#and he’ll freeze. and so I stoop down and pick up the bowl. and he starts jumpin around in circles and as I walk to the sink he follows me

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

you ever just look at your little dog like “i’m obsessed with you”

[transeliot]

You Keep Me Warm

Summary: Your average rainy day turned movie night fluff-filled fic.

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader x Robert Plant

Word count: ~1k

Author’s Note: Hello there! I’ve been writing again. Here is my gift for the one and only @smittyjaws for @yourlocalmusicalprostitute‘s Possessed By Love event! I’m so sorry I’m so late, my love, but I hope you enjoy this!

-------------------

“Hey, wait up!” Roger’s voice rang out, cutting through the pitter-patter of the rain. You turned to see him jogging towards you from the dry haven that was the studio. Holding his leather jacket up over his head like a tarp made him look positively ridiculous, and not unlike a vampire hiding beneath their cloak.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You asked, biting back a laugh.

“I think a better question would be what do you think you’re doing? Running off with the last umbrella like that,” Roger said, letting his jacket fall back onto his shoulders as he tucked himself against your side in an attempt to stay dry.

“Well maybe if you had brought an umbrella this morning like I told you…”

Roger waved off the suggestion and instead wrapped an arm around your waist. “Why would I bother if I knew you’d come prepared?” He offered a toothy grin before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Besides, I’m done dealing with that lot for the day anyways.”

“Really? But it was going so well,” you said with a grin, trying not to laugh as you thought about the petty arguments of the day which had ultimately led to little-to-no progress on the record. If anyone was able to waste an entire day in the studio because they did nothing but bicker, it was those four.

“Yeah, well, we’ll sort it out later,” Roger said and shrugged.

The rain started to really pick up just as you made it to the front stoop of your building. The breeze was chilly as it blew the rain at a slight angle, dampening your clothes even under the umbrella. It was just enough to make you shiver and press up against Roger just a little more. When you just stood outside the door and made no move to open it, Roger stared at you.

“What?” You returned his expectant gaze, eyebrow arching. 

“You going to open the door, then?”

“Don’t you have a set of keys?”

Roger faltered a moment. “No, I haven’t got my keys. I thought you would.”

You rolled your eyes and handed off the umbrella to Rog. “That’s a bold risk. You are so lucky I remembered.” After rummaging through your pockets for a couple minutes, you were able to produce the key, and the two of you stumbled inside and out of the rain.

Your boots on the tiled floors squeaked loudly underfoot for the length of the hall until you reached your flat.

“I, for one, am freezing. So I’m going to change into some pajamas if you’d like to join me,” you announced as you pushed the door open and shrugged off your jacket.

“Oh, good call,” Roger agreed and followed you down the hall. You both changed into warmer, more comfortable clothes and Roger slid his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Movie night?”

“Definitely,” You said with a nod. “But only if I get to choose the movie!”

Roger laughed on his way to the kitchen, undoubtedly to retrieve snacks for tonight’s adventure. “Choose wisely!”

“Don’t I always?” You called back before hopping on the couch and folding your legs under you. He had to know what movie you had in mind, because the two of you had been debating its pros and cons earlier that week.

Roger came back a few minutes later with a bowl of popcorn and a couple boxes of candy in hand. When he saw the title screen paused on the TV his eyes widened.

“Fellowship of the Ring? We’re really going to watch Lord of the Rings without Robert? That’s just cold.”

“He’ll get over it,” you said with a shrug and pulled Roger over to sit on the couch. 

“Oh my god, how are you still so warm?” You sighed as you leaned into his side and snuggled closer, wrapping a blanket around both of your shoulders. The chill from the rain earlier was still settled deep in your bones.

“It’s because I’m so hot,” he reasoned with a grin. He glanced down at you and gave a quick wink.

“Mmhmm, that must be it.” You could feel the corners of your mouth pulling up into an identical grin. A strand of hair had fallen from Roger’s mane of blond and you reached up to tuck it behind his ear before pulling him down for a gentle kiss.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Thanks for remembering the umbrella today, love.”

“And the keys,” you added.

“And the keys.” Roger agreed.

------------------

I will take the ring to Mordor! 

You couldn’t help but grin at the astonished faces on screen as Frodo volunteered. You’d seen it plenty of times but it never failed to make you smile. But alas the moment was then interrupted by the sound of the front door.

Roger scowled as he scrambled to pause the movie. “Great timing you’ve got.”

“What? You’re not happy to see me?” Robert grinned and his teeth shone almost as bright as his hair in the dim light of the entryway. His smile faded as he made his way over to the living room though, and was quickly replaced with an expression of horror.

“You traitors!”

“Hey, that’s a strong word-” you tried to argue but Roger cut you off.

“I told her it was a bad idea to watch it without you!” 

“Well just throw me under the bus, why don’t you!” You gave Roger a light shove and pulled the blanket away. “That’s it, you lost your blanket privileges.”

Robert let out a laugh, watching you turn on each other. “Did you at least save me any popcorn?”

“Rog was just getting up to make more, weren’t you Rog?” You gave him a nudge and a pointed look. He pouted, but didn’t bother to argue and instead got up to go make some more popcorn for the three of you.

“Don’t forget the extra butter!” Robert called after him before stealing his spot on the couch. You laughed before snuggling up to Robert and pulling him close. Not long after, Roger returned and sat down on the opposite end of the couch next to Robert and started the movie up again. 

Oh yeah, you could get used to this.

[hartigays]

81 for Harringrove please?

81. “Here’s my number, call me some time.”

steve is really fucking drunk.

he probably should’ve planned better, considering he drove here. but hey, hindsight is 20/20, or whatever the fuck they say.

tommy’s having one last blowout before everyone takes off for college. everyone except for steve, that is. he’ll still be moseying around this nightmare of a town come august, working for his father.

if that’s part of the reason why steve has downed half a bottle of whiskey in the last hour and a half, well. no one needs to know other than himself.

the other reason - the somehow bigger reason - is rather basic, really.

being in love is a bitch. plain and simple.

and quite frankly, calls for a night of a heavy drinking every now and then. or every other night, which has been steve’s philosophy as of late.

because honestly, watching billy shove his tongue down another girl’s throat right here in the middle of tommy’s living room is less than ideal. it’s even less than ideal when he does it in the middle of family video, like he knows that steve is there, knows that steve’s eyes will always be on him anytime he’s around.

like it’s some kind of fucking test, constantly gauging steve’s reaction.

which, realistically, is a little ridiculous. billy hargrove has made it very clear what his feelings are towards steve.

steve just so happens to be the unbelievable dumbass who somehow fell for him anyway.

it’s not like billy has ever even been like, remotely nice to him. maybe he’d stuck up for steve once or twice, when tommy stooped a little too low in his effort to pick on him as often as possible, but other than that? billy might as well just write i hate you across steve’s forehead in permanent marker.

that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if steve really thinks about it. maybe then he’d be constantly reminded to forget this strange obsession he’s developed for hawkins’ resident bad boy.

steve really doesn’t know how, or why, his attraction to billy even came to be. nor does he really even remember when. he’d just looked over one day, towards the end of the school year, and found himself looking at billy right as he tossed his head back, laughing loud and boisterous at something someone had said.

and it was just like, there he was. there this whole time, but steve had never really seen him. not until then.

a small thing, really. but it was enough.

steve’s affections grew, day by day, with every passing glance, every accidental touch during basketball, in every insult tossed his way that slowly started to become softer around the edges.

or maybe steve himself just became soft around the edges. soft and mushy emotions filling him up every time billy speaks to him, even when it’s words that are meant to hurt him.

steve takes another long swig from the bottle. feels the room tilt a little, feels that familiar burn in his gut.

he’s really fucking thankful that the bathroom happened to be free at this precise moment.

he unloads the contents of his stomach immediately after stumbling inside, shutting the door behind him clumsily.

steve recognizes that he probably should’ve eaten more today. but again, hindsight.

a pitiful groan escapes his lips as another round of wretching begins. his stomach rejects all the alcohol that steve has forced into it, until he’s just dry heaving over the toilet bowl.

hawkins high school’s former king. if they could only see him now, broken-hearted and dangerously intoxicated, his cheek resting on tommy h.’s fucking toilet seat as his stomach makes it its personal mission to destroy him.

“jesus, harrington. think you’ve had enough?”

every hair on steve’s body stands on end. he lifts his head, looking up at billy through wet lashes. his eyes must’ve been watering, but it hadn’t really registered in his mind until he looked at something other than the inside of the toilet bowl.

steve can’t keep his head up for long. just long enough to see billy eyeing the now mostly empty bottle of whiskey on the bathroom counter, before glancing back at him.

“fuck off. can’t you see i’m busy?”

billy snorts. steve squeezes his eyes shut, willing billy away with his mind.

it doesn’t work.

there’s a long stretch of silence, and for a moment steve thinks billy might’ve actually left. but then he hears the sink turn on, and the sound of billy rummaging through the cabinet beneath the sink.

then, steve nearly leaps out of his own skin in surprise. because billy places something ice cold and wet on the back of his neck without so much as a warning.

“hey, hey. it’s just a wet rag,” billy tells him. steve feels his other hand resting on his bicep, warm and heavy. “don’t shit your pants. if you haven’t already.”

“fuck you,” steve groans again, but doesn’t make any move to shove billy away.

truth is, the cold actually feels pretty damn good once steve gets used to it. or maybe it’s just the grounding weight of billy’s skin resting against his.

“here, sit up,” billy says, his voice gentler than steve has ever heard it. “come on, harrington, we don’t got all day here.”

steve makes a soft noise of protest when billy tugs at him until he’s sitting upright. his stomach churns, still queasy and full of alcohol.

billy puts a glass of water up to his lips, coaxing him to drink. watches him carefully, his brows furrowed and his blue eyes full of, what - concern?

he must be imagining things. again.

“ugh.” steve bats away the water glass, his face screwing up in displeasure once his stomach begins to turn unpleasantly.

billy just snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. puts the glass back up to his lips, gesturing for him to drink again. “nuh-uh. all of it, come on.”

steve glares at him. wants to tell him to fuck off again, to let him vomit up the contents of his stomach in peace.

he complies anyway.

“i’ll take you home,” billy offers once steve polishes off the water, setting the cup on the edge of the bathtub. “think you can walk?”

steve tries, he really does. but billy ends up nearly carrying him halfway to the camaro, supporting most of his weight.

the camaro feels cozy and warm once steve is tucked safely inside. but it smells overwhelmingly like billy - something like cigarettes and cologne and hairspray, with an undercurrent of something so uniquely billy that steve is pretty sure he won’t be able to live without after this moment.

the drive is mostly silent, until they pull up to steve’s parents’ big, empty house. until billy practically carries him inside again, up the stairs and into his room, where he then deposits him onto the bed.

“roll onto your side,” billy orders. huffs out a laugh when steve just rolls onto his stomach, smushing his face into his pillow. “you’re a fuckin’ pain in the ass, you know that?”

steve finally rolls onto his side, peering up at billy. “i might’ve been told once or twice.”

billy rolls his eyes. if he’s trying to come off as annoyed, it doesn’t work. it just looks endearing.

something warm and fuzzy blossoms in the pit of steve’s stomach.

“if i leave you here, do you promise not to choke on your own puke?” billy asks, arching a brow.

steve shrugs. “maybe.”

“that’s not very promising,” billy points out. shakes his head a little, like he’s had it up to here with steve’s antics.

steve just watches him through lidded eyes. billy looks like he’s about to turn to leave, before he pauses. he looks back down at him, chewing on his lip.

then, he leans down, pulling the covers over steve, taking his sweet time tucking him carefully into bed. when he’s finished, he hesitates again. before moving to tuck a lock of steve’s hair behind his ear, his cheeks tinged pink.

“i ever catch you drinking like that again, i’m gonna kick your ass.”

steve rolls his eyes, but cracks a small smile. it turns sad rather quickly, when he remembers why he’d been drinking like a monster in the first place.

“you wouldn’t stop kissing her,” steve says, before he can stop himself.

billy freezes. looks down at him with wide eyes, before hesitantly sitting on the edge of his bed.

“what?”

steve takes a deep breath, his cheeks burning. but the alcohol is still coursing through him, effectively skewing his judgment.

but he’s also just kind of fucking tired of all the bullshit.

“annie walker,” steve clarifies. “you were kissing her all night. you’re always kissing someone. but it’s - it’s never me.”

billy gives him this look, like he’s not sure if steve fully knows what he’s saying. “i think you’re just drunk, harrington.”

“i think that’s just a stupid excuse. i’m tired of excuses. i want it to be me. i want to be the one you want.”

a long stretch of silence, blue eyes burning into his with a scorching intensity. and then, “who says you’re not?”

“you say i’m not, every time you’re around me. you’ve always got some dumb girl’s tongue down your throat,” steve says, bitter.

“that’s - it’s not what you think.”

“oh yeah? then what? what’s that all about?” he asks, impatient. wanting billy to just fucking break it down for him already.

billy sighs, glancing up at the ceiling. looks back at him a moment later, tentatively reaching out and combing steve’s hair from his forehead. then says, simple and soft, “keeping up appearances.”

steve’s mind goes completely blank.

because, okay. it makes a lot more sense than steve was hoping it would. he kind of just wants to be mad, but. he gets it. and he’s not quite sure what to do with that.

“oh,” is all steve can come up with.

“yeah, oh.” billy gives him a goofy smile, a look steve has never seen on him but now that he has, he’s pretty sure he’ll need to see that look every day for the rest of his life just to feel happy.

billy stays silent for a beat, before standing up and crossing the room. grabs a piece of paper from steve’s desk, scribbling something onto it before walking back over. puts the paper on steve’s nightstand, right next to the bed.

“let’s talk about this tomorrow, yeah? you need to sleep this off,” billy suggests, his voice soft and small, even in the quiet of steve’s bedroom. “here’s the number to my new place. call me sometime? i’m, uh. i’m free all day.”

steve looks up at him with big eyes, before giving him a hopeful smile. “yeah?”

billy, only hesitating a moment, leans down and brushes his lips across steve’s forehead.

“yeah. get some sleep. i’ll - um. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

steve just nods, then watches billy walk across the room. he gives steve one last long look before disappearing out the door. steve hears the front door open and shut a moment later.

the next day, he buzzes around the house, occupying his body and mind with an endless list of chores. doing anything he can to avoid looking at the phone.

because he’d woken up feeling like death warmed over, remembering the night’s events with startling clarity. and the more he remembers, the more he worries that billy himself had just been drunk off his ass, making spur of the moment decisions in his impaired state.

when steve finally nuts up and picks up the phone, his stomach churns unpleasantly. he tries to blame it on the hangover, rather than his anxiety over billy potentially not picking up the phone. but in the end, all his worrying was for nothing.

because billy picks up on the third ring, his voice laced with excitement when he speaks.

“thought you’d never call, pretty boy.”

send me a number + a pairing!

[turtle-steverogers]

I can’t write for shit but I know you are really talented ,so what about an angst about Spot going to war and he doesn’t make it back and Race and their 1 year old son go to visit his grave and talk to him? Idk you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to but I thought it was a really cool idea

hi! so this is a pretty on brand prompt (especially for a certain upcoming Thing, but...,,.,) but anyway yeah here’s a fic. hope i did your idea some justice!

warnings: lots of talk of death, but nothing graphic.  my shitty, caffeine muddled writing (truly, not my best work, sorry)

ship: sprace

word count: 1529

editing: nein

Just Out of Reach

“Aye, Sergeant, need some water up there?”

“Yeah, thanks man.”

A water bottle is passed up to Spot, and he takes it, taking one hand off the M2 machine gun that’s deadbolted down in front of him and using his teeth to unscrew the cap.  He hadn’t realized how goddamn thirsty he’d been, but it’s fairly easy and not at all uncommon to lose touch with yourself during the methodical cycle of a mission.  

Really, it’s just reconnaissance.  Mapping out the desolate land that surrounds base- cataloguing the unknowns and the possible threats.  It’s the simple stuff.  The required bits that make the more strategic missions possible.  But they still take long as hell and Spot’s willing to bet that he’s sweat through his fatigues by now as he bakes in the desert sun.  His helmet is scratchy and the army-issued goggles are digging into his skull, squeezing his brain and making his head throb.  The water helps a bit.

His vehicle is at the front of the convoy, and somehow, he found himself perched in the turret, calculating gaze scanning around for anything amiss.  They near an Iraqi village, vacated looking buildings lining either side of the sandy, dirt road.

Spot thinks he sees a few windows shutter closed and when he looks to his left, there’s a little girl (she can’t be more than five.  Christ)  sitting on her stoop, knees pulled up to her chest.  She’s staring at the convoy, eyes wide and fearful and fingers plugged into her ears.  Spot feels a pang of...of something.  Guilt, maybe.  Sympathy.

Really, none of these people asked for this.  They never wanted big, scary men in big, scary vehicles shouting out foreign remarks and invading their space- their homes.  

Spot forces his gaze back to the front, willing himself to focus back on the task at hand.  But he can’t help his mind wandering back to that little girl.  There was something about her.  The innocence, maybe.  The simplistic look of discernable fear in the face of something scary.

He thinks of Teddy.

His son’s own wide, brown eyes and chubby, five year old cheeks.  Really, they’re not so different- that girl and Teddy.  They’re lives are so drastically diverse from one another, but they share that same, innate naivete.  The all prevailing look of curiosity that only kids can convey.

Spot misses Teddy.

Granted, he always misses him and Race.  The feeling isn’t mutually exclusive to any one moment, but sometimes the ache will grow into more of a pain, gripping his chest with longing to kiss his husband and hug his son.  Maybe dig his fingers into Teddy’s sides as he picks him up and swings him, planting an exaggerated kiss on his cheek.  It’s a foolproof way to make him laugh.  And if Race is there, he’ll laugh too.  There are some things in life he can count on to be constant, and his family is one of them.

He comes back to himself as he nears a stoplight and suddenly, something in the world seems wrong.  He’s just about to secure himself around the gun when there’s a shout from down below and then the humvee is jerkily rolling to a stop and that’s when Spot sees the wire and that can only mean someone’s going to die if they don’t fucking stop right fucking now and--

Nothing.

-

“Papa, can we go see Daddy today?”

Race freezes halfway through screwing the cap off a carton of milk.  He turns to look at his son and finds him staring at him in all his six and a half year old glory.  His hair is a mess of bedhead and sleep and even though Race had gotten him up and dressed in a decent amount of time for a Saturday, he still looks rumpled.  But that’s just how kids are, Race guesses.

It had been a year since Race’s life took a tumble into the realm of his worst nightmare.  A year since Lieutenant Kelly and Sergeant Jacobs had shown up on his doorstep, clad in Army Service Uniforms and wearing twin, somber looks. 

It hadn’t taken long for Race to piece together why they were there.

That day was still hazy, a jumbled mix of numb shock and things like, “we regret to inform you” and “killed in action” and then there was Teddy pulling at his pant leg and asking him with those wide goddamn eyes why “guys dressed like Daddy” were there and Race didn’t know how to tell him that Daddy’s gone, because how the hell do you explain that to a five year old and he wasn’t equipped to deal with something like this and he still isn’t and-

Yeah.  A nightmare.

Race still isn’t sure if Teddy knows exactly what happened.  He seems to understand that Spot is gone and that fundamentally, he isn’t coming back, but he doesn’t think Teddy understands death yet.  The finality of it- the weight behind the concept.  

It was inexplicably haunting to see Teddy not crying at Spot’s funeral.  Race was crying.  Hell, Race was a mess.  It was so bad that Albert had to take over his eulogy and Jojo had to watch Teddy for a few minutes while he lost his shit in the bathroom.

But Teddy hadn’t cried.  He’d just clung to Race with a tight grip and wide, bewildered eyes, not saying a word.  

“Sure, bud,” Race says, shaking himself and pouring the milk into Teddy’s bowl of Lucky Charms, “we can go see Daddy.”

He takes Teddy along to Spot’s grave fairly often, but he never really knows how much of it he processes.  Like at the funeral, he’s always quiet and subdued when they go, never really saying anything.  Just sitting in Race’s lap, head bent into the crook of his neck as he stares at the headstone.  

“Yay!” Teddy bounces a little in his seat, grinning as Race sets his breakfast in front of him, “I want to tell him about my dance recital!”

Something in Race’s chest cracks open, making him feel simultaneously warm and cold and entirely overwhelmed. 

On their way to the cemetery later, they pass a man selling custom bouquets on the street.  Brilliant mixes of orchids and roses, gardenias and anemones, bleeding color into the cold grey of winter, and when Teddy sees them and turns that pleading look on Race, well, who is he to say no?

-

“Hi, Daddy!”

For once, Race stays a little off to the side, watching his son sit cross legged in front of Spot’s grave.  He’s talking, words spilling out at about a mile a minute, but Race tunes them out.  This is their private moment and he doesn’t want to get in the way of that.  

“I kinda wish you coulda seen it, but…” Teddy shrugs, mouth grimacing in a way that’s so strikingly Spot that Race has to close his eyes for a moment, “That’s okay.  I know you woulda come if you coulda.”

And, well, ouch.

“Anyway, I brought my scarf for you, Daddy,” Race opens his eyes to see Teddy carefully wrapping his little Thomas the Tank Engine scarf around the headstone, just over where he’d placed the flowers they picked up earlier, “‘Cause it’s getting cold and Papa always tells me that scarves help make you super warm.”

Race has to bite his lip to keep from crying or doing something stupid to ruin his son’s moment and, like, breakdown in front of him.

“Anyway, I’ll let you talk to Papa now, ‘cause I know he always likes to talk to you a little,” He smacks a kiss onto his palm and presses it to Spot’s engraved name, “Bye bye, Daddy, I love you.”

When he turns to look at Race, he’s smiling.  It’s big and unyielding and Race fucking melts, because this is all he really wants.  Sure, when Teddy gets older, Spot’s absence will ring loud and daunting, but hell, if he can have any ounce of peace with it then, well, Race...Race is fucking ecstatic.  He can handle this. 

“Your turn, Papa!” Teddy says, beckoning Race to sit down and climbing into his lap when he does.

“Thanks, little man,” Race hugs Teddy close, “Did you have a good time talking to Daddy?”

“Uh huh,” Teddy says, squirming a little in Race’s tight hold, “I know he was listening super good, I could feel it.”

Race swallows, “Oh yeah?” Teddy nods, “I’m super glad, Teds.”

And maybe, really, that’s what this is about.  Spot’s death was a curveball thrown with the wrong hand, jarring a perceived reality and shifting everything Race had known a little too far to the left.  And no, it isn’t okay.  Maybe it’ll never be okay, but it doesn’t have to be.  Spot’s still there, lingering somewhere in their hearts and made real by his memory- their memories of him.  He’s still palpable, still reachable, and if Teddy can feel it, maybe Race can too.

Race takes a breath, fortifying and fond, then smiles.  It doesn’t feel so strained and Race feels just that much lighter when he clears his throat.

“Hey, Spottie…”

-

it wasn’t very good don’t clown me please my brain said ‘sorry bud’ today

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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