#Manhattan In home Massage

[witchywithwhiskey]

tempting fate on the terrace

pairing: father's business rival CEO!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you're relaxing on bucky's penthouse terrace and eating ice cream when he tempts you into something more

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, creampie, come play, light teasing, light overstimulation, finger sucking, choking, light bdsm, semi-public sex, little bit of exhibitionism, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, pet names (darling), unspecified age gap, fluff

word count: 2,900ish

a/n: y'all have @biteofcherry to blame for this follow up, because i couldn't get her idea out of my head and i just had to write it 😅 i'm so so so so so happy with how this turned out. i kind of can't get enough of these naughty little lovebirds, i just love them so much!!! and i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! ♡

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

The spring sunshine was perfectly warm on your face, and you stretched your legs out, sinking further into the soft cushions of the outdoor sofa as you considered whether you should trade in your Brooklyn brownstone for a Manhattan penthouse. Specifically a penthouse with a terrace as pretty as the one belonging to Bucky Barnes. 

You licked your ice cream cone thoughtfully, gazing through the greenery that had been set up around the edge of the terrace to give it a sense of privacy. The whole of Manhattan seemed to sprawl beyond the edge of Bucky’s penthouse and you enjoyed the view almost as much as you loved the tree-lined Brooklyn street where you lived.

But your brownstone didn’t have a concierge to go buy ice cream and cones so you could have a delightful treat after being ruined by one of the most powerful CEOs in the city—who also happened to be your father’s business rival. That said, your apartment did have a bagel store around the block with the best bagels in New York City…

You were distracted from comparing the benefits of your home to Bucky’s by the door to the terrace sliding open with a soft sound. The man who had been nothing more than your father’s business rival—until he’d become much, much more—paused just outside the door, his hands slipping into the pockets of his lounge pants while he stared at you lazing about on his outdoor sofa.

You grinned, taking a long lick of your ice cream as you stared right back at him. He looked deliciously comfortable in his lounge pants and simple gray t-shirt, the soft cotton pulling tight across his broad shoulders. His brown hair was a little disheveled from how much you’d run your fingers through it, and his blue eyes sparkled in the golden late afternoon light. 

“Y’know, darling, I could get used to seeing you looking so comfortable in my home,” Bucky rumbled as he prowled over to the sofa, lifting your legs and sitting down so they sprawled across his lap. Since he was closer, you could better see the way his eyes darkened as he raked them along your body. “And I could definitely get used to seeing you wear my clothes.” He fingered the bottom hem of the button-up shirt you were wearing—the one you’d stolen off his floor and put on because it smelled like him. “In fact, maybe it should be a rule that you only wear my clothes when you’re here.”

You laughed, the sound bright and airy as you tipped your head back, and you were still smiling when you looked back at Bucky. “You already made it a rule that I can’t wear panties while I’m here,” you pointed out, kicking him lightly with your bare foot. “At this rate, I’ll have to walk around naked, and I love your terrace too much for that—your neighbors are going to see me and we’re actually going to get that public indecency charge.”

Bucky’s hands had begun to massage your calves, slowly working their way up your legs but he paused in thought, his gaze going distant as he stared out over the city. “Y’know, I don’t think you can get charged for public indecency if you’re naked on a private terrace,” he said, then turned mischievous eyes on you. “Why don’t we test it out,” he teased in a deliciously warm tone, his hands slipping up your thighs to push the hem of your shirt up, revealing your bare pussy to his gaze.

“Jamie—someone could see!” you cried, laughing and pushing him away half-heartedly with one hand while you tried to hold your ice cream cone stable in the other. But Bucky turned and wedged his body between your legs so you couldn’t close them, his gaze heating as he stared down at the apex of your thighs.

“Christ, your pussy looks pretty with my come spilling out of it,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, his fingers trailing through your still sticky folds. Your hips stuttered up against his fingertips and you sucked in a gasp as he brushed gently against your sensitive clit. “So fucking pretty, darling.” 

“Jamie.” That time, when you said his name, it was more of a whimper, the sound so desperate it made heat flood your cheeks. You and Bucky had already fucked three times since you’d arrived at his penthouse, it was amazing that your body was still hungry for more. It felt like you’d be hungry for Bucky for the rest of your life.

Bucky looked up at you, grinning when he saw the needy look on your face. “You might want to finish your ice cream, darling, because I’m fucking another load into your pretty cunt the second you’re done,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and making you shiver as warmth pooled between your thighs. 

Grabbing the collar of Bucky’s shirt, you pulled yourself up to sit, your legs wrapped around his waist from the side and held your treat out to him. “Help me finish, Jamie,” you begged in a playful tone, giving him a sweet smile as if you didn’t hear the double entendre of your words. 

Bucky held your gaze as he leaned forward and took a big bite of your ice cream, chomping on some of the cone and making you laugh. But the warm spring sunshine was hot enough that the ice cream was soon dripping down your fingers and you quickly licked it up. Bucky watched you for a moment before he wrapped a hand around your throat and dragged you in for a messy kiss, the sweet taste of ice cream filling your senses just as much as the rich taste that was all Bucky.

Together, the two of you finished off your ice cream, laughing and kissing and tasting each other. When the cone was gone, you licked the sticky sweetness from Bucky’s fingers, your tongue teasing over his skin while you watched his blue eyes darken with desire. Once you were done, he tortured you in much the same way, his tongue sliding between your fingers in such an obscene way, you let out a soft moan as you imagined his warm mouth pressed between your thighs instead.

By the time every trace of ice cream had been licked from your skin, you were soaking wet and desperate for Bucky; you pulled him in for a kiss. He made quick work of unbuttoning the shirt you wore and pushing it down over your shoulders while your fingers dove beneath his t-shirt. You raked your nails lightly through the dark hair that decorated his chest, delighting in the softness of it against your fingertips. He groaned into your mouth, breaking away only to pull his shirt off. 

Then he was laying you down on the sofa and pushing his lounge pants off to pool at his feet before he climbed over you, covering your body with his broader form. His hips settled between your thighs, his hard length nestling perfectly between your slick lower lips. 

“Fuck, you feel good, darling,” Bucky rumbled on a moan, moving his hips back and forth, just enough to slide the hard ridge of his cock against your puffy clit. “Wanna be buried in this cunt every fucking moment of the day—you’re tuning me into some pussy-drunk idiot,” he growled, kissing and nipping at your jaw while his hand circled your throat, his fingers digging lightly into the sides.

You huffed a sound that was half laugh, half shuddering moan, your legs hooking around the backs of Bucky’s thighs and using the leverage to grind against his bare cock. “If it makes you feel any better, all I can think about is how badly I want to be your cockdrunk little slut,” you murmured in his ear, nuzzling your cheek against the scruff on his jaw and delighting in the delicious rasp against your skin. “I think about sitting under your desk in your office, your cock in my throat, keeping you warm while you work.”

“Oh fuck—fuck, darling,” Bucky groaned, rocking against you harder, his cock growing wet and slick with your juices the more he slid through your pussy lips. “When you’re not here and I’m stroking my cock, I think about fucking you at one of your father’s boring galas,” he rumbled, his words coming faster to match the speed of his hips. “I think about sinking my cock into you and pumping you full of come and making you go back out to the party with my load dripping down your thighs beneath your gown.”

You raked your fingers through Bucky’s soft hair, clinging to him while your hips kept rocking together. His hard cock was rubbing your clit and his words were spinning delicious fantasies and it was too much. You felt your release swelling within you, threatening to overwhelm you, but you didn’t want to come against his cock, you wanted to come on his cock.

“Jamie,” you cried on a gasp, babbling words that you hoped made sense so he’d know what you wanted, “I can’t—I’m gonna—please, inside me—come, please!” 

Thankfully, Bucky understood your nonsense and he chuckled against your cheek. “Remember to be quiet, darling,” he rumbled, the warmth in his tone telling you he was grinning. “Don’t want the neighbors to hear you and risk finding out about whether we can get a public indecency charge on my private terrace.”

Before you could even think to respond to his teasing, Bucky pulled back, the tip of his cock needing no guidance to find your dripping hole. He slid inside easily, stretching you out around his cock. Your cunt was so wet, and you were so close to coming, it felt like your body was sucking him in deeper, your inner walls clinging to him as he split you open with his cock.

Despite Bucky’s warning, you groaned loudly—not because you wanted to find out about the indecency charge, but because you simply couldn’t control yourself. No matter how many times Bucky fucked you, every time he pushed deep into your cunt, it felt so good your mind went fuzzy with pleasure. You never wanted it to end, you wanted him inside you all the time, always and forever.

When the head of his cock pushed against your cervix, he grunted in pleasure while you moaned your own delight. Bucky dug his fingers deeper into the sides of your throat, cutting off your sound of ecstasy while he lifted himself up enough to see you. His eyes roved hungrily over your face, eagerly drinking in the way your expression twisted in pleasure as he pulled back and thrust inside you again, his hips clapping against your thighs. 

“Dirty, filthy girl,” Bucky grunted, thrusting into you to punctuate each word. “Can never be quiet when I tell you.”

You tried to smirk up at him, but another hard driving thrust had your eyes rolling back and your mouth falling open on a silent moan. With what you thought was a valiant effort, you mannaged to huff, “That’s because I like it when you make me be quiet, Mr. Barnes.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed on you and his mouth twisted into a determined snarl. “You know I prefer when you call me Jamie,” he growled, fucking you harder and faster, pressing his face close to yours so you could feel his warm breath ghost over your cheek. “You call me Jamie when my cock is deep in your cunt and I’m about to pump you full of my fourth load today—d’you hear me, darling?”

It was so much fun riling Bucky up, and you were enjoying the result of your efforts, your body lighting up from within as he pounded into you. But you knew he wanted an answer to his question, so you parted your lips and babbled, “Yes, sir, you feel so good, Jamie—love it when you fuck me hard, Jamie, please!”

“There’s my good girl,” Bucky rumbled, his tone as warm as the sunshine falling across your bare skin. He brushed a kiss to your cheek and pushed your thighs wider, fucking you in deep, grinding thrusts that had his pelvis rubbing perfectly against your clit. “Now come on my cock, darling, wanna feel your cunt choking my dick like I’m choking your pretty throat.”

As if you could resist an order like that. 

At Bucky’s filthy words, you came undone. The swelling pleasure in your core burst, and your body went taut as wave after wave of overwhelming sensation washed over you. Your lips parted in a scream that Bucky made sure stayed silent, his big hand gripping your throat so tightly, it made your entire being focus in on everything your body was feeling, every little spark and fizzle of pleasure that came from his cock, his hand—him.

“Good girl, so good, feel so fucking good, darling, fuck—fuck,” Bucky groaned, his hips thrusting wildly between your thighs until he pressed deep and let out a low grunt. His cock twitched and throbbed inside you and you knew he was coming, your clenching pussy milking every drop of his load from his balls. 

“Jamie,” you murmured when he loosened his grip on your throat. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.” Your chanting words were a plea and a prayer, which Bucky seemed to understand because his arms dug beneath your body so he could cradle you tight to his chest until there wasn’t a breath of air between you. You rode out your releases like that, your bodies writhing together, clinging to one another, unwilling to let the other move even a millimeter away. 

Slowly, eventually, the two of you settled, your body melting beneath Bucky’s while his cock softened inside you. His come spilled from your slit, sliding down between your ass cheeks. But you couldn’t be bothered by the mess the two of you had made, not when it felt too good to simply lay with Bucky, both of you naked and basking in the golden spring sunshine.

“Sooo,” you began, drawing out the word as you trailed your fingers through Bucky’s soft hair. He rumbled a short hum of acknowledgement. “D’you think any of your neighbors heard us?”

That had Bucky chuckling. He pressed a kiss to your neck, his lips finding the same spot where his fingers had dug in, making you shiver. “What’re they gonna do, tell me I can’t fuck my girlfriend on my own private terrace?” he grumbled. 

You went still beneath him and Bucky could feel the change in you, immediately lifting himself up so he could see your face. At his questioning look, you whispered, “That’s the first time you’ve called me your girlfriend.” You hated how small your voice sounded, but you were suddenly very afraid it was a slip of the tongue that Bucky would take back the second you pointed it out.

But he didn’t. Instead, his eyes went soft and he ducked down to press a sweet and firm kiss to your lips. “You’re my girlfriend,” he said resolutely, but then paused and gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. “Unless you don’t want to be.”

Your eyes widened and your fingers dug possessively into the back of his neck. “No, no, I want to be, I want to be,” you assured him quickly, smiling when he looked relieved. You pulled him down for another kiss, though it was difficult because you were grinning so hard. “Does this mean you’re my boyfriend, Jamie?”

“Of course I am,” he growled, nipping playfully at your lip and making you giggle.

“OK good,” you said with a happy sigh, going back to raking your fingers through his hair. “Then as your girlfriend,” you began, a teasing lightheartedness in your tone. “I demand my boyfriend get me another ice cream cone—since he ate half of mine.” When Bucky cut his eyes to yours, you gave him your best innocent pout, even though you knew he saw right through you. 

“Anything for you, darling,” he rumbled, dropping a kiss to your lips before he extricated himself from your body and sat up. He pulled his lounge pants back on and then tugged his t-shirt on over your head, a pleased smile curving his lips at the sight of you wearing his clothes. 

When Bucky dragged you up from the sofa, you tugged the hem of his shirt down over your ass, not wanting to flash any neighbors who might be looking, even though the greenery around the edge of the terrace would likely block you from view. Still, if you ever happened to move into Bucky’s penthouse, you didn’t want to have a reputation for walking around naked.

Not that you could see yourself giving up your beloved Brooklyn brownstone. 

Probably.

Unless Bucky asked you to move into his penthouse…

Thankfully, you were distracted from what a future with Bucky would mean for your housing situation by the man himself pulling your favorite flavor of ice cream from his freezer. He turned to you with a happy grin, looking devastatingly handsome and at home in his penthouse kitchen.

Right then, you decided you weren’t going to be tempting fate on the terrace again. It had been fun to fuck your boyfriend where any of his neighbors could have overheard or caught a glimpse of you, but you didn’t want to risk it again.

Just in case you did end up moving into Bucky Barnes’ penthouse.

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

[scoutofmymind]

your anora au fic had my jaw hanging. at first i couldn’t picture it all from the prompt but once i started reading your writing……ma’am you truly are the luigi fic whisperer

Losing Dogs Pt. 2 — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, kissing, meeting-parents-for-the-first-time-anxiety, big emphasis on Luigi being Italian, familial secrets, reader is a sex worker, fluff, sorry for any inconsistencies I got too stoned writing this

Wc: 7,010 (woah)

Notes: Click here to read part one.

It’s not the condo in Manhattan that the dinner would be held — instead, the Mangione’s main homestead in Sagaponack, which after googling, you’d realized was the second wealthiest zip code in the United States.

Right behind Atherton, California, of which the Mangione’s own a vacation house.

You sit with Luigi in the back of the Flying Spur, driven by a man you’d met only a few times before, Paulo.

He drove for both Luigi and his sister whenever she was in the city, and since Luigi much preferred driving himself, Paulo had been sitting pretty on his salary with very little to do for the Mangione’s, except as of late.

"Your sister is making me loco," Paulo says, catching Luigi's reflection in the rearview mirror, though Luigi seems more focused on your tense posture beside him. "She wants to go here and there, bringing this boy and that in the car." He gestures at the interior with a sort of wounded pride, as if each scuff mark on the premium leather is a personal affront. "They all are dirty Brooklyn boys."

You massage your temples with two fingers, fighting back a wave of irritation.

The irony isn't lost on you — how Paulo, who fled Almeria with nothing but a threadbare suitcase and desperate dreams, now speaks with the practiced disdain of old money.

Twenty years of opening doors for the Mangiones has made him forget the taste of struggle.

"Nothing's wrong with Brooklyn," Luigi mumbles, making a dismissive gesture toward the front — a subtle but clear command for Paulo to hold his tongue. You can't help but think that without Mr. Mangione's intervention years ago, Paulo might well be hustling in those same Brooklyn streets he now sneers at.

The same ones you grew up in.

"Yeah, if you like murderers," Paulo snorts, his Spanish accent thickening with each syllable of his obnoxious laugh.

Usually, long drives soothe your nerves — the world outside becoming a peaceful blur through tinted windows.

But now you're trapped here for two hours, gnawing anxiously at your thumbnail while trying not to chip the pristine red French manicure that matches your dress perfectly.

"Paulo," Luigi's voice drops dangerously low, his dark eyes drilling into the back of the driver's head. "Do you ever think about going back to Almeria?"

"No," Paulo stammers, his knuckles blanching against the leather steering wheel. "America is my home now, Lui. I do not wish to ever go back to Spain — not for as long as I live."

Luigi reclines, arching one perfect brow as a cold smile plays at his lips. "Ah," he clicks his tongue, catching Paulo's nervous glance in the rearview mirror. His voice takes on that silky quality you've only heard whispered about — the tone that makes even hardened men remember their mortality. "Then perhaps we should ensure you remain grateful for that arrangement. Wouldn't want circumstances to change."

Paulo swallows hard, as he returns his full attention to the road. The remaining tension in the car feels like a coiled spring, and you notice his hands have begun to tremble slightly against the wheel.

"Mi dispiace, Luigi," he mutters, his accent thickening with anxiety as he slips into practiced Italian instead of his native Spanish. "I spoke out of turn. Your sister, she is a wonderful woman. The boys she dates — they are fine young men."

Luigi's smile doesn't warm, but he settles back into the plush leather seat, seemingly satisfied with Paulo's discomfort.

He isn’t a monster.

Paulo wasn’t an illegal immigrant, and Luigi wasn’t threatening deportation — rather, Paulo was a felon on borrowed time, one toe over the line of last warning.

It wasn’t often Luigi had to use this advantage, but when he did, he made sure not to drag it out for longer than need be. He wasn’t much a fighter as he was a silencer — arguing took up too much time, and Luigi had never initiated a fight he knew he couldn’t win.

So, that does it.

The privacy divider glides up with a soft hum — Paulo's preemptive gesture of self-preservation.

You've been lost in the blur of passing scenery, mind wandering through the early summer landscape, when Luigi's touch anchors you back to reality. His hand finds your thigh, warm through the fabric, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

You turn your head slightly, meeting dark eyes that seem to catch every flicker of emotion crossing your face. "Nothing important," Luigi's fingers tighten fractionally on your thigh — a gentle reminder that he can always tell when you're deflecting.

The passing shadows from the trees dance across his features as he studies you, patient and unrelenting.

It's that same quiet intensity that made you first notice him across a crowded room at Sapphire.

The kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to get attention.

"Try again.”

You're not sure you want to dig into it before you face it — the scrutiny of his parents.

It hits you then, a realization that makes your stomach twist; you've crafted a world where adoration comes to you as naturally as breathing.

At Sapphire, your regulars wait in their shadowy booths like devoted disciples, wallets ready and eyes hungry for your attention — you know exactly how to move, what to say, how to make them feel.

Even at the bars, you've carved out your own kind of sovereignty. Whether it's hustling pool from cocky frat boys who underestimate you, or standing up for the pretty bartender when some drunk gets too aggressive.

You know how to command those spaces, how to make them yours.

But this? A sprawling mansion you’ve only seen on Google with its manicured hedges and courtyards decorated with fountains? This is different.

You can't dance your way through this dinner.

Can't rely on the carefully constructed persona that makes men weak in the knees and keeps you safe behind its glittering facade; here, in this world of pride and predjudice you'll have to be raw, real, like Luigi’s sister says you are — the girl beneath the eyeliner and confident winks into the crowd.

While Luigi has seen all sides of you — the dancer who owns the stage and the girl who snorts when she laughs too hard, his parents will be looking for cracks in your armor, for signs that you're not quite what they imagined for their son.

And the first time in years, you're not sure how to make someone love you.

Your mind wanders to another conversation with Julia last Thursday in the dressing room.

She snaps her gum, the sound echoing against the tall ceilings as you wage war once again with your liquid eyeliner. Your reflection grimaces back at you — fourth attempt at the wing and still not quite right.

"I saw him again at Paradiso," she says, tugging at her glittery, sheer periwinkle tights before adjusting her sparkly top with practiced precision. Your hand stills for a moment — yes, that Paradiso Casino — where old money goes to play and new money goes to be seen.

Where the minimum bet could cover your Brooklyn rent.

Your eyes meet hers in the mirror briefly before returning to your careful strokes.

"He's totally workin' for his Pops, babe," Julia continues, leaning closer to the mirror to check her contour. "I saw him for like twenty minutes just watchin’ tables." She pauses for a second. Applies more of her newly gifted Dior lipgloss. “Dean says they call people who just like to watch Railbirds.” She smacks her lips together, “I said I call them cucks.”

You tried then to picture it — Luigi in Paradiso's opulent interior, reducing hundred-thousand-dollar bets to patterns and probabilities, while wearing what was probably another one of those cashmere sweaters that hung down to his thighs — just an unassuming spectator.

"What am I walking into?" Your voice shakes in the middle, uncertain of yourself for the first time in a long time — you realize here and now that you've surrounded yourself with constant familiars, hardly pushing many of the boundaries of comfort zones until this very moment.

You'd figure once you begin dancing, bare from the bellybutton up, that there must be very little in this world that would frighten you — but that's devastatingly far from the truth.

Facing Luigi's parents over dinner suddenly seems more daunting than any stage you've ever graced.

Luigi presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, nipping at it gently. "Hmm," he hums, pretending to think. His voice is soft and soothing, gentle as it wraps around your throbbing heart. "You're walking into my childhood home, where my mom's probably stress-making her third batch of Maritozzi, and my dad's pretending to work while actually practicing what he thinks are casual conversation topics."

He trails his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You're walking into the place where I first learned to code, where I have embarrassing high school photos hanging in the hallway, and where, after tonight, they're going to love you almost as much as I do.” Luigi doesn’t stumble over his words, doesn’t stutter — he says what he says, and he means it.

Following his confession, there is no apology — no stuttering of clarification that he didn't mean to say love, no awkward cough to cover the weight of those words.

You even give him a minute to backtrack, but he doesn't, his fingers just continue their lazy dance across your skin, as if he hasn't just tilted your world on its axis.

You try to imagine the scene he's painted for you, but it's so far from the image you've already created — ballgowns, flashy diamonds, crystal champagne flutes, designer everything.

Your mind has conjured a palace where apparently there's just a home, transformed his mother into some intimidating socialite instead of a woman who stress-bakes desserts.

It almost feels royal in a way, this mental image you can't scrub away despite Luigi's depiction of it seeming so wonderfully, terrifyingly normal.

“Your mother doesn’t just have it catered?” You quirk a brow, surveying what looks like shock washing over him, or perhaps disgust at such an idea.

“Oh, wait till you try it. Can’t cater a Mangione Maritozzi.” He shook his head, holding your chin while he pressed a kiss to your cheek, your sudden turn toward him to catch his lips much needed on both ends, finding some sort of tension release in panting into each others mouths for a few minutes until Paulo slowly rolled down the partition separating the front seats from the back.

"Lui, your Papa wants to know—" Paulo nods as if he could be seen on the other line, stumbling through the conversation with the endearing awkwardness of someone trying to be both chauffeur and messenger. "Okay— si —I'll ask—uh—" He catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, his crow's feet deepening with genuine warmth, sunlight catching the silver at his temples. "Sweetheart, what kind of wine do you like? Signore Mangione said it's important there's a bottle for you tonight."

You eye Luigi, and then Paulo.

Oh.

You’re sweetheart.

You think of all the wines Luigi has shared with you — those expensive bottles from the club brought home on quiet nights, the careful pairings at Eleven Madison Park where he taught you to roll each sip across your tongue before you swallow; your mind particularly lingers on the Italian wines, as if some part of you had always known this knowledge would be currency one day.

Though, you never imagined it would be spent trying to impress parents rather than clients.

"I like a Gavi," you offer, aiming for casual while your heart drums an unsteady rhythm. The wine brings back one of Luigi's stories — him describing it as 'beach wine' while tracing patterns on your bare shoulder, telling you about sun-drenched afternoons in Sicily where his mother would polish off a bottle before their lazy walks back to whichever summer villa they were occupying that season. "Chianti, Nebbiolo, Brunello, I like all of it."

Paulo's lips curl into what can only be described as a knowing smirk, giving one deliberate nod before sealing the partition between you once again, the mechanical whir of the window leaving behind a weighted silence and the distinct feeling that you've just passed something you didn't know you were taking.

"Good job," Luigi says softly, trying and failing to contain his pride, as if you'd done more than simply answer a question the way you always do — with careful honesty.

You like what you like, but there's always room for something new.

"Good job?" The words echo back, puzzled.

You're not sure when wine preferences became an achievement worth celebrating.

Luigi's hand finds your thigh, giving it an affectionate pat followed by those gentle squeezes that usually comfort, but now feel like morse code tapping out a message you're just beginning to decode.

And then you remember.

Everything is a test.

•

Everything blurs into a soft-focus haze, your body operating on pure instinct — that same autopilot that kicked in during your first night at Sapphire.

Back then, the stage lights had felt like interrogation beams, the music a distant thunder, until your survival instincts took over and carried you through. Now, your senses are simultaneously dulled and heightened, catching fragments of reality like a camera taking random snapshots.

What pierces through the fog is the moment the door swings open; the air hits you with a wave of sweet almond and fresh bread, so rich and warm it feels almost tangible. Children's laughter echoes down the corridors, their small feet pattering against hardwood as they weave through the hallways like ribbons of joy.

The space unfolds before you — a carefully curated gallery of moments and memories. Family photographs share wall space with original paintings, scenes of rolling Italian countryside and explosive flower gardens.

And suddenly, you begin to realize that this is a wealth that whispers rather than shouts; the kind that's been around long enough to feel comfortable in its own skin.

You're eventually greeted by a woman in the kitchen who embodies casual elegance in a way that makes you realize where Luigi gets it from.

Her white sleeves are rolled to her elbows with the kind of precise messiness that takes years to perfect, the fabric expensive but lived-in, flowing just so. The pinstriped shorts, cuffed and high-waisted, cinched with a statement leather belt, speak of Milan runway shows adapted for a day of baking.

"Don't mind my clothes," she says, leaning in to brush your cheek with a kiss that smells of vanilla and Tom Ford. "I've fallen so behind, I've been fussing over Maritozzo for hours." There's a theatrical exhaustion in her voice, but her eyes dance with the satisfaction of someone in their element, a slight smile playing at lips that look just like her son's.

"And I continue to tell her that one-hundred is enough." A voice rolls through the room like summer thunder, thick with an Italian accent that hasn't softened despite what must be decades in America. The hand that extends toward you belongs to a man who fills the doorway with both his physical presence and his personality, and you accept his handshake, noting how it's firm but careful —another test, perhaps, but one you've had plenty of practice passing.

"Oh, it's so good to finally meet you Mr. And Mrs. Mangione, I - I'm—"

"Please call me Marco." He interrupts with a smile that seems gentle but doesn't quite reach his eyes — the kind of smile you've seen Luigi use with his professors. "That's Val." He gestures to his wife with a casual authority that suggests he's used to making introductions for her. Despite the warmth in the air and the Italian bakery-scented welcome, your guard remains firmly in place, each sense fine-tuned to the subtleties floating beneath the surface. "We've heard plenty about you."

A chorus of pleasantries swirl in your direction, 'it's lovely to meet you' tangling with 'so good to have you' — but before you can choose the right response, Luigi's fingers find yours, index and middle, tugging you deeper into the Mangione mansion where it all surprises you.

Not in its grandeur, which you'd expected, but in its soul.

It's not the cold showpiece you'd imagined, but something more nuanced — generations of memories wrapped in the warmth of early summertime Sunday dinners and children's laughter, comforts in tradition.

"This is—" Your voice trails off as you pause in one of the hallways, eyes drawn to the carefully curated artwork. Here, in this section of the house, there's no room for casual family snapshots or children's artwork. These walls are a carefully composed love letter to artistry itself, each piece positioned with deliberate precision. "The closest I've felt to being in Italy."

Luigi releases a soft snort-laugh through his nose, the sound both amused and knowing. "Well, those two can't stand being away from home." He gives a slight shrug, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. "Everything they touch turns to the Roman Empire, or something." There's affection in his mock exasperation, the tone of someone who's grown up watching his parents transform every space they inhabit into a piece of the country they leave behind during the summers.

Luigi's style runs a different current.

Modern, eclectic, with just enough echoes of his heritage to show he knows where he comes from but isn't bound by it. The condo in Manhattan speaks of someone who studied the rules before choosing which ones to break.

Where his parents fill their walls with Renaissance masterpieces and classical scenes, Luigi's space (which, is owned by his parents, of course) breathes with contemporary Italian designers and abstract art.

No dramatic death of Caesar there, no Venus emerging from her shell, no tragic Dido — his rebellion is subtle but distinct.

The thought trails off as you follow him further down a hall that curves like a question mark, through what appears to be some unspoken threshold between the house's public face and its private memories.

He slows at a door, his hand hesitating on the handle for just a fraction of a second. "My old room," he says, pushing the door open with a mix of pride and something almost like embarrassment.

It's a time capsule of teenage Luigi, preserved with the kind of maternal devotion that makes you wonder if Val dusts in here weekly — trophies catching light on shelves, vintage Ferrari posters carefully framed rather than taped, and what looks suspiciously like a perfectly made bed that hasn't been slept in for quite awhile.

"God, she hasn't changed anything," Luigi mutters, running his fingers along the edge of his old desk — sleek, dark wood that seems too grown-up for the teenage bedroom around it. "Pretty sure these are the same physics notes from high school."

You drift toward his bookshelf, finding an unexpected mix of Eco and Calvino alongside car magazines and engineering textbooks. The room tells its own story —of a boy caught between tradition and ambition, between his parents' world and the one he wanted to build for himself.

"All those years of them pushing me to be a doctor," he says with a quiet laugh, coming up behind you. His breath warms your neck as he reaches past to pull something from the shelf — a small trophy, its golden shine dulled by time. "And here I was, taking apart every electronic device in the house just to see how it worked."

It seems to come in handy now, your mind wandering to Julia's words in the dressing room again, her voice carrying that particular tone she uses when she thinks she's stumbled onto something significant.

He's workin' for his Pops.

And here you are, standing in the carefully preserved shrine to his engineering curiosity, wondering if maybe his teenage rebellion and his father's expectations had found some unexpected middle ground.

Through the window, you can see the garden where dinner will be served later — string lights already hanging in anticipation of sunset, white tablecloths rippling in the breeze like sails. But for now, you're in this preserved pocket of Luigi's past, watching him navigate the space between who he was and who he's become.

"Were there any more tests I wasn't aware of?" You ask softly, sinking onto Luigi's old teenage bed, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the duvet. Every inch of this room holds echoes – first dreams, last goodbyes, all the moments that shaped him into who he is now.

"No," he laughs, but it's gentle, almost protective as he steps closer. His fingers thread through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest tight. "You know how he operates now — he'll come out of the woodwork when we least expect it." There's something bittersweet in how well Luigi understands his father's choreography.

Though, that much would make sense.

Luigi has spent his entire life studying Marco Mangione like a cipher to be cracked — mapping his father's habits, his patterns, calculating the precise atmospheric conditions needed for a 'yes' versus a 'no.' He'd tested theories over the years, debunked some while others proved as reliable as sunrise.

Each interaction a data point, each response carefully cataloged and cross-referenced.

Luigi had learned to read code before he ever knew what it was, picking apart the binary beneath every casual gesture, every loaded silence.

Now he does it reflexively, automatically translating the language of human behavior — a skill born from necessity that's become as natural as breathing. Even now, you can see it in the way his eyes track every micro-expression, every shift in body language, processing information most people never notice is there.

"They're much nicer than I thought." You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, fingers circling his wrists, thumbs tracing the ridges of his knuckles. "They looked nothing how I imagined."

"How do they look?" His voice is soft, curious.

"Exactly how I should have imagined them." Your laugh is self-deprecating, but it fades when you catch the look in his eyes. There's something tender and almost nostalgic there — like he's standing in two realms at once, the successful young man he's become sharing a silent understanding with the dreaming boy who once pressed engineering diagrams to the walls.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, and you wonder if he's thinking about all the times he imagined bringing someone he loved into this room, someone who could see past the carefully curated family narrative to the truth of him.

“I love you.” You say, hushed and whispered, but he hears you crystal clear; you try to recall the last time you’d said those words to someone who wasn’t a friend or relative, but you draw a blank.

That might just explain the heaviness in your chest.

"I love you." The words slip out in a whisper, but they ring with the clarity of a bell. You try to remember the last time you said those words to someone who wasn't bound to you by blood or years of friendship. The memory refuses to surface, and maybe that's why your chest feels so full it might burst.

"I love you." Luigi echoes, and his smile – god, his smile. It's the look of a man who's found something he didn't even know he was searching for, contentment settling into the lines of his face like it's finally found its home.

You press your lips to his palms, trailing kisses down to the pulse point at his wrists, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin.

In his touch, you find an anchor, even as everything else feels like it's shifting beneath your feet. This mansion in its previously feared hallways couldn't be further from your cozy Brooklyn studio or the vibrant streets of the Bronx where you visiting your grandmother growing up. Those pieces of yourself — they're treasures you'll always carry.

But here, wrapped in the warmth of Luigi's hands, you realize something profound; this isn't just another world you're stepping into. This is the life that's been waiting for you all along, patient as a prayer, faithful as the tide.

It's the kind of fairy tale the other girls at the club whisper about between sets — finding their Prince Charming, their golden ticket, their happily ever after.

Like Julia and countless others who dance with stars in their eyes, hoping each night might grant their wish. But you — you had started dancing with both feet planted firmly in reality. Each shift was simple mathematics; rent, textbooks, tuition. Bills that needed paying, dreams that needed funding.

Love wasn't even a footnote in your business plan.

“Lui!” A girls voice rings from down the hall.

Luuuuuui!

The door bursts open with the force of an incoming tide.

"Hello!" Her accent sits lighter than her mother's, a ghost of Italy rather than its beating heart. You find yourself wondering when Luigi chose to plant his roots here in American soil — a detail that somehow slipped through the cracks of all your late-night conversations.

Her hair cascades past her ribcage in twin braids, artfully disheveled in that way that takes hours to perfect. Those distinctive Mangione eyebrows — perfectly sculpted arches — frame eyes that mirror her brother's. Identical marks dot her cheeks like constellations, an echo of Luigi's own that make you smile, a nod at nature's persistent genetics.

Then it hits you — that nagging sense of familiarity crystallizing into recognition.

You've traced these features before, fingertips skimming glossy magazine pages in the dressing room between sets. Amelia Mangione, the sister Luigi speaks of with such fondness, whose career soared while keeping her family name carefully hidden from the headlines.

“Oh, tesoro," she clasps your hands with the reverence of answered prayers, her rings cool against your skin. "I'm so glad I won't have to spend another summer drowning in testosterone." The relief in her voice is genuine — you can hear years of being the sole daughter amongst sons, of finding solace only in her mother's company and the fleeting visits of her fashion-world friends from Paris and Milan.

Unlike Luigi, who wove himself seamlessly into the American lifestyle, Amelia kept one foot firmly planted in European soil, treating America more like a vacation home than native ground.

Your smile mirrors hers. "Lui, I'm taking the boat out. I wanted to invite the two of—"

"They're letting you drive the boat again?" Luigi's eyebrow arches skyward, his gaze drifting to the tree line where you imagine water glinting beyond it.

"Well, yeah, obviously—" She rolls her eyes with practiced elegance, her hands tightening around yours like you're co-conspirators. "I already lugged the wine up there." The shimmer on her cheekbones makes sense now, summer's heat having painted her in its golden light. "Andiamo!"

You glance down at your carefully chosen dress – the one you'd agonized over this morning, imagining a formal dining room and judging eyes – then back to Luigi, uncertainty blooming. "I don't have—"

"You will borrow one from me." Giulia waves away your protest before it can fully form, already three steps ahead in that way that speaks of years orchestrating fashion shoots and runaways.

"But —dinner — I'll look awful."

"It's just dinner." Her playful scoff punctures your bubble of worry, and suddenly you're seeing everything through new eyes. All your expectations of stuffed shirts and starched napkins dissolve in the face of her casual radiance. It's just dinner.

Not an inquisition, but an invitation to simply be.

The transformation was quick and painless.

In Amelia's room, she helped you select a bikini from her collection, each piece chosen with a model's eye for detail. The white Prada coverup whispered against your thighs as you padded barefoot across the grounds, all pretense of formality abandoned in favor of simple summer freedom.

It reminds you of visiting your mother in California.

The garage housed three mud-splattered Jeeps of which you piled in among the Mangione siblings — Luigi, Amelia, and a teenaged Luca — as well as a golden retriever that seemed to materialize from thin air, claiming his usual spot with the entitled ease of a family member.

"This place is fucking beautiful," you breathed over some Charli XCX song you recognize from pop nights at the club, watching the world transform through the window.

Luigi caught your eye, a smile playing at his lips as Amelia navigated the gravel paths — paths that, as Luigi couldn't resist pointing out, he and Luca had laid one sweltering summer.

Well, mostly him, while Luca performed his specialty..

Supervisory work from the shade.

The landscape unfolded like a secret forest, all rolling hills, wildflowers, and dappled shadows. It was hard to believe this was still New York — but then again, the Hamptons had always existed in its own ethereal pocket of reality.

The Jeep comes to rest atop a gentle rise, and like a cork popping from champagne, everyone spills out.

Enzo — the golden retriever/ Fourth Mangione sibling — leads the exodus, a streak of gold against green as he bounds down the slope toward the waiting water.

The pontoon boat rocks lazily in the quarry lake, its surface shifting between sea glass and cobalt blue as bright white clouds drift overhead.

"Enzo!" Luca's voice carries across the water as he chases after the dog who's already making abstract art in the shoreline sand, transforming his golden coat into a masterpiece of wet fur and grit.

You stand transfixed, and Luigi reads the questions in your expression without needing to be asked for an explanation.

"They were digging for limestone and hit a spring," he explains, tying the drawstring on his swim shorts. You’ve already drooled over his thighs before piling into the Jeep. "If you can believe it, it'd cost more money to stop the water from filling up the quarry than they'd be making from the mined limestone, so they just said fuck it."

He’s info-dumping now, something you’d grown accustomed to, and you accept his offered hand as you step onto the boat. "I guess that's one way the universe can eat the rich," he muses, both of you watching sunlight fracture across the water's surface, turning the quarry into a sparking kaleidoscope of light.

Amelia claims her position at the helm with the easy confidence of someone who's spent countless summers in that very spot.

For better or for worse.

Her playlist fills the air as she calls out commands, “Everyone to the back!” the authority in her voice earned through experience rather than inheritance.

Still, the boat stubbornly clings to its sandy berth until Luigi drops into the shallows with practiced grace.

You watch as he pushes against the hull, sun-soaked muscles straining before vaulting back aboard in one fluid motion, “You’re welcome, captain!”

It's here, in this unguarded moment, that you see past the polished veneer of wealth and a computer science degree — you see him as simply a brother, a son, a young man shaped not just by privilege but by the genuine bonds of family love.

Water drips from his soft skin, and his laughter mingles with Amelia's music, and somehow this feels more valuable than all the limestone they never mined.

The Luigi you know moves through life like a metronome — the way he times his coffee to brew exactly as he finishes his morning shower, how he highlights textbooks in perfect diagonal strokes, the precise rhythm of his knife against the cutting board.

But here, those patterns dissolve into something wonderfully unpredictable. Something you’ve always feared suddenly being embraced.

"I've heard sooo much about you," Amelia whispers gently, her words nearly carried away by the gentle breeze.

You're both stretched out on the pontoon's cushioned stern, sharing the patch of shade, a secret hideaway from the blazing sun. Her tone carries no judgment or scrutiny — just the warm curiosity of someone finally meeting a character from stories they've grown to love.

You watch the brothers from where you lie, their athletic forms silhouetted against the sparkling water as they compete in increasingly elaborate flips off the boat's edge. "I'm hoping all good things," a laugh escapes you, but there’s an unspoken understanding in Amelia's presence — the careful way she's welcomed you into their world shows her trust in Luigi’s judgment.

"Never a bad word from that boy," Amelia responds, clicking her tongue with knowing affection. "You know him." And you do — you know how Luigi moves through life with a studied grace, how even his frustrations with difficult professors or unsettling clients at Sapphire remain carefully contained, expressed in subtle shifts of posture or the briefest tightening around his eyes rather than outright complaint.

"Has he always been that way?" You push your sunglasses up, surrendering your carefully styled curls to the inevitability of lake water and summer air, gathering them into a ponytail that's more practicality than style.

Amelia considers the question over the rim of her glass, the rosé painting sunset colors across her cheeks. "Yes. Papa hates it." Her lips curve into something too complex to be a grimace, the beauty mark above them emphasizing every nuance of the expression. "But found a way to work with what he was given."

The implications ripple outward — a father playing a long game of chess with his children as pieces.

Luca's youthful charm deployed like a pawn, Amelia's beauty advanced like a queen, Luigi's intellect positioned like a knight, each move calculated for maximum advantage. "Oh, with work?" Your voice emerges cautious and knowing, channeling Julia's ability to navigate delicate waters while gathering information.

"Mhm." Amelia clinks her wine glass against yours. "Lui is Papa's cash cow. Without him, his business would be somewhere in the bottom of this quarry." Her gesture sweeps toward the water where her brothers have hoisted themselves onto a dock floating out in the distance. "Luca is too young to make money for him like that just yet, and there's only so many of Papa's friends who will agree to business matters from the mouth of a twenty-two year old with a degree in fashion design." She gestures toward herself.

"Do you think he likes the work he does with your father?" The question catches in your throat, followed by a softer admission: "We don't talk much about it."

You watch realization cross Amelia's face like a cloud passing over the sun — the sudden awareness that she might have ventured into forbidden territory.

Still, she answers with a stark simplicity, "No," as she shields herself behind designer frames. "But Lui loves Papa, and has become too much of an asset to back out now." She reclines onto her back, empty wine glass balanced perfectly in manicured fingers, adding with quiet finality, “At least without any consequences."

•

The sun has left its mark in the pleasant heaviness of your limbs as you settle at the dinner table. Your arrival dress, that careful splash of red, feels like it belonged to a different day entirely.

Now you're draped in white cotton that catches the evening breeze, a piece of Amelia's artistry that she'd gifted with casual grace, claiming it found its true home in your wearing of it.

The moment you've been bracing for arrives with the setting sun, and you can feel the weight of possibilities — both wonderful and terrible — hovering over the set table.

If this is where your fairy tale shatters, at least you'll have the memory of Luigi's laughter echoing across the quarry, of Luca's backflips, of Amelia's conspiratorial wine-warmed confidences.

A perfect day to cushion whatever comes next.

"So," Luigi's mother begins, her attention settling on you with the precision of a gallery curator examining a new acquisition, "Luigi told me you're studying philosophy."

The conversation unfolds with an easy grace that belies your earlier anxiety. Under the table, Luigi's hand finds your thigh — an anchor point of warmth and reassurance. His thumb traces lazy circles against skin still holding the day's sunshine, while above the crisp white tablecloth, you weave your way through dinner conversation with an effortless charisma.

The harsh spotlight fades as conversations bloom around you like night flowers, a blessed reprieve.

Luca leans across the table, gesturing with his fork as he tells you about Italian high school trends, while Amelia's tales of Parisian fashion houses paint pictures of silk and scandal. Little cousins squabble over the last Maritozzi, their faces smeared with cream as they declare Zia Val the best baker in all the universe, while aunts and uncles trade stories of the Mangione siblings’ childhood, each memory polished smooth from repeated telling.

As sunset bleeds into dusk, fireflies begin their dance over the lawn.

The younger cousins and Luca — still bound by the unspoken hierarchy of family duties — clear plates from the long garden table with practiced efficiency.

Around you, the family disperses into familiar patterns; teenagers float on oversized loungers in the soft-lit pool once they’ve finished cleaning up, their phones glowing like stars; the older generation gravitates toward the stone fire pit where flames paint their faces in flickering gold; others drift between conversations, moving from plush patio seats to gently swaying porch swings with glasses of wine and limoncello.

"I'm gonna be right back." Luigi bends down, his cologne wrapping around you like an expensive promise as he interrupts your debate with Luca about Machiavelli's modern relevance in American universities. His hand brushes your shoulder — casual, proprietary — you catch something tense in the set of his jaw that doesn't match his easy smile.

You wave him off, drawn back into Luca's passionate defense of Italian philosophical traditions. It's only when you're thirty minutes deep into comparing Gramsci interpretations that you realize Luigi's "right back" has stretched into a conspicuous absence.

"Which door will take me to the closest bathroom?" You nudge Amelia, who's sprawled beside you on the oversized porch swing, both of your phones glowing with newly exchanged social media profiles. She's already added you to her close friends Instagram list and declared your birth charts "literally perfect" – Leo moon to your Scorpio rising, whatever that means.

The wine has made her affectionate; she giggles into your shoulder, her Cartier bracelet catching the garden lights.

"Oh — hm," she pauses, wine glass tilted thoughtfully against her lower lip. Her eyes scan the villa's facade until they land on a set of French doors, their elegant frame nearly hidden beneath cascading ivy that glows emerald in the garden lighting. Through the glass, you glimpse the lush interior of what appears to be a greenhouse. "That one. Go in and turn left. Just before Papa's study."

The last words seem to sober her slightly, though you can't tell if it's the mention of her father or just the wine catching up to her.

You fortify yourself with another generous sip of wine before crossing the starlit lawn.

The greenhouse welcomes you with a wall of perfumed air, and you pause despite your mission, admiring how Val has transformed this space into a jungle of orchids and climbing vines that seem to glow in the orchestrated lighting.

Through the leaves, crystal wind chimes catch the evening breeze, their soft music following you as you transition from the humid warmth into the estates air-conditioned interior, where maplewood floors and elaborate crown molding remind you exactly whose house you're in.

The wine has softened the edges of Amelia's directions. Left at the-or was it right after the — You pause, orienting yourself in the maze of hallways, when voices drift down the corridor.

Making an executive decision that human sounds are better than wandering lost all night, you follow them.

But three steps in, something in those voices. Their pitch, their intensity, turns your wine-warmed blood to ice.

You freeze mid-step, suddenly aware that you're hearing something you shouldn't.

Again.

The plush runner beneath your feet muffles any sound of your presence as the conversation from behind the study door grows clearer, more distinct.

"I can't keep doing this," Luigi's voice, stripped of its usual warm humor, carries a rare edge of desperation. "The risks are getting-“

"Non dire stronzate." Don’t talk nonsense. His father's reply cracks like a whip through the air. "The Paradiso matter needs handling. Their whale is getting too lucky, and you will take care of it. Tomorrow."

"He's not lucky — he's skilled. And I won't-“

"Do not dare to tell me no." The subtle shift in his father's tone makes you shiver despite the lingering warmth of the summer evening. Crystal clinks against crystal as ice cubes settle in what you imagine is his ever-present scotch. "Everything you are, everything you have. Who gave you all of it? Have you forgotten who paid for that degree you still haven’t finished?"

"I know." Luigi's voice sounds suddenly tired, hollowed out. "You never let me forget."

"The casino crumbles without these controls. You think Luca's art school in Florence, Amelia's little fashion dreams in Milan — you think any of this exists without sacrifice?" A pause, then softer, "La ragazza... She is lovely. Charming. But what does she bring to our name besides pretty smiles and trouble? Tell me, figlio mio, what does a sex working philosophy student offer the Mangiones except distraction?"

Another clink of ice, the creak of expensive leather, a sharp exhale.

"I'll watch the tables tomorrow." Luigi's submission comes quietly, defeat threading through each syllable. "But I beg you to remember that you cannot do this without me.” You hear him stand, and you can tell his jaw is clenched when he says, “And you will leave her the fuck out of it.”

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Eight: Surprise. Tommy's had a really, really bad shift (off-screen), and he shows up to the greatest surprise ever: his boyfriend, pasta, and comfort. Edit: I just realized Tumblr somehow lost my tag for @bucktommyfluffebruary and my AO3 link. Why, Tumblr. Why.

It’s been a terrible shift, and Tommy is ready for it to be over. He’s going to plaster a million posters around the Hollywood sign that say: “If you fall/slip trying to climb on or around this, LAFD will no longer rescue your dumb ass and you’ll have to live with the fucking consequences.”

Lucy, Braun, and Melton agree with him, Cap thinks it’s a bad idea. They’re spitballing less extreme alternatives to keep their minds off the calls that came before the Hollywood sign incident, because if Tommy thinks about a couple of them for too long he’ll probably start crying.

When he pours himself into his truck, he drives home on autopilot and parks in the driveway, because he has the Chevelle on the car lift at the moment. He blinks at his front door, because the three small square windows at the top have light filtering through. There’s no way he left the lights on when he left for work two days earlier, but he also might have. He can’t tell anymore.

He unlocks the door and goes inside, and the house smells like food. He can hear a podcast or something in the kitchen and follows the sound just in time to see Evan close the oven door.

“Oh!” Evan says when Tommy sets his bag down on the island. He whirls around and grins, tapping his phone on the counter and cutting off the man who was talking about something related to the Manhattan Project. “Hey, baby. I wanted to surprise you with dinner.”

And the sight of Evan in his kitchen making him what smells like something with sauce and cheese and herbs and who knew what else after one of the worst shifts Tommy’s had in years is what breaks him. He covers his hand with his mouth to muffle a sob, and Evan’s arms are around him so fast it’s like he teleported across the room.

“Hey,” Evan murmurs in his ear, rubbing his back. “Hey, I know. C’mere, you’re okay, you’re home, everything’s okay here.”

He’s kissing the side of Tommy’s head and his hair and his forehead and whispering reassurances that Tommy actually believes, because Evan knows. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what happened, he knows, and it’s worth everything.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but after a while they’re just hugging each other and Tommy has his cheek on Evan’s shoulder and his nose against the side of his neck. When he straightens up, Evan’s hands come up to his face and wipe away tears and brush over the scratch on his cheek. His eyes are so blue and clear and full of concern and love, and Tommy fights down everything inside him that wants to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

“Are you hungry or do you want to go lay down?” Evan asks, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can eat,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds thick and nasally. He needs to blow his nose. “I should eat.”

“I’m making stuffed shells, and there’s some sprouts and stuff,” he says, massaging the back of Tommy’s neck with gentle squeezes of his hand. “And there’s cheesecake after. Or we can have it now.”

Tommy melts under Evan’s touch and smiles. “I can wait.”

He kisses the corner of Evan’s mouth and then gives him a soft kiss before stepping away. He really needs to blow his nose, but he’s back at Evan’s side as soon as he’s done. Evan’s putting a salad together, so Tommy doesn’t feel so bad about draping himself over him while he does it.

“Did you know?” he asks, his voice muffled against his stolen flannel that Evan’s wearing.

“I had a feeling,” Evan replies, pausing to reach up and hold Tommy’s hand where it’s resting over his heart. “You didn’t text back much, and I heard about last night before I left the station.”

Tommy shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, and Evan’s other hand comes up to also squeeze his forearm, and lips press against the inside of his bicep when Evan turns his head. Tommy will talk about some of it, probably, but it’ll be later. He needs to just not be immersed in horror for a little bit. He needs carbs and cheese and his boyfriend.

“This is ready, you wanna eat?” Evan asks, and Tommy nods. “Okay, let’s go, I’ll get your plate.”

They end up eating curled up on the couch so Tommy can turn on a movie. He’s been showing Evan some queer movies, because Evan’s actually been interested in those, and they watch Big Eden. Tommy needs something warm and fluffy, and it’s like the cinematic equivalent of a warm hug.

They pause about two thirds of the way through so Evan can grab them dessert, and he comes out with the entire cheesecake and two forks.

“We’re adults,” he says to Tommy’s raised eyebrows. “We could’ve had frosting for dinner if we wanted.”

He eats almost a quarter of the cheesecake—it’s a small cheesecake—and ends up stretched out on the couch with Evan on top of him until the movie’s over.

“I liked that one,” Evan says, rubbing his cheek against Tommy’s chest. “Tired?”

“No,” Tommy says, because he’s really not. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t know when he’ll sleep next.

Evan looks up at him and reaches up to stroke his knuckles over Tommy’s jaw. “Want to watch another one?”

He leans into the touch and sighs. “Yeah.”

They make it through The Birdcage and halfway through Love, Simon before Tommy falls asleep. When he wakes up, Evan’s drooling on his chest and the Roku screensaver is on.

“Baby,” he whispers, kissing Evan’s curls and inhaling the smell of his shampoo.

Evan inhales sharply and slow blinks at him like a cat. “Mm. ‘Zit?”

Tommy looks at his watch. “It’s 3:30. We should go to bed.”

His boyfriend nods and sits up. They strip down to their underwear and crawl into bed, and Tommy pulls Evan’s sleep-warm body against his under the cool duvet.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you so-o much,” Evan mumbles back, stroking Tommy’s side.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He can see Evan’s smile in the dim light filtering in through the window. “Anytime.”

[lumosinlove]

Seeking hope and happiness, especially today, and found some in these three...

On The Line

Part Six

~

New York was much as Logan remembered it. This city seemed to do nothing but change, so its fast paced lights and sidewalks always seemed the same. Finn refused to stay anywhere but Manhattan, but if his happy expression as he stood at their suite’s large windows while sipping his coffee resulted in earlier mornings for the both of them, Logan didn’t care.

He poured a cup of his own and joined him at the window. Central Park’s leaves hadn’t turned yet. Early joggers and cyclists were out. People walked their dogs. The world felt awake and happy, and Finn’s arm around his waist was warm.

The qualifiers were over, the first rounds blown through. The semifinals were today. Logan had taken out Winter easily to get past the quarterfinals, and today he’d go up against Luke. Leo had fought hard to get through Black and succeeded, which had upset and surprised everyone—even those who were hoping for another grueling Tremblay-Knut match up in the final.

Logan knew he should be nervous for tonight’s match. He had to focus on Luke, who had a way of sneaking up on people. Instead, all he could think about was the prospect of meeting Leo in the finals.

“He sleeping?” Finn asked.

“Shower,” Logan said. “He was singing last I checked.”

“Singing what?”

“I don’t know.”

Finn scoffed. “Yes, you do.”

“Willow.”

Ah-ha.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but settled his head against Finn’s chest. The park looked so peaceful. The runners knew just where they were going around the circular track of the lake. The dog walkers would soon make their way back home. Logan didn’t know what would happen tonight—if he’d make it, or if he would lose this chance at another title. He wondered when he would get tired of chasing titles. It hadn’t quite happened yet. Something still ignited in his chest when he thought about winning. It was similar to the feeling he got when he thought about those two, prized first kisses he’d received. He liked Finn in the stands. He liked the grueling training Finn designed for him.

“How you feeling?” Finn asked, scratching his fingers through Logan’s hair. ���You’re playing good. Smooth. I’m proud.”

Logan nodded, settling more of his weight against him. “I’m good.” He hesitated, but Finn would find out sooner or later. Logan would end up blurting it out in a different moment just like this one. “Nervous.”

“I know,” Finn said. “But we knew this was always a possibility.”

“But now it’s close. And real.”

“Oh, you’re so sure you’re going to take Luke.” When Logan just looked at him, Finn laughed. “Yeah, okay, killer.”

“I don’t want to hurt Le.”

Finn stayed quiet for a moment. Logan closed his eyes, letting him mess with his hair, rub his neck, do anything he wanted while he thought. One time he accidentally started doing it when a few reporters caught up with them around the practice courts, and there hadn’t been a camera there but they had sure gotten a few laughs.

“You’re not hurting anyone, Lo. You’re doing your job. Leo will be in the game longer than you. He’s talented and driven and younger.” Finn looked down at him. “I think the only thing that would hurt him is you…like, going easy on him or something.”

Logan scoffed. “Going easy?”

“Not that you would. God knows you’re too stubborn for that.”

Logan let his eyes unfocus, filled only with the green and brown smudges of the park far below. A siren wailed somewhere—a sound he always associated with the beginning of a grueling hardcourt season. He already knew Finn would be setting up multiple massage appointments for him—and thought about asking Finn to do it himself like he sometimes did.

“I want to beat him. That’s there, just like in practice,” Logan said carefully. “I just… I need a way to separate it.” Logan ran his hand down Finn’s arm until he reached his wrist. He traced over the taut tendons there from holding his coffee. “I don’t remember how I did it with you. I just—I need it to be about the game and not about us because…”

Finn’s fingers paused from messing with his hair. His thumb brushed Logan’s eyebrow, and Logan took the cue and looked up at him.

“Because I love him,” Logan whispered.

A new sort of flame caught behind Finn’s eyes. His laugh was soft, satiny, and he cupped Logan’s chin in light fingertips.

“Ouais,” Logan whispered against Finn’s mouth. “Finn, I do, I do…” Finn was hushing him, smiling, nodding, then kissing him.

“Shower’s free,” Leo’s voice said.

Logan looked to see him with a towel around his waist and another in his hands, drying off his hair roughly. The droplets of water on his chest shone as brightly as the gold chain around his neck.

“I mean,” Leo continued, grinning. “Technically, it was free while I was in it, too. If we’re covering all our bases here.”

“I have to shower,” Finn said, setting his coffee down. “So, why are you toweling off?”

Leo laughed and threw the towel in a perfect straight snap to Finn’s chest.

Finn just grinned, grabbing his face for a sloppy kiss as he passed by. He turned. “Lo, eat a light breakfast and stretch now so we can get some hitting in early. And Le…” He stopped in his tracks, halfway through the bathroom doorway before he retraced his steps and took Leo around the waist for a slower, softer kiss. It left his shirt damp. He hooked a finger in Leo’s gold chain. “See you for lunch?”

Logan still managed to forget Leo wasn’t coming down to the courts with him more often than not. He’d grown so used to spending every single moment together. Seeing him across the practice courts, alone, and tall, and beautiful, felt so, so strange. Sometimes Finn had to stop Logan from crossing the lines at the sound of Leo’s coach’s harsh barks at him…Sometimes Logan had to stop Finn.

Leo bit his lip, shoulders falling some, and shook his head. “Probably not.”

Logan frowned. He took it all back. This was the hardest part. The days where they hardly saw each other. “When?”

“I’ll stick around after I play Lupin,” Leo said, offering a smile as he wiped at the water he’d gotten on Finn’s shirt. “Watch you kick Luke’s ass.”

Logan brightened. “You will?” What if you lose? There was no way Leo’s team would want him out at Logan’s match for the camera to find if he lost.

“Fuck ‘em,” Leo said, reading his mind, then looked at Finn. “But I probably shouldn’t sit with you.”

Finn’s mouth pulled to the side unhappily, but he nodded. “I know…All right, well, have a late dinner with us?”

“Gotta ask coach,” Leo said. “But I want to. Will you text me where you guys end up?”

Logan set his coffee down too, mostly untouched. “Le, we won’t leave without you. Tell your team your having dinner with—with friends, if you have to.”

“They can’t deny you us.” Finn brushed his knuckles down Leo’s cheek. “We’re yours.”

“Sweetheart…” Leo caught Finn’s hand and kissed it. “You are.”

But Leo sighed, and it sounded so heavy and exhausted that Logan wanted to take them both back to his house, back to the sun and the pool, and the open kitchen that wouldn’t ever feel the same without Leo’s happy humming in it.

Logan crossed the room and fit into Leo’s other side. He settled his palm on his neck, making Leo look at him. I love you. I love you.

“I’ll try,” Leo said. He put his hand over Logan’s. “You know I’ll try.”

~

Leo won his match. Logan caught the end of it on the warm-up room televisions while rolling out his back on the mats. Luke was on the other side of the room. Maybe they would have been watching together, had they not been about to play, but Logan was glad for the quiet. Finn was off somewhere preparing Logan’s drinks and fruit. He’d started leaving little messages on the insides of bottle caps and the back of Logan’s plastic forks. Love you. The camera had already caught one that said you’re hot and so he’d been sticking to love. Logan had realized that the camera caught it and had shown it on the big screen once the crowd laughed, so he’d made a point of tapping it, eyes on the camera, and pointing to himself. That had won him big media points. One headline had even read Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day.

Leo was doing well. He looked strong and energetic, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet while he waited for a serve. Logan paused, letting himself rest with his neck on the roller as he took him in. He looked devastating in the outfit his sponsors had chosen. All black, all the way to the headband tied around his golden hair.

His returns were like water. He hit a backhand, forehand, backhand, before whipping the ball down the line so perfectly that Logan had to inhale and close his eyes, pushing the roller from his neck to shoulders. The perfect dig into his sore muscles couldn’t come close to Leo’s hands on him, especially with Finn’s dark eyes watching the two of them over Leo’s shoulder.

“I know what you’re think-ing a-bout,” Finn’s sing-song voice came.

Logan opened his eyes to see Finn standing there. He held a clear cup of fruit, and three water bottles. One was clear, untouched. The other was orange, filled with vitamin C, the third pink with hydration powder.

“Ha,” Finn said. He set the bottles down as he crouched by Logan’s side. “I was right, I can tell.”

Logan pushed himself up to sit. “You were right.”

“Actually. You were,” Finn said. He twisted a bottle cap off and flashed its reverse at him.

I <3 him 2

~

From the court, Logan found Leo in in the crowd easily, smiling and accepting congratulations for his win. He had shed the black, sponsored clothes. For Logan, he was sunny in white and light blue. Only a small smile and a slight flutter of his fingers let Logan know Leo had seen him, too. Hi, it might have said. Or, good luck.

When Logan looked to Finn, Finn flashed him a thumbs up and patted a hand over his chest. You got this. Love ya.

Logan liked all of his and Finn’s secret messages to each other while he was on court. He wanted more of that with Leo. He wanted to be able to know for sure what ever inch of Leo meant. Every movement. He wanted Leo to know in turn that he had seen him, that he—

“Time violation,” came the umpire’s voice.

Logan blinked. Around him the audience was murmuring. He jerked his head up to the chair. The umpire was looking at him impatiently. He didn’t remember coming to stand at the baseline, but he found himself holding the ball close to his racket like he was about to bring it up for a serve. How long had he been standing that way? He looked at Finn, who was now standing up and had concern written all over his face. Lo?

Leo. Logan found him in the crowd again. Sweet-eyed. Just as concerned. Nodding at him. What did that mean? I know? It’s okay? I understand? You got this?

Logan bounced the ball, once, twice, caught a glimpse of Luke’s taken off-guard face, and served. Ace. No one could touch that shot from him. Maybe Leo could.

Leo definitely could. With his reach, with his step, with his glorious elegance. Logan narrowed in again. This was his game. His war within as his body fought to reach the finals—even while his mind dreaded playing Leo. And longed for it.

Luke put up a fight, but he simply wasn’t as quick. Logan’s win came to him easily in the third set, off a slice that cut the ball to drop right over the net.

“Game, set, match, Tremblay,” echoed through the stadium.

Luke met him at the net, clasping his hand and slapping him on the back.

“Nice one. You good?” Look said in his ear.

“I’m in love,” Logan said.

Luke pulled back, giving him a look, then laughed. “Lucky you, then, Tremblay.”

~

Finn was waiting for him in the tunnel, as usual. Instead of the usual hard hug—which Logan had been looking forward to—he put oh-so gentle hands to Logan’s face, looking between his eyes for signs of harm.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “What happened with that time violation? You just…You just stood there for a second, I thought you were gonna pass out on me or something.”

Logan shook his head. “Where’s Leo?” Then, surprising himself, he laughed. He took Finn’s face in his hands, a mirror, and kissed him hard. “Where is he?”

“I…” Finn laughed, too, shaking his head. “I don’t know, maybe waiting for the car if he got away—”

Logan wrapped his arms tightly around Finn’s neck. He pressed a kiss to Finn’s cheek. “I love you, mon Rouge. Mon coeur, lumière, éternité…”

Finn’s hands pressed into his back. “I love you. God, I love you, too, but Lo, just say you’re good. Say it to me.”

“I am,” Logan said, tucking his face into his neck. “I am.”

Logan tried not to appear as insane as he felt when he was stopped to sign autographs. He was probably full on grinning in photos with fans more than he had in his entire career. Finn stood a step apart, like a watchful bodyguard. He signed a few autographs and took a few pictures of his own. He placed a hand low on Logan’s back and guided him out of the arena towards where the car would be waiting.

And there he was. Logan felt like some string had been cut then refastened. All the parts of him yearning to get to Leo in that crowd, standing frozen on that court, tethered themselves to the golden boy waiting at the curb.

He would have kissed him right there. He would have willed the world’s attention their way—but first them. Just them. First, this had to be theirs.

He didn’t have to call out Leo’s name. He heard them coming and turned. The grin he gave Logan was filled with the win he himself had under his belt.

He slipped his phone into his pocket. “Late dinner, yeah? Tastes fifty times better after a win.” When Logan got close, Leo wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in, away from the cameras. “Good game, Lo. You all right?”

Logan nodded and yanked open the door of the car. He guided Leo through, then Finn, who went with a wink.

The car was dark, darker than the night was outside with its people and camera lights. The door shut and took the noise with it. Finn and Leo sat in the seats opposite Logan. There was a driver, Finn was giving him a restaurant name, but Logan didn’t care. Leo had a hand on Finn’s thigh, accepting a kiss.

“He’ll say he’s fine, but you tell me,” Leo said. “Is he okay? On the court, I thought—”

Logan leaned across the pristine black carpet of the car. He steadied himself on the smooth leather seat with one hand, his other high on Leo’s thigh, and kissed Leo’s surprised mouth.

“Okay,” Leo mumbled, steadying Logan with two hands on his waist. “Moving car? Seatbelts?”

“If you’re in the stands, I want you in my box,” Logan said. “If I’m in the stands, I want to be in your box.” He feathered lighter kisses up Leo’s cheek. “I want to sit next to Finn. I want you to be able to hear us when you go for a towel. I want to be able to hear you both.”

Leo sent Finn a look through the kisses, smiling. “Okay…”

“I don’t care what your team thinks. I don’t care if they think I’m listening, or Finn’s plotting and stealing.” Logan pulled back to look down at him. “If they think I would use you in that way, they’re stupid.”

“You and adrenaline are quite the cocktail,” Leo said, but he was blushing.

Logan let himself fall back into his own seat. “And you look perfect in black.”

“A crazy cocktail, but he speaks the truth.” Finn held out a water bottle to Logan. “Drink that whole thing. Even the dregs, I’m watching you, Tremblay.”

Logan took the bottle, shaking up the hydration powder inside. “What do I get if I do?”

Finn just smiled. He was unwrapping silver foil from a piece of blue peppermint gum gum and he popped it into his mouth. “I’ll blow you in the restaurant bathroom.”

Logan blinked. “Really?”

Finn reached forward and flicked him on the forehead.

They reached Manhattan again quickly enough, and curled into the twisting streets of the West Village. Finn perked up, happy to be on familiar ground and popped the car door.

“After you,” Leo said, just as Logan motioned for him to go first. “Oh—ha. Lo, go.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “You.”

“Not that this isn’t adorable, but…” Finn leaned down. “If I’m hungry, you guys must be starving.” He held out his hand to Leo. “Guess what they have here?”

Leo put his hand in Finn’s. “What?”

“Deconstructed chocolate cake,” Finn said, helping him out.

“What the fuck is that?” Logan asked, following.

“Sugar. You’ll love it.”

Logan sent Leo a look as Finn jogged ahead and disappeared between large, wooden doors. Inside, Logan caught a glimpse of windows lined with candles. Leo would look gorgeous.

“That was pretty sweet back there,” Leo said. He took his hand as they walked. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I was fine on the court,” Logan said, pulling the door open. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” Leo asked.

The candlelight was already hitting him, and Logan thought about telling him right there in this doorway with Finn and a—blushing—waiter looking expectantly at them.

“Just thinking,” Logan said. “All good things.”

“Um,” the waiter tucked her hair behind her ear. “This way.”

“Thanks so much,” Finn beamed.

“Classic O’Hara,” Leo whispered. He moved Logan’s hand from his left to his right and placed his hand low on Logan’s back. “But we both won today. Who’s he gonna let taste the wine?”

Logan laughed. “It’s going to be you.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling I have.”

~

It didn’t feel like a day off. Not without Leo there. The two female finalists were playing their match today, and at dinner Logan had been relieved at the idea that he’d have a whole day off with Leo before they had to go against each other—until Leo told them his coach wanted him to stay away. 

He woke up earlier than usual and in a too empty room. Finn, warm and solid against his back—but no Leo. He wasn’t sure why he was even awake until he felt the next stroke of fingers through his hair, absentminded and soft. It would put him straight back to sleep soon.

“Rouge,” Logan mumbled. His voice wasn’t quite there yet, coming out a gravely sort of whisper.

“Sorry,” Finn whispered back. “I was just looking at you. Go back to sleep.”

Logan pushed back against him. “I’m turned away.”

“I was looking at the rest of you.”

The sheets were near his hips now that he thought about it. Finn’s hand ran down the dip of his ribs and waist.

Logan settled into the feeling, but when Finn’s fingers moved back to his hair, he sighed and rolled onto his back, getting a hand under Finn’s head to pull him onto his chest. He closed his eyes, pressed five hard kisses to Finn’s temple, and felt Finn let out a long sigh.

“What’s up?” Logan asked.

“Leo. If there was any day he should have been able to be with us, it was today, when we have nothing going on, and the training is light because you play tomorrow.” Finn’s fingers began drumming on his chest, restless. A rare show of nerves. “He should be here right now.”

Logan could see Finn in Nice. In his library nook for the first time. Head in his hands, finally allowing himself to cry away an old life to let the new one in. This, he thought, was a version of it. Worries, brimming over because they had not been let out.

He passed his fingers through Finn’s hair. Kissed his temple and his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have talked to his team—”

“Non,” Logan said. “They’re angry people. I think. That wouldn’t have helped. But, hey. Look at me.”

Finn did. Sleepy brown eyes. He traced a thumb under one lower set of fair eyelashes. There was lilac there.

“No more worrying,” Logan whispered. He brushed his mouth, feather-light, over the delicate skin just under Finn’s eye.

“I’m not worried—no, I am.”

“It gets like this when you’re stressed.” Logan kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “It’s gorgeous, but it’s not good for you.”

Finn sighed and let Logan press him back into the pillows to be kissed. His jaw. His neck. “He’s not happy. I mean, he’s happy with us. But in the game. In this life. He used to be happier. At the Wimbledon Ball. He was happier.”

“How do you know? We weren’t seeing a lot of him then.” Logan’s mouth found the valley between his collarbones. Was there anything better than this? It woke him up like coffee, and settled him down like nothing else. Sometimes, panicking on the court, he pictured this. Soft and unhurried. Usually, Leo was there for him to kiss, too. “Let’s get dressed. Then call him. Tell him he has to have breakfast with us.”

Finn smiled. “What, or else?”

“Or else I…” Logan tried to think of something good, but honestly he wasn’t meant to be awake this early. He pressed his face into Finn’s neck, his hand to his cheek. He inhaled, kissed him there, then pulled back and kissed him properly. “I love him.”

Finn smiled. “I love him, too.”

It rang. Rang and rang.

“Hey, it’s Leo, sorry I missed you!”

Again. Logan leaned his forehead against the warm window pane, standing in a square of sun coming into their room.

“Hey, it’s Leo, sorry I missed you!”

“Fuck.” Logan turned, waiting for the beep.

Finn watched his face as he pulled a t-shirt over his head. His skin was still slightly damp from his shower and Logan, worried as he was, enjoyed the way it stuck to his chest.

“Hi, Le,” Logan said. “It’s us. Just wondering where you are…”

“Missing you,” Finn mumbled, bending down to lace up his shoes.

“We miss you, we are going to get breakfast at the place. Okay. Lo—Okay, cool.” Finn’s head snapped up with an open-mouthed smile. Logan flushed. “Okay, come find us, or we’ll find you.”

He hung up fast, staring at his phone. Finn crossed the room, taking Logan’s face in his hands.

“You almost said—” he began to say, laughing through the words.

Logan pushed up on his toes and kissed him silent. He pulled back, knowing his eyes were wide, and pressed three fingers to Finn’s mouth. “Quiet.”

Finn gave his chin a little jerk and took Logan’s fingers in his mouth, smiling around the gentle bite. Logan rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away.

“C’mere, lover.” Finn wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “I’ve got the room key. I’m taking you to a big breakfast full of eggs, ham, and calling Leo every five minutes.”

~

Finn got restless again and they had barely taken a sip of their coffees. Logan could tell. What they had started calling “the” place was a small coffee shop that Finn knew. It made generous omelettes with sides of potatoes and greens. Spicy beans and fried eggs with tortillas—Leo’s favorite. Logan had stared at it at the menu, wondering if ordering it would make him arrive faster.

A plate with a steaming chocolate croissant appeared in front of him, and Finn pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“There you go, sweetheart.” Finn slid into his seat. “I ordered for us. But I didn’t want to sit here with you while you’re hangry and drinking your coffee-milk, so…”

Logan shoved him, but Finn just pulled their chairs together and took out his phone. Logan ripped off a piece of the croissant and watched Finn find Leo’s contact. When he held it up to his ear, Logan watched Finn’s face. Hopeful. He caught Logan’s eye and put a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing.

“Hi,” Finn said, but the sigh in his voice told Logan no one had answered. “Hey, Sunshine. Us again. We’re here. Just…wondering where you are.” Finn looked at Logan, mouth pulling to the side. “Let us know.” He ran a thumb over Logan’s bottom lip. “Okay. Okay, love you, bye.”

Finn set his phone down, hand falling down to Logan’s lower back. “Maybe he’s sleeping and we’re assholes trying to wake him up.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Yeah…” Finn picked up the water pitcher on the table and filled Logan’s glass. Logan picked it up again and filled Finn’s.

“What did you order?”

“Got us the ham and tomato omelettes. Sound good?”

“Ouais. Thanks.”

They quieted, then laughed a little at each other when they realized they were both waiting for the phone to ring.

Finn was worrying the straw of his iced coffee when he set the cup down hard. “Oh my God.”

“Hm?” Logan got to the chocolatey center of the croissant and carefully bit so he got enough chocolate and enough pastry.

“Logan…”

Logan raised his eyebrows at his full name from Finn’s mouth. “Finn…” He mimicked his tone, but got serious when Finn put both of his hands in his hair, gripping. “Finn. Quoi?”

“I just—oh my God.”

“What?”

“I just…” Finn’s hands moved over his mouth. “Did I?”

Logan set the pastry down. “Did you what? Did you fucking what?”

He looked so panicked that Logan started looking around, trying to figure out the problem. But Finn grabbed his hand, pulling his attention back to him.

“At the end of the message, I said…” Finn whispered. “I said love you.”

Logan blinked. “What?”

They both stared down at Finn’s phone and its dark screen.

“Shit,” Logan said. “Wait, ouais. You—you did. Finn.”

Finn melted, folding his head into his arms and slumping on the table.

Logan laughed, but he wasn’t sure if it was actually funny. That wasn’t how he’d planned for Leo to know. Of all the opportunities they’d had. Dinners and late nights and soft afternoons.

“And after you made fun of me for almost saying it.”

“Shut up,” Finn mumbled into his arms. When he lifted his head, his face was flushed. “It just slipped out. I—shit. I was looking at you and your stupid chocolate, and then I saw the hot sauce on the table and I was thinking about him and the amount he puts on his fucking eggs—”

“You said okay, love you, bye.”

“I know that!”

“Two omelettes?”

They both looked up at the waiter, who took a step back—probably at the panicked look in their eyes.

“Um,” he said. “No? Not omelettes?”

“No, no,” Finn said. “I mean, yes, omelettes. Thank you so much.”

The man set the plates down with a look on his face like he wanted to get out of there. It probably had something to do with the way Finn still had his head in his hands.

Logan rubbed a hand down his back. “It’s fine. Baby, it’s fine. We do love him.”

“And he finds out on a voicemail?” Finn’s voice came out muffled through his hands. “So bad. Jesus.”

“Maybe he’s not gonna listen?”

“Maybe.” For a moment, Finn sounded almost placated, but he jerked his head up. “No phone.”

Logan nudged his plate at him. “Eat something.”

Finn turned his body towards him in his chair. “You’re playing tomorrow.”

“Finn, what the fuck?”

“I want you eating and drinking and resting.”

“Finn, what…” He gestured to his food. “Ouais. What does this look like?”

“When do you not have your phone?”

“When I’m…” Logan trailed off, finally understanding. “Non. That would be insane.”

Finn stood, gesturing to the waiter. “Let’s get this to go.”

They arrived at the practice courts in the heat of the day. Logan heard Leo before he saw him. He heard him like he’d heard him every day during those perfect months at his house. Leo had a rhythm all his own. His footwork. Quick shuffles, short squeaks of his sneakers on the hard court.

But Logan should not have been able to hear it right then. Not less than twenty hours before the U.S. Open final.

“Fuck,” Finn said, pushing a fence open. “He’s on the court.”

“Again!” they heard Leo’s coach shout.

“Fuck,” Finn cursed. “I’m gonna kill that guy.”

Logan watched him storm towards the next fence, past another player practicing with a hitter—who missed his shot when he saw Finn.

“Wait,” Logan called. “Rouge!”

Finn stopped, but barely. Every muscle in his body strained towards Leo’s court just ahead. Logan could see him now, just barely through netting and bushes and low court walls. Logan caught glimpses of blond hair as he jogged towards Finn.

“What?” Finn asked. “He shouldn’t be out there.”

Logan put his hands on his shoulders. “Stop. I know. But stop.”

Leo was on the baseline. His coach stood beside him, talking fast while Leo’s chest heaved.

“Let me go alone,” Logan said. “If it’s you, his team will get defensive. If it’s me, it’s not their business. It’s player to player.”

Finn looked conflicted. “I…” He looked towards Leo, too. “He shouldn’t be out there.”

“I know.”

“I do love him.”

“I know,” Logan said softly. “Look. I’ll get him in the locker room. You’ll be waiting there. Let me.”

He left Finn, all the while sure he would break and follow him. But he didn’t. Logan made it past another court and opened the chain-fence door into the sidelines of Leo’s. Leo was mid-rally, so his coach saw him first. The man scowled. Logan scowled back.

Leo’s hitter sent the ball into the net.

“Leo,” the coach called. Leo looked at him as he rolled out one of his ankles gingerly. A sharp nod directed his attention to Logan and, despite everything, the heat and how tired he obviously was, a smile broke over Leo’s face and jogged over.

“Hi,” Leo said, but held out his hand. “I want to, but don’t hug me.” He jerked his head subtly towards his team. “They already think I’m going to be soft on you tomorrow and I don’t…” Leo swallowed. He let out a breath. “Anyway. Hi. What are you doing here?”

Logan’s whole chest hurt. “What about I kiss you instead?”

That, at least, made Leo smile. One blue eye squinted shut against the sun. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Logan fired back.

He squirted Logan lightly with his water bottle. “You spying on me, Tremblay?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Logan said.

“That’s cute. A little desperate, but cute.”

“Leo.”

“I’m training,” Leo said. “I don’t know if you heard, but I’m going up against Logan Tremblay tomorrow. He’s pretty good.”

“Which is why you should be resting.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, then he looked around. “So, where’s Finn freaking out right now?”

Logan bit the inside of his cheek and looked towards the locker room building.

“You two are sweet, you know that?” Leo reached out and briefly stroked a knuckle down the center of Logan’s chest. “Look, I’m almost finished here. Then I’ll find you. I know how to take care of myself. Finn knows that, too, or he should.”

“He actually—We actually need to talk to you about something else.”

Leo frowned. “Oh?”

“Just—” Logan itched to take his hand. “Come? Please? Just for a moment.”

Leo still looked concerned, but he nodded. “Okay. Hold on.”

His coach had his arms crossed. His narrow eyes tracked Leo as he came towards him. The argument was hushed and intense. It ended with Leo grabbing his bags with an angry sort of strength. Logan knew how heavy those bags got. Leo swung them onto his shoulders like they were nothing, just beautiful baby blue and white leather there to make his hair turn even more golden.

When he reached Logan again, he looked more tired than before.

“Give me,” Logan said. Leo didn’t protest when Logan took his racket bag from him and shouldered it himself.

“You’re not supposed to be seen with Adidas.”

“They can kiss my ass.”

“Lo—”

“Then they can explain why they have a problem with me helping my boyfriend.”

Leo lightened up at those words like he always did. As they ducked away from the court, he wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders and kissed him. Logan wanted to whisper the phrase into his skin until it stayed with him forever, kept in that sweet freckle just under his chin.

Finn was pacing when they walked in, and then he was rushing over, holding Leo’s shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing out there in the sun? You’ve got a match tomorrow.”

“Backhand,” Leo said. He glanced at Logan. “Mine’s not as good. Coach wants…” He sighed. Annoyance was all over him. Stress. Logan hated it. He wanted to smooth it all away with his fingers, wanted to touch every inch of him to make sure it wasn’t there. “I don’t know what he wants. Oh. By the way…” He leaned forward and planted a soft, quick kiss to Finn’s worried mouth. “Hi.”

Finn pulled him in, leaving one arm open for Logan.

“I’m so sweaty, sorry,” Leo said.

Logan pushed his nose into his chest. Okay, love you, bye.

“Missed you this morning,” Finn said. “We thought…We thought we’d get to…”

There were a million ways Logan would have finished that sentence. Sleep in, breakfast, kiss, lounge, shower, read, talk, sex, doze, stretch, breathe.

“So did I,” Leo sighed. Logan felt his fingers in his hair, a kiss pressed to his forehead and held there. “Fuck. So did I.”

“Do you have your phone?” Finn asked. “With you?”

“It’s in my bag.” Leo arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Finn just stared at him, but Logan saw each thought pass in his face as if he’d said it.

Leo saw it, too, though he didn’t know enough to understand and laughed instead, unsure. “What the hell is up with you two?”

“We’re in a locker room,” Finn whispered to Logan.

Leo looked between them. “O’Hara, what is happening?”

“I cannot do this in a locker room.”

“Do what?”

Finn groaned, then laughed, then sat down on a bench and covered his face. “I left you a voicemail today. Ugh. Well. We left you a few.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo began but Finn shook his head.

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s just—the last one I left…” His hands dragged down his face lightly, making his brown eyes look big and sad. “Ugh. Leo. I’m such an idiot.”

Leo sat down beside him, hand on Finn’s knee. “Finn…You’re not. You’re not an idiot.” He glanced up at Logan, all concerned and blue, sweat still dripping down from the ends of his hair. “The last one you left…what?”

Finn straightened. He set his hand over Leo’s. Then he held it in both and brought his knuckles to his mouth.

“When I was hanging up, I told you that I loved you,” Finn said. “And I do.”

Logan wanted to hear him say it again, in that soft way. He sank onto the bench on Leo’s other side, the very same words burning in his chest. He put his mouth to the warm fabric of Leo’s t-shirt shoulder, curling a hand around his bicep. There was a fine tremor to Leo’s muscles. Logan didn’t know if he was tired, or if it was the words, but Leo was shaking, just a little.

Logan couldn’t help it. Where he was tucked against Leo’s shoulder, he smiled. “Leo…”

The laugh jostled Logan first, and then it sounded, light and a little tearful, from Leo’s mouth. He grabbed for Finn’s shoulder, pulling him in for something that was more a smile than a kiss.

“You just blurted that out, huh?” Leo cupped the back of Finn’s neck. “Jesus, O’Hara, you had me so worried there.”

“I love you,” Finn said. “I—Logan…”

Leo laughed louder, freer, as Logan gripped the back of his t-shirt until Leo turned.

Logan swiped a thumb over Leo’s full bottom lip. He just wanted to touch that smile. He kissed him, hard, tasting the sweat from his practice.

“I love you,” Logan whispered. “I was supposed to say it first, I love you.”

“Supposed to?” Finn spluttered.

“Shh,” Logan said into Leo’s mouth. “Look how happy he is, I can taste it.”

“I love you, too,” Leo said. He pressed his nose against Logan’s cheek, then turned back to Finn. “Oh God, I love you, too.”

Logan watched them kiss. Laugh. Dissolve into each other—Finn’s chin on Leo’s shoulder, eyes closed, fingers scratching through the back of his hair. Logan put a hand on Leo’s back and felt his muscles relax. All the tension from the court earlier bled away. And tomorrow…Tomorrow’s match felt very far away.

“Let’s go,” Leo said. “I’m sweaty and hot and in love.”

“Wow, speaking Logan’s language,” Finn said.

Leo laughed, but when he stood he sent an almost nervous glance towards the door. “Quick. Before anyone tries to pull me back out there.”

“You shouldn’t have been out there in the first place,” Finn said.

Leo sighed with a smile. “Finn.”

Finn stood, hands up in surrender. “Let’s get out of here.”

~

Logan could relax because it was the three of them. He was finishing off a plate of pasta and chicken balanced on his thighs. Finn sat with his computer perched on the arm of the couch with Logan’s feet in his lap. One thumb dug perfectly into Logan’s arch. Leo was laying on the ground, stretching out his back and—well. Smiling the whole time.

“I keep thinking about the Wimbledon Ball,” Leo said.

“You scolded me for leading,” Logan said.

“I didn’t scold,” Leo laughed. “I wanted you to know you could trust me.”

Logan sat up and set his plate down on the hotel’s coffee table. He pulled his feet from Finn’s lap—Finn wrapped a hand around his ankle and held on long enough for Logan to lean in and kiss him. Logan pressed down against Finn as that hand smoothed up his calve, behind his knee. Up his thigh, resting on his ass for a moment before settling on his lower back to press them together harder.

Logan smiled against Finn’s mouth, then slipped out of his hold. He made his way to where Leo lay on his back and stood over him, one foot pressed against each of his hips.

“Trust you?” he repeated.

Leo stretched his arms over his head, grinning. He was wearing Finn’s sweatshirt. He’d caught the worn cuffs in his hands and it pulled the hem halfway up his chest. Logan wanted to put his teeth on the cut of his waist, he really did.

“Mhm,” Leo said. “You didn’t. You thought I was trying to get inside your head.”

“You were.” Logan narrowed his eyes. “You just said so—trying to get me to trust you.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. But you thought I was trying to beat you. And I wasn’t.” He pulled his arms down. Like Finn, his palms found the back of Logan’s ankles. Then his calves. Then the back of his thighs. Only, Leo pulled gently and Logan lowered himself into straddling his hips. Leo smiled and pushed down on his thighs until Logan let his full weight go. “I wasn’t trying to beat you. I was trying to win you.”

A soft laugh came from the couch. “I knew something had to be up when you blatantly asked to dance with my boyfriend.”

“Would have asked you, too,” Leo said, eyes trained on Logan’s as Logan lowered himself down onto his forearms. They were nose to nose now. “A boy can only find so many excuses in one night.”

“And what are you gonna try to do tomorrow?” Logan asked.

“Oh,” Leo whispered. He picked his head up just enough to capture Logan’s bottom lip gently between his teeth—a pull and release that sent Logan’s hips rocking down against him. “Beat you.”

“Please find the bed,” Finn said absentmindedly. His eyes were on his laptop, and he’d put his glasses on. “Your knees get enough stress as it is. And don’t go crazy. I need you rested. And not sore.” Finn looked over at them and Logan wondered if he knew how red his ears were. “Both of you.”

“I’ll find a bed, if you promise to find us when you’re done with that computer,” Leo shot back.

Finn slapped the laptop shut. “What computer?”

~

Coin toss. They weren’t even playing yet and Logan was already sweating with the sun at his back.

“Mr. Tremblay?” the Umpire presented him with the coin. “You will choose?”

“Heads,” Logan said.

“Very well. Heads. Mr. Knut, you will be tails.”

Logan was trying not to look at Leo too hard, but it was difficult. Every time they caught each other’s eye, they both had to suppress a smile. There was joy in this. Logan dreaded to win and dreaded to lose, but there was joy. Leo across from him. The game he loved. Leo, being his.

The coin flashed in the sun as it got tossed up. It rattled, looping around on its edges for a moment before settling between their feet.

“Tails.” The Umpire looked at Leo. “Mr. Knut, you will…”

“Serve first,” Leo said.

“Knut, first service. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes. If Leo thought he was going to get to take a few points off of Logan with that massive serve of his, he was wrong.

It seemed to take ages for the crowd to settle down. New York was always loud, but they were more riled by the idea of of Leo and Logan on the court once again. Logan leaned down to re-tie his shoes and tried to steady his breathing. He turned to look up at Finn, who had a baseball cap on—one of Logan’s sponsors—and was leaning forward on his elbows. He was rubbing his palms together, his eyes on Leo. When he noticed Logan looking, he dropped a wink.

Logan rose and gave his racket a spin against his palm. He bounced twice, then adjusted his feet into a poised stance.

Leo had his ball pressed against his racket, ready. He looked back at Logan once before lowering his gaze to his racket.

“Leo Knut to serve,” the umpire’s voice echoed over the chatter. “Play.”

Leo won the first set. He was gorgeous and lean, and their rallies lasted minute after minute after minute until the crowd was gasping after each stroke. Quite the even match, they were called. Too even, Logan thought. Everywhere else, they would give each other anything the other could possibly want. But not here.

Here, Logan’s t-shirt was soaked in sweat within thirty minutes, and it wasn’t from the heat. They were running each other hard. Leo’s stride equaled Logan’s speed, and his height, Logan’s strength. Logan was frustrated, sure. But he was also having fun. Leo hit a drop shot that had Logan sprinting to the front of the net, only to miss it by its backspin. Leo grinned at him when Logan jokingly hit his palm against his racket in applause. For a moment, it felt like they were back at his house in one of the faux matches Finn set them to.

But it only took three rallies into the second set for Logan to see that something was wrong.

Leo stopped moving well. He wasn’t even walking right. He seemed stiff, and then at changeovers, he spent long seconds with his face hidden in a cold towel.

On Logan’s next break before his serve, he turned away from Leo, wiping his face and wrists with his towel as he looked up at Finn. Finn tapped his thigh and squeezed his hand into a fist. Muscle cramps.

Logan winced, but part of him was relieved. Those were painful, but at least they were short-lived. He made his way back to the baseline and tested out a ball with a few bounces before discarding it and tossing it back towards the ball boy. He glanced up at Leo as he withdrew the second ball from his pocket. He was bringing his knees up to his waist, trying to get the blood flowing. Logan bounced the second ball. His serve clock was winding down and Leo didn’t look ready for his serve. Not at all.

Logan let out a breath, tossed the ball up, and brought his serve down. Ace. Leo barely got his hand back properly. Leo looked behind him, up at his box, and motioned something that Logan couldn’t make out, but what he figured was that he wanted to call for a trainer at the next change-over.

“Ah-ah,” came from Leo’s box. A scolding, horrible sound. Leo’s coach gave his head a sharp shake and he pointed towards the court. Don’t, it seemed to mean.

Finn was standing up in Logan’s box when he looked, his arms crossed. Beside him, Noelle pulled him back into his seat.

He took one more game off of Leo before he couldn’t take it anymore—watching the pained way he walked and the set of his mouth as he tried to hide it.

Logan looked to the chair and raised a finger. “Medic, please.”

The walk to his chair gave him one, tiny second to lock eyes with Leo. Logan wanted to tell him silently to call. Call while I’m calling. He didn’t linger long enough to see if Leo understood. He sat down in his chair, wiped sweat from his face, and looked at Finn. He was leaning back to say something to Logan’s mom. Maybe explaining the trick. Finn would know that Logan had absolutely no reason to call for a trainer.

Even still, a woman came jogging out onto the court. Logan heard the shush and mumble of the crowd as they figured out what was happening. She dropped her heavy supply backpack and knelt in front of Logan’s chair. She had kind eyes, dark hair pulled back into a slick bun, and when she spoke it was with an Australian accent.

“Hi, Mr. Tremblay. My name is Nicola. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Nothing,” Logan said in a low voice, and put his foot out. “Just check my ankle. Take your time about it.”

Nicola looked confused. “I…what?”

“Please,” Logan said.

She looked confused still, but slowly she reached out for Logan’s ankle. She began pressing at it tenderly, like she would if she had been checking for pain. Eventually, her eyes went to Leo’s chair. So, she’d figured it out.

“Is he calling?” Logan whispered.

“Yes, sir,” Nicola said.

Logan didn’t look Leo’s way, but relief flooded him. Another medic came out onto the court, heading Leo’s way. Logan didn’t care if anyone else saw through his trick. If he beat Leo, he didn’t want to do it like this.

He could only ask Nicola to pretend for so long, but when he looked over he saw that Leo had his eyes closed while the trainer dug his thumbs into his thigh in what was probably a good-pain way. Logan paced the baseline to keep his own muscles warm, then heard Finn’s voice in his head and ate half a banana.

When Leo rose to his feet, the crowd applauded, eager for the match to resume. Leo’s box got loud, too, but the tone sounded pressing, not encouraging. It made Logan want to make a noise complaint just so he could inadvertently tell them to fuck off.

One look at Finn told him everything he needed to know. Play, it seemed to say. Logan knew he was right. All he could do right now that wouldn’t hurt Leo, was play.

He tried to turn off everything but the game. The crowd was hardly there. Leo couldn’t be Leo just then. Logan had to turn him into just another player, or else Logan might looked down to find guilt gnawing its way through his chest. He even stopped looking at Finn. Finn now meant Leo, too, so at least for these few hours, there could be neither of them. There were no faces or features around him, just the yellow blur of the ball and the burn in his muscles as he took each point more easily than the last. This was what it had felt like to play when he had been alone, before Finn. The mechanical motions of the came combined with the small adjustments to strategy—treating his opponent like a machine to be figured out. A bleak headspace filled with gray and numbers. He didn’t like it there anymore. He never had.

When he took the win, it all snapped back in. The noise of the crowd roared into his awareness. The colors and court lights made him squint.

The pained flush on Leo’s face hit him right in the chest.

Logan turned and looked up at Finn. His hat was smushed between his palms, red hair a mess from his fingers. He didn’t exactly look like Logan had just become a U.S. Open Champion. He was on his feet and clapping now, but his eyes looked as exhausted as Logan felt. Imperceptible, if you didn’t know him. But Logan did know him. He didn’t know anything better than he knew Finn O’Hara. Finn hadn’t had the game to lock into. He’d been sitting there watching Leo in pain and Logan forcing himself into a brutal, winning pace.

Logan dropped his racket and rubbed his hands over his face. He should be smiling. He might have, had he not looked to see Leo with one hand on the net as he waited for him.

When Logan reached him, his hand was cold in Logan’s, and his breathing felt shallow as Logan rubbed a palm briefly up and down his back.

“That was some trick,” Leo said, drawing them closer to hide his words from any cameras. “With the trainer.”

“I love you,” Logan said. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Leo said. “Go see your family. Oh.” He squeezed Logan tighter for a moment. “I love you, too.”

No one let Logan climb the stands this time, but pointedly directed him to the stairs. He sort of wished Finn would just come to him. He would have all night to see his family. Right then, he wanted a magical sort of door that took him away from all the prying eyes and into Finn’s arms.

Burying his face in Finn’s warm neck when he reached his box would have to do.

“You were going to win,” Finn whispered. “You did so good. Don’t feel guilty, you made that match end as fast as you could.”

“The thing with the trainer,” Logan mumbled.

“I know.”

Logan pulled back to look up at him. Asking. Telling. Imploring.

Finn only nodded, then gave him over to be hugged by his family.

It was excruciating, watching Leo try to fake his way through his speech. He was disappointed. Frustrated. But he was sweet and funny. Logan saw each time a muscle seized up in the way he turned away from the microphone briefly to draw a slow, steadying breath. He saw the way Leo kept one hand on the podium while he gave his runner-up speech. That same hand used Logan for support when they took their trophy photographs. Logan stood ready for him, immovable until Leo pulled away first.

“I’m so grateful to have the support that I do,” Logan said, trying not to wince as his voice echoed back at him around the stadium. “And the amazing talent I get to go up against.” He looked back at Leo. “Every single player on this tour has been in your shoes and all I’ll be thinking about is when we get to play again.”

Logan wanted off the court, he wanted Finn and Leo to himself. He wanted an ice bath and then Finn’s thumbs digging into that one point in his back.

“Finn,” Logan said, then startled back from the microphone as the stadium went wild. He even heard Leo laugh a little from behind him. Logan felt tears claw up his throat and laughed, too. “Leo.”

Because they were one now. Nothing existed without the other.

Leo’s eyes, when Logan found them, had gone a little wide.

“Je t’aime,” Logan said, then waved a hand up to the crowd, who reached back. “Je t’aime, merci.”

~

Finn and Logan didn’t have to agree to find Leo, but he wasn’t where they thought he would be. He wasn’t recovering like Logan had just spent the last thirty minutes doing. He was in a lounge near the locker rooms, sitting on a couch with his long legs bent awkwardly due to the sag of the old sofa cushion. Four people seemed to be trying to talk to him at once.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” one of them said under their breath when they saw Finn and Logan. It made Leo look up. He looked tired. So tired. His silver plate trophy was on the coffee table in front of him, casting shimmery reflections across his drawn face.

Finn drew in a breath, about to speak, but Logan gave the back of his t-shirt a sharp tug and stepped forward instead.

“I need a word with Leo,” Logan said.

Leo was on his feet in a second, stepped out from around the table. He was still limping.

“What for?” the coach asked. “We’re in the middle—”

“Players business.”

“His business is my business.”

Leo didn’t look at them. He didn’t even turn around. His eyes were unfocused and trained on Logan’s chest.

“But mine isn’t,” Logan snapped. “Excuse us.”

He didn’t take Leo’s hand. He wanted to drag him out of there by both hands, but he stayed perfectly still with so many eyes on them. That wouldn’t help Leo just then. Obviously, he had already been told that loving each other made them weaker players. Logan wouldn’t give them something to point at. If they thought this made them weaker, they didn’t deserve to see even a glimpse of the strength that flooded Logan every time Leo so much as looked at him.

  So, Logan made to turn away, knowing Leo and Finn would follow.

“O’Hara.”

Finn stiffened beside Logan and looked back over his shoulder. Leo’s team looked like they had been having a silent conversation, but now their eyes were on Finn.

“A word, if you don’t mind,” said the coach, and he scowled at Logan. “Coach business.”

“I have a few minutes,” Finn said. He looked down at Logan. “See you in a second.” His eyes flit wordlessly in the direction of the recovery rooms.

The room was simple. An examination mattress with a cushion against the wall. A side table, a sink, a few stools, and a small, humming refrigerator in the corner whose glass door showed cold water bottles and hydration drinks. Logan went to it while Leo pulled himself up onto the bed with a groan, stretching his legs out. He’d been icing his knee. Logan could see the redness that the cold had left behind.

“I’m…” Logan set the water aside. He wasn’t sure what to say. He put a hand on Leo’s thigh where the redness was and experimental kneaded his thumb into the muscle. When Leo’s eyes closed with pleasure, he did it again.

“I fired them,” Leo whispered.

Logan let out a breath. “You did?”

Leo nodded. His chest rose and fell heavily once, then he opened his eyes and looked at Logan tiredly.

“Maybe I’ll be like you were,” Leo said. “Try it solo. For a while.”

No. Logan hated that idea. He’d done the endless plane rides alone. The hotels, the mornings, the lonely nights that came whether he won or lost. He didn’t want that for Leo. He wasn’t sure Leo would be able to do it. He was a people person, far more so than Logan ever had been. He was like Finn. He liked to talk, to laugh, to be surrounded by others.

“Leo,” Logan began to say, but suddenly, voices from the other room could be heard plain as day. Finn was—

Leo and Logan looked at each other in surprise. Finn was shouting.

“No. Nope, nope, you saw, you saw what was happening! You do nothing? What did you want him to do, push through? He’d been playing for hours, he needed help, that’s what you’re there for, you know that.”

“It’s a fucking cramp! They go away.”

“He needs water, he needs sugar—”

“Hey. Hey, where do you get off trying to tell me—”

“He needs you not to be running him the way you were the day before the match, in the heat, in the sun. He needs you to not be rolling your fucking eyes when he asks for the medic, are you fucking kidding me—

“Oh, fuck off, O’Hara. You can do fuck all with Tremblay, whatever, but Leo’s not one of your fucking whores, all right?”

There was a shocked beat of silence. Leo and Logan stared at each other, wide-eyed. Logan didn’t catch the next thing Finn said, not until he raised his voice again.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“He’s not. Your. Player.”

When Finn spoke next, he sounded dangerous. Truly dangerous.

“That is not,” Finn began, “what you just said.”

If Logan didn’t know him, he would have been just a bit terrified. But he did know him. And he knew the second he came back into this room it would melt. If he was ever rough with the two of them, it only came out as pure pleasure.

“Call Logan that again,” Finn said. “Let’s see what happens. Go ahead.”

“You have no distance,” Logan heard the coach say. “You cannot run a player like you do, you have no discipline, no—”

“Run? Run a player? They’re not machines!”

“They can be! If they’re worked right—”

“They’re not animals either,” Finn thundered. “They’re people.”

“You don’t treat them like people, you treat them like playthings. Your playthings.”

Finn went silent again. Logan covered Leo’s hand with his, Leo did the same to him, and they waited. Waited.

“This can be a lonely life,” Finn finally said. “A very lonely life. And this is the last thing I’ll say to someone like you, but I am the luckiest man in the entire fucking world to have found love, real love, in this game.”

Logan closed his eyes. He felt Leo’s forehead meet his temple and turned into him.

“And if you ever call Logan or Leo ‘things’, or anything else, again, I’ll sweep your fucking world out from under your feet.”

Leo made a quiet, sad sound in his throat and tilted his chin forward to brush their mouths together. He pulled back to look at him.

“We are lucky,” Leo said.

Logan nodded.

Finn came through the door very quiet. He was red, cheeks flushed in his anger, but he looked at Leo so softly. Logan loved that about him. He loved that. Finn set down two cups on the side table, along with a banana.

“Sorry about that Le,” he said.

Leo shook his head, dazed and glancing towards the door. “No. I…”

Finn handed him the cup, then caught Logan’s eye. “Guess I’ve got no more ground to stand on when I tell you not to lose your head?”

“I love you,” Logan said.

Finn pressed a hand over theirs, then reached for a cup.

“Drink this,” he said to Leo. He cracked the banana’s peel. “You like these kind of green, right?”

Leo just stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

Finn pressed it into his hand. “Okay. Eat is slow.” He passed that hand through Leo’s hair. “Okay?”

“I’m sorry he said that to you,” Leo said. He looked at Logan. “God, to both of you, I can’t believe…He knows how much you mean to me.”

“Don’t apologize for him,” Finn said, and that angry flush began to bloom over his cheeks again. “God, I could just…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Le. Okay. Le.”

Finn sank down on the other side of the PT pallet. He put a hand on Leo’s thigh. “Baby, I don’t—It’s not just that I don’t like the way your team talks to you anymore. I don’t like the way they manage your health. I don’t fucking like it. That, today? That was avoidable.”

Leo looked down, nodding. Logan’s anger flared up so fast that he had to squeeze Leo’s hand hard between his own. The fact that someone could put a look like that on Leo’s face made him want to kill. He couldn’t understand how Finn hadn’t hit Leo’s coach clean across the face. Logan wanted blood on his knuckles as badly as he wanted to curl up into Leo’s side.

“I want to say…” Finn glanced at Logan, who nodded quickly, heart in his throat, then back at Leo. “I’d have to train you two separately. And in different ways. But…I would.” Finn took the empty banana peel and cup and set it down, then took Leo’s hands. “Le, I’d love to be your coach.” Finn paused. “If you want me.”

“Oh…” Leo’s voice was so faint.

Logan was nodding again, even though neither of them were looking at him.

“I’ve been in your shoes as a player,” Finn said. “I’ve leveled up Lo’s game and he was already a master. And you’re brimming with talent and skill and they’re fucking wasting it. I can—”

Leo reached out and put a palm to Finn’s cheek, stopping him. Slowly, his eyes filled with tears. “I fired them tonight.”

Finn straightened. “You did?”

Leo nodded.

“Oh. Then—can I beg instead?” Finn laughed a little, then quieted. He turned his face into Leo’s hand and kissed his palm. His eyes met Logan’s, and Logan felt, all over again, what it had been like for Finn to be his in this way for the first time. “Please, Le.”

“Please? Please?” Leo repeated, and Logan watched him trace Finn’s jaw. “I’ve…always wanted someone like you.”

Finn smiled and it made Logan smile. Love. Real love in this game.

“Okay, hey.” Another kiss to Leo’s palm, then his wrist. “Hey, don’t cry.”

“No, no, I’m just relieved.” Leo’s laugh tumbled out of him and he looked at Logan. “Lo?”

“He wanted this a long time ago,” Finn said. “You should have seen him.”

Logan pulled a face, and Finn touched where his nose wrinkled up. “I don’t know what you mean by that. Of course I want this.”

“Our living room has a new groove from his pacing,” Finn said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Leo sniffed as he laughed again. “What? But okay.”

“Okay?” Finn looked hopeful still, which was funny because Logan was sure it had been a done deal long before today. Somehow, Leo always seemed to have been theirs. Not knowing him and that foreign, guarded dance in a ballroom, felt long, long ago.

Leo looked at Logan. “You won’t feel strange? Sharing him?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re past that,” Logan said, raising his eyebrows. “And I’m pretty sure he likes it. I know I like it.”

“I mean sharing him professionally.” Leo rolled his eyes and wiped at his cheek. “God.”

“Are we talking about me like I’m not here?” Finn cut in. “Because that’s—fine. But hey, hi.”

Logan reached out and put a hand on Finn’s cheek before moving it to Leo’s. “Yes. I want you to have him as your coach, too. It’s the best decision I ever made.”

“Man oh man,” Finn said. “Boys just want me for my skills.”

“Professional decision.”

“I have a lot of skills,” Finn said. “In a wide variety.”

“Finn,” Leo said.

Finn let out a ha and pulled on of Leo’s ankles into his lap, beginning to massage his calf. Leo groaned, but didn’t pull away. “I am so excited. I am so excited, I love this fucking job.”

Leo had his brows knit as Finn dug his thumbs into his knotted muscle, but he huffed out a laugh. “Are you on the clock right now?”

“No,” Finn said. He propped Leo’s foot on his shoulder and turned his head to bite gently at Leo’s ankle. “Relax your ankle for me.” Leo complied and Finn adjusted his grip to one Logan knew well. His ankle felt twenty times better because of that grip. Leo dropped his head back. Finn flit his eyes to Logan knowingly. “Good. Now come here for a second.”

Finn gently lowered Leo’s ankle back to the bed and took Leo’s hand so he could sit forward. He put one hand on Leo’s chest, right where his heart was. Logan counted the freckles on the back of it, then took the free hand Finn held out to him and counted those, too. Like stars, like the miles he’d run for both of them, he lost count.

“My clock never starts or stops,” Finn said softly. The brown color of his eyes looked melted and beautiful in the dim light. “Same goes for Logan. I care about you. A game doesn’t change that. A green court, a blue court, a clay court with white lines doesn’t change that. Some people might say that’s a bad thing but I don’t care. There is no line for me. If anything, I’m standing on the line so I can reach both sides whenever I want.”

Logan pulled his feet up and pressed himself into Leo’s side. “Rouge.”

“Really,” Finn said, looking between them. “I’m not kidding. I used to think playing tennis was my dream, but this…” He smiled, shaking his head. “This.”

“Same goes for you,” Leo said. “Do you hear me? We’ve got championships on the line, we’ve got a shit load of money on the line.” Leo tilted his chin towards Logan. “This one’s gonna get buckets of attention and shit about his legacy.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “But none of that compares to you. D’accord?”

Finn smiled at them. “So we’re in agreement, then.”

Logan had toed the line for so long between the happiness of winning, adrenaline-soaked and nothing more, and the lonely emptiness of loss. When he’d gotten Finn, he’d saw the lines blur before his eyes and loved it so much that he’d wiped them clean with his own palms. Leo had redrawn them. Soft, and bold, and real, and theirs to cross.

“As much as I enjoy sitting here with your hands on me,” Finn said. “I would like you to drink this water.”

“Here he goes,” Logan mumbled and Leo laughed.

“You hungry?” Finn asked.

“Yep,” Leo said.

“Where do you want to go?” Finn put the next cup into his hands. “Anywhere you want. Drain that, even—”

“The dregs,” Leo and Logan said in unison.

“Anywhere?” Leo asked.

“Ouais.” Logan messed with his gold chains, watching Leo’s throat move as he drank as Finn commanded.

“For now, room service steak will do, but then…”

Finn raised his eyebrows, eager. “Yeah?”

Leo set the cup down with a soft, almost sheepish grin. “Then let’s go home.”

(And that's a wrap on On The Line! I loved writing this story so very much. Thanks for reading and all of your wonderful messages!! I love talking about these three with you all <3 This is a trying time right now and I hope this brought a spark of joy...all the love <3 <3)

[maladaptivefanfic]

I Want a Nurse

Bucky Barnes x fem!Avengers!reader

(starts with Matt Murdock x reader but just trust me)

Rating: Mature (nothing yet)

Summary: Finding herself in unfamiliar territory, or unfamiliar times to be exact, an Avenger must find her way home or risk permanently altering her timeline. If only Bucky Barnes were less charming her task would be much easier.

Oh Bucky you little hypocrite.

Chapter Four - Just a Friend

Present Day, 4 Days Since Nightingale’s Disappearance - Avengers Tower - Bucky Barnes

From his place on the couch, ice pack to his forehead, his meeting with the Devil of Hells Kitchen was also at the forefront of his mind. And Bucky certainly remembered that night differently.

He remembered too kind for her own good Nightingale seeing the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen limping and nearly jumping off the motorcycle to help him.

He remembered waiting at the end of the alley way while she worked, hearing this guy’s groaning and moaning echoing off the walls and right into Bucky’s ears. He remembered hearing her laugh for him, that sleazy guy who kept calling her “pretty girl”

It was getting on Bucky’s nerves that this guy would be so inappropriate with a lady he’d just met, and Nightingale was too good and sweet to see what an ass this guy was. So yeah, maybe he snapped, maybe he was in a hurry to get away from him, but it was to get Nightingale away from him.

No he did not like the Devil of Hells Kitchen at all.

—————————————————

July 15, 1943 - Azzano, Italy - US Army Camp

Bucky groaned under her touch as she healed his shoulder. Under the guise of massaging the shoulder blade she gently worked the muscles back into working order. He’d still be sore, and it’d hurt in the morning, but he wouldn’t be on his ass for days.

“You’re an angel, you know that?” Again he groaned under her hands as he tried to turn back and look at her, ok maybe she was relieving some tight muscles while she was in there.

“Just a nurse Sergeant Barnes.” She laughed, pushing him back down on the bed.

“Bucky!” He yelled, but it was muffled by the pillow. She refused to call him Bucky, even as she laughed. Because calling him Bucky would mean they were friends, and Bucky Barnes was not her friend. His glares and sharp stares some 70 years from now made that very clear.

He’d probably yell at her for this if she got back to her time.

If, there was that horrible word again.

It was a few days shy of a month since she found herself in 1943, and there was no evidence that she would be brought back. Surely Sergeant Barnes knew, or rather remembered, she was here by now? Despite his attitude towards her in the future (present?) surely he wouldn’t leave her trapped here would he?

“Where’d your head go doll?”

The gentle words of the Bucky Barnes beneath her brought her back to her surroundings, seeing him propped up on his elbows looking up at her with a soft smile made her stomach flip.

“Home.” She hummed, checking over his back again. He’d live.

“Oh yeah, fancy Manhattan girl.” He wiggled his eyebrow with his jest. She’d mentioned where she lived, neglecting to mention that where she lived hadn’t actually been built yet, but it was Manhattan nonetheless.

“Stop that, I just live there I don’t own property.” She laughed, nudging this shoulder as she turned him over.

“Will you visit me when we get home, or is Brooklyn too far from your ivory tower?” He held his hand over his heart in jest and she rolled her eyes and she began to turn away from him.

“I’m walking away Sergeant Barnes”

“No don’t go, I’m injured, I’m pitiful.” He took her hand lightly as she started to walk away, bringing her knuckles gently to his lips “don’t leave a dying man all alone”

“You’re not dying Sergeant Barnes.” She laughed, relenting and standing beside him.

It was moments like this, with those bright blue eyes staring up at her with mischief, that she really felt the difference between Bucky and the Sergeant Barnes of her time. This Bucky was leaner, still strong but certainly not under the effects of a super soldier serum. He kept his hair shorter, and smiled often. There was the occasional scar across his arms or hands, which he would chalk up to boyhood escapades with Steve.

Whenever he would touch her with his left hand, moments like now, she would shiver slightly.

She had started to toss the idea around in her head, could she save him? Could she keep this Bucky from the horrors that awaited him as the fist of Hydra? But what would that do to her future, what would happen in this butterfly effect?

She might not even be around long enough to change anything, so it was easy to shove the thought from her head and instead focus on the soldier grinning below her.

“Couple of us are heading into town, there’s a bar there with a working radio so we can go dancing?” He continued to hold her hand, his thumb rubbing over the top of hers as he spoke.

“Thought I told you I don’t know how to dance?”

“Thought I told you I’d teach you?”

“What if I step on your toes huh? I’ll be the villain if I keep you from dancing with the other girls because I bruised your feet.” It was her turn to grin as she spoke.

“Oh no, you could never. I’ve seen you move, you’re like a ballerina dancing through this camp. Jitterbugs got nothing on you.”

Moving like a ballerina, that’d be her training from Nat, she chuckled to herself.

“I’ve also told you I have a man back home, why don’t you ask one of the many available young ladies who are head over heels for you?” The faster he diverted his attention to another nurse the better.

“I don’t want to ask them, I want to ask you, doll. And it doesn’t have to be romantic or a date, friends can go dancing right?”

“You’re incorrigible Barnes.”

“I heard encourage-able, thank you for encouraging me.” He smiled widely as he looked up at her, he really was too cute for his own good.

“Has nobody ever told you no before?” She huffed, but anyone could tell there was no real frustration behind it. This was a battle she was losing.

“Nobody has ever needed to!”

“Well somebody should!” She laughed, trying her best to keep it quiet in the tent, but likely failing.

“No can do, only people who call me Bucky can tell me no.” His grin grew as she rolled her eyes, he was going to win either way. As she tossed the idea around in her head trying to figure out which would make present day Sergeant Barnes more mad at her? She knew she couldn’t call him Bucky, but she had successfully danced with him before at galas - PR stunts but they still counted.

“If I say yes to the dance, can I have my hand back Sergeant Barnes?”

“Can I have my hand back….?”

“Do you want me to go dancing with you or do you want me to call you by your name?” Deciding to pick option one he kissed her hand swiftly before letting it go and jumping off the cot swinging towards the door, smiling so wide she was worried he’d hurt his cheeks.

“Tonight doll, I’ll be at your tent at 6 o’clock!” He called out as he skipped towards the door

“Remember, just as friends!” She called after him, but he was long gone, bolted before she could take it back.

She was in for quite the evening.

————————-

“What do you mean this dress won’t do?” She held it up in front of herself, frowning as her friends spoke.

“I mean you can’t wear your every day dress dancing!” Lorraine groaned, yanking the offending garment from her hands as y/n held it in front of herself.

“Well that’s the only thing I have outside of work clothes, thank you for sharing by the way.” She complained about this request for new clothes but couldn’t help being grateful to her new friend.

“We have something in this tent I’m sure! It’s Sergeant Barnes for goodness sake-“ Janet muttered as she dug through the dresses she had flung on her bed. Janet herself was eager for tonight as a certain Corporal had asked to accompany her.

“It’s not romantic, there’s no need to impress friends!”

“Sure there’s not, certainly not when he looks at you like you’re the last glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.” Janet sang as she and Lorraine laughed, while y/n blushed fiercely.

“I’m still taken! It’s not like I’ve forgotten my man back home!”

“I’m sure you haven’t sweetheart, your Matthew sounds like a real catch. But you’re allowed to have fun, and look good too!” Janet was sweet, jumping up with a squeeze to her shoulder before jumping behind her to dig through her chest “now I know I have something in here that’ll be perfect for you. Nothing flashy but still chic.” Y/n rolled her eyes and she watched her dig, pleading with Lorraine to stop her but all Lorraine offered was a shrug.

“Ah ha!” Janet called, pulling out a lovely blue dress “this’ll be perfect and just your size!”

Y/n reached out to touch the fabric, it felt too expensive and she pulled back “oh Janet I couldn’t, I’ve never even seen you wear it!”

“Oh goodness don’t be like that, my mother bought it for me and it’s not my style at all! Don’t get me wrong it’s cute, but I don’t even wear this shade of blue!” Janet forced the dress into y/n’s hands before digging around in the trunk again. “Now we need dancing shoes for you, and I might have a cute little purse to go with it, gloves…”

Janet trailed off as she gathered more and more pieces of the outfit, meanwhile Lorraine had wrangled y/n into a chair and was doing up her hair and make up.

“Now I’m not saying you need to go and fall in love with Sergeant Barnes, but we are going to go and have a good time. You got that?” Lorraine spoke sternly but gave a wink at the end of her speech. Y/n could only laugh with agreement. It was moments like this that y/n was reminded of Natasha. How many times had Nat dolled her up for events and galas, assuring her she would go and she would have a good time. It wasn’t until she began bringing Matt that she truly started enjoying them. He was her friend long before they started dating and he was more than happy to be a wallflower with her when she wasn’t feeling up to socializing. After they started dating two months ago nothing changed except a few more flirtatious lines from Matt that made her blush. She knew he had a crush on her long before she accepted the offer of a date but how was it possible he could get even more charming after she agreed to a date?

Before that she would sit quietly at a table, sometimes with Sergeant Barnes if he had been strong armed into coming by Steve or Sam. At first she would try talking to him, making comments about the venue, the food, the people, even complimented his appearance, but she was met with stony silence.

She couldn’t remember what she did to make Barnes so uncomfortable around her but she must have done something. Why else would he react so negatively to her while Bucky of this time was so eager to be around her?

“Speaking of, any word from your sweetheart?” Lorraine’s nails scratched lightly on y/n’s scalp as she twisted and moved her hair into place. She knew the girls were suspicious, it looked incredibly suspicious that she and her so called boyfriend weren’t planning to communicate at all. So many weeks without a letter? Especially when she had spoken of Matt’s friends so fondly, surely they could read a letter to him or write one on his behalf?

But she’d never expected to have to keep this ruse up for so long. She did love Matt but every day she spent trapped in this time she became more and more convinced that nobody was coming for her. How could they? The technology wasn’t Tony’s, it looked almost otherworldly. Maybe they had written her off as a lost cause, she couldn’t blame them. And she couldn’t blame Matt if he gave up as well.

Part of her hoped Matt would wait for her, but another part was furious at herself for expecting that of him. Matt had waited almost 2 years for her, 2 years of her pinning after Sergeant Barnes, 2 years of being her dearly devoted friend, 2 years of willing to wait and see if she would give him a chance. Sure he had dated, and told her that if she was only ever his friend he would die a happy man, but when she finally decided to give it a chance she goes missing 2 months into a relationship. If she couldn’t return to him, if she was stuck living out her life from here onwards, she wanted Matt to have a full life. She wanted him to find love, and be happy, not be hung up on a girl lost to time.

She hadn’t realized a tear was escaping her until it was too late.

“Oh honey I’m sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Lorraine was quick to grab her handkerchief.

“Don’t, really, it’s silly. I’m just thinking about him and - it’s silly, forget it.”

“No no it can’t be that silly, what’s wrong?” Lorraine’s hands gently rubbed y/n’s arms as she softly spoke, the hum of Janet working away to build an outfit in the background a peaceful white noise.

“I’m worried I won’t see him again…and it’s selfish. I don’t want him to have to wait for me, but part of me wishes he would. I don’t know if I’ll ever find anyone else who loves me like him.” Despite her wounded heart she wanted to add how he loved her despite the fact that she was hung up on a man who hated her while she admired him from afar, but she kept those thoughts tucked away. Maybe some of the tears she shed were her grief for not being able to love Matt like he deserved? And now she’d abandoned him and couldn’t help but feel horrible for causing him such pain.

“Oh dear” Lorraine hugged her as she contained her tears. There was her fear, out in the open. What if the whole world moved on without Nightingale?

“He would be a fool not to wait for you.”

“But i don’t want him to hold off on his own happiness waiting for me.” Hold off like he had been already for 2 years.

“Oh you’re worth the wait sweetheart, and any man with a brain between his ears could see that. Sergeant Barnes certainly does.” Lorraine tapped her nose with a wink, while y/n could only groan.

But it reminded her of a thought that kept coming back to her. If she was stuck here, would she allow herself to move on? Could she find love? Certainly not with sergeant Barnes, but someone. Would it mess with the timeline? Had she already, and that’s why nobody could find her?

Maybe her imagined plan to save Sergeant Barnes from his fate wasn’t so far fetched? Time travel was confusing and she was torn from her thoughts as Janet handed her a pair of nylons. She slipped them on easily, securing them to the clips of her garter. This was something she had picked up quickly, it was annoying all of the extra steps at first but the routine became a calming method. She was putting herself in the costume, becoming the version of herself in the 1940s and these clothes were just part of the act.

As she took care of her final buttons on her borrowed dress, the sound of footsteps and laughter outside made her smile.

“Ladies, we’re ready whenever you are!” Dugan called from outside the tent. Janet thought him charming and y/n and Lorraine agreed. They opened the tent to the men dressed sharply in their uniforms, Dugan smiled as he took Janet’s hand kissing it lightly. George attempted to mimic the action but Lorraine set him with an unamused look in her eyes as he led her to the jeep. Y/n was the last to follow behind as Bucky looped her arm in his.

“I wish Lorraine would just admit her feelings for George. Would certainly make things easier on all of us.” She whispered to Barnes with a sigh. He chucked as he leaned to whisper in her ear.

“Maybe she likes playing hard to get? Isn’t that one of the games you girls like to play with our poor hearts?” He winked as he moved back, hand firmly in her waist as he lifted her into the back of the jeep before jumping in behind her.

“Sergeant Barnes I would never.” She looked at him, all seriousness but on such a cute face Bucky was reminded of an angry kitten.

He smiled as he turned the thought over in his head. While many ladies of camp played at flirting with him, Y/n never fell for his lines or flirting. She was kind but stern, and fiercely loyal to the point Bucky was jealous of that man she had back home because he had this perfect woman all to himself. This sweet, beautiful, honest woman.

“No you wouldn’t do that doll, you’re absolutely right.” His smile only grew as the jeep turned back on and made its way out of camp.

Maybe it was different in the book but in the show Outlander it felt like Claire caved a little too quickly to Jamie so I’m trying to keep it reasonable before she inevitably succumbs. It’s not spoilers if we all know who the ship is right?

[pleaseeeimjustagirl]

🎀30 Day Glow Up Challenge🎀 - day fourteen

♡ Mindset : when I go out with my friends I detach from my phone for the day which is the best. While I made me way to Joe & The Juice I read a book called “Survival Of The Prettiest” it talks about beauty and the beauty industry. I love reading it definitely helps me pass the time when I’m commuting through out manhattan.

♡ Health : my friend and I have the same glow up goals and we love everything health and wellness and we discussed our goals and what we can do this summer together to help us reach our fitness goals. I live a 80/20 lifestyle so I try my best to not follow my usual meal plan when I’m going out with my friends or by myself. But I do extra walking and when you’re in manhattan you will walk alotttt. My friend and I walked so much purposely so we can get extra steps in. I hit over 10K steps.

♡ Self Care : I got a massage today at Chelsea Wellness it was soooo goodddd. I got the heated oil and hot stones treatment my body felt so relaxed after. While the lady massaged me I practiced my breathing that helps with cortisol and stimulates the Vega nerve I believe don’t quote me lol.

♡ Experience : I explored the city today which was so much fun especially doing it with my friend. Having a social life has definitely helped me through my glow up journey especially having friends on that same journey lol. I had Joe & The Juice I got the blueberry matcha chai latte so good a 8/10 and my friend gave me a piece of her Tunacado sandwich it was good 7/10. We went to Bubby’s Bakery after which was nice. The environment is very relaxed and homey. I got the Mac and cheese 9/10 so goodddd and I got the salmon bagel 6/10 it was good but the bagel was toooo hard. I couldn’t finish all my food so I brought left overs home for my siblings. Today was amazing 10/10 day.

Tell me how you’re doing babes I would love to know my inbox and requests are open<33333

[just-some-random-blogger]

Less Dire Situations | 2

Part 1 2 3

Peter liked you the moment he met you after moving in with his Aunt May. Unfortunately, he never got the guts to talk to you. The idea disappeared after grade school and high school graduation, so you can imagine how surprised he was when you answered his ad for Advanced Calculus tutoring. It felt like he could actually get a shot with you… and then you jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.

Peter Parker x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, DD:DNE, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, themes of depression, social withdrawing, emotional masking, canon divergence, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

A/N: this is originally posted on ao3

My breathing is shallow as I sit cross legged on the top of the pillar of the Manhattan Bridge. I'm terrified to move, not just because the wind was threatening to blow me into the road, potentially traumatizing a poor driver, but because Spiderman was sitting down next to me.

He hasn't said a word since he's caught me. There's nothing but silence and the stars between us.

I can't believe Spiderman saved me.

"I can't believe you jumped."

I whip my head to him. He's already looking at me.

My mouth opens, "I- I didn't mean to say that out loud."

The masked man stares at me for a moment then looks front. He curls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them, "I did."

I turn to my hands and begin to pick at my cuticles. My throat constricts, and my eyes grow foggy with tears. He only said two words but they sounded personal, they sounded... angry. I feel my lips quiver. I mean, I don't blame him. He's probably had to save so many idiots from jumping to their death. He's so over this.

I would be too, if I were him. As if fighting criminals wasn't enough, now he's got to look after the mentally ill? That's above my pay grade, and I'm sure he doesn't get paid.

I scratch my eyes when I feel hot tears stream down my face. I shudder as I hear the call of the abyss. I look out into the body of water, glimmering under the city light, beckoning me. I shakily mutter under my breath, "sorry, Spidey."

I feel him looking at me. I feel him look at me the exact manner I hoped to never get looked at. He was pitying me. He had his face covered and I wasn't even looking at him but, dammit, I knew he was pitying me. Worse, he was genuinely sorry for me.

I rub my philtrum and curl into myself. I flinch when I hear him sigh. I slowly turn to him when he moves 

He faces me, leaning on one leg, "I'm just shocked you'd want your last place on earth be Manhattan Bridge. Like honestly. Why would anyone want that? If you're gonna go through all that trouble, might as well pick a better bridge."

Spiderman cocks his head to the side, "like Brooklyn."

I look at him for a moment. I can't figure out if he's joking or if he was just from Brooklyn.

"Or something connecting to Staten Island."

I begrudgingly chuckle at his words. The sound I make actually surprises me.

I hear him mumble something under his breath as he looks away.

He brings his legs into his chest again, and so we're both just hugging ourselves.

I gasp when a couple of birds pass us. I cover my ears and watch as they fly away.

"You get used to it," he says as I watch a flock of birds disappear into the city.

I turn to my knees as he continues, "the world feels different up here. You're just one of the birds, looking down at this concrete jungle, just tryna avoid street signs and glass windows."

I wrinkle the fabric of my pants into my hands. A shiver runs down my spine as the wind begins to seep into my clothes.

I feel him scoot closer. "You want me to," he mutters, "bring you down?" He takes a moment before asking, "you want me to take you home?"

I rapidly shake my head, "I don't want to go back."

He sighs and rubs his nape, "sweetheart, I can't leave you here."

I sniffle and finally turn to him. He had both hands on his shoulders; he's massaging the area firmly as he looks around, clearly agitated. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, "you from Brooklyn or what?"

"What?" he turns to me.

My voice sounds like my nose is clogged, because it is, "I didn't think Spiderman was from Brooklyn, although, I think it kinda makes sense."

He chuckles out, "oh yeah?" He rests an arm on his knee, "how so?"

"You wear a Spider suit."

He sniggers, "and?"

"Only someone from Brooklyn would even think to pull that off."

Spiderman snorts. I chuckle under my breath as he throws his head back, "HA- you know what, I take that as a compliment."

"It is," I lean back to get a good look at him, "I used to have a such a crush on this one guy from Brooklyn."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he moved to Queens for a year but then moved back," I mutter.

"Ah, so you're from Queens."

"Yeah."

He nods and fidgets his feet, "what are you doing in Manhattan then?"

I shake my head and turn to my lap.

Spiderman feels the reluctance but he still asks, "what? No bridges over there?"

"Hmm," I brush my hair behind my ear. I release a shudder, "none quite like Manhattan Bridge."

He hums, "let me guess. You had your first kiss here."

"Nothing so obscene," I sigh and rub my arms. I cross my legs and hunch over. I shake my head, "this was the bridge I took into Manhattan, to my fucking dream school in my fucking dream city. It's all I ever wanted as a kid. It's all I prayed for, and I have it-"

My head begins to thump as I force-suck air through my clogged nose.

"I got a scholarship. I got a dorm. I do commissions to pay for what I need, but I hate it," my voice cracks as I begin to sob, "all my life I've had people shit on me for wanting to get an art degree. And now I'm thinking," I scratch my eyes, "yeah. Maybe they're right. The only way I'll have a stable living is if I work for some conglomerate and sell my soul."

I turn to Spiderman, finding his whole body was faced towards me. I sniffle, "I don't want to sell my soul, Peter."

A wind gushed between us.

"Fuck- sorry-" I wipe my face rough, "sorry. I- I have a friend named Peter. He's my only friend-" I break into a pathetic laugh, "but actually he's only my friend because I pay him."

Spiderman's gaze feels heavy on me.

"I don't know, I just- it's so exhausting to keep up with people from this fucking city. They're always doing something and I-" I shake my head, "I can't. I really can't. And I fucking can't lose my scholarship so I looked for a tutor, because fuck all as to why an Animation student needs to do Calculus-- and this kid named Peter Parker charges like 10 dollars an hour, which is really good and he's really good- and-

"-and it turns out the guy is actually from Queens too and, shocker, we went to the same grade school AND high school, but I had no idea who he was cause my overachiever ass had 100 clubs to focus on, and he remembers that horrible dance choreo I did with my friends-- who don't even speak to me anymore-"

At this point, I could feel that my eyes were so puffy and I could barely breathe from all the snot in my nose.

Still, I continued, "and eventually, I realized he was the kid people picked on, and then I wondered if any of my friends picked on him, and now I was asking him to help me, but he's just the sweetest guy ever. He's so just so smart, and patient, and funny, and kind, and sometimes I look at him and wish I could go back and stand up for him, or go back and I be his friend. But I liked how everything was for myself back then, so I didn't give a fuck and I didn't do a damned thing because I was a stupid kid- and- and-"

I take in deep, shaky breathes in the hope of calming myself.

"Hey, hey," Spiderman apprehensively places a hand on my shoulder, "I'm sure he doesn't hold it against you-"

"Well, he should," I snap, "neutrality is just as bad, or sometimes worse than being a bully. At least you can pick out a bully, at least you know they want to hurt you and you can get ready for a punch. But neutral people see that shit and decide it's not worth lifting a finger for. They pretend there's peace just because it's not their war. And they take that to their graves."

I feel a shiver ripple through my body. I shake my head rapidly, "I don't want to live like that. Peter never deserved that. And he deserves way better than being friends with a bystander."

"... are you still a bystander?"

"I- I don't know," I speak with a wobbly voice, " I haven't seen anyone get picked on, which probably means I am-"

"Now, hold on. Looking for fights where there aren't ones isn't the right way to go about the world."

I chuckle dryly, "but the world is just always one move away from a fight. There's nothing but unrest and uncertainty."

Spiderman links his hands together, "thats definitely one way to look at things."

"Please don't fucking glass half full me right now."

"I won't," he shakes his head, "trust me, I'm not qualified for it. And I'm a glass half empty kind of guy actually."

I wipe my face.

"Don't you think Peter should decide what he deserves though?"

I don't respond.

"The thing about accepting the glass is half empty is knowing there's space to add more to it," he moves in front of me, "maybe he was also excited to see someone familiar. Victims of abusers tend to stay because they think it's all there is--not that I'm calling you an abuser- but you- with the half empty analogy-"

"I get it," I raise a hand, "sometimes we're willing to overlook the bad for a little good... which is really fucked up."

"And you know," he points a finger, "if this Peter guy is as smart as you make him out to be, realistically speaking, I doubt he'd hang out with you if you made him want to jump off the Manhattan Bridge."

I chuckle. I actually chuckle. I wipe my nose, "you've got a sick sense of humor, Spiderman."

"Hey," he raises his hands, "you laughed."

I chuckle again then release a breath, "I can only hope so... I hope I'm someone in his orbit."

Spiderman doesn't respond.

"He's one of the few people in the world that's actually gonna do great things. He's so good at what he does. You know he's taking Advanced Calculus just because he can, and he's so good at it he teaches Math majors? He's a Bio-Chemistry major!  And he's passionate about it... I wish I had that."

"Aren't you passionate about your drawings?"

I give a dry laugh, "I hate what I do. I feel like I've fallen out of love." I chortle, "but I can't quit it because it's all there is for me."

I shiver again. I rapidly rub my arms.

"You don't have to cross this bridge," he says, placing a hand on my knee, "people built other bridges because there are other ways to reach a destination."

I shake my head and laugh with no amusement. I whisper, "I just want to jump."

I watch him as he stands, his suit somehow appears like it's absorbing and deflecting the light from the city. "Okay," he tilts his head down, "then jump."

I, admittedly, am taken aback by his words.

I wait for him to do something, to say something, because there was no way he was actually taunting me to jump right now.

A pit in my stomach pressures me to stand and throw myself off to prove a point. I shakily push myself up, and that's when he reaches out to me.

"Or jump with me."

I look at his extended hand.

He stares at me for a long while then says, "we can keep jumping off Manhattan Bridge until you don't want to."

My cheeks begin to burn because of my hot tears.

"You have to take my hand though," he whispers, "if you chose to stop bullying yourself, you can't be a bystander either. You said it yourself."

I let out an ugly cry.

"Do for yourself what you couldn't for someone else."

My cold, trembling hand lands onto his gloved one. It seems he is equally as cold as I am, but then warmth cascades through my entire body when he clutches my hand in both if his.

I see my vague silhouette on the lenses of his mask. I must look atrocious.

He presses his lips onto my fingers then slowly let's me go. He steps back and looks out to the river, "jump."

What?

"It's okay."

I look at him with worry.

"Trust me," he places his hands on his chest, "I will catch you, no matter what."

The sentiment makes me want to puke. I feel deeply disturbed. I feel like I'm being made a spectacle of. Was vulnerability always so performative?

"I-" don't want to, I almost say. But I can't... I can't now, not when I'd already told the hero of New York more than I've ever told anyone in my life. Not when someone who I had been waiting on to come save the city came to save me. 

My lips quiver at the realization.

He came to save me.

I turn away from him and close my eyes. I take one deep breath.

I leave my life into his hands as I step off the platform.

I descend. Faster, and faster, and faster and-

And faster I went-

I open my eyes and find the waves below me inching nearer. With my arms up and the wind ripping at me, I begin to scream in panic. The fear in my body makes me go rigid. I realize that I could get saved and still die in the process.

It dawns on me that--

With a grunt, I collide into a body and I'm being swung upward.

I grunt at the force of the impact. I shriek and cling onto Spiderman twice as tight as he he did on me.

I whimper.

He nuzzles against me, "I got you. I got you, sweetheart. I got you."

It feels surreal when my feet touch the ground. I feel like I'm in the clouds and my legs aren't meant to touch the floor.

I shudder against his embrace. Spiderman had been holding me ever since he brought us down and, honestly, I didn't feel at all like letting go.

I breathe against his trapezius, his scent was so inviting, so... safe. I was slightly up on my tiptoes to keep my arms around his shoulders. He had a bend to his posture to keep level with me. I knew I could not keep him like this forever because of this.

Against my will, I slowly break away and look at the man before me.

The streetlight by the river shoreline made his red suit look maroon. Spiderman parts from me just as slow, as if equally unwilling to separate.

My heart pounds when he rest his head against mine.

"Are we about to kiss right now?" I whisper.

He chuckles, slightly pulling back, "it wouldn't be right to take advantage of you in your state."

"Thrilling to know Spiderman would kiss me."

"Says the girl who's flirting with me right now," he tilts his head.

"I wasn't flirting. I was asking. It was to lighten the mood."

He says nothing for a moment, "I don't think anything can lighten suicide."

The mood dies. Coldness creeps up my spine.

Spiderman rubs my back and nods, "you doing okay?"

I chuckle dryly, breaking away all together. I turn to my feet. What a question. I fidget in my spot, my tongue itching to say I've not been okay for a long time, but instead I look back at him and smile, "I'm okay."

I continue to put distance between us. I wrap my arms around myself, expecting him to allow me space. My stomach drops when he steps closer.

His mask is expressionless but he sounds disappointed, "I don't enable crooks, sweetheart."

I flinch when he swipes my cheeks with his thumb.

"Quit cheating yourself."

I step back and cover my face; heat spirals over me when my hands find evidence of tears I've involuntarily cried.

I bury my face in my hands and turn away from him. I roughly wipe my tears; a wave of pathetic shame overcomes me.

I inch away from him. Each step was meant to encourage myself into composition but it does the opposite. I feel like a storm cloud-- heavy, dark, and pouring down. I'm crushed by my own weight.

Unable to control my sob, I break down and curl into a ball, squatting on the floor, hugging my knees.

I feel him come down to my side.

I whine against my elbow, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just-"

"Don't apologize. There's nothing to be sorry about," he sits down, "let it out."

I lift my head and look over my shoulder. Spiderman stares at me. My pathetic likeness is reflected on his lenses. I look away and wipe my nose, "I just- I don't- it's a lot. It's all too much- I..."

"Hey," he raises a hand, "you don't have to explain right now. Just let it out. I'm here."

I laugh. I'm here.

I pull on my sleeve and wipe my tears.

"What's funny?"

I look at Spiderman and shake my head. I chuckle again and repeat his words, "I'm here."

He is silent for a moment. He pulls his head back and sounds offended, "well, I am."

"I know," I say through blocked sinuses. I sniffle and wipe my nose, "I know."

He looks at me a few seconds then nods, "we can stay here as long as you like."

I sniffle, "what about... don't you have other people to save?"

"I'm saving you."

A pit of guilt grows in my stomach, "yeah, but what about people in burning buildings?"

"What about your burning building? It seems like it's been burning a while now."

I say nothing. I turn to my feet.

"And anyway, you can only walk towards one thing at a time, if not, you'd be walking aimlessly," he shuffles on his spot.

I can't see his face but I can feel him looking at me.

"Does that make sense?"

I nod, looking at the dirt beneath my feet.

He huffs, "I try not to think about the people I could have saved when I wasn't doing anything of," he does air quotes, "significant importance."

I look up at him as he stands. He stretches his arms with a grunt, "believe it or not, I'm just another New Yorker trying to get by when I'm out of this suit. I'm not a millionaire or a genius."

I watch him as he stretches his legs, "I believe you."

He freezes, "woah, woah, woah," he points a finger, "I don't like your tone."

"What tone?"

"What, like, Amazing Spider-Man isn't so amazing as a man," he straightens up and places a hand on his chest, "I'll have you know I am very much slightly above average as a man."

I give a clogged-nose laugh, "your girlfriends must love that."

"Oh," he places his hands on his hips and stretches from side to side, "they do."

I laugh, hard enough that snot threatens to spill from my nose. I wipe my philtrum and push myself up to a stand.

Spiderman stops stretching.

We stare at each other for a prolonged second.

"Can I take you home now?"

I rub my hands together, "will you be swinging me back?"

He chuckles softly, "I mean, if you want. I was thinking a walk would be good for you though."

My brows quirk, "you want to walk me? But you're in your suit."

"So?" he shrugs and crosses his arms, "wouldn't be the first time someone in a spiderman suit walked around New York."

I smile softly. He was right.

I nod and wipe my face in my hands, "okay."

He perks, "okay?"

I nod faster and chuckle, "yeah. It's quite a walk from here to my dorm though," I throw a thumb over my shoulder.

"Don't worry. My cardio's up to snuff," he shrugs and tilts his head, "my girlfriends love that too."

We walk down the streets in silence. For some reason, it was not a heavy or awkward silence. I felt like I could just keep to myself and it would be okay.

The problem with keeping to myself is that the silence feeds my thoughts which then eat at me.

The quiet street seemed loud now, everything felt like it was out to get me.

"Hey," I call out softly. For a split second I regret speaking out and I pray he didn't hear.

Spiderman did hear though. He whips towards me, "yes."

I barely manage to keep my eyes on him as I explain, "this is an odd request- but- do you mind holding my hand as we walk? It's just that, I don't know... I'm feeling overwhelmed."

He reaches out a hand to me.

I stare at his hand, finding it daunting to take it, "actually... can I just hold your arm?"

He offers his arm.

I take it.

We continue to walk.

"Yoo," a random passerby says, "hows it going spiderboy?!"

"Good, good," Spiderman says, waving at him.

We eventually reach my building.

I slowly pull away from him just before we reach the façade.

"This is me," I mutter, hands sliding down his arms.

Spiderman looks up at the building and turns back to me, "fancy."

I shake my head and smile, "it's a dorm. I'm a scholar, remember?"

He holds my hand just before I can pull away, "I remember everything you say, baby."

I am rigid when he lets go. The way in which he said that was so intimate, so earnest.

My chest tightens and I barely manage to whisper out, "please don't speak to me like that."

He stands still, "...what?"

My throat tightens.

"Earnestly?" he mutters.

Was he a mind reader? "Yeah," I speak with a broken voice. I watch passing cars, "you'll make be think you're in love with me."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yes," I snap, turning back at him, "you don't know me."

He is perfectly still, save for his hands that slowly raise in defeat, "I don't."

I sigh deeply.

"Which is why I'm honored to know you like this."

I chuckle dryly, "fucking hell."

I turn away from him and walk towards my building entry way. Half expecting him to follow after me, I am surprised to see he didn't.

"1 pm."

"What?"

"One o'clock tomorrow," he motions with a finger, "I'll meet you on your rooftop."

"What?"

"I've got stuff to do in the morning, but I'm free after 1. Meet me there then."

I step forward, "now, wait a sec-"

"Remember. One," he says, right before slinging away.

"Holy shit," Arnel, the dorm's night guard, says, "did that fucker just teleport?"

I turn around. The dark skinned man walks to my side and examines the scene. I shake my head, "no. It was web... things. That was spiderman."

"Damn, kid," he turns to me, "you're friends with the Spoods?'

I do not reply.

"Speaking of friends, Peter was begging to get in. He said it was important because you weren't answering your calls. I told him policy is policy," he explains, "that being said. He looked so frantic, I was about to let him in, but he bolted down the block."

My lips part.

"You good, kid?"

My heart pounds. I can't lie to Arnel. He's got a bullshit detector the size of the Empire State. I shake my head, "I got into an accident... I'm better now."

Still a lie, but Arnel doesn't note it if he catches on. The man presses his plump lips into a thin line, "alright, well go get some rest. You look like you need it."

I him watch me as I go inside.

When I get into my apartment, I feel bile rise up my throat. The sight of my place repelled me. I head straight to my bedroom, insides curdling when I see the boxes of stuff I had already packed. I turn to the middle of my bed where my phone and suicide letter was, the former lit up with a buzz.

I grab my phone and see Peter's ID.

Guilt eats away at me, yet it's not enough for me to answer.

When the call ends, I see the notification that it's been the 30th attempt.

I see 61 texts.

My eyes water.

I flinch when he rings me again.

With a gulp, I answer, "hello?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"... Peter? Can you-"

"Oh my fucking go- do you have absolutely any idea how fucking scared I've been! Where have you been? Why haven't you been answering your phone? I tried to go to your dorm! They wouldn't let me in."

His nagging is as comforting as it is grating, "calm down, dad. I left my phone at my dorm."

"You called me then left your phone at your dorm?! Wow. That's some next level evil right there."

I sigh and crawl on my bed. I pull my shoes off and lie down. Tears drip the sides of my face. I take a deep breath before replying, "it wasn't on purpose."

"... well, damn, it feels like it is."

I stare at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, a sight I never anticipated seeing again. It clenched at my heart.

"Did you call to give me that Tawagoshi?"

My throat tightens.

"You love this 8-bit dog."

I do.

"What gives? I've got so many questions," he speaks my name, making electricity pulse through me.

"I bet you do," I mumble, mostly to myself.

Peter voice falls soft, "what's going on?"

My breathing is strangled. I do my best to keep it even as I respond, "I'm shedding some skin. I thought to try out calling, but damn--" I chuckle bitterly, "--this really could have been a text."

"Not this time," he blurts from the other line, "I'm coming over."

"NO!" I yelp, sitting up, "please. I'm exhausted-"

"And you still haven't told me why-"

"Tomorrow," I blurt.

"..."

I sigh, "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"..."

"I promise. I'll ease all your worries, dad."

"I don't want to be eased," he says firmly, "I want to be told the truth "

I shake my head and stare at my screen. The name Peter Parker stares back at me.

I am snapped into reality when he calls my name again.

"I'm still here," I respond.

"Breakfast at 5th?"

"... ok, Peter."

"Alright. Get some sleep."

"I will, dad. Love you."

"I-"

I end the call.

I wake up with a headache and stomach ache. Fitting, if you asked me.

I could barely open my eyes because of how crusty it was, the salt from my dried tears bunched up my lashes.

The air was cold. The sun wasn't shining yet. There was a distant siren whirring from afar. It couldn't have been any later than 5 am.

I look at the ceiling, as much as my crusted lids would let me, and gaze upon the faint neon glow of the stars on the surface. I think about how happy I was when I put them on during the first few days I moved in here.

I miss her. 

I miss who I was then.

The siren sound gets closer. I prop myself up on my elbows.

I grab my phone. I see the the notifications I had for Spiderman. 

Spiderman saves Manhattan Bridge jumper. Watch: Footage Of Spider-Man Saving Jumper On Manhattan Bridge Spider-Man Catches Manhattan Bridge Free-Faller

I press on one of the links. I curl my legs over each other as I scroll down the article. I do a double take when I catch the massive Help Hotline badge just below the headline. I stare at it for a second, then scroll down to the video footage.

The video is loud with street noise. The  perspective is from a boat. It starts out with a 360 view of the scenery, then ends with a woman saying some things about Manhattan Bridge. Someone screams. The camera is shaken. It's far, but clear enough to see a figure descending from the bridge. There is panic within the boat. People scream in horror.

'Spiderman!' yells someone. The one recording fails to catch him when he'd just arrived but caught the moment he caught the body-- my body... me.

Goosebumps form on my shoulder when they cheer and thank God for him saving me. They laugh and hug themselves. The video ends.

My eyelids are no longer crusty. They are wet again, eyelashes beaded with tears.

I flinch when the sound of something heavy is placed on front of me. I snap out of my trance when Julia smiles at me, "pancakes and sausages."

I perk and watch as she places Peter's order in front of him, "bacon, eggs, and a muffin."

"Thank you," Peter smiles at her, moving his plate back to make room for the coffee Julia places in the middle of our orders.

"Enjoy, loves," she chirps, "give me a call if you need anything else, alrighty?"

Peter smiles again, "thank you, Julia."

Julia smiles back. I manage to return it when she looks back at me.

I stare at my food as she walks away. I look up and see Peter looking at me, rather seriously at that.

I smile and grab a fork and knife. I cut my food and take a bite, even though I wasn't hungry, "anyway, as you can see, I'm still in one piece. You don't have to worry about me. I'm just going through a burn out phase. You understand."

"No, I don't actually," Peter grabs a fork and stabs his muffin. He takes a bite, eyeing me as he set the muffin down, "this feels too scary to me. You can't just do such drastic things in one night and expect me not to be concerned."

"So, I gave away a few things and tried out calling," I chuckle as I pour syrup on my pancake, "it's not like I reinvented breathing."

Peter stares at me as I stuff my mouth with food. I chew and smile at him, even though it hurt to see him so distraught and disturbed.

I put my silverware down when he calls my name.

"You know about the jumper on Manhattan Bridge?"

I turn to my plate and shake my head, "I have a push notification for the Spoods, so duh."

"..."

I slowly look up at Peter. He rests his head on his hand.

"Morbid news to wake up to," he mutters, almost in a whisper.

"The dystopian reality is, it's just another day in New York city," I take a bite of my pancake, "another day in this dying world."

My stomach drops when he says my name.

I grab a glass of water, "mmm?"

"I saw it last night. I was terrified. I started to imagine what it would be like if it was someone I knew..."

I grip my glass tight. My face tightens and twitches neurotically. I release the glass with a thud and shake my head, "don't imagine things like that."

"I know, but it kept going. And I was so concerned about you--"

My spine tingles.

"--you weren't answering your texts," his voice is low, "I thoug-"

"Hey, I'm right here."

Peter stills.

I take his hand and clutch it, "don't worry about something in your imagination."

His face is hard and unreadable. He takes my hand and squeezes, "you know Ms. V? I talked to her yesterday."

My brows furrow.

"She said you weren't passing your requirements. She's concerned about you."

I pull my hand away.

He catches it, "I'm concerned about you."

Peter gently tugs my hand towards him and rubs my skin. My arm breaks into goosebumps. I rip my hand away.

A thick silence envelopes us. He watches me intently. He speaks my name slowly.

"It's burn out," I blurt and force myself to smile. It's a small one, a painful one, but it does the job of distracting me from crying, "Ms. Vasquez knows I could do better, and I can... but I can't."

I play with my food.

I look up and find Peter's unreadable expression. I smile, "it happens. It'll come back to me."

He says nothing.

"Of course," I sigh, "you wouldn't know that, Mr. I-Got-Everything-Figured-Out."

He doesn't budge when I give him a teasing look.a

"I mean, leave a few braincells for the rest of us," I cut my pancake. I stare at him for a moment then shrug, "I'm just relieved you're ugly."

Peter snorts. Begrudgingly.

I snort with him and watch how he relaxes. He leans back on his chair and shakes his head.

"We're having a serious conversation," he motions between us.

"Oh, I know Mr. Parker," I chew my pancake, "you are seriously ugly."

Peter shakes his head again and takes a bite of his muffin.

I am relieved that he is sated.

I turn back to my food.

Peter pulls out his Spiderman mask and opens his mouth. He stares for a moment. He tucks it back in his pocket and shift in his seat.

I look back at him.

He looks back at me.

I take some of his eggs.

Peter pretends to be annoyed, "you should have gotten your own."

I shrug, "snooze you lose."

[conversationsofyou]

                Chapter One:

The Only Living Boy In New York

"Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world." 

~Marilyn Monroe

        

Song: Manhattan by Ella Fitzgerald & Buddy Bregman

Present day. 

The perfect ringlets that form naturally at the ends of Harry's hair, which were there this morning, have metamorphosed into effortless beachy waves most people envy. The usual result from Manhattan humidity and overly fussing about with his fingers. It's a shampoo commercial moment as it falls against his back.

Harry squeezes the bridge of his nose, a temporary relief from sinus pressure. "Are we done?" he asks with his eyes closed.

He wonders if Zayn would notice if he took a kip on the chaise by the toilets. 

                   

“Never,” Zayn responds whilst his nimble fingers sort through a display of Celine totes.

He would.

To Zayn's dismay, Harry's met his limit of consumerism for the day. He typically loves to shop; specifically when it's time to restock his art studio. Although, he's accustomed to leisurely drifting in and out of thrift shops and vintage boutiques. He allows clothing and accessories to find him. This… this has been an Olympic event. Zayn warned him beforehand that his rookie status wouldn't be tolerated today.  

After an extensive marathon of pampering and excess, Harry's eager to go home and decompress from their shopping extravaganza. He loves Zayn fiercely, but Harry's borderline fatigued. This is the sixth or tenth store they've been to; he's lost count. Each one, serving a different purpose. Zayn had to explain this to him, like he did at the last three stores. 

"This isn't one of your nifty thrifty's, darling. There's no one-stop shop for all our needs. Well, maybe Bergdorf's." 

A crash course in fashion's utility as such has been mentally and physically strenuous. If they’d concluded this field trip after facials at the spa and mimosa brunch, Harry’d be in complete nirvana.

However, the tranquil mood a much needed massage had granted him has now been replaced with extreme tension in his muscles. His sciatica keeps jolting his nerves into spasm and his toes are most definitely numb. He would've worn trainers instead of his beloved boots if he knew it was going to be this intense.

"It costs a lot to be this beautiful," Zayn throws some more fortune cookie wisdom his way as he picks up a Louis Vuitton bum bag. 

"I lost my soul somewhere between Mercer and Broome," he responds dryly.

"We can't all be as cool as you." 

“Matt got this shirt for me in Tokyo,” Harry tugs at the end of a vintage Queen t-shirt from the eighties. 

Zayn looks up at him and smiles softly. “He had the best finds. I know it's sentimental, but I also know for a fact that Matt would've told you to buy whatever the fuck you please after selling out your first exhibition. This is a triumph for you. You're allowed.”

"I've bought some things since then." 

"Interior design excluded." Zayn's mouth twitches. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry concedes. "So, what's on the menu here?" 

There's no other option than to swim with the current force that is Zayn.

He looks at Harry, contemplating his wardrobe journey. "This place has phenomenal denim…" He holds his hands in the air, scanning the store, like a director setting up their next frame. "Thinking of some new washes. You'd look fabulous in a mid-blue rinse." Zayn turns back to him and tilts his head. "There are other colors besides black." 

"What's wrong with black jeans?"

"Nothing. Doesn't mean you have to wear them every day. You're not Superman."

Harry arches an eyebrow. "Aren't I?" 

Zayn ignores him while admiring a Givenchy satchel. He adjusts the collar on his gorgeous Alexander McQueen gunmetal leather jacket. It's not nearly cold enough yet for the biker chic inspired hide, but as he declared before they left Harry's flat, “We must suffer for fashion the same way we do for art."

Zayn glances over at him. "I do adore your vintage, starving artist tees and ripped jeans." He offers some reassurance. "Even though you could do with a little glam rock." Though he often makes fun, Zayn's admitted in the past he approves of Harry's style choices. No matter how eccentric they are. His eyes land on Harry's boots. "Starting with those." 

Harry looks down at the worn out brown leather boots he found at one of the first thrift shops he visited in the city. He treasures them. They've given him so many miles. He'll never part with them.

He looks back up. "No." 

“Veronica!” Zayn calls out and, like a best laid plan, a tall sales associate appears with silky raven tresses styled into a long bob haircut. Veronica approaches them wearing a stunning bordeaux Bowie inspired jumpsuit. Lipstick the same shade. It captures Harry's eye instantly.

She walks over and magically produces a large box with the Saint Laurent Paris logo printed onto it. Ignoring the box, Harry scans the details of Veronica's ensemble as he admires her whole look.

Zayn catches Harry's eye and asks, "Who makes this?" As he brushes a finger over the fabric of her sleeve. 

"Custom," Veronica responds vaguely. 

It's unique and Harry can understand her discretion. 

"H, you'll sympathize as an artist. When anything innovative or gorgeous as this is mass produced, it usually turns to shit. There's something about a piece being one of a kind that's priceless."

Veronica nods her head once.

"I wouldn't share either." Zayn nods back and brings the focus back to Harry, who automatically shakes his head at the box he's holding.

Zayn clears his throat, ignoring his stubbornness and signals for the big reveal. Veronica lifts the lid and Harry swears a little golden light appears, leaving a glow shining from the box.

 

Zayn tilts the box closer to him for the full effect. "Harry, let me introduce you to your new friend, Chelsea."

He holds up the gorgeous, buttery tan suede heeled boots. "Classic and a forever staple." 

"My mother, grandmothers, and aunts all passed down their retail D.N.A. to me. These," he gestures to the boots, "are an investment." Zayn imparts some more wisdom.

Harry ignores his rising heart rate and briefly hesitates. Inevitably he gives in, running his fingers along the soft leather. The sensation is divine and smells heady in the best way possible. Boots have always been his weakness. He succumbs.

"Fine," he says like it's an imposition and grabs the boots. 

He sits down to try them on and takes off his old boots while placing the faded leather comrades next to a plush chair beside him. He's wearing his Hello Kitty socks today.

"Precious," Veronica comments and walks away towards another customer who's borderline distressed.

Song: Get On Your Boots by U2

Harry meticulously takes out all of the cardboard and packing paper. The boots slip on like a second skin. He stands up, beaming.

"Yeah. Thought so," he smirks. Zayn's super hero sixth sense always prevails. He knew Harry would eventually buckle for the gorgeous footwear.

Harry spins around in front of the mirror and does a little jig with his toes pointed.

Zayn shakes his head as he walks away. "I'm going to look for some jeans."

Harry gives him a salute and walks around the store, enjoying the boots that have already changed his life a little bit. They even have a slight heel. The soles produce a satisfying clacking sound against the stone floor as he strolls back to his old boots. They look so sad, slouching against the chair, out of shape and worn with holes. Harry frowns and picks them up. He knows it's corny but, "Still love you the best. Thank you for taking me where I needed to be," he says quietly.

Someone within his ear shot snorts, and he gently drops the boots. Harry looks up slightly embarrassed.

☆ This was definitely more than a snippet. A snip deluxe. I'd love to one day finish this fic I started seven years ago. All the inspo to my fellow writers and creators who have started something and life has gotten in the way or time is not of the essence. I empathize and relate on all levels.

Shout out to my Beta, Lau @nyxdaughterofkhaos , nothing but love and respect!!! Looking forward to continuing this journey with you ❤️

As always, if anyone has any art to share.

@kingsofeverything @crinkle-eyed-boo @twopoppies @beelou @fallinglikethis @femstyles @harryshandbag @andyouknowitis @lookslikefairytale @rhea-the-eradicator @toomanydreamers

[berenicethomas]

G E T I N, L O S E R S, F O R T H E JOYRIDE

BIRTH NAME : berenice georgina thomas ALIAS / NICKNAME : bere, b AGE: 31 PLACE OF BIRTH : surrey, england NATIONALITY : british & american RESIDENCE : a studio in manhattan OCCUPATION : lawyer SEXUALITY: pansexual

BIO | PINTEREST | PLAYLIST

tl;dr

born in a world of old money and privilege, berenice has grown in a world of men, and found that she was more brilliant than all of them. manipulative and ambitious, she always found ways to turn situations to her advantage. most of the time, that meant seducing them into giving her what she wanted. born from less than ideal parents, she found that she always had to fight to gather everyone's attention. her parents a british politican and an american newscaster, britain and american both have seen her grow up. she enjoyed the attention, played them to put her best self forwards always. she moved to the states at one point to go into law school - made sure to join one school in a town where her background wouldn't make waves.

easier this way to have a bit of fun, there's way assumptions on her. a fresh market, one could say.

three years ago, she moved by home to britain and dabbled in political law. when her client got roped into a big scandal, and that her own marriage with a rugby player ended because of his involvement with another starlet, she dipped. she refused to let this mess stain her dress, and came back to the states in order to find success once more.

get to know the girl a little bit more;

she has a very distinct perfurme, the i guerlain shalimar, making sure that people can not only see her. but they can tell she's been here just by her odour alone.

jamie was a dear friend and an absolute good lay. they laughed, they had fun, they slept together more times that she could recount. at the end of the day, she still remembers he was a friend. they found each other corporally and perhaps she was a bit jealous when he moved on and got himself a girlfriend, but she was happy for him. for sure, she was. and if they continued flirting after that in dark rooms, away from pyring eyes...well, no one saw them, right? his death did affect her, but she tried to use it as a motivation to get the fuck out of minnesota as soon as she could and do her own thing.

she's always smirking, always flirting with everyone in the room sometimes it's serious, some other time it's not. who's to know? definitely not you.

everything about her exudes luxury, from her perfume to her shoes to the designer dress she's wearing. her favourite colour to wear is white. because yes, she's that presumptuous.

she has three brothers, who she considers as dumb as the other. they're mostly in politics, some in finance. she doesn't care about them because most of the inheritance came to her when their father died (yes, she did have a look at that will before his death).

she has a lot of charisma, she likes playing with people, flirting and dancing and one night stands. she is absolutely not one for commitment.

especially not since her marriage ended with her husband cheating on her (the ultimate insult). she vows to destroy everything he is, but for now, she's licking her wounds in NYC.

her first marriage, around eight years ago, ended up lasting only six months - the man had died in a car crash. berenice wasn't quite devastated. not enough.

she will absolutely tell you that your current wife/husband of 20 years is not good enough for you and you should let loose. by getting it on with her.

she enjoys art, old movies, going to clubs, winning in court, splurging, going to the races and the casino, going to the spa, getting massages, etc etc etc...

Some ideas for connections: (click the links for the song inspo!)

one bestie - that person and berenice kept contact after university and through thick and thin, managed to keep being friends. they are probably one of the two people on earth who has ever seen berenice a bit vulnerable. (0/1)

rivalry is not dead - they're rivals. they hate each other. in everything thing they did, they always tried to one up the other. berenice likes this relationship very much because it's fun and entertaining. also is there a...tension there? fun! (0/1)

with a little help from my friends (or acquaintances, colleagues, old schoolmates, etc) - they've known each other for awhile now, their interactions pleasant most of the time. berenice is a fun person to be around and she'll be your best wingwoman if you let her. (0/?)

will they won't they - listen. berenice is known for flirting with everyone and everything, nothing stops her. nothing beside that person. there's something there, a few smiles, hidden away. they might have something during university but they never acted on it. shame. (0/1)

battle of the exe(s) - to add to the list of her numerous exes! it is a privilege club, though being an ex-partner is less expensive than being an ex-husband...she knows a thing or two about divorce law. (0/?)

you broke my heart, b****h - that person probably knows way too much about berenice and berenice hates this. she dared being a bit too vulnerable with that one person but something pulled them apart. now, if berenice can ignore them forever, the better. (0/1)

friends with benefits, but without the friend part - listen, it's fun, it's easy. there's no emotions here, nothing. they're both closed off and they promised each other to stop if they ever got into any feelings. there aren't any, right? right. (0/1)

please if you have any other ideas let me know!

[haliotropes]

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 6)

(Pt. 5) (Pt.7)

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

-

Rating: M

Author’s notes: no tws apply

What comes next?

More of the same. Fleeting glances, stolen moments that almost, almost end in contact. Laughter and information shared among friends. Friends.

Two weeks of this.

You're sitting in his residency room with Joe there as well. The three of you are studying- reading through different books on the psychology of religion, demonic cults, the works. You're reading for you, Damien's reading your notes from the Satanic ritual book you now refuse to touch, and Dyer is reading some long forgotten, translated tome about Judeo-Christian folklore. You all have been at it for hours. A half eaten pizza lies cold and forgotten on the cot next to Joe. You've taken up at the desk chair with your feet resting on the bed, and Damien has claimed the remaining chair in the corner. The window is cracked to allow the cigarette smoke to linger out and a radio is softly playing Pavarotti behind you.

All things considered, it's a perfect way to spend an evening.

At some point, Joe checks his watch. “Ah shit. I got to go. Dinner with a parisher and her husband. You two got it from here?”

“Not that we won't miss your genius contributions,” you mutter.

“‘Genius’ is the best you can do?”

“I'm tired.”

“Then go home.” Joseph puts on his coat and hat and bids you and Damien goodbye. Soon, you and Damien are alone.

The atmosphere instantly changes. The last time you two had been alone in here together you'd ended up sleeping next to each other. That isn't something you're looking to repeat tonight. You have class in the morning.

“Any closer?” Damien asks without looking up from the notes. You blow a raspberry.

“Maybe? I'm going cross eyed.”

A few minutes of silence. There's a soft singing that drifts in through the window. Craning your neck, you see a group of carolers across the street in front of a row of townhouses.

You'd almost forgotten that Christmas is in five days.

“Any plans for Christmas?” You ask and close your book.

“Visiting my mother in New York.” His eyes flick up to your face to gauge your reaction. “What about you?”

You shrug. “I don't know. Probably not. My aunt and uncle and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. I don't mind it. I've never minded being alone. But it'll…” your throat catches at the start of a truth you haven't spoken yet. “It'll be the first Christmas I have without them.”

Damien nods silently. You can feel the words before they escape his lips.

“You know-”

“No.”

He looks at you in shock. “What?”

“I know what you're going to ask. And the answer is no.”

“Well let's assume you're wrong about what I'm going to ask. Listen, I'm sure Mama wouldn't mind another guest. She makes enough food for ten people.”

“Damien.”

“All you'd have to put up with is my uncle pestering you with invasive questions.”

“I don't need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you. I feel empathetic towards you. Isn't that okay?”

“I don't want to intrude.”

“You won't.”

Won't. Not wouldn't. He already anticipates you saying yes.

“You don't have a car,” you say, taking one last drag of your cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window. You smash it into an ashtray on Damien's desk.

“No. I take the subway.”

“To Manhattan?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Right.” You nod. “With your luggage?”

“Just a bag.”

“What if it gets stolen?”

“What if the subway crashes into a giant rat? Are you coming or not?”

You watch the carolers diligently and let your eyes glaze over. There's a couple walking past with their young son. For a moment, you've never existed. Your parents and William somehow survived. But Damien would be alone right now.

No, you think. He has Joe.

Well, he's not asking Joe to Christmas, is he?

You don't have anything else going on. No better excuses than saying that you're afraid of crossing a line.

You shrug. What the hell.

“Sure. Why not.”

You don't leave until early Christmas morning as Damien drew the short straw for midnight mass on Christmas Eve. You guzzle down coffee and watch as Damien leads the parish in classic songs and hymns. You sing along under your breath. You suddenly think that you haven't listened to your music in a while. It's always you in the back of the church, enjoying Betty's company, watching as Damien or Joe, but usually Damien, give their homilies.

Once mass dismisses, Damien slips on a coat and you grab your things.

“Ready?”

You nod and squeeze your eyes.

“Are you going to make it?”

You nod your head through a nod. “I'll make it.”

Damien leads you to the closest subway stop; you've only been there once and it was during daylight. The good news is that the station is sparse. The bad news is that it echoes with loneliness. What few people there are seem to stare at Damien.

You look over at him and notice a stoic discomfort on his face.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“They're…staring at you.”

“It's the collar,” he says. “They never expect to see us outside of churches. And if they do, they want help.”

You two have made it to the northbound train stop. You glance around at some homeless people that stare at the two of you unabashed.

“And what kind of help are they looking for?”

“You never know until they're asking.”

“And you're above it?”

The sleep is talking. His face sours.

“No. But it's hard to stop. It's hard to start afterwards.”

You nod but you don't fully understand. The train comes soon and you both board. It's nearly empty. Over your shoulder you spare one last look to the men and women that continue to stare as you depart. They never asked you for help, sure, but you never offered it.

What a lonely place the world can be.

You awaken to Damien lightly shaking your arm. The voice overhead announces your arrival in Manhattan. Damien stands and offers you a hand.

“Were you awake the whole time?”

“I take this commute a lot. Come on, the next train leaves soon.”

You shuffle to the next stop. Thank god you're tired and Damien is surefooted. If you had to be any more alert you may just be terrified of the subway stations. The barrenness, the desolation. The way bodies drift in and out of tunnels like ghosts. At some point you lean against Damien slightly as you two wait for the second train. You steal a glance upwards. The swinging florescent light overhead casts a halo around his dark curls. How badly you want to touch them.

He looks down at you and smiles. From here, you notice something different. He's taken his collar off.

For the sake of comfort you decide not to address it, though you doubt in your current state you'd be able to with tact anyway.

There's the second train, then the third and final. You sleep the whole way through. Damien has many sleepless nights. What's a few hours on the train?

Christmas morning in Brooklyn is just as bustling as you had expected. You'd been to New York once: Times Square with your parents and a young William. You had gone to see The Sound of Music on Broadway. There was some humor in that, or perhaps irony, that you were still too tired to find.

You follow closely behind Damien as he leads you to a narrow sidewalk that borders a brown-stone apartment. Down the street there are children playing in the snow.

You can't help but notice, and you've gleaned some of Damien's past before, that this is a poor neighborhood. That there are dripping water stains and holes in the plaster inside the front entryway. Damien takes you upstairs to the third floor. He knocks on a door and then opens it.

“Mama? I'm here.”

You follow him inside and close the door behind you.

“Dimmi?” A stout elderly woman crosses from the kitchen. She is much shorter than Damien but they share remarkable features.

“Geia sou, Mamá,” Damien says as he kisses his mother on her cheek. You stand awkwardly in the doorway until she notices you.

“O, kalesnéos!” She exclaims and walks towards you. “And what is your name?”

You tell her and she breaks into a smile. She turns back to Damien. “Poly elkystikós!”

“Mamá,” Damien says. He sounds exasperated. You start to remove your coat but he notices and helps you out of it, hanging it along with his on a nearby hook.

“What did she say?”

Damien clears his throat. “Just that she's happy to have someone else here.”

You hum. Elkystikós.

“John! O anipsiós sou eínai aftós,” Mrs. Karras calls from the kitchen. Then, “Kai éfere énan kalesméno.”

Out of an adjoining room comes a man a bit younger than Mrs. Karras, but not by much. He comes over and pulls Damien into a hug.

“Dimmi, Dimmi, Dimmi. Still not too good for us, eh? And who did you bring with you?”

Damien introduces you to his Uncle John. The man nods, though his eyes keep flitting between you and Damien.

“Ah, anyway. Your mother has been cooking all morning. Help me set the table.”

John totters away with Damien at his heels, but not before he can turn around and give you a reassuring smile. You return it and rub your hands together, trying to shake the morning's cold.

You decide to head for the kitchen as Damien and John get set up in the living room for the meal. Mrs. Karras is busy at work, toiling over two pots on the stove and something else in the oven. You're almost afraid to interrupt her work.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Karras?”

She smiles at you over her shoulder.

“Come in! Just finishing up.”

“Anything I can help with? I'm not great at cooking- I'd burn water if given the opportunity.”

“You can stir?”

You nod and take over one of the pots, stirring it with a wooden spoon. She doesn't talk to you, just hums a tune you don't recognize.

“What are you singing.”

“Ah, kalanta.”

“Kalanta?”

“Christmas carols.”

“Oh! Well it sounds lovely.”

Mrs. Karras smiles at you and continues her work. You don't mind the quiet. Greek music- kalantas play on a nearby radio. There's something peaceful about settling into the task at hand.

“Dimmi!” Mrs. Karras calls. Damien comes to the kitchen.

“Mamá?”

“Take the pork from the oven, parakaló.”

Damien does, pressing his back to your back to slip into the small kitchen. He carefully takes the pork shoulder from the oven and places it on a rack on the counter.

“Anything else, Mamá?”

“Óchi, Dimmi.”

Mrs. Karras looks to you and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Okay. Dinner is on.”

Damien was right: Mrs. Karras cooked enough for ten people.

The pork roast, spanakopita, roasted potatoes, and of course wine. You had no problem loading up your plate with food.

“So, how do you know Dimmi?” John asks between bites. It’s not as casual a question as you’d prefer. There’s some skepticism laced within.

“I work at Holy Trinity.”

John’s eyebrows raise. “A priest?”

“No,” you laugh. “No, not for me. I’m a graduate student. I help Trinity translate Latin texts.”

“Ah, is there good money in that?”

You feel Damien stiffen slightly next to you. His chewing slows.

“Well, it certainly pays at least. It’s a pretty good deal to be paid through a degree.”

John hums. “Well. Sounds like you’ll put your degree to use. Not everyone does.”

Damien sets down his fork and wipes his mouth, setting a steely gaze on his uncle.

“Siopí , John!”

John lifts his hand in defense. “What did I say wrong? If there’s nothing wrong with it, Damien should not mind me speaking the truth.”

The table grows quiet. You clear your throat.

“Damien does really important work at Trinity,” you say through a smile. “Certainly more important than mine.”

“Don’t do that,” Damien tilts his head towards you.

“Don’t do what?”

“Belittle your work just to come to my defense. I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.”

“No, your poor mother only has to walk three flights of stairs.”

“John!”

“Speak plainly, Uncle John.”

“All I am saying is that you have a degree and could be making more money in private practice.”

“And what is it you do?”

John sets his eyes on you. You don’t know what’s come over you but your heart is pulsing in your ears. Damien rests a hand on your forearm under the table.

Your sleeves are rolled up.

The barrier has been broken.

“Factory accident when I was 56. Now I survive off my military pension. And what is it you do? Translate a dead language? Did you parents pay for you to get a useless degree?”

“Se proeidipoió,” Damien says.

“John, will you stop!”

At the mention of your parents you feel tears well up and you hate them.

“Now we're crying. Yes, yes. Meanwhile those poorer off suffer. I am very sorry.”

John pushes his way from the table and steps out into the hall. Damien tries to move his hand to sit atop yours but immediately upon contact you jerk away. Through tears, you gather up empty plates.

“I'll uh, get these washed, Mrs. Karras.”

You stumble into the kitchen and set the dishes in the sink as gently as you can, which may in fact have been anything but gentle. Somewhere behind you, the window opens and shuts.

Mrs. Karras comes in and takes the sponge from your hands as you scrub furiously against a plate.

“Próseche. It’s good china.”

You laugh through tears at Mrs. Karras’s kind smile. She jerks her head to the window.

“Go check.”

You nod, wipe the tears from your face. Carefully you go to the window and climb out onto the fire escape. Damien is looking out onto the street, the setting sun casting a rainbow hue onto the snow banks. Cigarette smoke curls into the cold air.

You wrap your arms around yourself and approach him.

“Is this where you came to brood as a kid?”

It is strange to think you’re actually in Damien’s childhood home. You think to yourself that you’ll have to check the walls for portraits of a chubby baby when you get back inside.

“You shouldn't have done that.”

You freeze and any humor you are attempting falls from your face.

“Shouldn't have done what?”

“Defended me.”

You draw closer. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me handle it.”

“He was treating you like shit!”

“He's my family.”

Damien’s trying to keep calm, but he delivers an intensity to let you know to drop it . Of course, you don’t.

“So? What does that have to do anything?”

He flicks out his cigarette and steps to you.

“If we were having dinner with your family and the same thing happened, what would you say?”

Shit . You think of that exact situation: in Aunt Grace’s gilded dining room, clean holly and poinsettias decorating the walls. Clean candles, perfect turkey, your young cousins sitting in their velvet Christmas best. And none of them can even look at you.

“It wouldn't be the same thing. You know what they'd say and you know how I'd feel.”

He takes a moment to look into your eyes. His face softens. “Well, maybe it's the same for me.”

You stutter. “But, you said…”

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

Damien’s eyes drop to the street below. “Snow’s really piled up down there.”

“When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Before the end of the day. Mama doesn’t have enough room for the four of us.”

You sneak a look to Damien. He notices.

“What?”

“Your mom made apple pie. She said it’s your favorite?”

Damien chuckles and hangs his head. Finally, a real reaction.

“She’s right. Alright, dessert.”

The four of you resign yourselves to a polite, if not tense dessert. By the end of it, you’re stuffed and listening to Mrs. Karras offers insight into Damien’s childhood. She walks you along the walls of the living room and shows you exactly what you wanted: chubby baby pictures of Damien. Then, Damien as a child in a school uniform. Then, Damien as a young adult, cheesing with a bloodied face and crooked nose, raising a trophy in the air.

“Holy…”

Damien comes up behind you. “Ah…didn’t think those were still here.”

“You were a boxer?”

“And a baseball player.”

“And a candlestick maker?”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.”

“I don’t think it is.” Your eyes move to a photo of Damien in a graduation cap and gown. “Was this seminary or medical?”

Damien considers it for a moment. “Seminary…I think.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I must’ve been twenty or something, and after two graduations you start to forget them.”

“And yet…”

He eyes you warily. Maybe there’s humor there. Maybe there isn’t. “And yet?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “I think I was going to attempt a joke but my subconscious thought better of it.”

Damien lifts his sleeve and checks his watch. “Gee, it’s already half past seven. We ought to head out.”

Mrs. Karras poked her head around the corner. “No go! Door blocked.”

“What do you mean blocked?”

“The snow! It blocks the front door. Cannot go in or out. You must stay the night.”

“Mama,” Damien sighs. “We both have to work tomorrow.”

“See for yourself,” Mrs. Karras waves dismissively. “Don’t trust your Mama, Dimmi. Me hercule!”

Damien looks to you. “Let me go check.”

He leaves for a few minutes and you continue to browse the many photographs and trinkets around the apartment. Soon, Damien returns.

“Well, she was right. Completely blocked off. We’ll have to wait until they clear it in the morning.”

“Didn’t you say your mother doesn’t have enough beds? I don’t want to put her out. I can probably foot it to a hotel-”

“No, absolutely not. Especially in this weather and time of day. No, Uncle John takes the couch, you’ll have my bed and I’ll take the floor.”

You cross your arms. “Absolutely not! You’re old. Floor’s bad for your back. I’ll take the floor.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Old’. Wisened.”

“Ancient.”

“Petulant.”

“Me?” You ask in mock offense. “Never.”

Mrs. Karras lights a fire and the four of you tune into the movie channel. It’s a Wonderful Life . The irony is not lost on either you or Damien. Each time a particular scene happens, you two share a knowing glance. An inside joke. A history.

Mrs. Karras goes to bed early and Uncle John needs the couch, so you and Damien sequester yourselves to his room. His childhood room. There, you see further proof of his life before priesthood. Secular books, boxing and baseball trophies, ribbons, medals. His bed is twin-size. Arguably big enough for two people, comfortably.

Damien lends you a spare set of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt promoting a local boxing ring. You test the size of the bed, scooching to the wall and making yourself as small as possible.

Damien has changed as well and is placing a single pillow and blanket on the floor.

“There’s room up here…” you mumble.

“There’s room down here, too.”

“Come up here or I’m coming down there.”

He doesn’t move.

“Fine.”

“If you’re not careful we’ll all start to think you just want to sleep next to me.”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable.”

You shift around. “I’m cold.”

“Put on a sweatshirt,” Damien mutters into his pillow.

“I’m lonely.”

“What else is new?”

“Ouch.”

Sleepiness begins to take you.

“Are you cold?” you ask. He doesn’t say anything. “There’s plenty more blankets.” You roll to the edge of the bed just enough to see Damien pulling the threadbare blanket tighter around himself.

He jumps when you toss the comforter on top of him. He’s right: there is more room on the floor. You flop a pillow onto his face for good measure and slink to the floor. With the now pile of blankets and pillows, you’re just as comfortable as before, and you notice Damien relaxing.

“Better?”

Damien hums. While you'd like to think you're approaching some friendly banter, you know you're both tired and decide not to push him. His back is to you and you figure that's a fine way to go to sleep.

And, at some point when you wake up in the middle of the night, Damien's turned to face you and you suddenly realize you've never seen him asleep, though he's seen you in that state. His mouth is parted slightly, his breathing soft, his face finally relaxed and looking at least ten years younger without the lines on his face being exaggerated by stress. You yearn to run your finger along his jagged features. To brush his soft hair away. To kiss him.

To what?????

You turn away abruptly and squeeze your eyes shut to block out the intrusive thought. No. No way.

You've gotten away with the ambiguity of it all until now. How could you let it happen?

But then, you remember. He has touched you. He touched you in the way you weren't supposed to. Innocuous, sure. But you both knew. You both know.

Maybe you're delusional. Maybe you're not. There's really only one way to find out.

[vincente11]

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[myyrooom]

Brooklyn

Brown sugar

Coffee

Rushing kinda

Manhattan

Q doors stuck

We are a car away from one another

Push back 330

Walk to the 4

See squirrel man

Awesome

Haircut

I love you both

And we met Chanal and Boss and I say hi to Jenny again

527

Merhaba

Brooklyn

Next level burger

Mmmmmm

Smoke some pot

Sold out movies

Figures

Couldve seen tht coming

Bye penny i love you

Stoned in the lobby of a beautiful theater

Pointing everything out to you

The bread and milk that made it all possible

The shared beers and camaraderie

Stretching

What should we do

Massage

Massage

Duhhhh

Awesome

The best

So good

Yay

I spent so much money today

It’s ok

Get ingredients for baked ziti

Go home

Feel things

Should I go

Yeah I’ll go but im driving

Manhattan

I drove

Nice to see you

I wonder when this will end

[jamesvince9898]

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[mint-moon25]

Emily Blunt - The Place Where Lost Things Go (From "Mary Poppins Returns")

TALKED - 2 - WHO - LOOKS - LIKE - KENNY ROGERS

HE - SAID - ZIP - TIES - WON’T - WORK - CONFIDENT

NOT - 2 - BELIEVE - YOUTUBE - THAT - IT - WAS - A

MANICURED - VIDEO

HE - WANTED - ME - 2 - HAND - OVER - $100 - YES

DESTROY - LOCKS - STUPID - BIMBOS

HAD - ENOUGH - SAME - JERK - AFTER - SAID THE

PRICES - IN - ASHEVILLE - NC - NORTH - CAROLINA

CHEAP - REAL ESTATE - SO - GETTING

SMALL - ESTATE - AND - STABLES

BLUERIDGE - MOUNTAINS

SO - CHEAP - VANDERBILT - CASTLE

AGAIN - NEGATIVITY - FR - HIM - AND

HE - SAID - LIVING - WITH - ME

THE - NERVE - THE - GALL

HOMELESSNESS - WHAT - DID - IT - TEACH - ME

HOW - 2 - SAY - NO

OLD - HISPANIC - MALES - SHORT - WRINKLED

UGLY - PRUNE - TOUCHY - TOUCHY

TOUCHING - WITH - THEIR - BIG - HANDS

SMALLER - HANDS - CLOSE - ENOUGH - LIKE

IT - TOUCHED - PEE PEE - AND - MASSAGED

HISPANIC - MALE - NEAR - BRIDGE - SHOWING

CASH - NO - TRANSLATION - NEEDED - JUST

SAID - ‘NO’ - ‘NO’

LAS VEGAS - NEVADA

CBS TV

SURVEYS - 15 MIN - 45 MIN

NEW - CASH - $50 - $250 - HOW - MANY TIMES

DAILY - AT - MGM GRAND - AS - HOTEL GUESTS

VEGAS - APP

MOST - BEAUTIFUL - UNDERGROUND - MALLS

THE - WYNN - GLASS - SHAPED - FLOWERS AT

THE - LOBBY - AS - NEW YORK

FOUR SEASONS - ASKED - FEMALES - IF THEY

NEED - THE - RESTROOM - WITH - THEIR

‘TIME - OF - THE - MONTH’

OUTSIDE - 25 DEGREES - 40 MPH - WINDS

MANHATTAN - NEW YORK 

YET - SEEMS - WARMER - OUTSIDE - THEY

AS - MEN - HIRE - MEN

DISCRIMINATION - OF - GENDER

HOBO - HOMELESS - MALE - COMPUTER

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SPECTACULAR - BASKETBALL - PLAYERS

AS - BLKS - DECREASING - IN - HOW - THEY

SING - DECREASING - IN - SPORTS - MORE

AND - MORE

GOD - SAID - HOW - HE ENJOYED - INCREASING

THEIR - NUMBERS - NOW - EQUALLY - HE - WILL

ENJOY - DECREASING - THEIR - NUMBERS 

UNTIL - THEY - NO - LONGER - EXIST - YES

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GOING - IN - THE - MORNING - INSTEAD

PUBLIC - STORAGE - IN - LITTLE - HAITI

MY - SAMSUNG A 15 5 G

DATA - WORKS - AT - MAIN - LIBRARY

THEIR - WI FI

YOUTUBE - NOT - OTHERS - 4 - MUST

HAVE - ENTERED - WITH - GMAIL TOO

THEN - CAN - HAVE - OLD - LIFE - BACK

BUT - YOUTUBE - WITH - WI FI - NOW 2

THE - MOST - HORRID - USING - DELL

COMPUTER - EXPRESS - WHY - THEY

ARE - STANDING - AND - I’M - REQUIRED

2 - ENDURE - THIS - WITHOUT MANNERS

BLK - FAT - OLD - MAN

01 OCT 2024 - AS - HOMELESS - PLACED

IN MENTAL - INSTITUTIONS - 4 - 9 YEARS

CLEAN - STREETS - 4 - WORLD - RUGBY

MEN - KISSING - MEN

LESBIANS - KISSING - THEIR - WIVES

KOREAN - GIRLS - NO - ONE - ENTERED

MY - WEBSITE - ACTIVATION - CODE - IS

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NOT ENTERED - BECAUSE SMARTPHONE

NOT - READY - YET - HOPEFULLY

MONDAY - MY - SMARTPHONE - BUT ME

NEED - TOOTHPASTE - AND - MORE - 2

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Manhattan Beach Persian Rug R

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Discover Why Manhattan Beach Hotel is Your Perfect Getaway

Nestled in the heart of Southern California, Manhattan Beach is an enchanting destination known for its pristine shores, vibrant community, and upscale living. Among its many attractions, the Manhattan Beach Hotel stands out as a premier choice for travelers seeking an unforgettable coastal getaway. Whether you're planning a romantic escape, a family vacation, or a solo retreat, here's why Manhattan Beach Hotel should be your top choice.

Prime Location

Manhattan beach hotel enjoys a prime location steps away from the golden sands and sparkling waters of the Pacific Ocean. This means you can wake up to the soothing sounds of waves and enjoy breathtaking ocean views from the comfort of your room. The hotel's proximity to the beach allows guests to indulge in various activities such as sunbathing, swimming, surfing, and beach volleyball. For those who prefer a stroll, the famous Strand, a pedestrian walkway, is perfect for morning jogs or romantic evening walks.

Luxurious Accommodations

The Manhattan Beach Hotel offers a variety of luxurious accommodations to suit every traveler's needs. From well-appointed standard rooms to opulent suites, each space is designed with comfort and style in mind. Rooms have modern amenities, including plush bedding, high-speed internet, flat-screen TVs, and minibars. The hotel's suites provide additional space and premium features such as private balconies, ocean views, and separate living areas, ensuring an elevated experience for guests.

Exceptional Dining

Food lovers will be delighted by the exceptional dining options available at Manhattan Beach Hotel. The hotel's signature restaurant serves a delectable array of dishes crafted from locally sourced ingredients, offering a true taste of California cuisine. Guests can savor fresh seafood, artisanal pizzas, and farm-to-table specialties, all complemented by an extensive wine list featuring local and international selections. For a more casual dining experience, the hotel also offers a cozy café and a beachside bar to enjoy light bites and refreshing cocktails while soaking in the stunning ocean views.

World-Class Amenities

Manhattan Beach Hotel boasts a range of world-class amenities designed to enhance your stay. The on-site spa offers a sanctuary of relaxation with various treatments including massages, facials, and body therapies. Fitness enthusiasts can use the fully equipped gym, yoga classes, and outdoor pool. The hotel provides state-of-the-art meeting and conference facilities for those traveling on business, ensuring a seamless blend of work and leisure.

Unmatched Service

One of Manhattan Beach Hotel's hallmarks is its unparalleled service. The staff is dedicated to providing a personalized experience for each guest, ensuring that every need is met with the utmost care and attention. From arranging transportation and booking tours to offering recommendations for local attractions, the concierge team is always available to assist. The hotel's commitment to excellence extends to its housekeeping and maintenance teams, who work tirelessly to maintain the highest standards of cleanliness and comfort.

Vibrant Local Scene

Staying at Manhattan Beach Hotel also means you're perfectly positioned to explore the vibrant local scene. Manhattan Beach is renowned for its lively downtown area, home to an eclectic mix of boutiques, galleries, and eateries. Whether you're in the mood for shopping, dining, or simply soaking up the local culture, there's something for everyone. The nearby Manhattan Beach Pier is a must-visit landmark, offering stunning views, fishing opportunities, and an aquarium perfect for family outings.

Sustainability Commitment

In an era where sustainability is increasingly essential, Manhattan Beach Hotel is committed to reducing its environmental footprint. The hotel has implemented various eco-friendly practices, such as energy-efficient lighting, water conservation measures, and a comprehensive recycling program. By choosing the Manhattan Beach Hotel, guests can enjoy a luxurious stay while supporting a business that values environmental responsibility.

Easy Accessibility

Manhattan Beach Hotel is conveniently located just a short drive from Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), making it easily accessible for domestic and international travelers. The hotel's location also provides easy access to major attractions in Los Angeles, such as Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Santa Monica, allowing guests to explore the best of Southern California.

Choosing the Manhattan Beach Hotel for your next vacation guarantees an exceptional experience of luxury, comfort, and adventure. Its prime location, luxurious accommodations, excellent dining, world-class amenities, unmatched service, vibrant local scene, commitment to sustainability, and easy accessibility make it the perfect destination for discerning travelers. Whether you're seeking a relaxing beachside retreat or an exciting city adventure, Manhattan Beach Hotel offers the best of both worlds, ensuring a memorable and enjoyable stay. So, pack your bags and get ready to experience Manhattan Beach Hotel's unparalleled charm and elegance.