve had.” Bubby places a hand on Coomer’s back, serving as both affection and a way to rush him through unlocking the door. “Some idiot almost blew up the entire lab!”

Coomer turns the key and opens the door. “Well that’s not good! What happened?”

Bubby brushes past him, plopping himself on the couch with great flourish. “The man was clearly ignoring proper lab safety! The whole experiment burst into flames while his back was turned!” He seems strangely satisfied as he speaks, a look Coomer would know anywhere. “We got the rest of the day off because of his arrogance.”

Taking a seat next to him, Coomer narrows his eyes at Bubby. “Darling, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Bubby raises his hands in the air, feigning innocence long enough that Coomer almost begins to feel bad. Then he gets that wicked grin on his face again. “I did, though. I spent the afternoon eating chips in my dorm, and it was a million times better than working for this hell facility.”

“Bubby! You were supposed to bring those chips here with you!” Coomer chides him, but in reality, he doesn’t care that much. He’s proud his wonderful partner fucked over the system just a bit.

Bubby stares at him blankly for a moment. “Oh yeah! I forgot about that.” He shrugs. “They were good, though.”

“I’m sure they were,” Coomer sighs, but his obvious smile shows no ill-will behind it.

☆*☆

Over the years, the folks over at Biological Research get a bit more lenient with Bubby. They’re finally able to see some of Black Mesa's surface facilities, which are mostly just a few upper-level labs. The only condition is that Bubby is not allowed to leave the property.

That’s fine for both of them, though. There’s a lot to do on the surface if you’ve never been there before, and they end up sitting in the sunshine together, talking about things they definitely would have talked about below-ground as well. Bubby seems to enjoy the sun on their skin, acting a lot like a lizard basking in a bright light.

“I see you’re having fun,” Coomer chuckles.

Bubby is laying flat on their back, and even though Coomer knows they’ll yell at him for letting them lay down in the dirt, right now he can’t bring himself to stop them.

“It’s so warm out, Harold!” Bubby exclaims, wearing the happiest grin ever. “You know I love the warm!”

When the sky begins to darken and the temperature cools, Bubby sits back up and scooches over to join Coomer against one of the rock outcroppings that litter Black Mesa. They stretch their arm out, subtly wrapping it around Coomer’s shoulders and leaning their head against his.

“You know I love you, Harold,” they whisper. Coomer has never seen them look so peaceful before.

Coomer beams, taking hold of Bubby’s free hand and kissing his partner at the same time. “Of course,” he replies. “And I love you.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, watching the last of the sun’s rays dip below the horizon. Bubby’s gaze turns to the stars above them. Being out in the middle of nowhere, Black Mesa has very little light pollution. No matter how bright the stars may look, though, Coomer thinks there’s no way they can be brighter than Bubby’s eyes right now.

“They can’t program stuff like this into a person,” Bubby remarks, eyes still glued to the sky. “I’ve known about stars and love my whole life, but…” They falter, their expression becoming grim for the briefest of seconds. Then, they look back at Coomer. “Experiencing it is something different.”

Coomer doesn’t need to respond, not vocally. He pulls Bubby into the biggest bear hug he can muster.

“Ack! Coomer!” Bubby grunts. “Not all of us are ninety-percent metal!”

“Forty-seven point five!” Coomer corrects them, but he releases Bubby with an apologetic head pat. “I’m sorry, though. I just love you too much! I want to hug you all the time!”

Bubby’s face goes red immediately. Even after all these years together, Coomer can still make them blush as though it were their first date all over again.

“Yeah! W-well!” they stammer. “Good! You should want to do that!”

Choking back his laughter, Coomer pulls Bubby in for another, more gentle hug.

☆*☆

They’re curled up on his couch late one night, watching an old movie when Coomer decides to bring up the elephant in the room.

Coomer stops running his hand through Bubby’s hair. “Your hairline is receding. You know that, right?”

Bubby immediately sits up from where he was resting on Coomer’s chest. “Shut the fuck-”

“I was just saying!”

“I do not want to hear it!”

“Bubby, dear, you’re completely gray already. My hairline is also receding!”

“Yeah, well.” Bubby crosses his arms, turning away from Coomer. “You’re a year older than me, so that makes sense.”

Coomer shakes his head. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to settle this.”

Bubby gasps. “You wouldn’t!” He scrambles to the other side of the couch. “Stay away from me, you bastard!”

“A fight to the death!”

And with that, Coomer lunges.

☆*☆

All good things must come to an end. It’s a concept Coomer is intimately familiar with.

☆*☆

The morning begins in Coomer’s kitchenette, Bubby hunched over the table drinking their coffee out of a mug that says “Total Stud” on it. A gift from three years ago. As they rub the sleep from their eyes, Coomer bounces around preparing breakfast for the both of them.

“You’re heading back down to Biological Research again today, aren’t you?” Coomer asks over his shoulder as he fries a few eggs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Coomer spots Bubby signing, [Yes.] Must be a rough morning, then.

“Medical checkup?” Coomer asks, slipping their eggs onto two plates and serving one to his partner. But Bubby ignores him. They pointedly hold the mug with both hands, taking a long and drawn-out sip.

Coomer bites his cheek as he sits across from Bubby. “You know, they’re dragging me into another meeting down there today.”

[Clone thing?] Bubby absentmindedly picks at their eggs. Scrambled, just how they like them.

“I believe so,” Coomer sighs. “You’re sure it’s different from you?”

Bubby nods. [It’s just you in two bodies. Wasn’t like that for me.]

While it’s a relief that there aren’t going to be any more children brought up in Black Mesa like Bubby was, Coomer’s still not entirely sure he likes the implications of the alternative. A hivemind of himself just wandering around the facility? Is that something he wants?

“But, anyway.” Coomer got sidetracked. “I was thinking we could head down there toge-”

That wakes Bubby up more than coffee ever could. “No!” they shout, rising from their chair in an instant. The second they register their panic, though, it’s gone. “It’s… we shouldn’t go together. I’ll probably leave after we eat.”

Maybe it’s the way they look into his eyes, like a caged animal, but something about what Bubby says next sticks with him for the rest of the day.

“They aren’t good people, Harold.”

☆*☆

Coomer catches sight of Bubby as he’s rushed into one of the offices, through a window into a test chamber. They’re back in a medical gown again (that hurts to see), shoulders slumped as a scientist speaks to them. Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, Bubby offering him a small smile, which Coomer returns.

Then the scientist snaps at Bubby, who immediately goes rigid and turns away from Coomer.

☆*☆

“To put it simply, Dr. Coomer, the sequencing of your DNA is ideal for mass-producing clones.”

The man in front of him—Dr. Daniels, as the nameplate on his desk reads—smirks as he speaks, and it isn’t at all close to the endearing ones Bubby has. It’s cold, calculating, and makes Coomer want to squirm. When you’re the head of Biological Research, you get to be intimidating.

In the back of his head, Coomer hears Bubby’s warning. ‘They aren’t good people, Harold.’

“How did you get my DNA in the first place?” Coomer inquires, because he knows for a fact he hasn’t given them any.

Dr. Daniels just laughs at him, more mocking than assuring. “Cybernetics had a few samples on record, in the event of complications during surgery,” he says. “It wasn’t hard to get ahold of them.”

Coomer frowns. Damn, he didn’t think those were still around. ‘They aren’t good people, Harold.’

“You see, I’m worried about the shared consciousness,” Coomer looks for an out. There’s a strange noise in the hallway, but it’s easy enough to ignore. “They’d just be mindless extensions of myself?”

“That’s a simplification, but yes,” Dr. Daniels begins rifling through his desk drawers. “I apologize, I swear I had a paper here that would explain it better.” His brow furrows, but he’s interrupted when

CRASH!!

Another noise from the hallway, this time even louder than before. And people are shouting. It startles the both of them.

Dr. Daniels grumbles, “What the hell is happening out there?”

The office door flies off its hinges in a fiery burst of energy, and a figure steps in. And figure is the right word, because it’s difficult to make out any features beyond pure black and literally engulfed in flame.

Oh fuck.

That’s Bubby, isn’t it?

They look between the two people in the office, finally settling on Dr. Daniels. They point towards him as they speak.

“You.” Their voice is full of malice, more than Coomer’s ever heard from them before. They take a shambling step forward, leaving a trail of fires and scorch marks behind them as they walk. “Get away from him.”

But Dr. Daniels makes no move. “Now, now, Subject 33, there’s no need for this.”

Bubby is careful to avoid Coomer in his approach, made easier by the fact that Coomer has retreated to the side of the office. He can’t really escape without jumping through fire, and, well…

He can’t leave Bubby.

“I’m not going to let you hurt him,” Bubby hisses, climbing onto the desk and raising a hand to strike. “Not like you hurt me.”

Dr. Daniels isn’t afraid. He only shoots a disappointed glance Coomer’s way. “I see.”

He turns his attention back to Bubby. “Thirty-three drop.”

They’re just words, but they have an obvious effect on Bubby. Their flames extinguish immediately, leaving them smoking slightly. Their limbs go slack, and they fall backwards off the desk.

For a moment, Coomer is convinced Daniels killed them.

“What a shame,” Daniels walks around the desk, grabbing onto the back of Bubby’s medical gown. “You were doing such good work in Chemical Engineering. We’ll have to move you, now.”

As Daniels drags Bubby behind him, Coomer meets their eyes again. Despite the limpness in their body, Bubby is wide awake and begging, pleading for help.

But Coomer is frozen still.

Daniels unceremoniously drops Bubby in the hallway, calling out to the survivors of Bubby’s rampage to put them back in the tube for now. He closes the door after that and looks at Coomer.

“Now, as for you…”

‘They aren’t good people, Harold.’

☆*☆

All good things must come to an end.

But, thinking back on it, Bubby wasn’t just a good thing. No, the term “good thing” is not enough to describe the impact they left on Harold Coomer’s life. He knows it isn’t, not with the way he wakes up cold every morning, reaching for a warmth that isn’t there. Coomer finds himself boxing up leftovers more often than not, making enough food for two out of habit. He cries whenever he finds something in his dorm that Bubby left behind, like their mug or a sweater.

All good things must come to an end, but Bubby was more than that. Bubby was always more than people wanted them to be, everyone except Coomer. And when you spend so long living with so much, the absence is terrifyingly empty.

Bubby was an inferno. Bubby was the stars in their eyes. Bubby was passion, and intellect, and bravery, and cowardice, all in one.

Bubby was loved.

☆*☆

It goes like this.

Coomer is transferred to Biological Research, where they can keep an eye on him. He is not given a choice. He will participate in the cloning experiments, and he’ll live with it.

Bubby’s been transferred somewhere else. Their dorm has been moved. Coomer is not to speak with them again, under any circumstance.

Life continues, but it doesn’t move on.

☆*☆

Several times a day, Coomer catches himself thinking about Bubby.

‘What are they doing right now?’

‘Where are they?’

‘I miss them.’

‘Bubby would love this.’

‘Bubby would hate this.’

‘I should tell Bubby about this!’

It always hurts.

☆*☆

Coomer has to figure out grounding methods on his own. Everytime a new clone pops out, a piece of Coomer disappears for good. He loses items more often, because his thoughts strayed to a clone’s at just the wrong second. He still remembers things, but it’s getting harder and harder everyday. Some days his head is cloudy, and he can’t quite figure out what it is he’s supposed to do at work.

If Bubby were here, they would make fun of him. Yeah, they were kind of a jerk, weren’t they? A loving, wonderful jerk. But they wouldn’t have complained, there’s no doubt in Coomer’s mind.

Some days, when he wakes up, Coomer doesn’t remember that Bubby’s not by his side anymore.

☆*☆

Things don’t get better, but over the course of fifteen years, they do get easier.

Coomer starts making friends again, a young man by the name of Gordon Freeman. Coomer can tell he’s stressed out being so young in such a competitive field (especially working in Anomalous Materials, the things he’s heard about that department…), so maybe he takes a bit of a mentorship role to him.

It’s nice. They’ve known each other for a year at this point, and, well, he’s kind of like the son Coomer never had.

Gordon mentions that there’s a big test coming up, apparently his team is pulling other Anomalous Materials teams in just to make sure everything runs smoothly. And though it’s complicated, his job is rather simple. Push a crystal into a laser!

What could go wrong?

☆*☆

Of course Coomer shows up the day of the test to support Gordon! He hasn’t got anything better to do today, so he might as well see what all the fuss is over at Anomalous Materials.

It’s easy enough to bullshit his way past their front desk, having a million clones of yourself running around means there’s a million spots for you to fill should you need to. He briefly greets Gordon in the locker room, wishing him luck as he hurries on his way.

But, finally, he finds his way to the control room. The perfect place to watch from!

There are two scientists inside, both of whom are tall and lanky. One’s pretty young, Coomer thinks he must be around his mid-thirties. And the other-

“I swear to you, Tommy, this man says-”

He stops the second he spots the intruder, face slightly twitching in a way Coomer knows means he's resisting wincing. He’s lost more of his hair since Coomer last saw him, and though it’s been fifteen years, he’s aged pretty well, all things considered.

“Bubby?” The name comes tumbling out of Coomer’s mouth before he can stop himself. There's no way…

That does something to the scientist, dropping his stern expression for something softer. “Harold? Is that really-”

They’re interrupted by a clattering noise in the test chamber, all three of them turning to see Gordon has entered, accompanied by a security guard.

“Fuck,” Bubby swears. “What the hell is he doing?”

The other scientist, Tommy, preoccupies himself with yelling back and forth with the security guard.

“Tommy, do you know this man?” Bubby snaps (Coomer doesn’t remember him being this standoffish), appearing annoyed when he receives no answer.

“You know, he didn’t bring his passport!” Coomer jokes, trying to lighten the mood but…

Bubby is pointedly looking away from him, his attention focused on the computer terminal in front of him. He keeps mumbling about how fucked the technology in this part of the facility is, and honestly, Coomer agrees. Why they’re having Anomalous Materials run such high-risk tests in such a poor state, he has no idea. It’s like they’re asking for something terrible to happen.

And something does.

Things get worse as the test continues. The Anti-Mass Spectrometer begins to smoke, the computers in the control room are clearly on the fritz, and Bubby is still ignoring Coomer. But everything goes wrong after the crystal sample is placed in the laser.

They attempt to shut the Anti-Mass Spectrometer down, but it doesn’t work. Electricity arches throughout the room, striking the walls and loosening panels. All at once, an explosion rocks the test chamber, sending the three scientists ducking to the floor.

While Coomer doesn’t understand whatever the hell just happened, Bubby and Tommy certainly do. The second the test chamber stills, they rush out of the control room, heading two separate directions.

Some little part of Coomer’s heart that remained intact shatters.

☆*☆

Between all the zombies and aliens wandering around and the sheer destruction that’s been wrought on the facility, it’s quite obvious that Black Mesa has become defunct. As their team of five travels through the depths of their workplace, Coomer revels in the fact that he finally has an opportunity to get rid of these clones. With each of their deaths, it’s like a part of himself comes back.

Bubby catches on. Coomer occasionally spots him taking out a clone from the corner of his eyes.

That first night, after they all stop to rest, Coomer is surprised that Bubby chooses to sit next to him. After a full day of nothing from Bubby, Coomer had thought he was losing him all over again.

“This is the end of Black Mesa, isn’t it?” Bubby asks. Despite their proximity, he still won’t face Coomer.

Coomer looks out at the sleeping forms of their companions. Gordon is still stuck in his Hazard Suit, which probably makes sleeping even more uncomfortable. Tommy, meanwhile, has taken off his lab coat and bunched it up into a pillow.

“I believe so, Bubby,” Coomer admits.

Bubby sighs, but it’s not disappointment. It’s relief. Coomer is shocked to feel him take his hand into his own.

“It’s good to see you again, Harold,” he finally confesses. “You won’t believe how much I missed you.”

Coomer chuckles. “I have some idea.” Every nerve in his hand is buzzing, and if he was too old for this when he and Bubby first started dating, then he’s definitely too old now.

“So what are we doing, then?” Bubby’s being vague on purpose.

“Well, we should probably…” Coomer’s thoughts drift back to their final encounter, “talk. About everything. And then, I suppose, if you’ll have me…” He looks to Bubby, hope in his eyes.

Bubby scoffs, trying to keep his voice down. He leans his head against Coomer. “Seriously? You want to pick up where we left off fifteen years later?”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t!” Coomer says. “Who’s around to stop us now?”

Instead of arguing, Bubby lets his head drop down to Coomer’s shoulder. “You have a point,” he whispers after stifling a yawn. “We’ll talk in the morning?”

“We do need our rest,” Coomer concedes, resting his head atop Bubby. “Goodnight, then.”

Bubby falls asleep fast, like he always did. As for Coomer, despite the two of them laying against a concrete wall, it’s the best sleep he’s gotten in years.

☆*☆

While Bubby sticks to Coomer’s side like glue, it’s clear they’re avoiding being alone with him. They’ll slyly take ahold of his hand as the two of them walk side-by-side, but the second the team rounds a corner ahead of them, they’re dragging Coomer forward while shouting “We’re going to be left behind!”

They still haven’t talked about that last day.

But Coomer finds himself unable to complain too much. Having Bubby with him again, smiling and laughing, holding them… it’s everything he ever wanted.

☆*☆

When they finally make it back to the surface, Gordon has a great idea.

“Why don’t we just climb?” He gestures to the rocks in front of them. “Why don’t we just go over the rocks and fucking get out of here? We’re at the surface…”

Bubby tries to deter him, reminding Gordon that they’re in the middle of nowhere, but Coomer gets an idea.

“I could always try to clear the mountaintops with my SuperLegs,” he suggests, and when he doesn’t hear no, he goes for it.

He’s up there for but a few seconds, but what he sees beyond the walls of Black Mesa shakes him to his core.

There’s nothing there.

☆*☆

After the rocket launch, Coomer catches Bubby staring out the window instead of sleeping. Their eyes are trained on the night sky, watching the stars twinkle with a determination Coomer’s never seen before.

“Bubby,” Coomer calls out to them, shocking them from whatever trance they’re in. “You should really sleep.”

To be honest, it’s more for his sake than theirs. He just needs to feel Bubby by his side, tonight more so than any.

“Right,” Bubby moves back to Coomer’s side, nestling their face into his shoulder. “When you- I didn’t realize you were telling the truth, earlier.”

Coomer sighs. “You saw it too?”

They nod, mumbling, “There’s really nothing out there, is there?”

What do you do when facing down the limits of your own reality? What is there to do but seek comfort in that which makes you feel human?

☆*☆

Bubby's been whispering with Benrey. Occasionally the two of them will fall behind or run ahead of the group, mumbling to each other as they glance around nervously. While it is suspicious, Coomer knows Bubby! He hasn't heard anything terrible from him!

But still, he is acting rather strange.

"Bubby, dearest?" Coomer asks. Bubby is apparently back in one of his clingy moods, as he wrapped his arms around Coomer the second everyone decided to take a break and refused to let go.

Something about the word "dearest" irks Bubby. His eye twitches, which is definitely not the effect it had on him fifteen years ago.

"What?" Bubby's obviously fighting against a harsh tone, a contrast to the fact he's currently holding onto Coomer for dear life.

"I wanted to make sure you were doing alright, after yesterday," Coomer continues. "You’ve been on edge today."

Bubby grimaces. "Maybe it's the alien invasion we're fighting off."

"You know that's a flimsy excuse."

"What does it matter?" Bubby huffs. "What does any of this matter?"

In all his years of comforting Bubby, of offering words of encouragement in the face of dire circumstances, Coomer has never fallen short of words like he has now. How can he provide him with answers that he himself is reaching for?

Bubby notices his hesitance and sighs, tired. His eyes are stern and hollow. Without another word he stands, joining the rest of the group and leaving Coomer behind.

☆*☆

Coomer is too trusting. How many times over the years has Bubby called him a fool? Lambasted his desire to look for the good? 'The world isn't as kind as you imagine it, Harold, get your head out of the clouds.'

Bubby and Benrey betray Gordon. Walking towards that dreaded room, Coomer notices that same hollow expression on Bubby's face, his words betraying him.

A second before the lights go out on Gordon, Coomer sees the most twisted grin worm its way onto Bubby's face. A grin he can hear wiped away when Gordon screams in pain, knife tearing through flesh.

The whole time, Coomer is frozen in place. His PowerLegs feel more like stone than advanced cybernetic enhancements. His friend is being hurt, right in front of him! And he can’t…

He can’t..

Do anything.

It's fifteen years ago, all over again.

The second the thought crosses his mind, Coomer makes an excuse to run, hoping at least someone will follow him. He can't let this happen again, he can't be trapped by his own inaction! Gordon might be beyond saving, but they aren't!

Nobody pursues. Coomer finds himself wandering the halls of Black Mesa. Alone.

☆*☆

Stupid.

Useless.

Cowardly.

Selfish.

Spineless.

Coomer realizes it's no wonder he lost Bubby. He didn’t deserve them.

☆*☆

The clones end up being good for something after all.

When you have three hundred subhuman extensions of yourself, it turns out you have what could be described as a one-man army.

☆*☆

Coomer has a plan. Screw everything else, he's fucked up beyond measure in here. He is getting out of this game, one way or another.

He's got all the clones he could find, one surging attack should do the trick. After all, the man is suffering from a recent amputation, he shouldn't be that hard to take down. Well, Coomer didn't anticipate Tommy, but that's not too big of a wrench. He's knocked down, he stands, ready to fight again, but...

But he sees Gordon. So weak, so bloody, so delirious. And yet still walking.

The anger recedes. Coomer stands down, offering peace instead. Despite everything, he can’t bring himself to hate Gordon.

☆*☆

They find Bubby locked up in their tube, and with the way they enter the room, Coomer doesn't even realize they're in there at first.

Coomer is angry, he's furious at Bubby for their betrayal. They sold Gordon, their friend, out to the military! Of all people!

But seeing Bubby back in their tube, pounding on the glass, begging to be let out, for Gordon to understand they were tricked and lied to.

It isn't right.

If Coomer can get a second chance after the stunt he pulled, then Bubby can as well.

☆*☆

They stop for the night in a small room that they climbed into through the roof. As the group talks, Coomer sits next to Bubby, even lays near them when it's time to go to sleep. But he can tell, from the way their eyes keep glancing towards the bloody stump where Gordon's hand used to be, that their mind is elsewhere.

Bubby doesn't reach out for him at night, and after the day they've all had, Coomer isn't sure he should make the first move. Still, even subconsciously, they lay back-to-back as they sleep.

Until Coomer's back suddenly feels cold.

He sits up, noticing Bubby has woken up and is trying to worm their way back onto the roof. Their eyes meet for a moment, both of them silent before Bubby climbs up.

Coomer decides to follow.

The sight Coomer finds is not unfamiliar to him. Bubby sits on the roof, their knees drawn to their chest, gazing up at the starry sky above them. Their eyes are not full of their usual wonder. When Coomer sits down next to them, they finally speak.

"I fucked up," Bubby confesses, eyes still glued to the sky.

Coomer already knew that, but... "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I-" Bubby starts, but they swallow and try again. "When I saw the void, I thought that meant that nothing here mattered." Coomer wraps an arm around Bubby, and they lean into him. "That my whole life, what happened to us, it was all fake and meaningless."

"But we're real," Coomer says, not a lecture, but an affirmation. "We love, we feel pain, we have fun. To an extent, we're alive."

"That we are," Bubby agrees. They pause for a beat, before revealing, "I hated you."

Coomer remains quiet, mostly out of confusion.

Bubby pulls back to face him. "Biological Research knew the whole time that you were seeing me. They thought you were a good influence, so they didn't step in." They grip the sleeve of Coomer's lab coat. "But that day, they mentioned it to me, and I… I just snapped."

Vaguely, Coomer remembers Dr. Daniels saying he had "expended his usefulness" sometime before the cloning began.

"I wanted to protect you, Harold. You were the first good thing in my life, I couldn't let them hurt you," Bubby whimpers. "But when I needed your help, you didn't… you…"

Harold Coomer froze.

Something clicks in the back of his mind. When the soldiers attacked Gordon, Bubby knew that Coomer wouldn't act.

Bubby yanks Coomer back to their chest, holding him as close as possible. "I blamed you, and I hated that I blamed you, and I loved you. Harold, those first years without you were awful."

Coomer can hear Bubby crying, and he knows he's doing the same.

"I'm sorry," Coomer sobs into their shirt, hugging Bubby just as tightly as they hug him. "My darling Bubby, I am so, so sorry."

"Don't say that," Bubby repeats it like a mantra every time Coomer apologizes. "Harold, don't you dare say that."

☆*☆

They make it to the end. They're loomed over by the twisted monstrosity that is Benrey. They destroy their passports, and pour everything they can into knocking this bastard down once and for all.

Bubby erupts in flames, his body once again becoming a vague silhouette. Unlike the last time he saw this sight, Coomer feels no dread. There is no pit in his stomach.

This is elation.

☆*☆

They share their first kiss in years in a Chuck E. Cheese, of all places. After watching the two of them dance around each other for five days, Gordon finally feels comfortable enough to ask them what the hell their relationship status is.

Coomer opens his mouth to answer, but Bubby has a better idea. He tilts Coomer's face towards his own, leans in, and kisses him right on the lips.

It's like nothing has changed in fifteen years. When they kiss, it's like they're young all over again.

☆*☆

They survive after the game. Bubby questions it aloud one day, but Coomer doesn't want to think about it. Whatever has happened that allows their continued existence, it's nothing short of a miracle.

Bubby and Coomer end up crashing in Gordon's house for a few days, considering they don't quite have a place of their own yet. On day three, Gordon's son Joshua calls both of them his grandpas, and Coomer cries for an hour.

They move out eventually, when their government mandated hush money comes in. Not far, but Bubby clearly wants some independence. It's a nice little place, cozy but not too small.

Bubby never starts the conversations about marriage, but they're always an active participant. When Coomer had first brought up the idea, Bubby had to put their magazine down, their eyes blown wide.

"Holy shit!" they exclaim, realization hitting them like a train. "We can do that now!"

After fifteen years of absence, waking up with Bubby by his side, curling their fingers through his hair, is magical. The life they never thought they'd have—a house on the surface, with a family all their own—is reality. Coomer has never been happier.

All good things must come to an end. But Bubby has always been better than good.

[thesolotomyhan]

Narcos: Dating them would include:

Chepe’s expression is me while I stare at my laptop when my head cannons don’t write themselves. I managed to finish this one first and I hope I wrote him well @fleurfatale89​ ! :)

Tags: @fandomnerd16​ , @visintaes​

Warnings: NSFW!

Oooohh, Chepe,, let me just say- What A Man, how could you not love this Cali king

The smoothest mf, let me tell ya, even when you’re married to the man , he has you blushing all the time

Like, whenever he has the chance, he’s whispering the most dirtiest shit in your ear just to see you squirm as he just smirks-

But whenever he’s feeling all mushy, he’s giving you the most heartfelt compliments, just- the way you look up at him and smile makes his heart flutter-

I low key see him still maintaining that sassy and hard exterior he has but when you’re around him, he’ll melt and become the softest man in the room

Like, whatever you need, he’s doing it for you with no argument whatsoever, it doesn’t matter who he has in front of him,,, 

He’s dropping everything to do whatever you need from him- 

He’s definitely thinking about your future’s all the time,  how he not only wants to marry you but also grow a family with you- I can’t, I just know Chepe is a family guy-

ok, anyways, you’ll be walking into the room where he’s talking about negocios, and he’ll forget about whoever he’s talking to and give you fucking heart eyes

He’s calling you over and pulling you into his lap as he relaxes into his chair again, 

“Ahora sí, sigue diciendo lo que vos tiene en mente”

No one has the balls to tell him if you can leave so that they can discuss business, and if they do, ohhhhooho,

He’s giving that death stare and just saying

“Vos puede decir lo que tiene que decir enfrente de ella” - a power move*

You have to have the utmost respect when your in the room and on the ground you walk on, alright-

Dates with Chepe are simple, like they’ll consist of café and fast food in New York

but in Cali, it’ll be like a Mariscos “restaurant” ,, but again sencio

This man is ordering the whole menu for you both, if he’s taking you out, he wants to make sure you eat well :)

But either way, you’re both always laughing and having the best time together, it doesn’t matter to him where you’re both at, he just wants to see you happy :))

Late night walks through New York- yes please-

Like can you imagine, he takes you to see like New York City at night,, at the top of a building or over the waterfront and he’s just hugging you from behind as you both admire the view, but he’s too busy just watching you, you’re his best view 🥺

When you’re taking your late night strolls and it gets cold, he’s giving you his ugly signature yellow jacket to keep his cariño warm

Fuck, when the jacket is too big for you, he’s laughing at you because you look so cute, as he kisses your forehead-

Ugh, the Cali parties, that’s where he loves to show you off, always having an arm wrapped around your shoulders, and the fucking smile he has because he has the most beautiful woman in his arms,,,

He tries his best to not leave you unattended at these parties,,

Like, when he’s not discussing things with the rest of the gentlemen of Cali, he’s sitting right next to you with you tucked into his side-

I can see him whispering into your temple at how he judges everyone that comes into sight when he gets bored,, it’s a fun pastime he has with you, because when he makes a particular rough comment, your playfully hitting his chest and scolding him

To outsiders it looks like you’re just a playful couple but little do they know that Chepe just roasted the shit out of them

Being best friends with Pacho, another yes, he fucking adores your relationship with Chepe

“Ella es la única que tiene vos agarrado por los huevos, Chepe,,, que mujer, la adoro”

The fond look Chepe has as he looks at you talking with Gilberto or someone,,,, just, the laugh Chepe lets out as he looks back at Pacho-

Ooohho, cuddling on the couch,,,

Nothing beats the feeling of just watching a movie or something with you in the comfort of your cozy home

Godd, when you fall asleep on top of him when it gets really late, the way he’ll smile and pick you up and take you both to bed,,, his forehead kisses are the BEST, im gonna cry

Or the way you run up to him when you hear the door open after he comes home from killing some people

He laughs as he picks you up by one arm and twirls you around,,

Meanwhile, your trying to make sure he’s alright and not hurt,,

“Calmese mi boñita, estoy bien, ya le llegue”-ughh

Can you imagine the way he’ll look at you when you wear his shirts around the house,,,

The first few times you did it, he was so confused as to where his cleaned shirts would go but ohohoho, when he called you about this problem and saw you walking into the room, wearing his shirt, his heart melted

“Lo quieres? Perdon, mi amor, no sabia que te la ibas a poner hoy”

He’s laughing as he shakes his head and comes to pick you up,,,

“No, no, déjalo,se te ve mejor a vos, mi angelita "

Soft!Chepe has my heart. 🥺

NSFW:

Buckle up because Chepe, takes any excuse for having sex with you

You’re having a bad day? He’s making you feel better. You’re mad at him? Forget it, he’s making you question what the problem even was. You're happy? Let’s make the day even better for you.

Whatever the reason, he has an even bigger reason to have you in bed

Lingerie is this man’s weakness,,, holy shit

Like he thinks you wearing his shirts is the hottest thing ever, but you know what tops it off?

When you unbutton said shirt and you have his favorite lingerie underneath-- ohhh, he just died by the sight of that-

Like, I imagine him coming home and you’re quickly leading him to sit down on a chair to welcome him home,

Once he’s seated, you’re backing up to unbutton the shirt, with the new lingerie he bought you recently,

Chepe is immediately leaning forward to pull you on top of him,

“Hijo de puta-, ven para aca, mi bonita” -

Heavy makeout sessions before he has you screaming his name? Another yes.

Nothing gets him going than seeing you slowly starting to lose your patience with him when he doesn’t hurry to relieve the growing knot you feel

“Chepe,, amor”

While you’re desperately squirming and trying but failing to unbuckle his pants when he moves your hand out of the way,,,

“Que mi bonita? Dime que necesitas?” as he’s giving you kisses around your face-

The buildup is what he lives for, caressing every part of your body,

The way you squirm and try to grind your hips to his-

Praising you for your beauty every time he takes a new article of clothing off of you,,

The way he’ll hold your leg when he finally pushes into you-

Chepe would plant his hands near you head as he thrusts into you because he’s able to see how you react and just admire how you throw you head back

He’ll be slowly but roughly thrusting into you while leaving marks on your jaw, thats his favorite place :) because there’s really no way to hide his marks on you

Buttt, *ahem* you know he’s using his hands to stimulate other places, the way you open your legs a little further gets him going

when your enojada with him,, he’s going down on you for as long as he wants, my man is not stopping until your crying from pleasure-

,,, making sure you even forget why you were mad at him in the first place

“No que estabas encabronada, bonita? Y ahora, mirate”-

Fuck, the way his mustache f e els-

He loves it when you run your fingers through his hair, it reassures him that he’s making you feel good

He’s definitely leaving marks on your inner thighs too,, like he’ll tease you by inching real slow to your core all while maintaining eye contact with you, the fucking smirk he’ll have,-

He has no problem having you top him,, he even encourages you to do it, honestly, it’s one of his favorite positions...

God, the way he’ll laugh when your hips stutter and you plant your hands on his chest to steady yourself

��Siguele, mi amor, no pares”

The way he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and start to kiss your chest as he helps you bounce on top of him-

Have you seen his fucking arms? 

No, but lowkey, going back- he really loves having frustrated sex,

Like, everything happens so fast, you’ll be arguing over something as your anger rises and you start to walk out the room and the next thing you know, he’s grabbing you and roughly kissing you

He’s taking off your clothes as he doesn’t stop kissing you and walks you to the bedroom, while you’re hurriedly trying to take his off as well, like even though you want to stop him because you’re mad, you can’t at the same time,,,

I can see that he’ll playfully throw you on the bed and drag you to the edge-

“Aver si sigues de cabrona conmigo, preciosa”

The way he’ll silence before you even have time to give him a witty remark,,

He’s not giving you time to adjust, he’s relentlessly pounding into you as you arch your back into him

And the way he’ll wrap one of his arms under your back and push you into him even more as his thrusts don’t stop-

Nothing excites him more when he feels how you harshly scratch his back and loudly moan his name

 the chuckle that comes out of him when he sees just how responsive you are to him

Wow- Chepe just acts like a horny fucking teenager all the time, but man does he deliver, my man knows how to please 😌

[dweetwise]

presenting the weirdest and crackiest but also fluffiest shit i’ve ever written, i bring you nearly 5k words of riconti snail au snippets. if you haven’t seen @skllyr‘s adorable art about them, you should!

ship: felix x ace warnings: none word count: 4850

Felix X Ace: Love is stored in the snail

Ace Visconti thought he’d seen it all; from lavish spectacles of prestigious poker tournaments to the dangerous underworld he inevitably ended up involved with, and finally to a realm where the laws of nature meant nothing and death wasn’t permanent. But what eventually takes the cake for Weirdest Shit Ace Has Ever Seen isn’t one of the otherworldly monsters hunting him or seeing one of his numerous wounds heal up right before his eyes; it’s a snail. A goddamn snail. It just appears at the campfire one day, sitting on top of a medkit Dwight reaches for and causing the boy to yelp in surprise once he sees the small stowaway. Ace doesn’t quite understand why everyone is suddenly so eager to take a closer look at a random slug instead of hearing one of his exciting and totally-not-embellished stories, but he joins the small commotion forming around the snail nonetheless. And then he suddenly sees why. The snail not only has an eye-catching light blue shell with a gaudy flamingo pattern on it, it’s also dressed up in tiny sunglasses and a baseball cap between its antennas. Ace looks down at his own pastel blue flamingo sweater and fidgets self-consciously with his shades, wondering whether he should bring up the uncanny likeness— “Is it just me, or does the snail look Ace?” Laurie asks, glancing between Ace and the bug with furrowed eyebrows. “No, I… definitely see a resemblance,” Dwight says. “What should we name it?” Claudette asks. “I mean it's a snail that looks like Ace, so… Snace?” Nea suggests. “Snace it is!” Meg decides, snickering at Ace’s misfortune. “I'm glad you're having fun,” Ace snorts, glaring at the snail for stealing his spotlight. The girls hurry to make a home for the snail in the medkit, which Ace finds all kinds of ridiculous. They give it some bandages and twigs to hide and "play" in, whatever the fuck that means for a snail, and Claud gives it edible flowers to nibble on.

Ace tries his best to ignore the snail, but when he gets back from a trial and sees some of the group passing it between their hands and taking turns to hold it, he can’t help watching them. It’s Dwight’s turn now, their leader cradling the snail in his hands and looking way too happy with the situation. “Do you want to try?” Dwight asks, noticing Ace's staring. “Uhh… sure," Ace says, not having the heart to ruin everyone’s good mood. He goes to grab the snail from Dwight's hand, lifting it by the obnoxiously colored shell— “Not like that, you absolute moron!” Jake snaps, slapping Ace's hand away. “You're going to hurt him. You need to slide him off, not lift upwards,” Jake explains, showing how to do it, plopping the snail down on Ace's hand. It's… slimy and kind of gross. The snail seems confused, feeling around with its antennas. And then, it slowly starts to slither forward. “It's kinda cute,” Ace realizes, watching the little snail face with its little shades. It's the coolest snail he's ever seen for sure, but he wouldn't expect anything less from his doppelgänger. “You go, little guy,” Ace encourages the snail, poking it gently on its shell in encouragement. The snail wobbles a bit, and then its tiny face turns to look at Ace, and— “Ew, it pooped on me!” Ace realizes and Dwight chokes on a laugh while Jake smirks smugly and removes Snace from his hand. Ace could just be imagining it, but the snail looks way too pleased with himself.

Other survivors join and, sooner or later, everyone except Ace seems to fall in love with Snace. “He's just like Ace,” their newest teammate, Kate, comments. “What's that supposed to mean, Sunshine?” Ace challenges playfully. “He's a little slimey but everyone still loves him!” Kate smiles brightly and Ace’s witty comeback dies on his tongue at the unexpected heartfelt remark.

And eventually, when their small group has expanded to over twenty people, there's Felix. And no matter how hard he tries, Ace can’t help sneaking glances at the serious German. He’s tall. Blond. Handsome. Rich. Smart. Did he say handsome? Oh, and Felix hates Snace. “This is our pet snail, Snace!” Steve introduces with an excited grin while giving Felix the tour of their modest campgrounds. “A… snail?” Felix frowns. “Yeah! Do you wanna hold him?” Steve asks, already reaching his hand into the medkit. “No!” Felix recoils away, before seeming to collect himself. “I'm, um… not a pet person.” Ace tries (and fails) not to take it personally that Felix finds Snace to be repulsive and will just scoff and roll his eyes whenever the others discuss him. What the hell is his problem, anyway?

And then, something never before seen happens; they get another snail. “Guys!” Cheryl runs into camp, looking out of breath and cradling something in her hands. “Look what I found!” Ace goes to look right along with the others, and in the girl’s hands is a pale snail with a dark blue shell and a pattern resembling a suit collar on its neck. It doesn't have fashionable accessories like Snace, but there’s a tiny briefcase next to it. “Oh my god! He's so cute!” Meg squeals, making the snail retract into its shell in fear. “Aww, he's shy!” Kate coos. “Are you guys thinking what I'm thinking?” Nea suddenly says with a grin, glancing between Felix and the snail. Several heads turn in the German's direction, taking in his dark blue suit and pale complexion. “…What?” Felix asks, just as standoffish as ever. “Snelix!” Nea exclaims proudly. When several others join in to cheer and chant Snelix’s name, Felix just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in a gesture that screams "end me".

Everyone is eager to introduce Snelix to Snace, gathering around the medkit, even forcing Felix to watch. “Look, Snace! A new friend!” Cheryl says, gently plopping Snelix down into the medkit. Snace immediately starts slithering toward him, while Snelix just seems confused, rooted in place. “Aww! He's excited!” Dwight smiles. Snace reaches out his snail whiskers in a greeting, and Snelix recoils, slinking a little into his shell. “Oh, he's nervous!” Kate coos. “Don't worry doll, Snace is nice.” As if sensing the woman's words, Snelix cautiously comes out of his shell, hesitantly reaching out an antenna. “There you go, bud!” Ace encourages his snailself. “Take it slow, don't scare him away.” He glances at Felix, standing at the edge of the group with his arms crossed. If only people had it as easy as snails— “Oh, god!” Nancy exclaims in disgust, making Ace look back at the snails. And seeing Snace groping Snelix with his antennas while backing him into a corner. “Hey!” Ace chastices. “What did I just say!?” “Someone save him!” Laurie urges, but it seems Snelix can take care of himself, turning around and slinking up the medkit’s wall. “Aww, he's running away,” Steve pouts. “Good,” Felix huffs quietly from behind the group, and Ace pretends not to hear him. He also pretends that the comment doesn't sting, after trying and failing to get through the German's cold exterior for weeks.

Quentin tries to give Snelix one of his medkits to give him a place to live, but Snelix refuses to go in until it's cleaned up. “What a little snob,” Quentin snorts. “Yeah, how weird is that,” Yui smirks and glances at Felix in a way that’s definitely not subtle. Felix just scoffs and crosses his arms but, thankfully, doesn’t take the bait.

“Guys, I think Snace is depressed,” Meg says one day, looking into the medkit with a frown. “He's not even eating!” Claudette adds worriedly. “Maybe he's dying of old age,” Feng snarks. “I heard that,” Ace shoots back without any real heat. The snail isn't the only one who is feeling under the weather, Felix ignoring him for the last few days taking a toll on his confidence. “What if he misses Snelix?” Cheryl frowns. “Maybe we should try to introduce them again!” Steve exclaims. “No way,” Yui says. “Just because they're both snails doesn't mean they have to be friends.” “Yeah, let's at least give Snelix some time to settle in first,” Jeff suggests.

“Oh shit! Help!” Nea shouts not long after their previous conversation. “What's wrong?” Jane asks worriedly, immediately going into mom-mode. “Snelix is gone!” Nea says, showing them the empty med-kit. Is only takes those three words for the entire camp to erupt into panic. “NOBODY STEP ANYWHERE!” Jane commands. Thus commences the search for Snelix, with everyone participating and even Felix looking surprisingly worried. They eventually find Snelix is Snace's medkit, where they're just sitting next to each other munching on some leaves. “Aww! He walked all the way to his friend!” Kate beams. “Look how cute they are together!” Cheryl smiles. Ace feels his face heating up upon seeing the snails' close proximity. It almost looks like they're sitting next to each other cuddling while sharing a meal. He can't believe Snelix would actually come around, not to mention go through all that trouble to be with Snace. Someone probably put him there, but nobody fesses up. “Are they k-kissing?” Dwight squeaks in surprise when the snails seem to interrupt their meal just long enough to move their tiny whiskers together. “They're snails,” Zarina deadpans. “Most likely just conversing,” Adam adds. “I'm so glad they're getting along now!” Claudette sighs in relief. “Bro… what if we kissed? And we're both snails?” Feng says, propping her elbows up on a tree stump to watch the snails together. “Best snails forever,” Meg grins, joining the gamer. Ace discreetly clears his throat and mentally kicks himself for being jealous of goddamn snails. Even if him and Felix are getting along better day for day, Ace doesn't have any illusions that he’ll ever get to kiss the handsome architect. Still, a man can dream.

The snails seem happy to share a living space together and the next day, Ace even catches Felix observing them curiously. “It's funny how well our snails get along now,” Ace says conversationally, coming up beside Felix. “I'm not that surprised,” Felix says, looking at the snails climbing over each other and seeming to play together. “Looks like he just needed a little push,” Felix says bashfully. And something in Ace's head clicks at the comment. “Were you the one who put him there?” Ace asks, and Felix immediately clears his throat self-consciously. “I just wanted to try it,” Felix explains. “Maybe it would go better, since everything wasn't so new and people weren't staring. And it worked out.” Are… are they still talking about the snails? Or their own, slowly blossoming friendship? “He's been alone for so long,” Felix continues, looking back to the snails now sharing a piece of cucumber. “He deserves to be happy.” Felix smiles an adorable little smile and Ace realizes in just how deep shit he is with his stupid crush on the man. “I've never seen Snace so happy,” Ace agrees. “Just look at his smug little face.” “I thought he always looked happy,” Felix remarks. Ace fights himself for a moment, debating on whether he should be honest or not, or if he's read the situation completely wrong. “Maybe he's never had a real friend before,” Ace says, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Felix glancing at him, but doesn't dare look away from the snails.

And then one day… “Woah—what's wrong with the snails?” Steve calls from the medkit, Claudette immediately rushing closer to check. And then the botanist gasps in shock and everyone else hurries there too. “What happened—oh. Oh,” Quentin says, face flushing red, and Ace peers over the teen's shoulder to… See the snails in the middle of snail sex. “They're fucking,” Nea states matter-of-factly. “Yes Nea we can see that,” Laurie hisses, face pink from embarrassment. “Wot the—they're both blokes, innit?!” David seems confused. “Snails are hermaphrodites,” Adam points out. “Gay snails!” Feng exclaims cheerfully. “It's not gay if they're—” Adam tries again. “If what, they don't make eye contact?” Feng snickers right back. “No, I mean if they have both male and female reproductive organs,” Adam explains, looking embarrassed now. Ace glances at Felix and sees him staring at the snails with his mouth pressed into a thin line. But… he's also blushing. “Gay snails! Gay snails!” Feng, disregarding Adam's explanation, starts chanting. Jane and Laurie eventually have to pull some of the more eager onlookers away by their ears to give the snails some privacy.

One day, Felix returns from a trial and walks to Bill’s spot a little outside camp to return a map he borrowed earlier. He never makes it that far, because he spots Ace out in the woods, looking much more focused than Felix has ever seen as he fiddles with something in his hands. Ace doesn’t even notice him approaching, and Felix takes the opportunity to freely stare at the man who’s been slowly but surely occupying more and more of his thoughts. Ace’s sunglasses are pushed up into his hair and his tongue is poking out in concentration, and it’s completely beyond Felix’s understanding how someone can manage to look both so handsome and utterly ridiculous. “What are you doing?” Felix asks, and Ace’s head instantly snaps up to look at him in surprise. “I’m, uh…” Ace falters for once in his life, lowering his hands to hide whatever he was up to, but Felix catches the glint of something metallic. “Is that a needle? Do you need stitches?” Felix asks, not failing to hide the concern in his voice. “No, I—” Ace starts, but then falters and sighs in defeat. “Promise not to tell anyone.” He doesn’t wait for Felix’s reply before reaching his hand forward, opening his palm to show Felix… A tiny pink baseball cap with a thread and needle attached. “For… Snace?” Felix asks, struggling to take in the information that, somehow, this flamboyant loudmouth is making clothes for his pet snail. “He deserves a proper wardrobe, okay?” Ace huffs jokingly but pulls the project closer to himself defensively. It’s surprisingly… endearing. “I didn’t know you sewed,” Felix says instead of voicing his embarrassing thoughts. “Yeah, well, it comes in handy,” Ace points out. “Can’t tell you how many times I had to patch up a shirt after I barely escaped the cop—uh, competition,” Ace catches himself, grinning sheepishly. Felix raises a curious eyebrow but doesn’t push the topic. Instead, an idea forms in his head that he can’t help expressing. “Could you make a scarf for Snelix?” Felix says, and almost instantly regrets asking after realizing how stupid that sounds. But it makes Ace perk up in interest, and soon a wide grin is spreading over the gambler’s face. “Sure, I can do that!” Ace beams. “Why a scarf, though?” Felix is already opening his mouth to say because he loves scarves, but thankfully is able to stop himself. “They’re stylish,” he says instead. “Well well well, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were starting to like the little slimy bastards,” Ace grins. “They might be growing on me,” Felix admits with just the barest hint of a smirk. Hopefully Ace realizes he doesn’t mean just the snails.

One evening, Ace is sitting by himself, looking at Snace and Snelix living their best life. They eat a little bit of some of the flowers Claudette gave them earlier, before Snelix turns around to leave and Snace immediately follows him. They slither away to a secluded corner, laying next to each other and doing their little snail kisses, until Snelix eventually slumps and flattens to the ground, seeming to fall asleep. Snace sits next to him for a while, before he carefully moves away, slinking back to nom on the flowers. “Putting your boyfriend to sleep, huh?” Ace murmurs quietly, not wanting to wake Snelix. “I'm jealous of your life, buddy.” Snace lifts his head from the flower, his little shades looking Ace's way. “At least one of us got what he wanted. You did good for yourself, high five,” Ace whispers, holding up his finger in front of Snace for shits and giggles. And Snace, the snail that absolutely hates him, lifts one of his antennas and briefly touches his finger in a high five before going back to his meal. “Woah,” Ace breathes, a grin spreading over his face and glancing around camp, wanting to see if anyone was around to witness the event— And his eyes meet Felix's, standing behind him, staring at Ace talking to his snail like an absolute idiot. And probably having heard everything. “It, uh,” Ace starts when Felix isn't saying anything, the German's eyes wide from surprise. “He high-fived me.” “I, er…” Felix stutters in return, before clearing his throat. “I got some moss for them from Red Forest.” “Oh, neat,” Ace comments. “Snelix just fell asleep, but maybe you won’t wake him if you’re careful.” “No, I don't want to disturb them,” Felix says, crouching down next to Ace and placing the moss next to the medkit. They watch the snails in silence, Snace finishing his midnight snack, Ace debating on whether he should bring up the previous conversation or not. “Thank you,” Felix says instead, before Ace can strike up a conversation. “…For what?” “For being patient with me,” Felix murmurs. “I know I can come across as… cold.” Well that's an understatement if Ace has ever heard one. “Hmm, I guess you could say you needed some time to…” Ace says, pausing for comedic effect while he waits for Felix to turn to look at him for the punchline. “Come out of your shell.” Felix huffs a surprised laugh and turns his head away, but not before Ace sees a beautiful smile spreading over his normally serious face. They keep observing the snails, until Snace has finally had enough of the flowers, moving to lay next to Snelix. “Oh, he's awake,” Ace comments, seeing Snelix groggily lift his head toward Snace. He pushes up Snace's shades, dislodging the cap a bit before doing another little snail kiss. “Damn, that's adorable,” Ace grins. And then there's a hand on his temple, and Ace freezes as his shades are gently pushed up into his hair. He turns to look at Felix, heat rising up his neck, feeling vulnerable without the glasses, not able to hide his wide eyes searching Felix's own in a silent question. Felix's face is redder than usual but he looks more unguarded that Ace has ever seen, gaze dropping to Ace's lips while the hand on his forehead moves to cup his jaw. Ace holds his breath, not daring to say anything lest he ruin the mood and permanently mess up his chance with Felix. His thoughts are little more than white noise and excited screeching as he tilts his head up in silent invitation, and that's all it takes for Felix to lean down and claim his lips.

“Snace is getting fat,” Feng comments one day. “What!?” Ace exclaims, offended. “No he’s not!” “Hon, he does look a little… pudgier,” Kate comments. “He’s just… bloated, okay?” Ace insists, huffing defensively. “He’s a fucking fatass,” Feng corrects. “Yeah man, he’s really letting himself go,” Steve agrees with an infuriating smirk. “Okay, rude!” Ace scoffs. “Felix—” he starts, turning to his newly acquired boyfriend for solidarity, but sees the little shit is shaking from quiet laughter instead of being upset on his behalf. “Babe! Don’t tell me you agree with them!” Ace gasps in mock offense, hand over his heart. “Every time I’ve looked at him, he’s eating,” Felix manages to point out between snickers. “Absolutely terrible, the lot of you,” Ace huffs, peering into the medkit where the completely innocent Snace is… Munching on some berries Claudette placed there earlier. “You were saying?” Feng snarks, making Ace shoot a glare her way while Felix is still holding back chuckles.

When Ace gets back from a rather uneventful trial some time later, he notices Jake staring intently into the snails’ medkit. As he walks closer, it becomes apparent that the snails are having sex. “Jake, what the hell are you doing?” Ace asks the survivalist. “They've been at it for hours,” Jake says, face just as neutral as ever and not taking his eyes off the writhing clump of snail. “I'm a little concerned by how much you like watching my snail get laid.” “Nature is lit,” Jake merely offers. So Ace shuts the medkit, feeling weirdly exposed by having his snail’s private life invaded like that. “Give them some privacy, sheesh,” he chastises Jake. “Prude,” the boy snorts.

It’s only a few days before there is another episode of, as Felix likes to call it, snail drama. “Felix!” Ace shouts, making Felix sigh in fond irritation and pause his sorting of their shared stash of items that Ace has left an absolute mess (again). “Yes, love?” he asks, doing his best impression of an exasperated husband despite them only dating for what can't be more than a few weeks. And then he sees Ace's face full of both alarm and excitement, and immediately drops what he was doing. “What's wrong?” he asks, feeling the panic quickly bubbling up. “SNACE IS GIVING BIRTH!” Ace exclaims ten decibels louder than necessary, grabbing a confused Felix by his sleeve and dragging him toward the snails' home. Sure enough, there's a small commotion around the medkit, and when Felix peers into it he can see Snace in the middle of laying eggs, Snelix by his side in solidarity. “Come on dude! Push!” Feng is trying to encourage the snail. “Shh, you're stressing it!” Claudette chastises. “I told you guys he wasn’t fat!” Ace huffs proudly. After ten or so eggs, the process seems to be over, and Snace happily slithers away to go snack on some leaves. “Oh,” Claudette says, bewildered. “What?” Ace says. “I, um,” the botanist falters. “They usually lay about a hundred eggs…” “A hundred?” Ace screeches. “Don't you think ten kids is more than enough?” “Only a small portion of them actually hatch!” Claudette hurries to add. “Maybe he's going through menopause,” Jake, not so helpfully, supplies. “I'm going to smack you,” Ace threatens. Felix just chuckles and lays a hand on Ace’s shoulder to settle him.

Excited about the possibility of baby snails, the survivors take turns watching the eggs for the next few weeks. Eventually, it’s Cheryl who screams: “Guys! An egg is hatching!” Felix rushes to the medkit before anyone else, and in an instant Ace is peering over his shoulder too, both looking at the transparent, tiny antenna pushing out of one of the eggs. Snelix and Snace are right by the eggs, eagerly waiting to meet their offspring. And then the small snail plops completely out and starts wiggling around, and Ace honest to god squeals. “Look, Felix!” he says, tugging on Felix's sleeve. “We're grandparents!” “I'm… not sure that's how it works,” Felix points out, even as he smiles at Snelix petting his child with his antenna. “I'm gonna make so much baby snail clothes for her,” Ace continues with a wide grin, nearly shaking in his shoes in excitement. “'Her'?” Felix asks, and Ace falters. “I'm, uh…” Ace explains, looking away. “You said your kid's a girl, I mean based on the ultrasound before you were taken, so I figured…” Something in Felix's expression softens, touched that Ace would remember something like that. He steals a quick kiss while everyone is preoccupied with staring at the family of snails.

“What should we name their kid?” Jeff ponders a couple weeks later, watching the baby snail climb all over Snace while Snelix anxiously hovers nearby. “Ask the grandpas,” Feng snarks. “Yeah, have you decided on a name yet?” Cheryl asks, looking up at Felix with wide, shimmering eyes. “Err,” Felix says, glancing at Ace for help. Ace grins and discreetly nods toward the eager Cheryl. “Oh,” Felix seems to realize. “Yes, we were considering Ch—ehm, Sneryl.” Cheryl gasps in awe. “She does look like a Sneryl,” Jeff agrees. “What? It doesn't look like any—” Feng starts, but at Jeff's pointed look, thankfully shuts up. “She's the spitting image of a Sneryl!” Ace says, smiling in encouragement. “Really!?” Cheryl asks excitedly, looking between Felix and Ace. “Ah… of course,” Felix says, and then the breath leaves his lungs in a pained “Oof!” as Cheryl rushes in for a hug. “Thank you! I love having my own snail!” Cheryl beams while Felix awkwardly pats her on the head and looks at Ace with an expression that screams 'HELP'.

Seeing Sneryl grow over the following couple of months, Felix takes it upon himself to start building the snails a house out of a commodious toolbox. He might put in way more effort than necessary, making sure to separate different rooms with interior walls and adding corridors to entertain the snails. “Hey handsome, what're you doing?” Ace asks, placing a kiss against his temple as he comes up behind him to see what he’s working on. “I'm building our snails a house," Felix explains. "They have a family now, a cramped old medkit won't do.” Ace stares at him for a moment, and then a wide grin spreads over his face and he suddenly looks like he’s about to combust. “You’re so friggin adorable!” Ace exclaims and pulls him into a hug. And then he refuses to let go, clinging to Felix’s back like a koala while he keeps working on the house, and Felix would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. “…Can you make a poker room for Snace?” Ace asks after having observed his work for a while. “Poker? But they're—” Felix frowns, turning around just enough to see Ace's exaggerated, ridiculous pout. “…Fine. But you're making the furniture.” “You got it, babe!” Ace grins, before seeming to notice something. “Hey, what's that?" he asks, pointing at a drawn square on the side of the toolbox. “Oh. It's going to be a door,” Felix explains. “But what if Sneryl goes out and gets stomped on?” Ace asks worriedly. “I just…” Felix falters. “Thought that maybe they needed some freedom. Especially Snace.” “Huh?” Ace tilts his head in confusion. “He was alone for so long, I… assumed he'd probably get bored of the family life,” Felix says, looking at the ground in thought. He’s embarrassed for bringing up the subject of Ace’s loyalty like this, but once again, the snails are proving a wonderful excuse to talk about topics they otherwise wouldn’t. “That sounds like a load of bullcrap,” Ace grins, making Felix look up at him, still frowning. “I've never seen Snace so happy. He knew what he signed up for and there's no way in hell he's leaving now.” The reassurance feels like a weight lifting off of Felix’s chest, and he can’t stop the smile spreading over his lips. Hesitantly, he grabs Ace’s hand still wrapped around him, and Ace brings them both up to brush his lips over Felix's callused knuckles. “I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Ace murmurs, the sweet sentiment making warm affection spread through Felix’s entire body. “I, uhm,” Felix blushes, clearing his throat. “Is this a good time to point out I just had the snails crawl over the back of my hand…?” Ace sputters and immediately wipes at his mouth while Felix lets out a few quiet chuckles.

Following the conversation, Felix can’t help but read into Ace’s answer. Especially with the other survivors engaging in another round of the popular “What’s the first thing you’ll do when we escape?” game, Felix finds it difficult to focus on anything other than the possibility of a shared future. So, when he catches Ace alone, he hesitantly brings up the option of the man coming with him to Germany. “I know the possibility of escaping is slim,” Felix babbles nervously after Ace isn’t saying anything, just staring at him curiously. “But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I wanted to see where you are—” “Babe,” Ace interrupts, grabbing his arm to ground Felix from his scrambled thoughts, giving him an encouraging smile. “I’d love to.” Felix breathes out a relieved sigh, returning a shaky but happy smile over not getting rejected. And then Ace smirks mischievously and Felix’s instincts scream “Uh-oh”. “On one condition,” Ace adds, holding a finger in front of Felix’s face playfully. “Um… which?” Felix asks, nerves resurfacing. There’s not much that would make him say no, and he hopes he doesn’t have to, willing to make sacrifices for a potential future together. “The snails come with us,” Ace quips sheepishly instead. Felix chuckles and shakes his head in amusement, before pulling Ace in for a soft kiss. “I wouldn't have it any other way,” Felix murmurs against Ace’s lips, silently thanking the two dorky snails that allowed this to happen in the first place.

[hikaridemina]

*Quietly tucks this into the corner* I really want to keep making OC x canon snippets but my confidence wavers. Oh well.

This turned out way more sad than originally intended.

Warnings/tags: Angst, swearing, OC x Canon, OOC

-----

A dim ray of sunlight shone through the darkened bedroom from between the curtains. Fizz’s eyelids fluttered open with the light shining in his vision, his eyes steadily gaining a green glow as they powered back on. He turned over on his side in the bed and was now facing the bat demon sleeping soundly beside him.

He was the first one awake apparently, which was... new. Normally Demina was the one waking him up at the ass crack of dawn, so she must have been exhausted to still be asleep. Well, after what they had done late into the night, it wasn’t too much of a surprise. A sly smile crept over the jester’s face as he thought about it.

After a little while, he carefully slid out of the bed, trying very hard not to wake her up. He seemed to have succeeded, and with the utmost care he grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to cover her shoulders. He then made his way over to the bathroom, stepping around both of their articles of clothing, including his trademark outfit, that were strewn about on the floor.

He flicked on the light switch as he entered and leaned on the vanity counter to look at the mirror. A frown appeared on his face as he tapped on the shiny piece of metal that started from where his collar bone would be, then extended all the way up to the middle of his neck. The posture collar had a fancy heart engraved on the front, and was a shiny silver which contrasted with the off-white of his torso.

The thing wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t stick out like a goddamn sore thumb, but at least it was relatively hidden while he had his clothing on.

Or maybe it wasn’t the collar itself that bothered him, but the reason why it was there. He had gotten careless, let his guard down for a few seconds and it put him out of commission long enough for Demina’s life to be thrown into danger. Luckily, she had managed to get herself out of it before any real harm had happened to her, but...

Still. That event continued to haunt him no matter how hard he tried to push it from his memory, and this fucking collar did nothing else but remind him of it. Well, aside from holding his upper chest together and keeping his head attached. Honestly, he rather would have gone through the long-term repairs for that instead of this ‘quick fix’ they did on him while he was offline. He let out a sigh as he kept staring into the mirror.

Damn, feeling sad sucked. Who knew that actually, genuinely, caring for someone else would make things so complicated.

His attention was then immediately drawn to the person who just had stepped into the doorway behind him, whom appeared to have put on a black t-shirt and shorts after having gotten out of bed. He quickly turned around and forced a toothy grin as he leaned back on the counter.

“Hey Dems! Finally decided to get up, huh?”

“Yeah...” The bat let out a yawn, “What are you doing in the bathroom?”

“... Uhh.” He didn’t know how to answer that, actually. “Just, you know... things.”

Fuck. That was such a Blitzo answer.

She picked up on the awkwardness right away, especially with that fake grin of his, which she was sure if it got any wider his face would probably get stuck like that. She raised a brow at him.

Another thing that sucked was when someone else cared just as much about you and could tell when you were full of shit.

Fizz then froze completely as she walked up to him and placed a hand on his chest.

“It’s the collar, isn’t it?” She said while keeping her gaze down, running her thumb over the heart-shaped engraving.

How the heck did she know? He had never voiced to her how he really felt about it... Maybe she was just too good at figuring these things out.

“Now I know what you’re gonna say...” He gently grabbed hold of her hand to move it from his chest, his fingers lacing between hers.

“You don’t need to feel sorry for it.”

She kept her gaze down, her hand now squeezing his a bit.

“But you got hurt.”

“Well robots can’t really get hurt, so-”

He was taken aback as she shot a piercing glare up at him. Through her angry expression he could spot her bottom lip quivering, along with the dew forming in her eyes telling a completely different reaction.

She threw her other arm over around his shoulders and nestled her face into his neck.

"That's not what I fucking mean..." She took in a shaky breath to try to keep her voice from cracking, but it didn't do much.

"I know you think you can just keep getting into shit, getting fixed over and over again until one day..."

She couldn't hold it back anymore as steady streams began to flow down her face. Fuck, how did it get to this point so quickly.

"I had to-" her voice hiccupped mid-sentence and she had to gulp down her breath before continuing, "I had to fucking see you on the ground with your eyes all black, you didn't answer when I called you, you didn't move, I thought you were... Gone."

For once the jester was speechless. He had no witty remarks, no comebacks, no smartass-ness. All he could do in that moment was stand there motionless as his girlfriend hung on to him, while he continued to clutch her hand like he was never going to let go.

"Dems..."

If he could be crying himself right now, he would be. This entire time he had thought she had gotten out of that terrifying situation unscathed, but it was now apparent that wasn't the case. His free arm coiled around her waist to pull her closer into the hug.

"I... I'm sorry, okay? I couldn't let those bastards get away with trying to hurt you-"

"But you didn't have to chase them!" She interrupted him, her breath hitching again as she had to breathe through her mouth.

"We could have just ran away! We could have got away together and everything would have been fine!"

She unintentionally let out a sob as she buried her face in his shoulder, her large ears folding flat. God, she was such a mess, and now she also felt bad for practically yelling at him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to be such a bitch..."

"N-No you're not bbbeing a bitch!"

Wait, did his voice just glitch out? God fucking dammit that was supposed to have been fixed. He nuzzled the side of her face.

"I'll be more careful from now on, for you."

Demina sniffled as she wiped her face on her arm. She was finally starting to calm down.

"You have to promise, and not just for me either."

"Alright. I, Fizzarolli, promise to stop being a dumbass and scaring his girlfriend."

He smiled at the exasperated sigh he received in response from the bat still nuzzled into his shoulder.

"Stupid fucking clown." She muttered just loud enough for him to hear, a smile also having formed on her face.

"Crazy ass bat." He said playfully in return.

She moved back a bit so she could look up at him, unable to hide her smile.

"How am I crazy?"

"For crying over the stupid fucking clown."

Their smiles widened as they both leaned in to connect for a kiss. The soft moment felt good after the emotional rollercoaster they had just been through.

After the kiss, Demina let go of Fizz's hand and motioned for him to let go of her as well.

"Okay I'm gonna have to kick you out of the bathroom now."

"Oh woe is me."

He unraveled his arm from around her waist, but didn't budge from his spot in front of the vanity as he grinned at her.

"What if I wanted to stay?"

"You are not staying in here when I need it."

"Aww, you never know, I could be into that."

"Ew."

She promptly used one of her wings to push him out before slamming the door shut behind him, whilst he did that wicked chuckle of his that he does every time he acts like a little shit.

At least that unexpected morning drama was over with and he felt pretty much back to normal.

He noticed the clothes that were on the floor had been picked up and put in the laundry basket, with the exception of his jester attire which instead had been laid out at the end of the bed.

He had a different idea though and made a beeline for the closet, sliding the door open to take out a faded violet hoodie. With some effort he managed to slip it over his head, pulling it down over his body. He held his jester ears down in front of himself as he put the hood up and pulled the string to keep it in place.

Now he was perfectly content.

Fizz then moved into the living room to sit on the couch. Moments later, Demina entered the room as well and began to gather her wallet and keys.

"So I have to get some things from the store, you can come along if you want... to..."

She stopped and stared at her boyfriend sitting on the couch wearing her hoodie, which was fine, except there was something missing.

"Where's your pants?"

He shrugged in response.

"Didn't think I needed them."

"Oh for fuck's sake," she rolled her eyes as she went back into the bedroom, a few seconds later returning with his black and white striped pants in hand.

He gave her that shit-eating grin again.

"If it was for fuck's sake, I'd leave 'em offPFT-"

She had thrown the pants over his face.

Yeah, everything was back to normal, alright.

[wolf-555-writer]

Target On My Back Part 6

You guys still sticking around? ;)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow x Reader

Summary: Mission after mission goes by, and you’re getting used to working with Agent Romanoff. It feels familiar, as if you’ve done that your whole life, which is technically true. But another feeling gets in the way that you can’t seem to place and handle properly. Are you still able to do your job correctly? Or is it going to get you killed?

Word Count: 4,091

The raw sound of engines revving fills the street as cars accelerate for the green traffic light. Once the road had cleared up, the lively chatter of people sitting outside while having a coffee or a beer emerged again. In the center of the city, surrounded by towering buildings, a mother and her child walk in the opposite direction on the crowded pavement. The kid carefully looks your way, a curious expression on her face. You send her a warm smile in return and kindly receive one back. She must think you’re a lucky person. Concentrating on matching the speed of the woman carelessly strolling next to you. But someone stopping a taxi caught your attention instead, he brutally yanks on the door while muttering some nasty words and hops in. Probably in an undeniable hurry. However, that’s the least of your worries, because there is a more important person to aim your full focus on. Turning your head sideways to the one next to you, left arm around her, holding her close and your eyes meet with a pair of fiery green ones. Sparkling in the glorious sunlight, fixed on you and a lovely grin on her face.

Passing a fancy restaurant on the corner of the block, Natasha continues with the conversation. “So, you are telling me you've been keeping scores? On every SHIELD op?”, the redhead questions, amazed by your determination. “Wh- you haven't?”, you reply, eyebrow raised and sensing her hand slightly shifting over your leather jacket, waist-height. She laughs and reveals, “Well, just like we did in Russia”, and tilts her head to the side, peacefully resting it on your shoulder. You chuckle lightly and say, “Guess I haven’t changed that much then”. 

It was becoming a distraction. A burden. It’s good to learn what kind of person you were before - or still are? But it wasn’t necessary to know every tiny little detail of the past. What good will that do anyway. 

“For the record, mine was higher”, the redhead states with much confidence while she throws you a teasing look. Natasha probably knows. All those small, or huge details. About your parents- pretty sure that you must have had them, or that gruesome Red Room, or the million dollar question: what did Natasha mean to you?

“Don’t push it, Agent Romanoff”, you return with a smile and your eyes stay locked on her. Is she afraid to tell you all of it? Afraid what you’ll think about her, about the person she was - or still is? Everyone deserves a second chance, even her. No matter how messed up it all is. Because admit it. It is. Though, with every memory she tells, you’ll have to take her word for it. Trust that the ex-spy is telling the truth. Deeply, you stare into those hypnotizing green eyes. Do they tell the truth… Or are you a fool to trust that beautiful, innocent look which you’re slowly starting to drown in right now... 

“Having a good time, Agents?”

A voice interrupts. “We’ve got a cover to maintain Coulson”, Natasha answers quick, breaking eye contact with you which takes you straight back to reality. There’s no other choice, you’re forced to trust her. In the field, Agents need to have each other’s back. “I see you’re doing a good job with that”. “Don’t worry Phil, even when you don’t see it, I’m always looking over my shoulder”, you assure him quick-witted. Those words leaving a small, but proud, smile on Natasha's face as she shortly glanced at you. Both stopping on the sidewalk, you let go of her and Natasha turns her head to the left while stating: “I have eyes on target. Still in sight and has stopped on the pavement”, giving a status update to the Agent in charge of this operation. It’s just a cover, you know that, but there’s a tension, you can’t explain it. It has silently been there since the first time you saw her. The first time you laid eyes on her through the scope of a sniper rifle when ordered to take Black Widow out. But did not pull the trigger as an invisible force held you back. What’s this between us? Maybe emotions are stronger than memories... “Thanks. Keep the change”, you politely say to the street vendor, handing Natasha a warm drink that you bought in the meantime. For the sake of not raising suspicion and to blend in of course- well, and these missions make you damn thirsty. “Keep a safe distance until I give permission to engage”, Coulson firmly instructs over comms. Whereas you respond, “Confirmative”, and blow over the hot coffee to cool it down till drinking temperature.

“So… still not on speaking terms with Barton?”, Natasha asks, back turned towards the person you’re tailing and facing you with an intimidating stance. Keeping your eyes trained on the task, looking past her, you avoid the question and grunt. “Barton and I are fine, okay. Coulson, target is talking to what seems to be the buyer”. Not that she’ll believe your words. As much as you enjoy having Agent Romanoff in the field with you, obviously because of her remarkable skillset, it does get on your nerves that she’s right. It’s true, you are a bit mad at Barton. No, actually, you're pissed at him. He knows your shameful service record and previous occupation which you can’t even recall yourself. And the close friendship he has with Natasha, you can’t stand it. Reasonable? Hell yes. A bit jealous? ...No comment.

“Target is about to make the drop”, you affirm, focusing on the reason SHIELD’s here. Can’t get distracted by Natasha’s questions. Or by Natasha. “Remember, we need to catch the suspect red-handed. Stand by until the deal has taken place and are absolutely sure the illegal tech is there”. “Copy that, sir. We’ll make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands”. Slowly nearing, Agent Romanoff continues, “Approaching target. Eyes on the tech, positive it’s inside the backpack, and ready to engage”. Eyeing Natasha to ensure she’s not acting too fast. Patience, Agent Romanoff. Patience is key with these operations. Noticing she moves her hand towards her lower back, underneath her jacket. Precisely where her Glock is. You want to stop her by enfolding your arm around her waist. However, your attention is shifted elsewhere, seeing a small, red laser dot appear on your colleague's chest. That can’t be good... Not long after the alarming discovery, no time to even warn her, a short, loud echoing sound is heard. People start to scream in fear and run away in random directions, frightened as hell. Can't blame them, because a shot had just been fired.

Luckily, you’d managed to pull Natasha down, arm thrown around her shoulder instead, causing the hot coffee to spill all over the concrete tiles. The bullet failed to hit her chest, yet you were too late to make it out unscathed. Immediately taking cover behind a parked car, she scoffs, “I had it under control okay!”. “Sure you did”, you reply with a low, breathy voice. Beating yourself up, how could you have missed that? Preoccupied with your cover? Apparently Natasha too, because she made the same mistake. You’re going to have to find a damn good lie to tell for the mission report afterwards. Later, you think and look at the scrape wound on your upper arm while Romanoff shoots back. “We’ve been made and are under fire”, you inform, slightly groaning from the burning sensation on your left arm. But the aching promptly faded away for your witty remark. “1 point for me, Romanoff”, you tease, sending her a quick wink. “Ha, you wish”, and she concentrates on aiming her weapon on a building across. Aimed at the attacker, who’s not so lucky. 

“Target is on the move”, Agent Romanoff reports to Coulson. Wait- Did she just take down that sniper? Real impressive.

“What happened?! Are you both unharmed?”

“You okay (Y/N)?”, Natasha asks caringly, using a completely different voice than she did seconds ago. “Oh no…”. Resting the back of your head against the cold metal of the car as you close your eyes in desperation. “What? What is it? Is it that bad?”. Also notice she used your first name again, probably out of old habit. Not a lot of people do, only the ones closest to you, like Barton or Coulson. To be honest, it was annoying in the beginning, what rights did she have to use your first name? Guess you now know what Agent Hill must have felt all the times you called her Maria. “There's a fucking hole in my favorite jacket!”. Natasha sighs, “Really?! But are you dying?”, clearly annoyed by your fashion crisis at the moment. “Now is not the time (Y/N)”. Anyways, it grew rather fast on you, probably the reason why you call her by a less professional name too - or also old habit? “Yeah, yeah, it’s just a scratch. I’m fine, Nat”, you answer and pick up the role as a competent SHIELD Agent again. “Coulson, there’s a sniper located on a building's rooftop across the street, East, and, well... already eliminated by Romanoff”.

That raises the question: Why didn't Natasha kill you? It doesn't add up. She is an expert marksman, proven seconds ago. So why did she ‘miss’, shooting you point-blank when ordered to take you out? And how the hell was Coulson able to find you that quick, severely injured in the snowy Russian Mountains? You were told that you had a phone with his number. But did you contact him? Were you even able to- Focus, your mind is wandering off. Save it for later. Better keep your head in the game, and your eyes on your fellow Agent.

“Nat? Wait, what the hell are you doing!”, you yell to the redhead as she sprinted away. “I’m going in pursuit!”. Is it even safe? Are there more snipers active? Questions that are unanswered and kind of important if you don't want to die in the line of duty. You grunt, can't wait any longer, and throw the coffee cup away. Never waste a delicious drink, that’s why it hurts so much to let it go. So painful. But Agent Romanoff is your responsibility in the field, so you accompany her in the chase, whether it’s dangerous or not. 

“Target still in sight,- Move! Get out of the way!”, Romanoff shouts while running past uninvolved bystanders on the pavement. Yelling multiple times in a row at the fugitive -with the valuable backpack- to stop when you start to get out of breath. Why can’t they just listen for once. Although, the one you’re chasing is also getting worn out, because suddenly he decides to hijack a car, brutally yanking the driver out and jumping inside himself. Now what? You can’t possibly manage to keep up on foot. 

“I got an idea”, you suggest to Romanoff who has a deadly angry expression right now, it’s kind of frightening. But this will definitely work. Flashing your fancy badge to a stranger as you intimidatingly state, “Agents of SHIELD, we need to commandeer this vehicle. Now”. No time to waste, and to wait for an answer apparently, you hop on the motorcycle, Agent Romanoff seated behind you. You pop the kickstand and speed away, leaving a trail of smoke behind. “We'll give it back, right”. “Yeah he'll get it back”.  

The current situation makes you nostalgic, thinking about that time you were chasing Black Widow. “I know you enjoyed it”, Natasha implies, as if she can read your mind, but pretend you couldn't hear her. For obvious reasons you won’t admit it. Not to even speak of the daydreams you had. Nearing the stolen vehicle, you quickly glance in the side mirror and notice someone on your tail, approaching fast.

“We have to stop that car. Any ideas Nat?”. “Figure something out, I'm kinda busy at the moment!”, she shouts back. “Wh- and I am not?”. Trying your best to keep up with the suspect who’s driving pretty reckless, evade traffic on the busy road and dodge bullets. Yes, bullets, again. Those people on your tail certainly didn't forget their guns and are shooting in your direction. Perks of the job.

The glass of one side mirror is shattered to pieces. That was a close call… “Coulson, we really could use some backup!”, you request with an urgent tone. “Backup is on its way, hold tight”. Of course they’re late. Illegal-tech-guy was better prepared with his backup. In the meantime, Agent Romanoff is busy firing back. She’d turned her upper body around while still holding on to you to prevent her from falling off. But this is not working. She needs more firepower and a better aim. Natasha doesn’t need to think twice and grabs your gun tucked in the back of your jeans. With two guns, each in one hand, she smoothly maneuvers in between you and the motorcycle you’re driving. She’d wrapped herself around you, sensing her thighs tightly locked round your waist and her upper body pressed against yours, arms stretched out alongside you. Now having perfect aim she shoots back. Benefit of her current position is that you are acting as her human shield, leaving you in the crossfire, as if there's a huge target on your back. Not sure if you are aware of that yourself though.

Damn... Is it getting hot in here or is it just me? Still able to look at the road ahead of you, but it’s getting harder to concentrate, and who's to blame... Your heart is beating faster and faster and breathing frequency is rising. But this is different than the adrenaline rush you’ve become oh-so addicted to and know how to control. A car honking loudly snaps you out of your absent-minded gaze and you sharply turn to the right, sadly losing the other side mirror too. That could have ended differently... Like, literally on the hood of that vehicle. These distractions are no good when on the job. You can't let that happen anymore. Forget about Romanoff. Forget about your emotions. Be a true SHIELD Agent for once. 

Both of the guns click, signaling they’re empty. All out of ammo, now useless. Swearing under her breath, Agent Romanoff has only managed to eliminate three out of four and decides to move herself back to her previous position. But not before you’d taken the opportunity to whisper in her ear: “Nice moves. Just don’t get too comfy”, which resulted in that signature grin on Natasha’s face. Still left with that bullet problem, you alert Romanoff, “Hold on tight okay”, and sense her arms gripping your waist with more force. Hitting the brakes full power and hearing the tires screech on the asphalt, you end up next to the last biker who’s caught off guard by your actions. Just what you needed. With a precise kick from your boot the driver loses control and crashes into a parked car. “See, problem solved”. “Pff, show-off”, Natasha reacts, yet secretly impressed by your stunt.

With the shooters gone, there’s only the original task left to complete. “Get me a little closer (Y/N). Perfect”. The bike positioned right next to the passenger side, Agent Romanoff breaks the car window with the butt of her empty gun - not so useless after all - and gets into position. Feeling the pressure of her hand on your shoulder, she pushes herself off and jumps inside the stolen vehicle smoothly, making it look as easy as hopping on a train. The sound of electricity crackling and Romanoff takes over the steering wheel, pushing the now unconscious target out of the way.

Safely coming to a halt at the side of the road, you noticed backup has arrived. Finally. Courtesy of SHIELD. Coulson gets out of the car and looks satisfied. “Good work, Agents”. “Thank you, sir. It’s all yours now”, you mention as you’ve done your part and totally crushed it. According to you that is. “Could really use a cup of coffee right now”, you utter to Romanoff, letting out a deep, hopeless sigh. “I’ll get you one on the way back, alright”, Natasha promises with a wink and a smile while walking towards a SHIELD SUV and places her hand on your arm. Her touch caused you to flinch and respond in a cold tone, “Okay”, leaving Natasha with a questionable expression due to your unusual, emotionless reaction. “Everything ok-”. “Come on Romanoff, let's go”. Preventing her to finish the sentence, you cut her off and hurry away, giving Natasha no other choice but to follow. Both left the scene when Coulson's expression suddenly changes, “Wait... whose motorcycle is this?”  

“You still owe me one though”. “Yeah, keep dreaming”, Natasha laughs, “And technically you owe me a bike too. So, let’s just call it even”. She flinches faintly due to the alcohol touching her wounds. Broken glass is unfortunately very sharp, which left a few cuts that needed some treatment back at SHIELD HQ after the short debriefing finished. Waiting next to her, not having spoken a word to her on the way back, she looks at you with a piercing gaze, trying to deduce what had gotten into you all of a sudden. Then decides to lift your jacket by moving it away from your shoulder. “Whoa, what are you doing? Stop”. “Shh- (Y/N), just- Have you been shot?”. “Oh this? Nah, it- it’s nothing”. You wave it away, acting tough as hell while definitely feeling the pain. Can’t show any emotions, right? The current expression on Natasha’s face can’t be argued with though, and it quietly made you go get that small metal piece removed from your arm.

Took your torn jacket off and had just sat down when Coulson entered the infirmary. “You lied to me”, he says. Confused, you answer, “Huh? Me?”, looking as if you’ve been caught red handed. “Yes, you”. Now standing in front of you, pointing his finger judgingly. “You said you were unharmed… Clearly not”. He sounds concerned, you being his responsibility. “Oh, no, I’m okay. It was not as bad as this one”, you joke, showing the scar of that particular shot wound on your chest. Yet Coulson is not laughing, which made that smile on your face fade away promptly. “Something wrong, Coulson?”. He inhales sharply. “We were lucky. Lucky we found you or else you wouldn’t be here...”. “Yeah. I’m aware”. You cheated death that day. Of course you’re forever grateful to him. But no need to be so dramatic, he already told you this, remember? 

Or is there more? 

“So, what’s the problem then?”. “It wasn’t all luck. But we’re not sure who helped. Who sent that message. Because we didn’t find the phone on you”. Meaning the burner phone SHIELD gave you to get in contact with your handler. Okay… that he didn’t tell before. Valid question. So, who would send Coulson your location? Better yet, who would have even known the location… Turning your head towards a certain redhead, the wounds she sustained from the successful mission earlier all cared for. She looks at you, sending you a soft smile. Then it hits you. Or you didn’t cheat death that day and it was all intentional. Bound to happen for you to survive. Together with Coulson’s next words, “Whoever that person was saved your life, just as that bullet missing your heart”.

After Coulson had calmed down, being a hundred percent sure that you’re not in a life threatening state anymore - which you weren’t in in the first place, but okay - he eventually leaves. Time to get some answers. All stitched up, you walk towards the person able to give them, hopefully. “Nat, we need to talk”. She looks at you with a worried face, but the tone in your voice is what sparked something. “Um, okay?”. Then Barton storms in. Perfect… “So, you'll be sticking around Romanoff?”, he questions, totally ignoring your presence there. Not that you care, ‘cause it’s kind of a mutual feeling. “Later”, you state to a confused Natasha and turn around to leave before she can properly react. “Yeah, I’ll be sticking around”, she answers Clint, meanwhile staring at you, “It’s pretty... interesting here”.

“There you are. Everything alright? You left in a hurry”. “Yeah, guess I’m alright”, you respond to Natasha who sounds troubled and turn to her. “...Finally”. “Oh. Well, then I’ll leave you to it”. She wants to go again, but you stop her. “Nat, wait”. You reach for her arm, “Stay. Please”. She stares at you for a second, shifting to her wrist with your hand on it and then at you again, trying to decipher what’s on your mind. What has been on your mind. Then decides to join you and both sit down on your favorite spot on the rooftop. It stays silent for a while, both staring at the calming horizon. Yet with a lot of pressing questions on your mind, Natasha is actually the one to break the silence. “Can I see it?”, she asks carefully. “Sure”. Unzipping the SHIELD jacket and moving the collar of your shirt a bit down when the scar appears. Natasha gazes at the damaged skin, speechless. Softly touching it, brushing her fingertips over the physical mark she left on you. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She takes a piece of paper from her pocket and shows it instead. Eyes fixed on the picture, you recognize the people on it, but don’t remember. Both dressed in a uniform, possibly from your time at the KGB, standing next to Natasha - or Natalia - you see yourself looking at her in the photo. That look you have in your eyes… “It’s the only photo I had left of us. The only tangible memory of you. I didn’t want to- I couldn't erase you from my mind...”. Has Natasha carried this picture with her all that time? It must be of immense value to her. She continues, “There’s a lot I didn’t say that I wish I did”. Now gazing into her eyes you softly ask, “Like what?”. With an expression and tone in your voice as if you already know the answer to your own question. Because it all makes sense now. “I was taught to push it all away. Deep down. That it's a weakness”, she breaks eye contact and deflects the question. “I- I regret a lot of things…”, staring down, she takes a pause, eyes becoming slightly watery. A little hesitation at first, but eventually she speaks. Words that had remained unspoken her entire life, until now. Natasha inhales deeply, “... but loving you has never been one of them.”

“And...”, you wait till Natasha’s eyes lock with yours and gaze into her enchanting green ones, “did I love you too?”. Natasha chuckles lightly. “Well, what do you think?”. A small smile appears and you slowly move closer. Pretty confident about your thoughts. Or better yet your emotions, letting them all take over, no holding back. Softly pressing your lips on hers, you kiss her. A warmth ripples through you. It’s as if you’ve waited for this a long, long time, you can feel it. And Natasha feels it too. Hand on her cheek and hers on yours, you eventually pull back and whisper against her lips: “Does this answer it, Agent Romanoff?”.

There's that grin again. The one that’s been imprinted on your mind. The one you can’t get enough of. She’s about to respond, but not with words. Tracing your lips with her fingertips and tilting your chin towards her, as a familiar sound interrupts. “Seriously?! Can’t we ever get a break”, you grunt with clenched teeth. “Showtime. Gotta go to work”, your SHIELD partner states, whereas you answer a bit annoyed, “Yeah, yeah I know… save the world and all that”. You would have rather wished for this moment to go on, uninterrupted. But Agent Hill had to spoil all the fun. Well, guess you can’t have everything, right? Or do you finally have it?

Going inside the building, you think back to today's mission. “Still don’t know how they managed to expose us as Agents. We nailed that cover, didn’t we”. “Who said it was a cover…”, the redhead teases. “Wait- say what now?”. Natasha sends a quick wink your way and laughs,

“You heard me, Agent (Y/L/N)”

PART 7

[janeofcakes]

KYFC..:Chapter 17

Hello, my friends! I’m back and I’m sorry to have kept you all waiting so long. I didn’t expect shit to get so off schedule. I’m afraid chapter 18 will have to wait as well. It won’t be anywhere near ready this weekend, so I will post it next weekend. I should even have extra time over the holiday. Yay! I’m sorry I couldn’t keep everything on track and hope you’ll forgive me. 

That’s the bad news. The good news is I don’t have cancer! YAY, FUCKING, YAY!!! The jury was out for the last couple weeks and I got the results this week. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It’s amazing in a year where there hasn’t been a lot of good news. On another personal note, this chapter has really shaped up into one of my favorites. As special thank you to MyBreadAndButter for her fabulous guidance and patience. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I.

---

Mess up my bed with me. Kick off the covers, I’m waiting. Every word you say, I think I should write down. Don’t want to forget  come daylight. Happy to lay here, just happy to be here. I’m happy to know you....and no need to worry. That’s  wasting time. And no need to worry what’s been on my mind. It’s you.                                  --Joshua Radin, Paperweight

Sherlock’s condo is a welcome sight when he opens the door and John follows him in. They hang their coats in the front closet and head for the kitchen, though Sherlock takes a detour to the bathroom.

He flushes the toilet and turns on the faucet, resting his hands together under the warm water. Sherlock had ample time to think on the drive here. Instead of pretending to go to a hotel or his apartment, John simply followed him in his own car. Moriarty already knows he is staying here, so why bother hiding, John had said. The quiet had done Sherlock good and hopefully John as well.

Sherlock used the time to collect his thoughts. John has not explained all he learned during the dinner with Moriarty and Sherlock has many questions. He grits his teeth and grimaces. The very idea of the dinner sets him on edge. That vile little man should not be allowed anywhere near John, much less share a meal with him.

Sherlock grumbles his disapproval as he dries his hands. He glances in the mirror and everything around him slows, as a door in his mind palace he had soundly shut creeks open. He told John he loves him. He told John he loves him. His eyes are wide as they look back at him in the mirror. He had hastily shoved that bit of information into a side room almost as soon as he said it and it seemed to have disappeared. Seems it was just waiting for an opportune moment, surfacing once his guard was down. Now he relives certain parts of the confrontation in his office in full detail, each one already stored in his mind palace forever, like the kiss. The kiss right after he said it. It was no ordinary kiss. Sherlock felt John putting every ounce of himself into that kiss. He was giving himself over without doubt or hesitation. Sherlock could feel all of him and it was the most comforting, wonderful, perfect place he had ever been. Even though John immediately backed away, crumbling every bridge they had just built, Sherlock knows this man is his future.

Sherlock continues to stare at himself in the mirror as John’s words echo through his mind. It means too much. It doesn’t mean anything. It means everything. You’re too important to me. I want you in my life. The answer is staring him in the face.

John Watson loves him.

A giddy smile spreads across Sherlock’s lips and his whole face brightens as his heart swells with joy. He allows himself a gleeful, little chuckle before letting himself think it through entirely. John is most definitely in love with him, but John has not reached the same conclusion and there is no telling whether or not he will ever realize his feelings. Bill’s death dealt him a hard blow and the guilt made John shut down and shut out his emotions. It will take a long time to undo all the damage, if it can ever be undone and Sherlock has never been very patient.

Would he wait for this man? Is it worth it?

Sherlock tables his thoughts when a peculiar scent wafts into the room. His grey gaze comes back into focus and he looks absently toward the ceiling, trying to deduce it by just sniffing the air. Garlic and Parmesan. He goes to the door and opens it, poking his head out with another sniff. Sherlock, in essence, follows his nose to the kitchen where he finds John standing at the stove with two pots on the burners. Sherlock stands in the doorway and blinks as John looks at him casually, stirring the contents of one pot with a wooden spoon.

“What?” John asks quizzically.

“Are you cooking?” Sherlock replies. “I couldn’t have been ten minutes.”

“Only takes twenty,” he nods at the pots. “Since I found you at your desk, I assume you haven’t eaten.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and closes it again. He presses his lips together in a frown, unable to deny it and John smirks.

“I knew it,” he says smugly. “It’ll be about ten minutes more. Why don’t you get us some glasses and wine?”

Sherlock straightens his spine petulantly and goes to the built-in wine rack near the fridge. He pairs a nice white with what he smells from the sauce. Pulling two glasses and the corkscrew, he walks to the table and places the glasses upon it. He watches John for a moment, stirring the sauce and glancing at the pasta, and catches himself sighing. Huffing in bemusement, he busies himself with twisting the tool and pulling the cork free. He pours the pale golden liquid into the glasses and positions them in front of the two chairs with care. Heading for the cabinets, he opens a drawer and grabs two sets of utensils with napkins to complete the table.

Meanwhile, John is dishing up linguine, adding sauce and plunking peas next to it. He crosses to the table and hands a plate to Sherlock.

“It looks delicious,” the taller man smiles and breathes in the dish’s aromas. 

“It is,” John grins. “Old Watson family recipe.”

“Mmm, a secret recipe?” Sherlock jokes, grinning as John remembers their first morning together as roommates. “Must be very quick and easy.”

“Clearly,” John laughs as he turns back to the stove to dish some up for himself. Sherlock places his own plate on the table and waits for John to join him before sitting. He watches the muscles in John’s back flex as he moves the ladle from the pot to his plate, drizzling sauce over the pasta. “Sorry, there’s no garlic bread. Didn’t have time for that sort of thing. I believe that’s what you Americans are so fond of.”

John laughs quietly and turns to face Sherlock, but stops before heading to the table.  

“Problem?” John asks, raising his brows.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock gestures for him to sit, “I am always on the lookout for such recipes. Will you teach me?”

“Oh, mm-mm,” John hums a negative response and shakes his head as he approaches the table and sets down his plate. “Can’t. You’d have to be a Watson.”

“I see,” Sherlock’s lips curve upwards. John is teasing him, flirting, but there is a certain tone to his voice as well. It is both serious and brimming with hope. Sherlock’s smile grows and he wants to reply, say something witty and suggestive, but nothing comes to mind. Yet the moment does not flail into awkwardness. John, beautiful, clever John, chuckles and nods at Sherlock to sit.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” John laughs as they slip into their chairs.

After the first bite, Sherlock raises his brows and nods his approval while John waves a dismissive hand. They eat for a few minutes in companionable silence. 

All at once, in the blink of an eye, Sherlock knows it deep down in his bones. It sweeps over him, the wave of clarity that is usually only felt at the end of one’s life. Short answer: Yes. He will wait for John until the end of time.

“John,” Sherlock shifts his weight in the chair and fixes the doctor with a disarming gaze. He would honestly rather talk about anything else, but needs must. “What exactly did you and Moriarty discuss at dinner? Leave nothing out.”

“Mostly how best to piss you off,” John answers with a puff of breath. “He wanted to…”

Sherlock cocks a brow when John stops so abruptly and moves uneasily in his seat. His eyes shift around the table and finally land on his own plate where he twirls his fork in the linguine aimlessly. Sherlock extends a hand over the small kitchen table toward John’s. It is a movement he can quickly divert if John tenses or pulls away, but he does not.

“John?” he asks lightly. John meets his eyes when their fingertips touch. He sighs again and bites his lower lip. Sliding his hand closer, he covers Sherlock’s fingers with his own and lifts his blue eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

“He wants to distract you now,” John confesses reluctantly. “Make you lose your focus and he wanted me to do it. The original plan was to scare me off.”

“Thus targeting you for murder,” Sherlock reasons, even as another part of his brain relishes the warmth of John’s fingers over his own, “which was perhaps always meant as only an attempt.”

“Right, and when I didn’t flinch at the danger…” John continues with a grimace. 

“Only became more drawn to it, I’d say,” Sherlock remarks quietly and raises a sly brow. John huffs a harsh breath.

“Junkie for the thrill, that’s me,” he winces and cocks his head. “Moriarty thought he’d recruit me instead. What’s better than using someone you trust to bring you down?”

“Another kind of poison,” Sherlock muses. He looks at John appraisingly. “He underestimated you.” 

John’s eyes soften and his brow wrinkles.

“I would never betray you,” he breathes.

John laces his fingers with Sherlock’s and curls them down, gripping long pale fingertips with his own. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat and lashes flutter, even as John’s expression hardens again.

“He wants to destroy you, Sherlock,” John tells him gravely, his eyes unwavering. “He tried to take Molly from you. Thank god that avenue is shut off now, thanks to Mycroft,” he lets out the breath he had been holding. “Remind me to bake him a pie when this is all over.”

“You bake?” Sherlock’s mouth twitches up. John’s brows rise in disbelief at the joke. “Another Watson family secret? Now you’ll have to…”

“Sherlock,” John rebukes, leaning forward and squeezing his hand earnestly. “He knows you care for me and he wants to use it. He wanted to pretend he and I were a couple. He thought it would break you, but fuck all if I take up with him under any circumstances. Why are you laughing? Sherlock!”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock tries to look more serious and fails, dissolving into giggles. “It’s just you...you’re so noble.”

He chuckles around the last word, truly enjoying John’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips, but he soon sobers. He squeezes John’s fingers between his own, looking into the doctor’s eyes. 

“You would protect me at all costs, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock says solemnly.

“Damn right, I would,” the doctor replies defiantly. 

They look at one another in a strange, soulful way until they suddenly, inexplicably burst into laughter. It is completely inappropriate, but feels so good and cuts the tension in the air. In a moment, their hands part and they resume eating. Sherlock tries to concentrate on Moriarty and his plans, but finds his thoughts are drawn to John and he cannot seem to stop it from happening again and again. Taking a rather large bite of pasta, he finally surrenders to it and strolls through a long hall in the wing he has created for the man in his mind palace. As he considers the doctor and all his brilliant features, Sherlock huffs a quiet laugh. This man is able to laugh with him in the face of this danger and understands Sherlock so completely that he does not criticize his need for levity. That John would do all this and spit in Moriarty’s face with him is absolutely amazing. Sherlock must never let him go, whether he realizes his own feelings for Sherlock or not.

When Sherlock finally leaves the mind palace and comes back to himself, he finds that they have both finished eating. John is sitting forward with his elbows on the table and a wine glass in his hands. He wears a knowing smirk and Sherlock raises an inquiring brow.

“There he is again,” John chuckles softly. “You were miles away.”

“Mind palace,” Sherlock offers by way of explanation. He gestures absently toward his own head.

“I figured,” John traces a finger around the rim of his glass, skimming over the spot that meets his lips each time he takes a drink. It is the most goddamn erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen in his life. Well, discounting Baltimore, of course. “You know I can say just about anything to you when you’re in there and you have no idea.”

“Oh?” Sherlock eyes him with keen interest. “What sort of things?”

“That’s none of your business,” his lips stretch into a coy grin and he chuckles softly. “Besides, we haven’t time for that now.”

“Ah. So what is it we do have time for?” Sherlock breathes in an even tone. Oh god, they are flirting and he loves it. John’s open body language is both promising and frightening in equal measure, and the sly curl of John’s lip makes Sherlock’s head spin. Heat is creeping up the back of his neck and his cheeks are flushed. Arousal pools in his belly and he is suddenly wondering what John’s fingers would taste like as he continues to watch them skim across the rim of the wine glass. Sherlock deftly runs his tongue over his top lip, just its tip visible in the quick movement. When he opens his mouth to speak, John beats him to it and, unfortunately, what John says kills the mood entirely.

“Moriarty’s man. Moran. You know him?” John asks in a hard tone. Sherlock closes his mouth into a frown. Clearly, he and John were not at all on the same wavelength. Somehow they just took a u-turn without Sherlock even realizing it.

“Sebastian Moran, yes,” Sherlock all but sneers. “He has been at Moriarty’s side for as long as I’ve been here. In spite of that, it’s difficult to actually lay eyes on him. He likes to keep in the shadows.”

“He’s our shooter. The man who came to my flat and my office,” John states flatly, his eyes dull.

“Moran?” Sherlock perks up and leans forward in his chair. “Are you sure?”

“It only took one word to remember that voice and he said nine,” John fixes him with a gaze that is deadly serious as he slowly nods once. “I’m sure.”

“Now, that’s not a skill set I expected,” Sherlock places his elbows on the table and steeples his hands before his lips. “I was told he tried to come at me from behind after I punched Moriarty, but a killer? Definitely not what I expected.”

“Are you ready for another shock?” John asks grimly. 

Turning cool blue-grey eyes on him, Sherlock thinks he sees John shiver. He files it away for later and waits expectantly for the doctor to continue.

“Janine is working with him,” John says plainly, obviously deciding it better to just rip off the band-aid.

“What?” Sherlock gapes, completely taken aback. Also not at all what he expected.

“She was trying to trip Harry up when she got hurt,” John explains hesitantly, studying the coach carefully. “Harry was obviously being targeted by the other team and Janine used it to her advantage. 32 had nothing to do with it.” 

John pauses when Sherlock’s face darkens, his eyes full of fury. John pushes his wine glass to the side and leans forward as far as he can, fixing the other man with intense eyes. Sherlock does not shrink back, but also cannot believe his ears. It can’t be true. Not someone on his team, not one of the ladies.

“Think about it, Sherlock. Why was Janine standing or moving the way she was? Why was she watching Harry that way? Was it like a teammate or a target?” John’s words come fast into the space between them and every one pushes Sherlock closer to the boiling point. John knows what he is doing and still, he continues. “I know you have the whole thing stored in that palace of yours. Just watch it and tell me that’s what you coached her to do,” he challenges.

Fury bubbles through Sherlock’s veins, threatening to explode to the surface. He stares John down with ice cold daggers. He wants to shout. He wants to punch the doctor square in the face just like he did Moriarty. John, the same man who seemingly knows Sherlock so well, just accused one of the ladies of sabotage. It is reprehensible. Despicable. They are a team, damn it, a team! Operating as a unit, protecting one another. Caring about one another is what they do. It’s who they are. Can John even understand that? He certainly cannot come in after only a few months, presuming to know them and then accuse one of them of sabotage and endangering her teammates. It goes against everything they believe in, everything they strive for and all he has taught them.

“You bastard,” Sherlock hisses, rising from his chair. His whole body burns with anger and his eyes are blazing. John mirrors the motion and stands across from him, every muscle in his body tense and at the ready.

“Sherlock, stop,” John commands, raising both hands and facing his palms out toward the taller man. “Just listen to me. Think about it.”

“I don’t have to. Janine would never intentionally harm any teammate,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles low in his chest and sounds like the growl of a dragon. He slowly stalks around the table, his shoulders back and somehow broader than usual. He moves closer to John, uttering stinging words all the way. John visibly flinches after one in particular, but does not step away from the taller man, who is soon looming over him. “You assume that I would be so blind as to not see it.”

“Sherlock, this has no reflection on you,” John tries to explain, the hint of pleading in his voice.

“Like hell it doesn’t!” Sherlock thunders. John’s startled eyes widen and his mouth falls open as he looks up at the man towering over him. Sherlock is now right in his face and gesturing wildly as he speaks. “You think I would allow this? That I’m too ignorant of human emotion that I can’t see when someone is lying! That I would let my own sentiment get the better of me!” Pure rage simmers in his voice and courses through his veins. 

“No, Sherlock…” John is pleading now, desperate to calm Sherlock down.

“We are a team and for you to insult that bond and our dedication to one another… It’s something you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I do understand,” John insists.

“Bullshit! You’ve never belonged to anything in your life!” Sherlock yells. He is bubbling over with fury now. If John knew anything at all, he would know the most basic element of Sherlock’s philosophy is teamwork, loyalty and trust. For even one of the ladies to help Moriarty...Moriarty, the bastard. Do whatever it takes to win. Bring everyone down, even if it’s your own teammate.

“Goddammit, Sherlock, if you’d just listen,” John growls, his own temper flaring.

“Listen to what? Your cockamamie theories?” Sherlock’s lips curl into a snarl and his eyes narrow into sharp slits. “You accepted his offer, didn’t you?”

“What?” John blinks, completely thrown off balance. It is the opportunity Sherlock has waited for. He steps up into John’s personal space and attacks with words so sharp they could leave bright red marks on John’s skin.

“You are trying to poison us. Making me question myself and all the ladies,” Sherlock’s fury burns white hot now and he rails at John. “You want me to think I’ve failed them!”

“No! That’s not how it happened,” John bites out, pushing in just as close and refusing to back down.

“Then how did it happen, John? Hmm? Tell me. Tell me how he convinced you to betray us,” Sherlock has boiled over. So consumed by anger, he barely knows what he is saying.

“Fuck off!” John shouts, shoving the taller man back a few steps, his eyes blazing with determination. “I just said I’d never betray you! What, you think I was lying?” His whole body is nearly shaking with anger and frustration. He clenches his fists and grinds his teeth as he inhales deeply to ground himself. “You don’t want to believe me. Just look back at the bout. It’s all there,” John slows his words and pokes each one into Sherlock’s chest with his finger for emphasis. “Janine. Targeted. Harry.”

Breathing heavily, Sherlock launches into a string of curses and insults, but even as he does it, a small traitorous part of his mind goes to the archives and begins playing their last bout. 

The whistle blows and the bout begins. Fast forward, forward, forward. Slow down and play. The jam begins with another whistle blow. 

There it is.

Sherlock’s mouth ceases to move mid-word and his breath stops in his throat. It feels like he has been punched in the chest and his heart has stopped beating. It’s there, right before his eyes. It had all happened so quickly and he didn’t see it then. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe John is right and his own camaraderie and affection for the ladies has blinded him to reality. Sentiment. Goddamn sentiment. 

He can see it now. It’s all there and so obvious that he is a fool for missing it. There was no reason for Janine to be so close or so low. The end result would have been completely different had Harry and 32 been more evenly matched, but Harry’s solid frame and strong legs kept her from going down the way Janine had anticipated.

“I…” Sherlock croaks. His mouth opens and closes silently. He is absolutely speechless, his mind grappling to understand why she would do it.

“Moriarty told me I’m no Greek god,” John almost whispers. He peers up at the flummoxed man before him and explains hesitantly. “I only said that once when someone else could hear and there’s only one person who could have heard it.”

Sherlock blinks, his eyelids twitching as they close. John’s words sink into his skin and a new room appears in his mind palace, one that pulls memories from different bouts. He relives equipment failures and injuries, viewing them all through the lens of this new knowledge and seeing Janine’s role in many of them. 

“Oh, god,” Sherlock’s whole body deflates and he backs away from John. He closes his eyes and drops his face into waiting hands. His chest is heavy with shame and disappointment, with all he taught the ladies of loyalty, trust and teamwork, he would never have anticipated this. 

Sherlock’s stomach lurches in his body and he feels sick. He had closed his mind to the possibility, even with all the evidence at hand. He simply could not believe any of the ladies would be involved, in spite of accidents occurring no matter who they skated against and equipment failures even after it had all been checked. He ignored the common denominator of themselves, the only commonality, and that choice put all of the ladies in danger. Fucking sentiment. It always finds a way. 

“It’s not your fault,” John’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he lifts his head from his hands to see that John has moved closer to him again. Firm resolve is written all over his face and his hands are clenched at his sides. Sherlock only shakes his head and sighs.

“I am their coach. What they know they learn from me,” Sherlock tells him with resignation in his tone.

“Bollocks. I know you, Sherlock, and this did not come from you,” John insists, moving even closer. His brows knitted and jaw set. He has no intention of taking any shit and Sherlock knows him well enough to know he will not relent until Sherlock sees his point of view, but he can’t see it. 

“You’ve known me a few months, John,” Sherlock says dismissively. “You don’t know me. It’s not enough time. You said so yourself.”

“And I admitted I was wrong,” John comes right into Sherlock’s personal space, his voice almost angry in its persistence. “I have watched you, all of you, at practice and bouts and in the raw. Nothing you have said or done could ever lead to this and every skater on the team would agree with me.”

Sherlock looks him in the eye and sees the passion, the determination and above it all, true honesty. John is right. Sherlock knows he is. He hates to admit it, but there really is no point in blaming himself when the fault is Janine’s. She made the choice to betray the team and it is her cross to bear. However, Sherlock did fail to see her complicity and it endangered every skater on the team. He must still accept that responsibility and whatever consequences accompany it. 

“Be that as it may,” Sherlock begins, his heart heavy and aching, “I must tell the ladies when we meet for workouts tomorrow. Then we’ll see if I hold practice or resign my position.”

“Resign?” John’s jaw drops and he stutters back a step.

“Janine may have made the decision to betray Rock City, but I failed every woman on the team by not suspecting her,” he smiles without mirth and continues bitterly. “It seems I let sentiment cloud my judgment once again.”

“What utter shit,” John huffs, his expression thunderous.

“It is my responsibility…” Sherlock tries to explain, but John cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know!” John snaps at him angrily. They share a tense gaze before John sets his jaw and steps back up into Sherlock’s personal space. He looks at the taller man with furious eyes. “Not a single one of them is going to hold you responsible and they certainly won’t want you to resign. You have a special bond, Sherlock. I’ve seen it,” his voice becomes more empathetic than angry. “You’re family and that’s not something you can break easily. They love you. And you love them. You are all stuck with each other for better or worse.”

Sherlock tilts his head, looking into John’s eyes as his own well with tears. He blinks twice quickly and two fall from one eye in rapid succession, followed by another from the other eye. John’s every word is so brilliantly true and Sherlock feels them all deep in his bones. Sentiment rushes over him and it isn’t just the love he and the ladies share, it is the pure love he feels for John too. John, who does understand him after all, who can see the team in a light that Sherlock was blind to, and whose devotion to them all is not only admirable, it is amazing. This realization is so overwhelming that Sherlock can barely keep his emotions in check. John, who knows him so well, hasn’t walked out or even gone to his room, in spite of the yelling and cursing Sherlock has heaped upon him. John Watson, his best friend, his voice of reason, his everything. How has such a man come to be in Sherlock’s life?

As if hearing his thoughts, John’s cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears from his cheeks. He kisses his nose lightly as he whispers reassuring words and he is soon peppering Sherlock’s face with kisses - forehead, cheekbones, temples, even the small crinkle across the bridge of his nose. Sherlock’s arms come up around him, hands resting on John’s back. He turns his face into the kisses and just catches John’s lips with his own.

His senses are awash with John. His unique scent floods Sherlock’s nostrils. The texture of his shirt feels soft on fingers and palms. Every quiet noise and breath he makes echoes through Sherlock’s ears like a melody. The soft presses of his lips and the humidity of them parting are all warm exhilaration, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. He tips his tongue in to taste John’s and feels it move with his. They twirl them together languidly and explore one another.

Spurred on by Sherlock’s enthusiastic reciprocation, John opens his mouth more and tilts his head to the side, inviting Sherlock in with a sigh. The taller man angles down closer to John and deepens the kiss as fireworks explode behind his eyelids. He has never felt so happy, so complete as he does with John Watson.

Sherlock’s hands slide down to the small of John’s back and he pulls him close, pressing their bodies together tightly. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth and twines their tongues together with renewed vigor. His hands are buried in lush, brunette curls now and Sherlock’s scalp tingles with every touch of a fingertip. Sherlock loses himself to the sensation until their lips part, each gasping for breath. Inches apart, they pant in tandem. Short, shallow breaths mingling between them, curling around one another like tendrils of smoke, twisting until they join and disparate into the air all around.

Together as one forever.

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as the enormity of it surrounds him, not like a crashing wave, but a warm blanket. He loves John. Not just a little, but with all his heart. It’s crazy and ridiculous and stupid and absolutely wonderful.

Shit, Molls. I’ve never fallen this hard for anyone. 

His own words echoing through his mind, Sherlock gives in to new dreams as they fill his mind palace. He wants to be by John’s side for the rest of his days, whether as a lover or friend, and they will be happy. They will be more than happy and maybe they will live together and Sherlock will give John all the love in his heart. It will be perfect. John might even realize one day that he loves Sherlock too. 

“Sherlock?” John asks in a gravelly tone, “are you all right? I never know where you are when you do that.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock laughs lightly. He must have been lost in his own mind longer than it seemed, given the tone of gentle amusement in John’s voice. It makes Sherlock feel warm and happy and safe. “I’m perfect.”

Much to Sherlock’s delight, the corners of John’s mouth turn up in a soft smile. Unyielding warmth and light spread through the mind palace and, indeed, Sherlock’s whole body. Images of the future, their future, fill his thoughts and Sherlock vows to do whatever he can to help John realize that he is capable of love.

Sherlock pulls back a little, allowing some space between them so he can study John. He must plan his efforts carefully. John is in love with him, but doesn’t know and pushing the point will only push John away. No, John must come to this realization on his own, no matter how long it takes. Sherlock tilts his head and calculates as he looks at his doctor fondly. John is the person he has searched for ever since he was twelve and he and Molly made up what their husbands would be like. Even when Sherlock thought he had made his heart stop caring, it was still watching for John Watson. 

“It’s late,” Sherlock clears his throat and loosens his grip on John, “and I have a lot to do tomorrow before practice.”

“Right, right,” John lets his hands slide from Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms. “I should get to bed too. Didn’t sleep a wink last night with the travel and Janine and Moriarty and all.”

John clears his throat and steps back, giving his nape an absent scratch. His other hand lands on his own hip and he continues speaking as he raises his brows.

“And I have a lot to do tomorrow too,” he looks disconcerted, like his To Do list just got longer. Whatever is on it, Sherlock intends to make sure John knows what number one will be.

“The first of which is informing Greg that you are not resigning,” he prompts decisively, barely containing the joy that fills every inch of his being. 

“Yeah,” John smiles brilliantly. “Yeah, it is.”

Sherlock says nothing and only nods. He does not trust himself to speak. His heart has just burst in his chest for the joy he feels. Instead, he grins like an idiot with no thought as to how much of a love-sick teen he looks. It is all he can do to keep his knees from buckling. John Watson is his sun, his conductor of light, his Juliette. Wait. What? What the hell is he thinking?

“G’night, Sherlock,” John says from the door. Sherlock snaps out of his haze and resolves to find out how John can move so quietly.

“Yes, good night, John,” Sherlock replies softly. 

He is at the sink moments later with a plate and glass in his hands. Sherlock doesn’t remember picking them up or walking here. In fact, he still feels a bit like he’s flying, but does seem to be coming back down to earth. He places the dishes in the sink, flicks on the taps and reaches for the bottle of dish soap, squirting a little onto the scrubbing sponge.

John suddenly appears at his side with the other dishes as Sherlock scrubs sauce off the plate in his hands. Once the plate is clean, he places it in the drying rack and turns to face John. Without a word, he takes the dishes from John’s hands, their fingers brushing gently. There’s that annoying flip in his stomach again. Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother him much anymore. In a way, he almost likes it.

“You aren’t going to bed?” Sherlock murmurs, looking at those blue eyes. 

“Want help with the washing up?” John asks in answer to Sherlock’s question.

Sherlock hesitates as the fog in his head finally clears. He frowns at John and huffs quietly in frustration. Love seems to have either dropped his I.Q. a few points or decreased his cognitive abilities. Neither is acceptable and all is due to the man standing before him now. This charming and adorably sexy man in his kitchen.

“No,” Sherlock answers, a small smile playing at his lips in spite of himself. He can’t be angry about loving John. He was meant for him. Sherlock grins mischievously and turns back to the sink, placing the dishes in its basin and picking up the sponge again. 

“It’s no trouble,” John states in a light tone. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock tells him, running water over the plate and scrubbing. “It won’t take long.”

“But Sherlock…” John protests, puffing out his chest.

“You made dinner,” Sherlock insists, his voice taking on a whining quality. “Look, I’m almost done. There’s no need.”

When John does not move or respond, Sherlock looks at him more carefully. He seems surprised and...disappointed? Shit.

“Oh, okay,” John mutters in a discouraged tone. He hangs his head in resignation as he turns to leave.

“John…” Sherlock begins, but John interrupts him.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” John raises his head, but does not meet Sherlock’s eyes. He is about to speak again to stop John from leaving, a wet hand outstretched, but John is gone.

Shit.

***

“He was asking to help with the dishes, but he really just wanted to spend more time with me and I just said no! And after that kiss…” Sherlock slaps a hand to his forehead as he speaks non-stop to his phone. Molly Hooper stares back at him from her bedroom where she had been sleeping before he called. “God, I’m such an idiot. What the hell was I thinking?”

As soon as he finished with the dishes, he snuck into the hall and stealthily slipped past John’s room. Once he had passed it, he ran straight to his own room and FaceTimed Molly. Her initial response had been cursing the late hour and that is all she has been able to say. Sherlock dove right in without taking a breath, or even saying hello and Molly hasn’t gotten a word edgewise.

“S’right. I’m sure he’s packing his bags right now,” she snarks and pushes her messy hair off her face.

“Molly!” Sherlock nearly shouts and then hushes himself, looking around his room and toward the door in hopes that John did not hear.

“What do you want me to say?” she laughs as Sherlock presses his lips into a tight frown and furrows his brow until he wears a proper pout. Molly takes in his expression and cocks a brow as she rolls her eyes. “Sherlock, I got to know John pretty well while I was in the hospital and I can tell you right now that you being an idiot will not send him packing.”

“It’s not that simple, Molly,” Sherlock insists in a hushed tone.

“He’s probably in his room laughing his ass off right now,” Molly ignores his pleas.

“It just hits me sometimes and it’s like my I.Q. drops a few points,” Sherlock is beginning to sound desperate, even to his own ears.

“Well, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Molly finally acknowledges his words, looking at him with a serious gaze. He meets her eyes and they both start laughing.

“All right, no, it’s not that bad,” Sherlock tries to catch his breath. “It just seems like it. God, I can do really stupid things sometimes.”

“It’s called being in love,” Molly chuckles. “You’ve discovered a whole new world. Oh my god,” she looks at him with wide eyes and covers her mouth with her hand. Sherlock gives her a questioning frown. “It’s like a Disney movie,” she finishes before bursting out in hysterical laughter. Molly falls over backward onto her bed, dropping her phone as she goes so all Sherlock can see is her lavender bedspread.

“Molly. Molly!” he cries and then cringes, looking to the door again. When his eyes are back on the phone, he whispers urgently. “Molly!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” the image on Sherlock’s phone shakes furiously and then Molly’s face comes back into view. “I’m sorry.”

“Molly, this is serious,” Sherlock’s voice is agitated and he is hunched close to his phone.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Molly says again, still smiling but making a visible effort to become more serious again.

“This is different, Molls,” Sherlock huffs petulantly. “I loved Victor and never had this problem. Not once.”

“Ding, ding, ding! The genius can be taught!” Molly waves a hand in the air like she is ringing a bell and Sherlock tries to shush her boisterous declaration. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not the same in any way, shape or form.”

“Molly! Be serious!” Sherlock snaps in a hoarse whisper.

“Okay, okay,” she looks away with her eyes and takes a breath, collecting her thoughts before she continues. When her brown eyes find Sherlock again, they are most sincere. “Can you honestly tell me you felt this way about Victor? Ever?”

“No,” Sherlock doesn’t even have to think. There is only one answer.

“Exactly,” Molly replies solemnly. “True love is a powerful thing. It can make even the smartest people do stupid things. Cut yourself some slack. Wait, no,” she holds out a hand, realization dawning. “It’s not a Disney movie. What is it?”

“Molly,” Sherlock sighs.

“Oh my god!” she gasps and stares with wide eyes, her hand slapping the pillow sitting on the bed next to her. “It’s The Princess Bride!”

“Ah, god. That’s not the worst of it,” Sherlock bites his lip, his forehead wrinkling of its own volition. He is taken aback by the sudden silence in the room and turns his gaze to the phone to see Molly staring back with wide eyes. She leans in close, her face deadly serious once again.

“Sherlock,” her voice is just to the left of a scold, “what did you do?”

Sherlock jumps where he stands at the quiet knock on his door. His breath catches in his throat and he gapes at the door in horror. He opens and closes his mouth twice, unable to make a sound. 

“Sherlock,” Molly’s voice whispers, “what was that? What’s going on?”

“Sorry, Molls, gotta go,” he ends the call without even looking at the phone. Pressing his lips together and glancing to the left, the right, he inhales a fortifying breath and strides to the door. When he opens it, John is just raising his hand to knock again. The doctor stands frozen and wide-eyed before schooling his expression.

“Sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t sure you were here. I thought maybe the kitchen, but thought I’d check here first. Oh, shit. You weren’t asleep? Did I wake you?” John says it all in a steady stream, his hand still hovering in the air. The dramatic series of changes in John’s expression nearly set Sherlock to giggling.

“No,” he replies too quickly, trying to cover his mirth. “No, I wasn’t asleep. I was just…” Reliving the portion of our evening where I rebuked your romantic efforts, not realizing what they were, of course, but that hardly helps, and telling Molly what an idiot I am. “Do you need something? An extra blanket or…”

“No, I don’t need anything. I’m fine,” John tips his chin down a bit and brings his raised hand to the nape of his neck. He puffs out an embarrassed breath and looks up at Sherlock.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asks in his low baritone. He can see John shiver as he looks at him and takes a step closer. John swallows audibly.

“I know it’s late,” John begins, taking a shallow step into the room, drawing closer to the coach. The proximity makes Sherlock’s head swim with possibility and his hands suddenly tingle with the memory of touching John. Soft, warm skin under his fingertips only two nights ago and he wants it again. Now. Does John? His mind begs please, please, please.

“I know you want to confront Janine and tell the ladies about her role in the whole thing, but is that the best idea right now?” John says instead, his voice higher than usual and his brows raising with the suggestion.

“What?” Sherlock frowns, his brow knitting in confusion. That is not what he was hoping for. He shifts his weight and puts his hands on his hips, his brain unwilling to cooperate.

“Yeah, I know, but I was thinking…” John props his hand against the door frame. “Can I come in? I mean, this may not take long to explain, but if I could just come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Sherlock declares, stepping aside and ushering him in. “Please.”

“Thanks,” John passes through. Sherlock closes the door and gestures for John to follow him to the padded bench at the foot of his wide bed. John continues as they sit, looking a bit more comfortable. “This is going to sound a bit like a comedy routine at first, but there is a point.”

They both fold one leg in front of them so they are turned to face each other. Their knees touch when they are both settled and Sherlock’s stomach flips. The touch takes him right back to Baltimore. The warmth of John’s skin, his hot mouth on Sherlock’s body, and his eyes so full of love. Love. If only John could have seen it himself. If only he knew.

“If we tell Janine we know she’s in on it,” John’s voice has Sherlock tabling his thoughts and trying to concentrate on the issue at hand, “she’ll tell Moriarty and then he’ll know that we know he’s responsible.”

John stops to let it sink in. He watches Sherlock with an intense gaze and wets his lips before going on.

“His game plan will change if he doesn’t think she’s useful anymore. I don’t know exactly what that would mean, but it could put her in danger. Whatever she’s done, she doesn’t deserve that,” John finishes solemnly, leaning forward ever so slightly. Sherlock takes a minute or two to contemplate John’s words, pressing his lips together in thought.

“Agreed,” Sherlock says grimly.

“But that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” John nods. “If we tell the team about her, it not only increases the danger to her, it endangers all of them as well.”

“Because they will know it’s Moriarty,” Sherlock adds in a dubious tone. “They would have no proof of his direct involvement and it is unlikely he would take it to such an extreme level, but…”

He stops before the words come out. They taste like poison on his tongue and he winces as he completes the thought. “Janine would be an even larger liability that could be easily removed.”

“Exactly,” John searches his eyes with a hint of desperation in his own. “I know you feel responsible. You’re not, but I understand the desire to come clean. It’s very admirable.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Sherlock says quietly, straightening his spine.

“It is, but not right now,” John leans forward a fraction and inhales deeply, his eyes sharp and determined. “Listen to me, Sherlock. Think about this.”

Sherlock bites his lip and stares down at the dip in John’s skin that lives just between his clavicles. He rolls everything John has said around in his mind palace, closing his eyes to consider the logic of it. It is a difficult plan to dispute.

“We wait this out,” Sherlock gives a considered nod when he opens his eyes. “Keep everyone as safe as possible and deal with the consequences later.” He pauses to look at John gravely. “I cannot let any of them be harmed.”

“Won’t happen,” John takes Sherlock’s hands in his own and shakes his head. “Not on my watch. We will take this bastard down.”

God, Sherlock is full to bursting with love for this man. His hands are warm and hold Sherlock’s with such care, even as he pledges to thoroughly kick Moriarty’s ass. His eyes are so affectionate and calm, but reflect an undercurrent of unwavering strength. John Watson is a wonder. A man of fascinating dichotomies and it is absolutely delicious. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries to suppress a shiver as a feeling blooms in his chest and spreads through his body; every toe, the tip of every finger, the very tips of his ears. He squeezes John’s hands, the corners of his mouth turning up and his grey eyes sparkling. His lips part just slightly as the feeling wells inside of him. He wants to say something. He should say something, but every word that comes to mind seems inadequate. Still, he tries. Instead of something eloquent or even smart, he utters the most trite nonsense possible.

“Thank you.”

Thank you??

It’s all Sherlock can do not to face palm and it must show on his face because John cannot stifle a chuckle. Sherlock glares, but it does not last when the most dazzling smile takes over John’s features and he beams at Sherlock with the full light of the sun. His conductor of light.

“You’re welcome,” John says simply.

Overcome with emotion, Sherlock yanks his hands from John’s and lurches forward. In an instant, he is holding the doctor’s shoulders and pressing their lips together in a chaste but passionate kiss. John still wears the same smile when Sherlock pulls back.

“Okay. That’s settled then,” John laughs, gently shifting Sherlock’s hands from his shoulders and back to their laps. “We’d best get to sleep, yeah?”

“Right, and plan our next move against Moriarty tomorrow evening,” Sherlock says after a moment. “Yes, let’s order Chinese and meet in my office.”

“Perfect,” John rises from the bench. “I’ll see you in the morning then. Let’s drive together, shall we?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies.

“Fine,” John smiles and starts to walk away.

“John!” Sherlock jumps up from the bench and splutters at John’s back. John stops immediately and turns to face him halfway to the door. 

Sherlock does not want him to go and it is completely irrational. He could play it off as being worried for John’s safety, but John would never believe it. Of course he might play along and not say anything. Sherlock could claim he is worried for his own safety, but that is even more stupid. John is only here now because of Sherlock’s conviction that Moriarty will not harm him. John would leave the condo in seconds if Sherlock said he was worried about himself. No. 

Sherlock has to make something up and now because he has been quiet for too long again. His eyes have not left John’s face and the doctor‘s brow has begun to furrow.

“Don’t go, please. I...I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock blurts.

Not what he was planning to say at all. He blinks once, taken aback by his own honesty. John looks surprised too, like he could see Sherlock’s every thought play out on his face and expected him to lie. Readying himself for John’s refusal, Sherlock clenches his jaw and straightens his spine. He shifts his gaze to one of indifference and simply waits for John to say no. John watches him with raised brows for a long, agonizing moment.

“Uh,” John finally says, one side of his mouth quirking up. “You want me to sleep...in your bed? With you?”

“Really, John, I would have thought that was rather obvious,” Sherlock rolls his eyes before he can stop himself.

“Yeah,” John smiles wide, his face open. “I guess it is.”

“Good,” Sherlock goes to a chest of drawers and grabs some pajamas from the second drawer. “I’ll just change.”

“Right,” John replies as Sherlock disappears into the en suite. 

Sherlock quickly uses the toilet and changes into long silk pajama pants with a Red Wings tee. It was part of a promotional partnership a few years ago. The two teams do not actually interact much and Sherlock might not have kept the shirt, but it is so soft and really the perfect thing to sleep in.

Sherlock starts humming as he brushes his teeth. He does not even realize he is doing it until he spits and melodically whispers the words to his own reflection in the mirror.

“But you’re here in my heart. So who can stop me if I decide that you’re my destiny?”

He swallows the chorus when he puts the toothbrush back in his mouth and continues to clean his teeth. He sways just a bit and hums through the rest of the song before he finally rinses his mouth and dries his lips with a hand towel. It has been at least twenty minutes and John has to be exhausted from the travel and stress. He has probably fallen asleep already left in the bedroom to his own devices. Sherlock feels a twinge of disappointment at the prospect, although he is not entirely sure why. While he has been anxious to see John since leaving Baltimore yesterday morning, he does not necessarily have expectations for this first night in his bed. Frankly, he is the happiest he’s been all day just because John said yes. True, sitting up with John and talking into the wee hours would be fantastic, a dream, but he would be just as happy watching John sleep in his arms. If that isn’t too creepy. Is that creepy?

Sherlock resolves to ask John about his feelings on observation during slumber as he steps out of the bathroom door. He expects to see John out cold on the bed, but John is not sleeping. He isn’t even on the bed. He is, in fact, sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed with a book in his hands. Sherlock approaches slowly, watching as John closes the book and hops to his feet. He lifts the book and sort of gestures with it, giving Sherlock a sheepish look.

“Sorry. I saw it on the night table,” John shrugs and offers it to the taller man. “I was curious.”

“And?” Sherlock cocks a brow.

“It’s good. I’d definitely like to finish it,” John replies.

“Well, it’s lucky you’re living with me, isn’t it?” Sherlock flashes a dashing smile and takes the book by its spine. John grins back.

“It is, yeah,” he answers.

Sherlock lets out a soft laugh, tilting his chin down to look at the cover of the book. The face of Dame Judy Dench gazes back at him. He laughs almost to himself and raises his eyes to John.

“I thought sure you would be asleep by now. You must be exhausted,” Sherlock tells him.

“Oh, I am,” John nods personably. He gestures toward the bed. “Which side do you sleep on? I didn’t like to impose.”

“I invited you,” Sherlock says in an even tone, trying not to sound too excited.

“Yeah, to share your bed not commandeer it,” John chuckles. Sherlock ducks his head at the sound that is music to his ears.

“You sleep on the left,” Sherlock states definitively. John huffs a laugh and rests his hands on his own hips where his pajama pants ride low. The dark blue t-shirt he wears hugs every curve and just a hint of skin peeks out from between it and his pants.

“Yeah,” John tilts his head to the side, a small smile on his face. He is adorable and so damn hot all at once. Sherlock’s mouth runs dry.

“Perfect,” he clears his throat. “I prefer the right.”

“Mm-hm,” John hums and then jokes. “I am far from perfect, Sherlock.”

“I know that, John. Trust me,” the coach winks and then continues, feigning seriousness. “We’re good together. In spite of our flaws, I mean.”

He takes a detour on his way to the bed to turn off the overhead light as John switches on one of the bedside lamps. When he reaches the right side of the king-sized bed, John is looking at him with a knowing smirk.

“You little shit,” John scolds.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle and he does not respond. John inhales slowly and releases it, just as measured. The two men gaze at one another in silence. Watching, searching, understanding. It all washes over Sherlock like a wave and he feels free. He can only assume John feels it too based upon his serene expression and the glow of his eyes. 

“To bed?” John breaks the silence.

“To bed,” Sherlock answers.

They take one last look at each other across the bed, both wearing sheepish grins, and slip under the covers. Sherlock settles with his arms under the blankets while John’s are over the covers. John turns to look at Sherlock.

“Ready?” he asks with raised brows. He angles his head toward the lamp on his side. 

“You?” Sherlock asks as he nods.

John nods with a grin and they turn off the lamps. With only moonlight from the windows to light the room, Sherlock waits for his eyes to adjust. Even when they have, he just stares at the ceiling and does not look at the man in his bed while he screws up the courage to speak. He is being ridiculous. They have slept together in a bed before. There is no reason to be so nervous. He takes a fortifying breath.

“John?” he asks quietly into the dark room. John does not answer. Perhaps he is asleep, dozed off as soon as he closed his eyes.

“Yeah?” comes the doctor’s voice.

Maybe not.

“What are your thoughts on sleeping?” Sherlock says hesitantly.

“Well, I like sleeping and let’s face it, we all need it,” John reasons, sounding more and more sleepy.

“And observation?” Sherlock ventures hesitantly.

“What?” John’s voice is laced with confusion.

“While one is asleep,” Sherlock finishes. 

“You’ve lost me, Sherlock. But for the record, you can’t watch things while you’re asleep,” John laughs tiredly and gestures with one hand.

“No, not me. You,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, addressing John like he is an idiot. “Watching you!”

“Hang on,” John turns on his side to face Sherlock, propping up on one elbow. “Are you saying you want to watch me sleep?”

“No,” Sherlock says defensively, turning to face John. “Not all the time.” They are at least two feet apart, but Sherlock can still see him clearly by the moonlight. “Just...sometimes.”

Sherlock cringes. He sounds like a stalker. It is creepy. Wanting to watch John sleep is creepy and Sherlock is a complete weirdo. Although, John does not appear to be alarmed. In fact, he looks genuinely amused. Sherlock’s brow creases and he huffs indignantly.

“Never mind,” he mumbles.

“No, no, I won’t never mind,” John laughs while Sherlock harrumphs. “I think it’s cute.”

Sherlock glares even as John inches closer.

“I am not cute,” Sherlock snarls.

“And rather endearing,” John continues. 

Sherlock huffs in exasperation and looks away, but he can see John shimmy closer in the corner of his eye. A breath catches in his throat at the touch of John’s hand on his bicep, fingertips under his sleeve. His fingers are hot on Sherlock’s cool skin, smooth and calming. The touch spreads through and warms his whole body.

“You can watch me sleep anytime you want,” John whispers and the words send a shockwave up Sherlock’s spine. “As long as you promise to wake me if I start snoring.”

“All right,” Sherlock agrees with a snort. He meets John’s soft eyes. “I promise.”

John smiles in response and moves his hand to Sherlock’s chest. He exhales long and slow, perfectly content. In one fluid motion, Sherlock lifts his arm to encircle John’s torso and John rests his head on Sherlock’s pectoral. Sherlock wishes he had not put a shirt on at all so he could feel John’s cheek against his bare skin. They both sigh at once.

“G’night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

---

Goddamn if they aren’t the sweetest boys in all the world. Personally, I love the way this one starts. Sherlock’s stunned in the bathroom thinking, “I told John I love him. I told John I love him.” and then immediately segues into “John loves me. John loves me.” But forever the problem, John doesn’t know it yet. C’est la vie. ... My ass. When is John going to figure it out? Come on, man! Those tingly, weird feelings you’re feeling are love. Love. Get with the program. 

Fear not, friends, he’ll get there. Even-tu-ally. Please be patient with me and for the next chapter. I promise I’ll get things back on schedule. Thank you all for your love and support. I’ll see you soon. Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @tooolforthissh--stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedsstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa  @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @one-thousand-splendid-stars @irina12maria

[vixxscifiwritings]

reflections in wisps

Length - 2457 words

Characters - Seokjin x Jaehwan, BTS Ensemble

Rating - Teen and Up

Summary - Seokjin knows he won’t have Jaehwan for long. The illusion of their love is a false reflection in the fading wisps of feelings they once harboured for each other.

Series

Tag List -  @tomatoholmes @merlionmen @seraphistols  @k-craze-97 @blossomtearsleo

-

“You’re smoking again”

“I was wondering when you would notice it and ask me to stop”

“I don’t think asking would have actually made you stop.”

“I guess not”

-

When Jaehwan returns, he apologises to Seokjin.

Jaehwan apologises but makes no excuses. It’s part of what Seokjin likes about Jaehwan. He has no lies or cover ups or excuses. He comes down to the fancy apartment they share in the ‘right side’ of town after disappearing for days and tells him he is sorry.

He doesn’t tell Seokjin what he is sorry for and Seokjin doesn’t ask because there are things he should be sorry for and he doesn’t tell Jaehwan about them either.

Instead they kiss. It’s easier to be lost in the way Jaehwan’s lips on his skin give him goosebumps and how the warmth of someone else feels just right when he has been deprived for so long. Sex doesn’t require thinking. Sex doesn’t even require feelings if you are doing it right.

And so he kisses Jaehwan back and let’s the thoughts in his head be drowned out behind white noise.

-

Seokjin grows up in a house in the posh suburbs to the east of the city. He grows up in a small two storeyed house with a flower bed in the front yard and a white picket fence all around. He even had a sugar glider briefly but he forgets the name.

His life changes drastically when his father decides to run for the local government body. Suddenly his family is thrust into the limelight and his father’s PR team decides to use the opportunity to broadcast how virtuous and well behaved they are.

His mother and brother fare better under the scrutiny. His mother is traditional and believes in supporting her husband and hence has no problem playing the part of the loving partner. His brother is ambitious. He studies business in a prestigious business school and starts his own business, riding on his father’s fame. He humbly attributes his success to the values his parents instilled in him at any public event and even marries the daughter of their father’s biggest sponsor for campaigns.

Seokjin does what any sensible young adult would when faced with life changing events out of their control.

Seokjin rebels.

He goes to the local art college to study filmmaking. Despite his gorgeous face, he becomes an assistant director with a non-profit organization that works to raise awareness about issues plaguing modern society through films. And as the last nail in the proverbial coffin of his good boy image, he starts to date Lee Jaehwan. A good for nothing who brings no addition to their family’s social status, his grandmother announces over a family dinner and Seokjin kisses Jaehwan in front of everyone to “console him”.

-

“Try not to give someone an aneurysm” Hoseok pleads, adjusting Seokjin’s wonky bow tie.

“I make no promises,” Seokjin says with a devilish smile.

“Okay. I’ll treat you to coffee for a month if you can wait till after the auction has concluded before offending someone with a witty remark” Hoseok says.

“Of course I am not gay, I am merely waiting for the right girl to make an honest man out of me. Of course my parents are doing well, I called them just the other day. Yes my brother’s business is doing great, I am very proud. If only I was more like him” Seokjin says in a shrill voice and Hoseok gives up on any hopes he has.

Seokjin follows his friend who navigates through the crowd and talks to the crowd attending the art exhibition he has curated. It has the most ostentatious, the creme de la creme of society in attendance and Hoseok has high hopes to earn the profits he needs to keep the museum running tonight. And Seokjin is many things but not a bad friend so he sticks to the flutes of champagne supplied helpfully by the servers and makes a polite comment here and there but says nothing more.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Hoseok asks, when he finds Seokjin looking at one of the modern art pieces on display. It’s a realist painting of a diner in a small town. The diner has large glass panels that lets the onlooker see inside and note the people sitting down by it and a waiter serving them from behind the counter.

“What’s the story behind this?” Seokjin asks. The diner is dreary to look at and inspires no strong emotions but that is how real life is. Nothing interesting ever happens and Seokjin can hardly blame the artist for depicting the truth of the world. It’s also surprisingly devoid of people and meaningful interaction, like it is an image of a lonely time, sliced out of the flow of time and captured on canvas. It’s how most of his nights look now but Seokjin quickly squashes the depressing reminder.

“Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. A classic modern art piece” Hoseok tells him. “It’s supposed to be a comment about loneliness in the urban lifestyle of the 1940s America.”

“Still holds,” Seokjin says, taking a sip of his champagne. His cheeks burn with warmth but he ignores it.

“Is it already bid for?”

“Not very high if you’re thinking about buying it. Everyone is going for the more well known modern art pieces or the fancier classics” Hoseok says. Seokjin takes a cheque book out of his jacket. He didn’t intend on using it tonight but life has never gone the way he intended it at any time.

-

“What do you think?” Seokjin asks once the crew from the museum installs the painting in the living room and leaves.

Jaehwan looks at the painting and says nothing. Seokjin knows he hates it. But it is magnanimous of him not to voice it immediately. The painting has grown on Seokjin and he can’t bring himself to regret the small fortune he has spent on it.

“I like it” Seokjin responds when Jaehwan doesn’t. He reaches out and adjusts the painting so that it is perfectly parallel to the edges of the wall.

“Why this specific painting?” Jaehwan asks.

“I liked the irony of a social place being used to depict loneliness. It spoke to me spiritually” Seokjin says. He goes on to add the analysis of the painting that Hoseok gave him about loneliness and despair and how the want of company and comfort is a thing that hasn't changed over decades and continents.

"You could add a funky neon sign with a few letters blinking or not lit up and it would be any themed diner here in South Korea" Seokjin jokes before admiring the way the painting looks on the light cream coloured walls of the apartment.

Jaehwan stares at the painting and never looks at it again for the remainder of the night.

-

Things almost go back to normal but they really don’t.

Jaehwan takes Seokjin on pretty dates to pretty places during the day and whispers dirty things into his ear as he kisses him at night. It’s almost like the days he disappeared and the fights they had didn’t exist.

But he also dazes out in the middle and never really pays attention to whatever Seokjin is talking about. He hums and responds at all the right places in a conversation but never really means any of it. Jaehwan also takes to his old habit of smoking in the balcony after every night they spend together. It’s like whatever happened in those days has changed everything between them.

Seokjin knows that the ground beneath his feet has shifted. He’s no stranger to that feeling of the world changing overnight. Only this time, it happens so quietly that Seokjin really doesn’t know how to deal with it.

How do you hold onto smoke that lies within your reach but cannot be held? It only shifts out of his grasp, just far enough to never truly be held and just near enough to suffocate him slowly.

-

“I have news for you” Jaehwan says, looking at Seokjin. “Taehyung liked the manuscript I sent in. He’s suggested minor changes and decided to forward it to Namjoon. If Namjoon likes it, I will get a publishing deal.”

“That’s amazing,” Seokjin says and finds that he really means it. “I didn’t even know you were planning on sending it in.”

Jaehwan and Taehyung have an awkward history. Taehyung is a book critic and editor for Namjoon’s publishing house and someone very familiar with Jaehwan’s writing from his newspaper columnist days. Taehyung always claims to have fallen in love with Jaehwan’s writing way back then. But Seokjin knows that Jaehwan wants nothing to do with his old life and so he usually diverts Taehyung's attention away from it.

“It’s nerve wrecking as fuck. I hope this becomes popular as hell so I never have to write ever again” Jaehwan swears. Seokjin laughs.

“Let’s open up a new wine bottle. Yoongi recommended this new brand of red wine that I got a bottle of and you can tell me what your new book is about” Seokjin says. It’s a little too early to celebrate anything but a little cheer will be good for them.

“It’s just a story about… people. Places and things. Nothing and everything” Jaehwan says vaguely as he gestures to the air around him.

“What a thrilling description. I’ll ask Namjoon to put it on the book cover” Seokjin says wryly. For the first time in a very long time, Jaehwan laughs and Seokjin laughs with him.

-

What Seokjin does ask of Namjoon is a copy of the finalized manuscript that is approved for printing.

Namjoon loves the book and gives it a raving review. The publishing deal is finalized quickly because Taehyung does not want to give Jaehwan the chance to change his mind. Before Seokjin knows it, a thick bundle of papers tied together with a large gaudy paper clip and sealed in tacky brown packaging arrives at his doorstep.

Seokjin keeps the manuscript a secret. He wants to let Jaehwan offer a signed personal copy for keepsake. But he is also a curious soul and this trait always gets the best of him.

Jaehwan is out for the night. (He is always out for some reason or the other.) So Seokjin pours himself a glass of cheap store bought red wine and puts the manuscript on his lap and begins to read.

It's a story of a lost man. A man who feels lost even though he is loved by all and a man who doesn't know himself though everyone around him is quick to label their relationship with him and by extension to label him. The protagonist spends half the novel wandering and pitying himself till he meets someone and falls in love. It's a forbidden sort of love and sucks both men in till their feelings overwhelm them. The protagonist leaves by the end because the protagonist always does but he leaves his heart in the tiny dingy motel they met in and even that admission is a guilty confession to the wide vacuum of an uncaring world and not to the object of his affection.

Seokjin reads through the manuscript in one setting. Jaehwan is just that good with his words and Seokjin knows this is a rare glimpse into his mind that no one else is afforded just yet. Jaehwan will make it big. No wonder Taehyung is anxious to have the deal under his publishing house. Jaehwan writes about true love and heartbreak in a magnificent way that anyone can understand but can only hope to experience in their lifetime. At once the grandeur of heartbreak is within your grasp and just out of your reach.

When he finishes the manuscript, he looks at the painting hanging in the gallery and understands Jaehwan's surprise. He rereads the last confession and understands Jaehwan's disdain too.

-

"I don't have excuses" Jaehwan says, when Seokjin finds him smoking on their bedroom's balcony.

"You never do" Seokjin says, sitting down next to him.

"I'm a shit liar for a writer" Jaehwan admits. Seokjin scoffs and rubs his nose. He is resigned to the situation but he doesn't find the smell pleasant. Nothing will endear him to smoking, he thinks. Not even the oncoming heartbreak.

"You're much better than you think you are" Seokjin says. Jaehwan gives him a searching look. How much does Seokjin already know, Jaehwan wonders. The painting from the living room is gone and Jaehwan has seen the copy of his book on Seokjin's nightstand.

"How much did you read?" he ventures to ask. Some band-aids are better ripped off as soon as the wound stops bleeding.

"All of it" Seokjin replies honestly.

"I didn't mean to break your heart" Jaehwan tells him.

"You don't get to decide what hurts me and what doesn't" Seokjin says sharply. He doesn't like the way Jaehwan genuinely sounds apologetic and guilty. He hates how it isn't motivated by love and merely by concern over a relationship that should have died much earlier.

"Why did you come back if you thought you really loved the one you left behind?" Seokjin asks.

"Because that ending is… a white lie. A romantic ending to make the book sellable. I didn't fall in love when I was at the motel. I didn't fall in love with someone else" Jaehwan explains.

"You only fell out of love with me" Seokjin summarizes breezily. Jaehwan draws a deep breath of his cigarette and turns away to let the smoke out. This hurts more than Seokjin thought it would.

The two men sit in the balcony and avoid looking at each other. The air between them is thick with tension, stuffy from the remains of what once was and will never be again.

Seokjin watches the tendrils of smoke rise from the last of Jaehwan's cigarette through its reflection in the window glass. The ember glows till it dims and fades out, leaving only smoke in its wake.

He wonders if the disappearance of the carbon means he can pretend that the smoke never existed once sufficient time has passed. Or if the smell will taint his memories forever like heartbreak threatens to taint the rose hued past blue. He wonders if he can lean forward and catch the smoke as it twists in and out of the air current to rise up and disappear into nothingness. He wonders if the smoke was always meant to escape and if the paper was always meant to burn to give it the freedom it so runs after.

In the end, all the smoke does is suffocate him and make his eyes water.

-

[murderdaddymayhem]

Sexual Tension On Tour With Rob Zombie Headcanons (Fem!Reader)

Requested by anon!

You’re Marilyn Manson’s bass guitarist, so you’re on the road with Manson and Rob for the Twins of Evil tour 

The sexual tension between you and Rob is ridiculous. Every time you look at each other, it’s like you both want to wildly fuck the living shit out of the other

Your interactions are few and far between tho, since you’re all so busy and the two bands rarely hang out outside of the venue 

Marilyn eventually steps in, and says to Rob, “You like my guitarist? Just fuck her! What’s the big deal? We fucked once when we both got blackout drunk in Pittsburgh… from what I remember, I think she was good. Actually, I think she just gave me head… no, wait. That was a wet dream. Fucking point is– just do it.” Rob ducks his head down, and shakes it. 

“It’s not that simple, man. And I want more than a little head.”

Though, he wouldn’t mind it. God, do you look good in your tight jeans. And hell, does he look good in that ripped shirt tonight. 

John 5 and Manson, having worked together previously, devise a plan. One night while traveling between cities on the tour bus, Marilyn cracks out the booze and John 5 explains that you’re all gonna play truth or dare 

You go first, and ask for a truth, staring directly at Rob. He asks you what your favourite scene in Creature From The Black Lagoon (1954) is. Marilyn is shaking his head, because of course Rob fucking asked that. Dumbass nerd 

Finally, it’s Rob’s turn. He asks for a dare, as you suspected he would. You dare him to do what he wants to do most right now. You expect some witty remark like, “I don’t think you all wanna watch what I’d most wanna do.” But… instead, he evades the dare. 

You don’t wanna make him uncomfortable, so you relent and give him something generic like, act like a monkey for the whole next round

On his next turn, he picks a truth, thinking that would get him a little more mercy. He immediately regrets his decision when Marilyn opens his mouth. “What is one thing you’d like to do to (y/n) right here, right now?" 

Rob looks you up and down, his resolve weakening. What was the alcohol content on that whiskey? 

"I’d like to bury my face in her tits,” Rob mumbles, almost inaudibly.

“I’m sorry, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Marilyn shouts at him in his metal voice. 

“Man, just… I said I’d like to bury my fuckin face in her tits. Okay? Happy?” He’s red as a tomato, and you’re more than a little horny after hearing that confession  

“I’m never happy,” Marilyn deadpans, “Your job tonight is to make sure she is though.” He turns to John 5, who takes over. 

“(y/n). Your turn." 

"It’s my turn,” Ginger complains, “What about the rules, you anarchist pieces of shit?" 

"To hell with the rules, we have one purpose here,” Marilyn says. “(y/n), I dare you to give Rob a lap dance." 

"Fuck,” Rob whispers. He can’t stop staring as you begin to inch your top up, and take it off in front of all the guys and crawl on your knees all the way over to him. Piggy whistles, and you shoot the fellow bass player a wink as you place one knee on either side of Rob’s legs, lowering yourself. 

Rob’s eyelids flutter as you make slight grinding movement over his crotch.

His bulge starts to fill out, and you’re getting wetter seeing how big he is, packed into those shredded, too-tight bell bottoms. 

“Baby doll,” he groans in your ear, hands resting on your hips, fingernails digging into the meat of your ass. You smirk, looking down at his grimace. “Baby doll, you’re gonna have to stop." 

"Why?” you pout, gyrating your hips so that your soaked panties drag over his denim clad erection. 

“If you don’t stop… I’m gonna have to… toss you down and fuck you in front of all of them." 

You shiver, and nip at his ear. "All bark and no bite." 

"Oh yeah?!”

“Yeah. Fucking do it. No false promises." 

Rob opens his eyes to find his bandmates, tour partner, and partner’s other bandmates watching intently. He gives them the finger. Marilyn gets the hint, and gets up, wobbling. 

"Okay kids– let’s leave them to their corporeal pandemonium.” He shoots Rob a rock on symbol, then the guys all head to the back. 

As if they couldn’t leave soon enough, Rob’s fingers dig into your hips even deeper, and he knocks you off of him, pinning you down on the bus’ floor. He then presses his lips to yours, starting to make out with you

“Why did we do this on a fucking tour bus?” 

Your bodies are moving and grinding together, and it’s safe to say this is the greatest release of sexual tension you’d ever had. You ride him hard until you’re both worn out and tired

The next night at his tour, Rob apologizes to the crowd for not being able to jump as high as usual. 

“My back’s shot out. You have (y/n) to thank for that.” The crowd goes wild. You grin from the wings. Marilyn clasps his hands in prayer.