#and it’s really the tinny sound of phone speakers that gets to me more than anything

[psqqa]

someone is absolutely blasting kendrick lamar on this streetcar. through something far more powerful than phone speakers, though, so i’m pretty okay with this actually

[vampiefemme]

smut! 18+ below, minors dni.

thinking about ellie accidentally sending you a video of her fingering herself.

the video preview is completely dark, so you have no clue what to expect when you click the play button. you assume it’s another one of her rants - lately she’s taken to sending you clips of herself complaining about her family, work, politics. she’s sent a few videos of her trying new foods while completely obliterated on an edible, too, which you’re kind of hoping for. her eyes look so pretty all droopy and red, and she has the cutest laugh when she’s high.

but oh, no. this is… nothing like that.

you’re lounging in bed, head propped up against a pillow, when you get the notification from ellie and click to your text thread. you hit play on the video, watching with a furrowed brow as the camera moves from darkness - the forest green fabric of ellie’s duvet, you realize - to reveal her room. and it’s a familiar sight; you’ve been there a hundred times. but that’s where the familiarity ends.

because this new camera angle shows ellie naked from the waist down.

she’s flushed, her cheeks tinged the faintest shade of pink. her chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm; the light catches on a smear of wetness on her inner thigh, and you realize with a flutter in your belly that she’d been going at it for a while before she’d pulled out the camera.

“okay, fuck,” ellie pants, her voice a bit tinny through the speakers of your cell phone. she lifts one muscled thigh to her bed, which she’s standing before - right in front of the camera. your mouth goes dry as your eyes flicker over her body: heather grey tank riding up her toned hips, the faintest sheen of sweat on her chest, her thigh flexing as she spreads herself in front of the camera.

“i got close beforehand so i wouldn’t… didn’t wanna be nervous,” she says, avoiding eye contact with her phone. “but i’m - wait. why the fuck am i talking? you’re not supposed to talk in these, are you?”

blood rushes into your cheeks, warming your face until you feel like your skin is about to burn off. you should probably stop watching, shouldn’t you? you should click out of the video, pretend you never opened it in the first place. this is clearly not for you to see.

but you can’t look away.

ellie reaches her hand between her legs, and your stomach warms with arousal. there’s a flutter between your legs that leaves you squeezing your thighs together, seeking pressure.

“oh god,” ellie mutters as her fingers play in her own pussy, the lewd, wet sounds echoing. she slips a finger inside of herself, then two, her eyes fluttering shut as a string of curses leaves her lips.

she starts to pump her fingers, the heel of her hand pressed to her clit, and your breath catches in your throat when she looks up at the camera. you know she’s not really looking at you this way, but you tense up regardless. the look in her eyes is sultry, lustful, hungry.

there’s a growing damp spot on your underwear.

ellie’s getting close; her brows are pinched together in concentration, and each of her moans is more ragged and high-pitched than the last. beneath the thin fabric of her tank, you see her abs tense with her impending orgasm. you bite your lip until you’re sure you taste blood.

she comes with a shuddering cry, bicep flexing as her hand stalls between her legs. strands of auburn hair, darkened with sweat, cling to her freckled forehead. she lowers her leg from the bed and stands upright again, still panting. she reaches for the camera and the video ends.

you’re still staring wide-eyed at your phone when a series of texts come through from ellie.

oh my god

please tell me you didn’t see that

holy fuck i’m an idiot

i’m so sorry

i did not mean to send that to you. holy shit i’m sorry

your chest tightens with sympathy - you can imagine how panicked ellie is on the other line, how utterly ruined her post-orgasm bliss must be.

you type out a quick response: it’s okay. give me a second to reply, alright?

finding a convenient place to prop up your phone, you hook your thumbs over your underwear and tug them off, leaning forward to press record on your phone.

read part two here!

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Top Shelf Love: Chapter One

A/N: yeah, yeah, I know! This is super exposition-y, but we have to set it all up, besties! I promise Cassian and Nesta actually interact again in the next chapter 🫡 Also, for anyone who's nerdy like me, the Athletic has a really great article about just how complicated things get when a player gets traded. It's a fun read!

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Cassian

Cassian groans, tossing his phone on the coffee table, the device skittering across the wood without a care. He drops his head against the back of the sofa, digging his hands into his hair and dragging his fingers against the curly strands. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and he half wonders if he’s imagining this entire phone call, but the tinny voice continues through the speaker even if he’s no longer listening.

Seattle.

He got traded to the Seattle Kraken.

The words continue to crash and echo in his mind, even as his agent goes through the usual spiel when trades happen. Expect a call from the coach, maybe even a few players will reach out once the news breaks. The Kraken’s director of team services will reach out with the finer details for a smooth transition. Reminders of the CBA mandates. Meetings with the trainers, the equipment team, and the coaching staff to look forward to. Practice schedule. It’s like information overload, a hurricane swirling through his head with hundred mile per hour winds.

It doesn’t help that his phone has already started to vibrate against the table, almost excessively. With a quiet huff that thankfully his agent doesn’t pick up on, already plowing forward into the exciting potential for re-signing with Seattle, Cassian snatches his phone back up. He minimizes the call screen and looks at his notifications. Of course. The news has already broken on Twitter. Damn ‘insiders.’

“Any questions for me, Cassian? Anything I can do for you?”

Cassian has to shake his head, clearing his still spiraling thoughts, before he finds his voice. “All good, Eris. That’s how the off season goes, right?”

Eris is quiet for a moment. “I’ll send a car to take you to the airport. A nicer one than the team would send.”

With that, the line clicks, and Cassian tosses his phone away again, this time face down. He doesn’t even want to look at what’s being said, at the speculation. Sure, the Rangers hadn’t had the best season, the ending more heartbreak than anything else. Sure, he only has one year left on his contract. Sure, the front office wants draft picks to help build up the farm system with young blood.

But still, Cassian never expected this. Never expected this was how his time with the team would end. Never expected this was how his time in New York City would end.

Sighing softly, he glances around his apartment. The high ceilings, the modern, open kitchen, the tall windows and the amazing skyline view that the thirty-first floor offers. He really did love this place, a far cry from the streets he’d grown up on, and a reminder of how far he'd come from those very streets. He supposes he’ll have to sell it now. Is it worth keeping just for the off season?

The sound of Cassian’s phone ringing is loud in his otherwise quiet apartment. It seems to echo off the walls as though taunting him. He’s half tempted to ignore it all together, but despite the unknown number displayed on the screen when he checks, the location is listed as Seattle. Not the best first impression to send his new team to voicemail. Another sigh and Cassian squares his shoulders, sliding his thumb across the screen to answer.

The man on the other end of the line introduces himself and exchanges a few pleasantries, but then he’s diving right in to more specifics. The nitty gritty of a trade. Flight details. Financials and reimbursements. Rental car when he lands. Taxes.

Cassian only half listens, making sure he makes the affirmative sounds at the appropriate breaks in conversation. This isn’t his first rodeo. Although, he had still been in the farm system when his last trade happened. This is certainly different, but Cassian knows he thankfully won’t have to deal with most of this. He’ll give the director of team services Eris’s number, and let him deal with all the numbers and everything. It’s why he pays him the big bucks after all.

As soon as the call ends, Cassian’s phone lights up and starts ringing again. He wants to pull his own hair out as that incessant sound fills his apartment. He knows how this goes, but he’d give anything for just a moment of peace, a moment to really sit with his thoughts and everything that’s just happened. He considers turning his phone off, letting all the calls go to voicemail, at least for a few hours, but then he sees the name displayed on the screen.

“I take it you saw the news?” Cassian says by way of greeting.

“Need a drink?” Rhysand’s voice carries down the line.

Cassian chuckles, already pushing up to his feet. “You have no idea. But you better be breaking out the good shit from your fancy cellar.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get your ass over here.”

Just the short conversation, the teasing tone of his chosen brother, has Cassian feeling lighter already. He grabs his wallet and shoves it into his pocket, tugging a ball cap down over his curls. Summer still clings to the city despite the first day of fall barely a few days away, but the breeze that dances between the buildings promises cooler temperatures to come. Cassian takes the subway up toward Central Park, the rocking of the car over the tracks strangely a lulling balm over his nerves.

The doorman offers Cassian a nod and a friendly hello in greeting when he arrives at the building, holding the door open for him to stroll inside. The receptionist at the front desk does the same, barely casting Cassian a cursory glance as he heads for the elevators. He quickly punches in the code and steps inside, riding up and up and up, all the way to the penthouse.

Feyre is waiting for Cassian as soon as the elevator doors open, stepping forward and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian chuckles but he wraps his own arms around Feyre’s shoulders nonetheless. “I’m not dying, Fey. I just got traded.”

“I know, but traded across the country,” Feyre continues, pulling back enough that she can peer up at Cassian with an overdramatic pout. “I’m losing my partner in crime. Who will join me in bullying Rhys now?”

“You’re right,” Cassian tells her, nodding his head with faux solemness. “I’m so sorry you’ll be stuck on the east coast all alone with Rhys’s stupid face.”

“Stupid face? And here I broke out the good wine for your sorry ass.”

Cassian tosses his head back and laughs. He steps away from Feyre and walks over to Rhys, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I expect nothing less.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, but he leads the way into the kitchen, three wine glasses and a bottle already arranged on the large kitchen island. He pours the wine into each glass, but Cassian grabs the bottle, examining the label with an appreciative hum.

“I don’t know why you’re making that sound,” Rhys comments dryly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Who cares about that?” Feyre cuts in, waving a dismissive hand at her fiancé and leaning against the kitchen island, her attention solely on Cassian. “Are you excited for Seattle?”

Cassian hums, swirling his wine around the glass. “They’re definitely building a good team out there. Strong top line. And I’ve heard good things about playing under Miller.”

“But…?”

“There’s no but, it’s just…” Cassian sighs softly, pulling his cap off to run his fingers through his hair. “It just sucks because everyone’s here, out east. You guys are always here or in Montreal. Mor’s here in New York. Even Az isn’t that far in Nashville. I won’t know anyone out west.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have the guys on the team. You know they’ll have all the best spots in town to recommend,” Rhys reminds him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“My sister lives out in Seattle!” Feyre jumps in to add, blue eyes bright.

Cassian frowns. “Doesn’t Elain live in Toronto with Lucien?”

“Not Elain. My other sister. Nesta. You’ve met her.”

Nesta.

Cassian is sure he’d remember if he met Nesta Archeron. He still remembers when Feyre had posted the photos from Elain’s wedding last month to her Instagram, the way his mouth had slackened at the sight of who he was sure was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. With the purple, silky fabric of the bridesmaid dress clinging perfectly to her every curve, golden brown strands of hair swept away from her face in an intricate updo, she was breathtaking.

But it was her expression in the photos that had really drawn Cassian in. There was something about it. Something about her. Something about the way that even though she was smiling in the photo, there was still a challenge, a dare, burning in her stormy blue eyes and the pinch of her brow. And Cassian had never backed down from a dare. He was sure one look from her had sent many men to their knees, sent them fleeing for the hills before she could cut them down where they stood, but Cassian? Cassian wanted to drive head first into that fire.

“I don’t think I’ve met her,” Cassian offers, but he doesn’t tell Feyre just how much he wishes he had.

“But she was at our engagement party in May,” Feyre continues, but when Cassian only shrugs in response, she merely sighs. “Whatever. The point is that she lives in Seattle. I can give you her number if you want. Then, you’ll at least know someone out there when you get there. And I’m sure she’d be more than happy to show you around.”

Cassian thinks about it. He thinks back to those photos on Feyre’s Instagram, thinks about the photos he had seen when he stalked Nesta’s own Instagram after he clicked the tagged account. Thinks of those stormy blue eyes and the tilt of her lips in a smirk behind the rim of a wine glass. Thinks of the stories Feyre has told him, of the stubborn and fierce older sister who all but eviscerated Feyre’s ex, Tamlin.

“Yeah… yeah, that’d be good. Just so I know someone out there.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta

Nesta sighs softly, but she reaches down, fingers curling beneath cardboard. Her arms protest at the weight, but she hefts the box up, shuffling the few steps to add it to the organized chaos that’s their backroom. For a moment, her attention dances back toward her phone where she left it on another box, but she pointedly left it face down for a reason. She doesn’t need to look at the text messages waiting for her again.

Feyre 1:18pm Remember Cassian? Rhys’ brother that I told you all about? 😉 He’s coming to Seattle! I gave him your number. Show him around for me? Please?

Unknown number 4:43pm Hey, Nesta. This is Cassian. Feyre gave me your number. I’m moving out to Seattle soon. Maybe we can meet up?

“So, let me get this straight. The Cassian is moving to Seattle?”

Nesta snorts softly, peering toward where Gwyn is sprawled across the floor, iPad balanced against her knees. “We’re calling him the Cassian now?”

“I prefer to call him the douchey hockey player,” Emerie comments idly, placing the box in her own arms down. She swipes up the box cutter from the metal shelf to her left, making quick, efficient work of the tape keeping the box closed.

“And are you imagining douchey hockey player’s balls there?” Gwyn teases, looking meaningfully toward the box cutter in Emerie’s grip.

“So what if I am?” Emerie fires back, leaning forward to open Nesta’s box too. “He’d deserve it.”

“I never said he didn’t,” Gwyn laughs, turning her attention back to Nesta. “So, what are you going to do?”

Nesta sighs softly. “I don’t know. Feyre asked me to show him around the city.”

“Doesn’t he have teammates to do that?”

“Ignore him and the request,” Emerie suggests dryly.

Nesta snorts quietly but it quickly turns into a sigh, even as she keeps her hands busy pulling books out of her box. “I didn’t exactly tell Feyre what happened that night.”

She hadn’t told anyone about that night, save her two best friends. She still cringes sometimes when she thinks back to it, the embarrassment burning bright low in her gut, twisting and squeezing between her ribs uncomfortably. She’d sworn that night that she would never give a single thought about Cassian Valdarez ever again, and until today, she’d kept true to that.

She’d spent her remaining days in New York City solely with her sisters, even doing one of the touristy bus tours with Elain to see all the classic sights. And thankfully, Feyre had been more interested in excitedly talking about wedding plans and ideas than continuing her busybody meddling. If either of her sisters noticed anything different with Nesta, they didn’t say anything.

After Nesta had flown back home to Seattle, Emerie and Gwyn came over to her apartment. Drinking a bottle of wine between the three of them, it all had come spilling out of her. Her friends had allowed her to pace and rage, and then that was that. Nesta had washed her hands of the whole thing. Never again did she dare to check the sports news out of curiosity. Never again did she dare to stalk his Instagram. Never again did she think of the stupid face and the stupid smirk of a smile of that hockey player.

“What if you give him a tour of all the worst places in the city?” Emerie suggests, brown eyes practically lighting up at the idea. “Then, maybe he’ll want to leave the city.”

Gwyn’s laugh is bright, red hair tumbling down her back when she tosses her head back. “That is definitely not how sports teams operate.”

“Worth a shot,” Emerie mutters, tossing aside the box packaging in her hands and reaching back in for the books hiding beneath. “Holy shit. We got the new Sellyn Drake novel already?”

Emerie holds up the book in her hand excitedly, showing off the cover. Like so many romance novels these days, it features a faceless, cartoon style couple. The man is shirtless, though, rocking a kilt, while the woman is drawn with a yellow sundress. Looping script above the cartoon characters declares the title, The Scottish High Lord and Me.

“It’s official release date is…” Gwyn starts, squinting down at the iPad and scrolling through whatever is on the screen. “Tuesday, so we’ll want to put them out Monday night after we close.”

Gwyn reaches over toward the metal shelves, swiping up the sticky notes and sharpie sitting there. She scrawls out a note, a reminder of when they’ll need to stock the books, and peels the sticky note free. She slaps it right over the cover of the book in Emerie’s hands, but Emerie is quick to peel it right back off, placing it instead on one of the other copies still in the box.

“Hey!” Gwyn chastises, narrowing her eyes.

“What?” Emerie asks, her tone overly innocent. “This is my copy.”

“Gwyn just said the book doesn’t technically release until Tuesday,” Nesta points out, snorting softly.

“What’s the point of owning a bookstore if we don’t get to read all the best releases early? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be posting all the spoilers online or anything.”

“Good point,” Nesta agrees, reaching forward as well to grab another of the Sellyn Drake books.

“You both are terrible.”

“Oh, come on,” Emerie teases with a roll of her eyes. “You know you want to read it too.”

“Seriously, Gwyn,” Nesta adds, not even bothering to bite back her smirk as she points to the cover. “It’s a Scottish love interest.”

Gwyn huffs, seemingly determined to hold her ground with her crossed arms and narrowed gaze, but it barely lasts a few seconds. Not quite meeting either of her friends' eyes, the barest hint of a blush beginning to pool in her cheeks, she reaches forward into the box, plucking out another of the books.

Nesta and Emerie glance toward each other, sharing a knowing look, before they both burst out laughing. It feels good to laugh, to have that lightness twining around her limbs and swelling through her chest. It feels good to be squeezed back in this tiny stockroom with her best friends, her chosen sisters. She doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

They were there for her when she hit the lowest point of her life, when she well and truly felt like she hit rock bottom. They were right there beside her in the trenches, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to rage and scream at, a voice of reason and comfort. They didn’t flinch when Nesta snapped and released that swirling storm of emotion within her. They didn’t balk from her every scar, every dark crevice of her soul.

And when Nesta was ready, they helped pull her out.

“And what books are in your box?” Gwyn asks Nesta, pulling her out of her thoughts and back into the present.

Nesta shakes her head before peering into the box at her feet, pushing aside the packaging. “It looks like it’s our restock of that baseball romance that went viral.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Gwyn comments, tapping away at the iPad screen. “We should definitely put those out tonight so they’re ready for tomorrow.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta slumps back against the blankets and pillows of her bed with a soft sigh. She sinks back into the mattress, letting her arm fall over her eyes. There’s definitely a soreness lingering in her biceps from lifting all those boxes, but it was worth it.

When they finished inventory of the latest deliveries, the three of them had moved back into the main shop. Emerie had taken to restocking the shelves while Gwyn took to rearranging the table displays at the front. Nesta had taken to the registers. Math had always been a strong point for her, even when she was back in school, so it was always her job to balance their books. They all worked in perfect tandem until everything was good to go, finally closing up the shop and heading their separate ways back to their respective apartments.

Nesta allows herself another moment to simply lay in bed before hauling herself back up. She grabs the newest Sellyn Drake novel, resituating her pillows and settling back comfortably against them. Her fingers skate along the cover, down over the spine. There’s always been something about holding a fresh book in her hands. The crisp pages, the scent of parchment and ink.

Sliding her palm down the cover once more, Nesta turns to the first page, but her gaze dances away from the words and over to her nightstand. To her phone sitting there. She knows she shouldn’t, but her fingers itch with the urge all the same. With an annoyed huff, Nesta snatches up the device, navigating to her message app and the unread texts there.

Unknown number 7:12pm Did I type in the wrong number? This is Nesta, right?

Unknown number 7:37pm Feyre says this is the right number. Did she tell you I’m moving to the Seattle area? It would be really great if we could meet up!

Unknown number 9:21pm I guess you’re just really busy. My flight gets in Saturday morning, but the team is picking me up to show me around the practice facilities and locker rooms and introduce me to everyone. Maybe we could meet up in the afternoon? I’d be more than happy to buy you dinner 😏

The last message has Nesta rolling her eyes hard. It’s exactly the sort of response she expects from someone like Cassian. All the arrogance and presumptuousness that comes from being a professional athlete. She half wonders how he even fits his ego inside the locker rooms.

Nesta tosses her phone aside and returns to her book. She hasn’t broken her promise yet, and she has no intention of breaking it now. Besides, who needs a hockey player when she has a fictional Scotsman, anyways?

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 13: "Just Wanted To Hear Your Voice"

Timezones apart, Mountain and Aether share a late night/early morning phonecall.

Thank you very much to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and to @ghuleh-recs for the divider. <3

(this could also be for the long distance extra prompt but i digress, enjoy the fic)

Aether wakes not to his work alarm, but to the drum fill in Respite, his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He shoots up, scrambling for it in a half awake haze. He fumbles to accept the call, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Mount?" He slurs, tongue not fully cooperating yet. His mind struggles with the timezone conversion, the rest of his pack, minus Sunny, halfway across the world. "'S gotta be late over there, what's goin' on?"

There's a deep sigh on the other end, made tinny through the speakers. "Hey, Aeth. There's no emergency. Sorry if I woke you."

"Don't apologize," Aether says, tension easing from his frame as he settles back in bed, phone pinned to his ear by his shoulder as he adjusts a blanket. He doesn't have to be to the infirmary until two hours from now. There's time. And if there wasn't, he'd find a way to make time. Anything for them. "I'm awake, sweet thing. How was the Ritual?"

Another sigh, edging on a groan. "Really fucking long. I don't even want to think about how many more of these we have left. I haven't had a chance to be outside for more than five minutes in a month, nova."

Aether hisses through his teeth in sympathy. He knows second hand what being cut off from one's element feels like, a phantom pain you can't quite shake. Quintessence is everywhere, so Aether's never experienced the loss of it himself.

It's easy for the rest of them to recharge; air a constant, water everywhere on Earth, fire easy to sate with heat. Dew's preferred method of recharging is near-boiling showers, taking advantage of hotels and venues and running their hot water bills sky high. It eases both his fire and what remains of his water.

Earth is a different story, especially when the pack is moving from city to city with barely room to breathe. It's always taken a toll on Mountain, but he takes it like a champ. Though Aether will always, always, always let him vent, knows how satisfying it is to let off steam.

"I'm sorry, Mount," he hums, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He'd been dreaming, something too realistic, almost able to trick his mind that he hadn't been asleep at all, that his mattress had been warm with three ghouls' worth of body heat instead of one.

"Why'd you think it's your fault?" Mountain chuckles halfheartedly. "You in charge of scheduling or somethin'?"

Aether hums. "Maybe. You don't know," he teases. "It's late over there, Mount. You want to hang up and get some sle-?"

"No!" Mountain cuts him off suddenly, distress sharp in his tone. "No, Aeth, please, don't make me hang up."

Aether can't see him, can barely sense their bond, stretched thin with distance. He can imagine it though, the way his shoulders slump, eyes pressing shut. "Not going to make you do anything. Talk to me, sweet thing. Anything you want, just let me hear you."

Mountain sighs, and he can just barely pick up the sound of a hand dragging down his face, scraping against his stubble. Mountain normally likes a clean shave, itchy, regrowing stubble an easy way to send him into a sensory overload. But being on tour makes it difficult to keep up with the upkeep. He wonders when their next hotel day is.

"Cue's halfway through her third blanket," Mountain says slowly. Aether doesn't need to feel the bond to feel the exhaustion seeping into his voice. "We made a stop at a craft store a few days back, she came out with a literal armful of yarn. Every color under the sun. I think she cleared out an entire color's worth of baby blanket yarn. She said something about making one for Aurora."

Aether hums considerately, reaching with one hand to the purple and navy blanket that had been pushed aside in his sleep. Still as soft as the day she had shyly handed it to him, the second one she had ever made, only a few months' summoned. She's come out of her shell since, but Aether rubs the yarn between his thumb and forefinger and remembers anyways. "Aeon's gotten theirs?"

There's silence for a second, and a quiet spew of Ghoulish cursing. "Just fucking nodded like you could see me," Mountain laughs, exhausted. "The second one she made was Aeon's."

"They like it?" Aether asks, biting back a yawn, tail going ramrod straight as he stretches his back. There's the sound of a privacy curtain being pulled back, and Mountain groans softly before the curtain is pulled again.

"Had to make sure they were still out there," he explains. "They're currently burritoed up in it on the couch with Swiss."

"Don't get up and do it now," Aether says, chuffing at the mental image of the new quintessence ghoul all cozy. "But in the morning, if they're still wrapped up, send me a picture, will you, sweet thing?"

A soft chuckle. "Of course, nova. Thank you."

"What for?" Aether says.

"I dunno. Just wanted to hear your voice."

Aether chuffs, reaching for his glasses. It's almost time for him to get up out of bed. "Thank you, too, then," he says, sliding his glasses on one handed. "I miss you all terribly."

There's a long sigh, which changes halfway through into a yawn. "I don't want to hang up, Aeth." His voice is as small as Aether's heard it in years, not since the last time the pack was thrown into upheaval.

"I know, Mount. I know. But you still need to sleep, sweet thing. Call me in the morning?" Aether offers, knowing that he'll probably be on his break by the time Mountain wakes, ever the early riser.

"I'll call you in the morning," Mountain says, still a little hesitant. "I love you, nova."

Aether smiles. "Love you too. I'll talk to you soon."

[specialinterestshows]

Celebrate with the Judgment Day in this latest chapter of my Rhea Ripley x lady!reader fic, Absolute Smokeshow.

Warnings for this section: Cannabis (weed), insecurity/self-doubt, parasocial interaction

-

Absolute Smokeshow (Part 75 of ?): Fast Feud

As soon as you sat in the car, JD said his goodbyes, looking away quickly when Finn locked lips with Damian and calling “take care” to the group as a whole before walking off. The joint you had lit made its way around the car once everyone was inside; Damian made sure all the windows were cracked open so he could continue driving and Finn refused more after his second hit left him coughing for a few minutes. As the joint was passed around the back seats, you were messaging Marisol and a few of your friends to try and relax. Still, Jacy’s words echoed in your mind:

“Rhea Ripley’s newest toy”

“Minion, distraction, press stunt”

“Pathetic”

“Right here!” Dom’s voice broke you out of your reverie as you watched him point excitedly to a fast food place at the next light.

“Tranquilo, campeón,” Damian chuckled before signaling as the car gradually slowed down.

“Everyone type out their order, I’m only doing this once,” Damian handed his phone to Finn first after he pulled into the mostly-empty parking lot. You took a long drag, looking at the handful of cars queued up at the drive-thru before passing the joint to Rhea. Carefully exhaling out the window, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Rhea took a hit, grabbed Dom by the jaw, and exhaled into his open mouth before popping the joint between his lips as well.

Your phone buzzed, lighting up with Mari’s response to you venting about your new insecurities.

“If it’s bugging you, you should talk to her about it. Even if it seems silly. Or you won’t stop wondering.”

You marveled at how she seemed to give you advice without any hint of jealousy. Yet, you still had the reassurance that she cared for you with the sincerity of her manner - not to mention the way she looked at you as if you were endlessly beautiful and fascinating.

You typed your response:

“Okay, but if it doesn’t go well, I’m blaming you”

Looking the message over, you tacked on a tongue-out emoji at the end before hitting send, your timing coinciding with Damian’s phone being handed to you for your order. Fumbling with the phone, you slowly typed in your order. The anxiety bubbling up about having a conversation with Rhea was making you clumsy, especially since you would likely have to wait until the two of you were alone.

Once Damian had his phone again, the car joined two others in the drive-thru. A minute later, Damian was speaking loudly and clearly in response to the tinny voice coming from the speakers beside the menu. Finn tapped his boyfriend’s shoulder urgently, asking upon receiving his attention: “Can I add five- SIX, six more things?” and was met with a sigh.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Rhea commented softly as Damian continued ordering, gesturing for Finn to message him the additions quickly, “What’s wrong, love?”

You knew Marisol was right: you had to say something. An opportunity might not present itself so easily later. So, you took a deep breath and made yourself whisper back:

“Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do!” the blue-eyed beauty seemed distressed that you were even asking, “I love you so much, babe. What- Do I not tell you enough?”

“No, it’s just… You never mentioned flirting with Cathy last night and-” you sighed, lowering your eyes and organizing your thoughts.

“…Do you know a wrestler named Jacy?”

“Sounds familiar, but I don’t think we’ve met,” Rhea muttered, brow furrowed.

“She said a lot of things that-“ you stopped yourself from letting the exact words take up any more space in your thoughts than they already had before continuing, “Things about me and you. Now I keep wondering if she’s right.”

Glancing back at your girlfriend, you saw a rising intensity as she took in your statement.

“Looks like I’ll have to see if I can get a match against her,” Rhea said between gritted teeth, visibly holding herself back from a more visceral reaction in such close quarters, “Teach her a lesson about lying to my girl.”

“Who are we fighting?” Dom asked as Damian pulled up to the first window.

“Doesn’t matter what her name is; no one is going to remember it after I’m done with her,” Rhea smirked. You could almost see the highlight reel of her future victory dancing behind her eyes.

“I’m more worried for her tag partner,” you admitted.

But before you could continue, a haggard-looking employee opened the sliding window and requested payment. You immediately dove for your bag, ready to look through your wallet, but Rhea put a firm, steady hand on your shoulder and pulled you back.

“If we need to split it, I’ll pay for yours,” she reassured you, demeanor softening, “Money isn’t something I want to add to your worries, love. Besides, I like getting you things.”

“I love you,” was all you could think to respond with.

Dom whispered “aww,” soon heavily eclipsed by Finn’s bellow of “GAAAAAAY.”

Rhea flipped Finn off, kissing you tenderly.

“Thanks, man,” Damian said, making you realize he had pulled up to the second window. Looking over, you saw Damian take some of the food and pass it back before hearing “Wait a minute!”

It was the person at the window, you saw when you leaned over curiously. They called back to the kitchen “Hey Jen! C’mere a minute!”

“What? What’s so-“ the approaching woman stopped talking the moment she peered into the car, suddenly speaking with a sense of reverence, “The Judgment Day! Oh man, I thought tonight was a bust because I had to work during your show, but you’re actually here!”

The man who had called her over handed her some of the rest of the food to give to Damian.

“Good to meet a fan,” Damian said as Finn tore through the bag he was handed, “You want spoilers or no?”

“Oh, I’m sure you guys won,” she replied, handing over the last batch of bags, “Just a second while we get your drinks.”

The window shut quickly and you faintly heard an excited, muffled squeal.

“I think we just made her night,” Damian grinned at Finn, whose face was already stuffed with food, “Got everything you wanted, mi amor?”

Finn shook his head in the affirmative, mouth clamped firmly around the bite he was currently working on.

“Here you go!” the excited woman was at the window again with two trays of drinks. After handing them over, she peered into the back. Upon seeing you, Dom, and Rhea, she gave a small wave before showing off the bi pride pin on her apron and smiling.

Looking over, you saw Dom smiling back awkwardly and Rhea beaming, giving the woman a thumbs up. You couldn’t help but grin, seeing how proud your girlfriend was of her sexuality.

Taking your drink from one of the trays, you pulled out your phone again to text Mari:

“Talking to her helped! Thank you for the push”

Your anxiety hadn’t entirely left, but you did feel like a weight had been lifted; it would be much easier to celebrate Dom’s win now.

[end part seventy-five of ?]

Part 76: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/755752216664621056/absolute-smokeshow-part-76-of-dom-dom

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Tag list (thank you!)

@littlemiss-fanficlover , @babybatlover , @girlofpink , @kagome2909 , @domripley , @wiccanpriestess , @falloutboy-lover , @aut0luminescence , @riverina69 , @itsrheasgirl , @1-800-sinister , @ripleylove , @beeposts

[qveerthe0ry]

Lions Ain't the Kind - Part Two

Summary: You and Frankie can't get each other off your minds'. He asks you on a third date. It's a success. Word Count: 5,741 Pairing: Frankie Morales x NB/Gender-fluid! AFAB! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, subby!Frankie, soft dom!reader, a few brief mentions of alcohol, talks about gender non-conformity, talks about gender dysphoria as it relates to sex, amab terminology for afab genitalia, kissing, making out, oral (afab receiving), dirty talk, premature ejaculation, Frankie has a praise kink, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader A/N: Special shoutout to @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar for letting me bother them about this part while I was writing, love you both dearly <3

Frankie calls you later that night. 

You helped him clean up after, popped some popcorn, and rewound the movie. He snuggled sleepily into your side; the orgasm apparently settled his nerves from before. You both joked about how not-so-great the movie was over a few beers, and then you sent him off with a buttery goodnight kiss. 

But your phone rings as you’re settling into bed for the night, and you think maybe something is wrong, like his car broke down, or he left something at your place. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. I just made it home.” 

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. I just— I wanted to thank you.”

You laugh. Sweet boy, calling to thank you for getting him off. 

“Was it that good?” You joke. 

“No— I mean yes, yes it was. That’s not what I meant though. I’ve never been… Well, you know, I’m not so good at this stuff. And I’ve never felt like… this. And I like it. And I like you. So… thank you.” 

Your face burns at his words, at the thought you could give this man something he needs, this man that you’re quickly developing a habit for. 

“That’s sweet, Frankie. I like you too. A lot.” 

You hear him huff through your tinny phone speakers and in a moment of pure weakness you wish you would’ve asked him to stay over. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, yes. I really do.” 

He laughs, and you can imagine it in your head, what his dimple looks like, the way his curls would look as he shakes his head. 

“That’s awesome.” 

——

Frankie’s a busy guy, you come to find out. He works fairly long hours at his mechanic shop, and he has custody of his daughter every other week, and he also attends community events, he calls them, every Wednesday. 

Your business is relegated to the eight hours a day you spend in your office, and maybe a few hours here or there when you need to take work home with you. 

And you’re not blaming Frankie for it, but the distance makes you want him so much more. He texts you all day long, staggered back and forth when you both have the time. He’ll call you some nights, when his daughter goes to bed early, just to talk about your days. But it isn’t enough. 

It’s not enough because you can’t stop thinking about how he looks in your lap, and how desperate his sounds are, and how his skin feels under your palms. 

It’s driving you mad, replaying that night over and over and craving even more from him. 

It really isn’t just about the sex, though, either. You find yourself thinking of him at the grocery store, wondering if he likes the scent of your favorite deodorant or if you should pick something new. You see an old Ford Ranger as you’re driving to work and wonder if Frankie’s inside. You find a new show on Netflix to watch but pause it after the first five minutes because you think Frankie would like to watch it too, with you. 

And Frankie’s just as bad, if not worse off than you are. 

His days are long and busy but occupied with thoughts of you, even as he’s changing brake pads and tinkering elbow-deep in the hood of another car. 

When he picks up his daughter from school and asks how her day was, he sends off a quick text to ask you about your day, too. 

And after he gets her to bed, and finishes laundry and the dishes and brushing his teeth, he crawls under the covers only to feel like his queen sized mattress is way too big, way too empty. 

That’s when he texts you, Saturday night, heart beating just a bit too fast and feeling a tad heavier than normal. 

I miss you. Are you free tomorrow?

I miss you too, sweet boy. I’ve got nothing going on all day.

Can I pick you up for brunch after I drop off the kiddo? Around noon?

Sounds perfect, can’t wait 😘

And he hardly sleeps because of the anticipation, wondering if this whole thing has just been a fluke. One whole week of not seeing you has his insecurities skyrocketing, despite the texts and phone calls. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 5:36am and he can’t for the life of him tamper down the feelings to fall back to sleep. So he trims up his facial hair, and showers for longer than he usually likes to. He makes a big breakfast for his daughter, and dresses in his nicest jeans and a collared shirt while she giggles at some Sunday morning cartoon. 

It isn’t until he’s halfway to her mom’s house that he realizes he’s a dead giveaway. He winces when she answers the door with her eyebrow raised, greeting cut-off halfway through. 

“Are you going to church now?”

He laughs and rolls his eyes as she waves him into the foyer. 

“Not quite. I think church usually starts earlier than noon, though.”

“So… court?”

“Oh my god, is it that unbelievable that I have a date?”

“At noon?” 

“Brunch date,” he shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“You haven’t dated since we broke up.”

He shrugs again, and can feel the heat beginning to rise to his cheeks. 

“Is this new? Where’d you guys meet?”

He huffs at the interrogation, though he knows there’s no malice behind it. 

“Um… Tinder… couple weeks ago now.”

An amused look spreads across his ex’s face, and he wants to die. 

“Interesting. You’ve met in person, then?”

“Yeah, twice already. Last week.”

“Well, sounds like it’s going good then, yeah?” 

He takes a deep breath in, and nods, and then shrugs. 

“I hope so. Like… I really hope so.” 

Her face softens, and she smiles a sweet smile that lets him know he looks even more vulnerable than he feels, which must be a feat. 

“Then I hope so, too.”

——

When Frankie knocks on your door a little past 12, he surprises you. Gone is that apprehensive look you’ve grown so used to seeing on him. Instead, he’s beaming, a precious and pearly smile splitting his face when you open the door. 

“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath, like he may have ran up the stairs at a less than leisurely pace. 

“Hey, smiley.”

He huffs when you tease him, but his smile doesn’t falter. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Looks good on you.” 

Everything looks good on him, actually. His shirt hugs his chest and his tummy, and his jeans are sucked tight to his thighs, and his hair is that perfect mess of haphazard curls that makes your fingers tingle with the urge to touch. 

“You ready to go?”

He shifts in his spot on your doorway, and you bite your lip as you admire the view. 

“Not yet.”

His mouth opens to respond, but the words don’t get a chance to leave his lips because you’re pressing your own to them. 

Warm, soft, minty. 

His hand finds your waist and yours cups his neatly groomed jaw, and the simple touches make the wires in your system short-circuit. 

Simmer down, you remind yourself, you have to at least get through brunch. 

His smile is still wide when you pull apart, softer now, but no less giddy. He gives you a once-over, taking in one of your favorite outfits you picked out of your closet just for today. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers. 

“So are you.” 

He shrugs, and you let your hand fall from his face to rest on his collar, and then farther down, where his top button lays open to reveal his smooth chest. 

“Brunch?” 

He squeezes your hip when he asks, and you try and fail to hold back a heaved sigh at the prospect of having to be decent in public with this man. 

“Yep. Brunch.” 

He chuckles, kisses the corner of your mouth as soft as ever. 

“Back here for dessert?” 

It shocks you, but it delights you. 

“Francisco, you dirty dog.” 

He backs away with his hands up as you make your way outside, letting you lock up. 

“I’m just trying to ask for what I want,” he mumbles.

He looks sheepish when you turn back to face him, but also proud. You think he should be. 

“I know. You’re being a very good boy for me.”

You smirk all the way to his truck at the way he tugs at his collar and clears his throat, and how his hand feels sweaty in yours. 

——

He takes you to brunch by the river, a place you’ve heard about but you’ve never been to. He’s really sweet, opening doors for you and asking if the table on the patio is alright and turning his entire attention toward you while you wait for your food to come. 

Though you’re both quite handsy, linking your calves together under the table and playing with each others’ fingers on top of it, you really don’t want to go home by the time the check comes. 

He pays this time, of course, and when you’re standing up to leave you suggest taking a walk along the river. His enthusiasm for your suggestion makes your insides feel all sticky and hot, that you’re both on the same page, that even something so little can excite him like it does you.

The thing is, you don’t do this often. Okay, maybe you’ve had many dates that end up exactly like this, walking off a meal and chatting. But it’s very very rare that you get to do it with someone you click with, someone who gets you, someone who makes you feel comfortable in your own skin. 

Frankie does just that, has since day one when you spent hours talking on that godforsaken dating app. And especially now, as he slinks one arm through the loop of your own and uses the other to caress where your sleeve rides up your bicep. His body is warm where it presses into you, only adding to that fuzzy feeling from the couple of mimosas you drank with brunch. 

And when you turn to face him, the happy look on his face is everything. You get tripped up in the sunlight glistening in his brown eyes, the hints of ochre sparkling as his head shifts, before you determine you need to tell him. 

“I like the way I feel with you,” you say earnestly, though the champagne has surely given you a bit of a push. 

“What way is that?” 

His pace slows on the little pebbled pathway, like he really doesn’t want to miss what you say next. 

“Like I can just… turn my brain off and be.”

He chuckles, squeezes your arm. 

“I feel the same. Like I don’t have to pretend to impress you or anything. Like I don’t need to impress you.” 

You hum as you let the words sink in, and lean a little heavier into him as you walk. 

“You do impress me though,” you tell him. 

His breath hitches, you can feel it where he’s pressing into you from chest to hip. 

“You impress me too. I uh— I think you’re probably the most impressive person I’ve ever met.” 

“Weren’t you like, in the military?” 

He laughs, then, full, you can feel it shaking his tummy against your arm. 

“That doesn’t really count. Besides, my military buddies’ skills are limited to the field. I don’t think between the three of them they have more than a handful of civilian brain cells.”

“Harsh,” you laugh, pinching his side between your knuckles. 

“I say it with love, of course. They’re good guys, you’d like ‘em. In a way you might like an annoying sibling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d like you to meet them sometime. Maybe soon. If you’d feel comfortable.”

You don’t know much about this infamous group of guys Frankie’s bonded to, just that they’re his only real friends, and that they’ve all been through a lot. Another gooey feeling spreads through your guts at his proposal. 

“I’d like that. Sometime soon.”

It does worry you a bit. You don’t know much about the military, but you’re aware of the stereotypes. Surely if Frankie’s friends with them, then they aren’t bad guys. 

Frankie must see the fleck of apprehension in you,

Because he stops walking and releases your arm so he can face you squarely. 

“I’m out to them. They’re cool with it. Pope— Santiago— he’s queer too. We’ve been to pride together, all of us. No bad vibes.” 

You wonder if they’ve ever met someone like you. You wonder if Frankie’s told them about you yet. You wonder a lot of things in such a tiny amount of time that you sway a bit on your feet and Frankie reaches out to steady you. 

“Shit— Are you okay??”

“I’m fine,” you’re quick to assure him, “just… I dunno. What if they don’t like me?”

Frankie scoffs. 

“There’s no way they won’t like you. You’re you, you’re kind and funny and smart. What’s not to like?”

“Are you purposefully ignoring the elephant in the room?”

It isn’t heated, the way you ask it, but you’re genuinely curious. Is he beating around the bush, or is he naive, or is it really not a big deal to him?

“Cariño, it’s not an elephant. It’s a— I dunno. A neat… plant,” he shrugs. 

You squint at him, and tilt your head at his explanation. 

“You know what I mean? An elephant in a room is a giant pain in the ass. It’s much more like a cool plant. Maybe one some people aren’t familiar with, but it’s not— you’re not an elephant, is my point.”

You stare at him for a beat longer than you mean to, but once your giggle involuntarily bubbles up out of you, Frankie’s serious face is cracking into a goofy smile. 

“You’re cute,” you tell him, “Jesus Christ.”

Your laughter mellows, and Frankie looks sheepish at your compliments, but he grabs you by the elbows anyway, leans in close to you so that you can smell the way the sun warms his curls and his skin. 

“I mean it though,” he says, “I like you. Exactly how you are. The guys will too.”

Your eyes dart around to your surroundings as Frankie’s lips find your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Without anyone ogling, you shift your head just that much more to let his lips press against yours. 

He hums, leaning harder into you, pulling you closer with his hands at your back. You melt, pliant and lax in his arms, until he huffs and pulls away. 

“Frankie,” you whisper. 

“Yeah?” 

“I want you to take me home.” 

His pupils grow comically large at your request, and this time he’s wobbling on weary legs. 

“Anything you want, mi planta.” 

Your walk back to his truck is… brisk. You’re not sure who’s leading who by the time

Frankie unlocks the doors, both too giggly to really worry about it. He kisses you breathless across the center console before he turns the key in the ignition, and you roll the flavor of him around in your mouth while he pulls out into traffic. 

Frankie’s promise of ‘I like you exactly the way you are’ is rattling around in your head like a pinball in a faulty machine. You’re not sure he can even say that. If he even knows you exactly the way you are. It’s been two dates and a handful of weeks texting back and forth. 

Granted, one of those dates had him shaking and crumbling on top of you, but still. He told you he’s never met someone like you. He said that, and now you have to pull the ‘Ol Talk out of your dusty little hat and you aren’t sure how he’s going to react. He’s given you no reason to believe it’ll be negative, but still. Sometimes it just makes you uncomfortable, to have to explain things that don’t often need explaining. 

Instead of boiling over with nerves the closer you get, though, the anxiety simmers below the surface as you watch Frankie navigate back to your apartment. His side profile is criminal, with his wide eyes and strong nose and stubbly jaw, that dimple that just won’t seem to go away. His curls tickle the nape of his neck and whisp around his temple and you must twirl them between your fingers. So you do, and his answering hum has you squirming in the passenger seat. 

The walk up your apartment stairs is when the nerves start to get the best of you. It takes you two tries to get your door unlocked, and you know Frankie is aware by the way he looks at you when you usher him through the door. 

“Are you okay?”

It’s funny how just a week before you were asking him the same question, and now you’re the one who’s a bundle of frayed nerves when you’d only ever been so cool and calm and collected. 

“I am, I just— Things are different… with me.” 

His concerned brows turn back up when he smiles at you, the softness in his eyes working wonders to ease your anxiety. 

“I like different. Different’s fun.”

You huff. He’s so sweet. It’s hotter than it should be.

“Really. I wanna learn you. Let me, cariño. Please?” 

And god… those are gonna be a big, big problem, his wide, watery puppy eyes framed by long eyelashes that he breaks out like it’s no big deal. Like you wouldn’t murder someone for him if he made those eyes at you and asked nicely. 

You sigh, and nod, and that gets him to drop the eyes at least, replace them with a toothy smile instead. 

“Let me get us some waters, if you wanna get comfy on the couch.” 

It gives you a second to breathe and gather your thoughts as you meander into the kitchen. 

“I missed this couch,” he muses, wistful, and you laugh.

“I’m sure you did, Pretty Boy.” 

You barely hear his huff over the trickle of your Brita filter, but then he speaks up. 

“I love it when you call me that. Drives me crazy.” 

Frankie’s full of this energy you didn’t expect from him, so much more forward now. You suppose the walls have been broken down a bit, ever since your last night together. 

He’s sprawled out on the couch when you return with two glasses, leaning back against the corner of it, and his cock is straining at his jeans. You don’t pretend not to notice, and he doesn’t pretend that he can’t see your eyes tracing the shape of its outline in his dark denim. You place your waters on the coffee table, even as you feel your mouth go dry.

“Told you, drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.” 

The way he looks up at you makes him look so small. Your pulse jumps about it, the way it makes you feel just minutely more comfortable with the conversation you’re about to have. 

And it’s one that you want to have, no matter how un-sexy it feels, or annoying. Because in your experience, when you forgo the conversation until after, they always take it personally when you tell them what you didn’t like. And even though you know it’s bullshit, you can’t stand the thought of Frankie feeling defensive toward you, even if it’s unfounded. 

So you curl up next to him, let his arm that’s slung over the couch rest across your shoulders. You bring your knees up to your chest and plant one hand high on his thigh. You’re so nervous that you almost miss the way it twitches under your palm. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

His thumb rubs tiny loops against your shoulder. Yours mirrors it on his jeans, and it soothes you enough to start speaking. 

“Sometimes I don’t like… certain things. During sex. And sometimes I do. It just depends on my mood,” you start. 

“Yeah, same. I think that’s everyone, right? Normal?” 

You roll your eyes at yourself, because you know he has a point. But yours are a little different. 

“Yeah but… You know how I said sometimes I’m both, and sometimes I’m neither, and sometimes I’m one or the other?” 

“Yeah, ‘course I do.” 

“Welll when I’m… y’know. Sometimes certain words just… turn me off. Make me feel weird, and get in my head and stuff, and then it’s not fun anymore.”

Frankie nods.

“And not like… What I mean is sometimes I like one word, and then another time I won’t like the same word. It’s always different. Depending on what I’m feeling.” 

“Guapo, look at me.” 

It’s then, when Frankie’s deep voice cuts like a searing hot knife, that you realize your eyes have been darting around everywhere but him. 

He’s got a serious look on his face when you finally gaze back, but it’s soft, and it’s comforting, and for a second you think might cry. 

“I think it’s my turn to make you ask for what you want.” 

He smirks when he says it, and it’s so uneasy and so not at the same time. 

You take a deep breath. Release it. Feel the squeeze of your heart unclench a bit. 

“I want you to suck my cock. Today. And tomorrow maybe I’ll want you to eat my pussy. Okay?” 

“Jesus Fuck—“

“I’m sorry—“

“Shut up, you’re so fucking hot.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs and make your face feel like it’s on fire. Even more so when his free hand presses against his erection over his jeans. It spreads, a dangerous flame that curls around your insides, high in your chest and low in your gut, and you tilt your head so you can taste the little whimper that falls from his lips. 

Your hand finds his chest again, like it did that night, and something about his racing heartbeat eases you so much. That he’s just as nervous as you are, even if he’s a bit better at hiding it this time.

He cradles you when he kisses you back, one big, warm hand on the back of your head and his other on your back, wrapped around you, safe. And he’s gentle as he leads you to lie back, even as he growls and nips at your bottom lip. 

Safe. 

His thighs bracket one of yours as he holds himself above you by an elbow on the cushions. You feel his cock, hot and hard, pressed tight against you, throbbing when he shifts his hips for friction. 

You let a noise sneak past your vocal chords, a deeper sigh, and instantly you feel even more vulnerable. 

But Frankie just returns it, grip tightening on the back of your head. He pulls his mouth from yours and instead finds your pulse with it. 

You gasp, and he curses. His hips jerk against you, and you know you’re about to soak through your briefs. His teeth find skin underneath your collar and you egg him on by lifting your thigh to press even tighter against his prick. 

His muttered curse feels hot against your skin, but it quickly runs ice cold when Frankie’s hand sneaks under the hem of your shirt. You grab it quickly, separated by the material, and shake your head back and forth quickly. 

“Not right now,” you whisper, “sorry.” 

He looks up from his toothy assault on your skin to meet your gaze, hand slipping back out from under your shirt, and smiles. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says, hand finding the crook of your thigh instead, “never for that. Always tell me what you need.”

Your breath stutters as he shifts back up to kiss your lips again, his thigh pressing just right between yours as his tongue tastes the roof of your mouth. You grind just like that, and he does too, a hot and damp rustling of fabric as he takes your mouth and whines into it at the friction. 

Your hands get with the program, reach around to squeeze his ass and encourage his thrusts against your thigh. Sparks of arousal shoot through you every time you feel his cock pulse against you. It becomes not enough extremely quickly, especially with the noises you’re coaxing out of him and the way his tongue is sloppy and greedy inside your mouth.

“I need your mouth,” you gasp, your slick lips moving against his own as you speak. 

He groans, licks at your bottom lip one last time. 

“Anything you want.” 

You’re hot, flustered and aching when he finally works on unfastening your pants. All the while his wide doe eyes peer up at you, waiting for any direction. 

He shuffles a bit, settling between your open legs and huffing when he misses the pressure of your thigh against his prick. You thread your fingers through his curls as consolation, and smirk when he shudders and his eyelids droop. 

He gets a hand under your pants, and both of your mouths drop open at the contact to the warmth between your thighs. 

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he sighs, “please let me taste you.” 

His voice is gravelly, sends a wave of tingles up your spine as you grind down into his hand and tighten your grip on his hair. His fingers twitch against you as he gasps and pulls against your hold on his locks, and it’s fucking wicked. 

Your curse and tug him by the hair to bury his face between your legs. You feel his nose squish against you first, then his lips, a hot breath of air released against you. He groans into you, inhales a deep breath, and you see his hips work frantically against the couch cushion underneath him. 

“Frankie.” 

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t dare pull his face away from your center. 

“Take ‘em off,” you order. 

He nods, face still pressed against you, like he’s nuzzling your package, and you have to tug his hair to urge him to get a move on. 

“Sorry, sorry. Fuck— can’t help it.” 

His fingers tremble, just barely, but noticeable nonetheless, as he hooks them under your briefs. One last look up at you, and you nod and tug at his curls, and then he finally pulls the damned things down your legs and off. 

At this point, you don’t have enough wits about you to be shy. You spread your legs, one against the back of the couch, the other dangling off at the knee so your foot touches the floor. The air in your apartment is cool where you’re wet and slick, and your hips wiggle in anticipation. 

All the while, Frankie stares at your center, just inches above you, so close you can feel his ragged breaths with every heave of his chest. He’s a fucking vision like this, between your legs, needy and ready to do what you tell him. 

“Can I—?”

“Suck my cock, Frankie. Wanna see those pretty lips wrapped around it.” 

A stilted breath escapes him as he opens his mouth to press against you. Your hips jolt at the first touch of his tongue through your folds, hot and wet and perfect. He wastes no time following your direction, though, tongue flicking over your cock before he gets it into his mouth and suckles. 

Fuck. 

It’s so fucking good, he’s so fucking good. Your grip on his hair only gets tighter as you watch his hips grind against the couch in a frantic rhythm. He whines and sucks harder, just shy of too much, tongue circling around your dick in between delicious pulses of suction. 

You want to close your eyes and succumb to the pleasure, but you don’t want to miss a moment of this. The way his brow is creased in concentration, his silky curls bobbing up and down in your lap, the fucking noises he makes. The slurps and the grunts and the hums, like he’s getting just as much out of it as you are. 

You suppose he is, the way he’s humping the sofa like he’s in heat.

His eyes flicker up to you, a silent question. 

Is this doing it for you?

“So fucking good, Frankie. Just like that,” you tell him, fingers dragging through his hair, nails scraping at his scalp. 

His eyes close as he hums around you, and yours do too, then, overwhelmed by the feeling. Your hips rock up into his face, fucking it, using him. His grip tightens on your thighs, and your body rocks from the from the way he’s grinding against the couch.

His tongue is wicked and precise, circling your cock, flicking it, circling then flicking, again and again and it makes your whole body buzz, has you out of your fucking mind. 

And you suppose that’s why the words just fall from your lips; there’s no filter left, just raw, overwhelmed senses and adrenaline.

“Fuck, good boy Frankie. Letting me fuck your face, like the perfect little toy.”

“Hah— shit,” he whines, hips stuttering between your legs just for a moment as his lips lose their grasp on your dick.

“Prettiest mouth, all for me, right?” 

You watch him as he looks up at you and nods, mouth hung open, his tongue sliding up and down your slit at the quick motion. He looks a mess, with his mustache glistening and his pupils huge and dark and his hair sticking up every which way. His eyelids droop and his brows draw up tight and he looks so so perfect between your legs.

With another pathetic noise, he sucks your cock between his lips again. You take mercy on his hair, let your hand find the back of his neck and cradle, massage the tense muscles under your fingertips. You feel him shudder against you, watch as his hips speed up in time with the bobbing of his head between your thighs.

And it’s building, blazing through your system, fiery static that has you breathing quicker, arching your back as your muscles tense. 

Frankie’s noises only press you closer and closer to the edge, the way they’re muffled around your prick in his mouth, the way he’s clutching onto your hip and fucking your couch cushion as he slurps and suckles. It’s soaking wet and hot and much better than you’ve felt in a very long time. 

“So close, don’t stop,” you beg. 

Frankie’s answering noise is strung-out and his grip is bruising on your hip. You lift your hips into his mouth and your hand finds his hair again. You tug and encourage him to suck you off faster, just a bit, just enough.

You cry out his name as you shake. You hope the grip you’ve taken on his hair isn’t too tight, but none of your movements are your own until all the tension leaves your body. He works you through it as his breath puffs faster and heavier against your mound, gradually suckling softer, bobbing his head slower and slower while he groans around you.

Slowly, your muscles relax and your tendons unclench and your eyes open just in time to watch Frankie press a kiss to your swollen, twitching bud. 

“Jesus,” you manage through a breath. 

His grin is shy as he rests his cheek on your thigh. He strokes you through your comedown, quiet and calm, his fingertips soothing your thigh and your hip. 

“How was that?” 

You laugh at his question, and he hides his own chuckles in the crease of your hip. 

“Incredible.” 

He hums, and you ruffle his hair when his gaze turns sheepish. 

“What do you need, Pretty Boy?”

He’s flushed, and his curls are a little damp at his temples as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t need anything, Guapo.” 

You try to muster up as stern a look as you can with your brain still fuzzy and your muscles still lax and gooey. His big brown eyes look up at you, pleading, and his shy look turns embarrassed. 

Instead of speaking, he grunts as he sits back on his knees. You take note of the way his teeth scrape his bottom lip before you follow his eyeline, down his still heaving chest and belly. 

You try not to let your eyes widen when you see the substantial damp patch soaked through his denim, but you must not have been subtle, because he makes a high, cut-off noise from the back of his throat. 

“Sorry,” he says with a grimace. 

“Shut up, you’re so fucking hot,” you chirp. 

Those little dimples you’ve come to adore rear their heads even as he shakes his. 

You sit up to press a kiss to one, then the other, and then his lips. You savor the heady taste of yourself on them, hum happily into his mouth as his trembling fingers stroke your skin. 

You both change into comfier clothes. The sight of him wrapped up in your things has a whirlwind of emotions wreaking havoc in your chest. Something primal and something domestic all at the same time, and you have to tug him close in your grasp to tamper it all down to a manageable level. 

His body weight tucked half into your side, half on top of you works wonders to calm you, especially as your hand finds his silky curls once more and you feel each strand slip through your fingers. 

Frankie sighs, big and heavy, and it tickles your neck.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

He chuckles and nuzzles his nose into the sensitive skin behind your ear. 

“Thinking it’s kinda crazy, being so into someone I met a month ago.” 

Your pulse jumps at his words. You wonder if he can feel it where he’s pressed against you. 

“Yeah, kinda crazy,” you agree. 

“Feels stupid.”

His curls brush against your face when he shakes his head, huffs again, but you hear the smile in his voice. 

“Life’s kinda stupid.”

“It is, isn’t it?” 

You chuckle at him as you watch his fingers tap an incoherent rhythm on your stomach.

“Seems fair, doesn’t it? To lean into the stupid when you get the chance?” 

He turns to you then, a soft smile crinkling the edges of his wide eyes.

“Sounds fair to me,” he mumbles.

last part / next part

[f-o-r-g-e-t-m-e-n-0-t]

Axel was pacing.

Phone in hand, he walks back and forth across his living room, so much so that he half expects to leave a line in the old carpet. He stares down at his phone, thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button, willing himself just to push the damn thing as a hundred questions flitted through his mind, preventing him from doing so.

Was it okay to call? Would he pick up? Would he be annoyed? Did he even have the same number still?

Axel chews his lower lip as he makes another lap around the room. Finally, with a deep breath, Axel hits the button and collapses down onto the couch with a sigh, knee bouncing as he listens to the tinny ringing coming through the phone’s speaker.

Just as he’s about to hang up out of fright, the ringing stops with a click.

“Hello?”

The voice - that familiar voice - makes Axel suck in a sharp breath, his stomach filled with butterflies as though he were sixteen again calling his crush.

“R-roxas! Hi! It’s uh, it’s me, Axel.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, a fraction of a second that feels more like an eternity. Axel worries the other man will hang up.

“Axel!” Roxas replies, sounding more surprised than anything. “It’s been awhile… what, uh… what’s up?”

He doesn’t sound angry, or annoyed. Rather, he sounds about as awkward and timid as Axel feels, if Axel’s reading him right.

“Oh, well…” Axels eyes scan the room and land on the box sitting on his coffee table. Old cardboard, bent and scuffed at the corners, the flaps opened to expose the contents inside. “I found some things of yours. Some of your summer clothes, looks like.”

Another small pause, and then a chuckle. “Is that right?” Roxas asks, his voice warming, and Axel can practically see the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Yeah, they were in a closet. I was looking for my winter jacket, actually, and stumbled across them.” Peeking into the box once again, Axel glances a pair of old sneakers, some t-shirts and tank tops, a pair or two of shorts. “That Destiny Island tank top you like is in here,” he says. He recalls exactly how Roxas looked in it too, sunlit hair and tanned skin, walking along the sand, looking right at home in the short few months they call summer.

“Yeah?” Roxas asks. “I though I’d lost it years ago.”

“I bet,” Axel chuckles. “I figure I can give them away if you don’t want them, but if you do I can mail it down to ya. You’ll just have to remind me your new address.”

Roxas hums on the other end of the line. “Right, right… here,” He tells Axel his mailing address and Axel dutifully jots it down in his notes. It’s quiet, then, both men lapsing into silence, unsure of what to say or do now that Axel’s reason for calling is taken care of. Axel chews the inside of his cheek while he listens to the clock tick on the wall and the soft staticky sound of the other end of the phone.

Then, “So… how have you been?”

Axel’s startled by the question, and takes a moment to answer. “O-oh, I’m alright!” he answers. “Staying busy, mostly. Getting ready for winter to roll in; you know it’s just around the corner.”

“I imagine so,” Roxas says with a hum. “Winters there are as cold as ever, I suspect.”

Axel chuckles. “Yeah, that much hasn’t changed. Whole town hasn’t changed much, really.”

“That right?”

“Yeah, I mean, you know how it is. Lotta talk but nothing really happens. Oh, except I guess they did build that new casino.”

“Really? Never thought that would actually go through.”

“Oh it did,” Axel says, leaning back on the couch, phone pressed to his ear. “They called it Little Reno and everything! Course, it’s already got a busted light that ain’t nobody’s bothered to fix, so everyone’s calling it ‘Little Eno.”

He hears Roxas snort on the other end of the line and it makes something so terribly warm bloom in Axel’s chest. He’s missed that sound, Roxas’ laughter. More often than sometimes, he’s wondered when he stopped making Roxas laugh. When their conversations turned to arguments, and when those arguments turned to cold silences.

It’s good to talk again now. To talk like they used to, catching up, gossiping a little, perhaps. Axel tells Roxas about the latest events in town, and Roxas tells Axel of his new job, his new friends. His new life. A life Axel wishes… wishes he were a part of. Wishes he had done things differently, wishes he hadn’t dug his heels so firmly into the mud that he got stuck, when Roxas so clearly wanted more than what their little town could offer him. Offer them.

“I miss you,” he says, lips moving before his brain can catch up. “E-everyone does, I mean!”

Roxas is silent, so Axel continues, stumbling clumsily through… whatever it is he’s trying to say. “You c-could come visit, you know! I mean, I know it’s about to be winter and you never really liked winter here. I don’t care for it much either - it’s gonna snow soon, and I always think about you- I mean how much you don’t like the snow… but there’s a lotta good people here who’d love to see you again-!” He’s rambling. He knows he’s rambling. He can’t stop. “I could even hang on to some of these things for you. Some sneakers or something, you know, when-if you visit-!”

“I could probably make the trip,” Roxas says, softly, yet it silences Axel immediately. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the old place.”

Silence, again. Something between them unsaid, yet so felt.

“You should visit too,” Roxas finally adds, sounding more hesitant now. “I mean, if you want. You don’t have to-“

“Yes!” Axel says, far too quickly. Far too loud. Yes for all the times and times and times he told Roxas no. For all the times Roxas held out his hand and Axel refused to take it. For all the times Axel stubbornly dug his heels in and ignored the way Roxas slipped and slipped and slipped from him.

He can hear Roxas’ sigh of relief, his anxious, held breath leaving him. Can hear the way he smiles, soft and warm like summer.

“Why don’t you hang on to my things, then?” Roxas asks. “I’ll get them when I visit. I can even bring that winter coat you were looking for.”

[aspecbuddie]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

tagged by @aroeddiediaz <3

my obsession with my post-6x15 fic has returned full force apparently so have a slightly longer than intended tidbit because I couldn't decide where to stop it xD

The conversation is interrupted by shuffling in the doorway. Eddie turns to find a pyjama-clad Chris stood there, phone in hand. “Hey, buddy,” he says softly. “What are you doing up?” “He wants to talk to you,” Chris states, walking further into the room until he’s stood in front of Eddie, holding out the phone. “Who--?” Eddie barely has time furrow his brows in confusion before he catches sight of the screen. “Hey, Buck.” “Hey, Eddie.” Behind Buck, Eddie can see the dim interior of the 118’s Captain’s office. Buck looks like he could use a nap, which isn’t unusual at this time of night. Eddie glances between Chris – who is now sat curled against his side on the couch – and Buck. “And why does Buck need to speak with me this late?” Chris mumbles something that he doesn’t quite catch, so Buck clarifies for him. “He called me because the lightning was keeping him awake,” Buck explains, voice soft and apologetic in the way Eddie knows means that he wishes he was there helping in person, rather than three states away. “Ahh,” he says, but really that raises more questions than it answers. He swivels around, as best as he can with a child attached to his side, to glance out the window. Surely he’d have noticed a storm, wouldn’t he? Almost as if the universe is mocking him, there’s immediately a flash of lightning as his eyes reach the window, followed by the clap of thunder a few seconds later. For a moment he’s pulled back two months, to Buck, can you hear me?! and talk to me! and Eddie you’re driving, get off! Jaw clenched, chest tight, entire body on alert, fighting off the beginnings of panic because Chris is right there and Buck— Buck is saying his name. “Eddie,” Buck repeats, the sound tinny from the phone speakers, but real and awake and alive. He focuses his gaze back on the screen. Buck is closer to the screen than he was a minute ago, and looks significantly more concerned. “Yeah, I’m here.”

i really wish i knew who to tag in these things but alas :))))))

[allylikethecat]

“Your last emergency call was you crying over not having any more sweets at your place, so excuse me for being distrustful.” This reminds me of the eye fic when George had to come over in the middle of the night haha. Could still be cute for something else tho

OK SO I know I have an absolute bajillion prompts that are much older than this one in my inbox. This prompt is actually from today. However kind anon, this was my favorite prompt from the Late Night Call Prompts list and I got way too excited about it because you're right, it also reminds ME of the eye infection fic and then it got me thinking... what if Fictional!Matty really was calling for a dumb reason this time lol Anyway I have decided that I'm going to try and keep my prompt fills to around 500 words moving forward so that hopefully I'll actually be able to fill some of these. And because I got excited I filled this one first. Anyway, here it is, it's silly but I enjoyed working on it and I hope you like it too! Thank you so much for the continued support and sending me this prompt request! I hope you had a lovely Tuesday and that you have a great rest of your week!

❤️Ally

“Your last emergency call was you crying over not having any more sweets at your place, so excuse me for being distrustful.”

“Yes Matthew?” George answered on the fourth ring, barely catching the call before it went to voicemail. His voice was thick with sleep and Matty felt a pang of guilt for waking him up but quickly pushed it away. 

“What do you mean, yes Matthew?” Matty asked, crossing his arms over his chest even though he knew that George couldn’t see him. George was thousands of miles away in LA, where it was very much the middle of the night. Meanwhile Matty was stuck in London with a sinus infection, his doctor advising him it was best to sit this one out. He had only been going to LA with George as moral support and to sit on the beach anyway, while he worked on Charli’s new record. “What if it was some kind of emergency? What if I was in the hospital? What if I was dying, George?” 

“I would hope you’d call Ross or Adam then because I am nearly six thousand miles away and thus unable to help you if  you were in the hospital,” said George with a yawn, his voice sounding far away and tinny through Matty’s speaker phone. It made his heart ache, he didn’t want George to be so far away, especially when he was still feeling poorly despite the antibiotics. 

“Well what if it was some other kind of emergency then?” Matty asked, George would be home in a few days, but it still felt like a few days too long. 

“Matthew,” said George, the exasperation obvious in his voice. “Your last emergency call was you crying over not having any more sweets at your place, so excuse me for being distrustful.” 

“Okay first off,” said Matty, “I was extremely stoned and I couldn’t remember how my legs worked to go to the store and get more, so it really was an emergency, if I didn’t have something with chocolate as soon as possible I might have actually died.”

George yawned again, “can we stop talking about you dying?” George asked, “I know you’re a dramatic little fuck but I don’t like the idea of that.” 

Matty huffed, not appreciating being called dramatic or little but also somehow warmed that George didn’t like him joking about his death. 

“Fine,” said Matty, picking at a loose thread on his sweatpants. “How is LA?” 

“Hot and sunny,” said George, “and the middle of the night.” He yawned again. 

“If you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine,” said Matty and George sighed. 

“I do want to talk to you, I always want to talk to you,” said George, wishing Matty would just get to the point, he had clearly called for a reason and was dancing around the topic. “It’s just the middle of the night and I’m tired, so if you could get to the point that would be great.” 

“It’s fine,” said Matty, running his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling silly, “it’s not that big of a deal, you’re right it’s not an emergency or anything it can wait.” 

“Matthew,” said George, he just wanted to go back to sleep. “You already have me on the line, and it was obviously important to you to call me this late. What’s up?” 

Matty swallowed hard, bracing himself for George’s reaction. “Em, what’s the Netflix password again?” 

Matty sighed as he was met with the dial tone. George had hung up on him. 

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Worthy, Pt 16

part 1 & 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15

__________

tags: @bolontiku, @rampant-salamander, @darkdragonpheonix , @440mxs-wife,  @castiels-sunflowers, @peekingsunshine, @alexakeyloveloki, @feelmyroarrrr​

word count: 3054 __________

The fabrication shop was noisy and dirty and there was a radio playing metal, blasting as loud as it could through crappy, tinny speakers. The guys were the only thing that wasn’t a walking stereotype of a machine shop. Their coveralls were clean and in good repair and I was willing to lay down money that if I asked to see any of their hands there wouldn’t be a single dirty fingernail in the lot. I was impressed. Everything about the shop was perfection.

I’d sent down the plans for the body for the washer a few days earlier and I’d had a message sitting in my email to come down and check out the work when I’d checked my inbox over morning coffee. One of the guys approached me, a smug smile that made me instantly uneasy spreading across his face. I realized I probably looked a little out of place, in my neat kitten heels and pencil skirt. I was dressed for another afternoon visiting high schools, not in my usual tee and jeans uniform for in the labs. With the outfit and the styled hair and splash of make-up, he probably didn’t recognize me from when I’d been toured around by Markus.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He was polite at least. The last machine shop I’d stepped into I’d received more lewd comments than competently completed work.

“I got an email from Erik Schiffer this morning that my casing and drum are ready for first proofing,” I explained.

“Ms. Carmichael! I never would have recognized you in that get-up. You clean up good,” he offered an appreciative look and then cringed. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

I took a step back, a little surprised.

“Nothing wrong with giving a compliment,” I shook my head, regretting that I couldn’t remember his name.

“I’m having a hard time figuring out what is a compliment and what is harassment. I don’t want to offend people. This job is like a dream come true, but I’ve been working in a machine shop in Jersey for a lot of years. It’s a different culture.” I could tell by the way he spoke that he was in earnest and really wanted to be sure he was fitting in with the corporate culture of Stark Industries. And quite frankly, even if that was the only reason he was trying, it was worth it. The rest would come eventually.

“You’re okay so far. I’ll let you know,” I laughed. He led me over to Erik’s office and stopped outside the closed door. Erik was on the phone with someone and it was heated. You could see him through his office door, gesturing wildly with one hand. His face was bright red. We looked at one another awkwardly and didn’t say anything. Erik’s voice got louder and I cleared my throat.

“I’m sorry. I know we were introduced, but I can’t remember your name,” I admitted. He smiled broadly.

“Yeah, you were way more interested in the machines when Markus brought you through. Aaron Smith,” he offered his hand. I shook it. There was something refreshing about the strength of his grip. Like he was proving he had respect for me by not half-assing his handshake.

“Look kid, I don’t care how fucking brilliant you are, everything goes into the queue. When it hits the front of the queue it gets fabricated. That’s how I run this goddamn machine shop, and I run it that way with Pepper’s approval. Your failure to plan ahead does not constitute a fucking emergency in my world!” We both jumped at the sound of the phone slamming into the cradle. My eyes met Aaron’s and widened.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

“We’ve been having issues with the other intern,” he explained. Erik flung open the door and started ranting without even realizing I was there.

“That fucking prick wants us to bump him through the queue. We’re partway through Carmichael’s project and then Stark has a personal project in the queue, Reid’s department has another project lined up and then Emerson’s project can hit the machines. I’m pretty sure he got the same orientation that the other intern got. She’s not a dipshit, and can follow directions, so what’s his fucking excuse?” His arms were getting a workout, they were emphasizing so many of his words. I bit my lip to hide a smile at being referred to as ‘not a dipshit’. Some compliments come from strange places, in strange ways. I wasn’t foolish enough to not take them where I found them. Aaron coughed and raised an eyebrow, glancing over Erik’s shoulder at me. Erik turned and sighed. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”

“Let’s just proof my parts, and forget about it,” I suggested. He nodded and tilted his head toward the back of the shop before leading me over.

“We have the parts fabbed and ready for powder coating, but I wanted to be sure you were happy with them first. And I thought you might want to have some fun with the colour. You requested white. That’s boring. No one has a white washer and dryer anymore. My wife bought us a purple set. She calls it aubergine but it’s fucking purple. So you can do whatever you like colourwise.” We wove between a couple of machines to get to the powder coat room. I pulled out my tools and double-checked all the measurements against my plans. Everything looked perfect. I wanted to hug the pieces to me, I felt so strangely proud of what I’d accomplished. As I was flicking through plans on my tablet, a message popped up from Pepper asking me to call her.

“I’m sorry, I need to make a quick call, and then we’ll talk colour,” I apologized and took a few steps away from the men as I dialed Pepper. “This is Ella,” I said when she answered.

“Ella, hi! Sorry, our appointment got bumped back until next week. I know you’d blocked this time off, so I want you to take the afternoon and do something fun. Angela tells me you haven’t done anything remotely not-work-related in weeks.” Pepper spoke quickly, like breathing would be a waste of time.

“That’s not true. I went and saw the Statue of Liberty with Bruce just the other day,” I protested.

“That was a week ago. Go out and do something. That’s actually an assignment. From your boss,” Pepper ordered. I laughed.

“Alright,” I agreed. I turned back to Erik and Aaron and checked the last couple of measurements. Everything was perfect. “So, aubergine?” I asked.

“It’s been done,” Erik laughed. I smirked and pulled up a copy of the plans. I did a quick flood-fill of colour on a few parts and showed it to him and Aaron. They both cracked up and nodded. “Done. Just promise me that we can be there when you present it.” Every completed prototype got a presentation to Pepper, Tony and the board of directors at Stark Industries. I nodded.

“Of course! You were instrumental in ensuring this project got made. And you recommended a colour change. I wouldn’t want you to miss the reveal for the world,” I laughed. Erik shook my hand and Aaron clapped me on the shoulder. He walked me back to the shop entrance.

“It was nice to meet you properly, Ella. It’s gonna be good to work with you.” He struck me as a completely genuine person, and I could see that working with both him and Erik was going to be easy. They were fantastic artisans, and anyone who suggested a fabrication shop wasn’t a place where art happened deserved to be shot. The work they had done for me was perfect and beautiful. I’d met a lot of people who complained that the guys only ran the machines, but there was a certain amount of finesse that was required to get excellent results, and from the look of my pieces, I knew I was working with experts.

“Thanks for showing me around.” I stepped onto the elevator and headed back to the lab. There was a bouquet of daisies on my desk. The plain glass vase was tied with a bright pink ribbon. I looked at Jem, the guy whose desk was beside mine. He shrugged wordlessly and went back to whatever it was he was working on. I looked for a card but didn’t find one, but whoever it was had done their research. Daisies were my favourite flower. Simple, plain and perfect. I’d learned about the Fibonacci sequence from daisies when I was a little girl. It had ignited my passion for math and stuck with me ever since.

I secured my desk and took the daisies with me back to my apartment. I placed them on the kitchen island, where I was sure to be able to see them from almost anywhere in my apartment. Once I was happy with how they were arranged, all puffed out like a dandelion cloud, I turned to my fridge and stared into it, willing something to leap out at me and demand to be eaten. Food didn’t work that way, but I held out hope that in a place as advanced and mysterious as Stark Tower could be that someday my food would just know it was time to be eaten and present itself to me.

“Ms. Carmichael, are you finding the ambient temperature in the apartment too high?” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice broke me out of the bored contemplation of the contents of my fridge.

“Huh? Why?” I was startled. J.A.R.V.I.S. and I didn’t interact enough for it not to surprise me every time the voice spoke from my ceiling.

“The refrigerator has been open for 3 minutes and 17 seconds, Ms. Carmichael and the heat signature in the apartment puts you directly in front of the door. Are you too warm?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asked. I could feel my cheeks flush and reached blindly for the first thing I saw before slamming the fridge closed.

“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about lunch,” I explained. I’d grabbed sour cream. I sighed and reopened the fridge, replacing the sour cream on the shelf. I resumed staring at the contents of my fridge.

“Ms. Carmichael, as Mr. Stark would say, kindly stop calling penguins,” J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke again. I barked out a laugh. It was the exact thing my father said when I spent too much time glaring into the fridge. I closed the door again and decided I was likely going to head out for lunch when a knock came at my door. I wasn’t expecting anyone, as Angela had to finish her workday. Leif and Thor had both returned to Asgard earlier in the week, the day after my ‘date’ with Bruce, and I’d seen none of them since, although Bruce hadn’t returned to completely avoiding me. He’d texted every morning to let me know he was busy on a project, but would touch base with me again in the afternoon to see about connecting for dinner. I wasn’t quite sure what we were doing. Sort of seeing one another, I suppose.

As I daydreamed about what exactly was happening with Bruce, whoever it was at my door knocked again. I shook my head and walked over to open it.

“Are your ears burning?” I laughed when I saw it was Bruce. He looked confused.

“No?” He touched one of them and scratched his head. I laughed again.

“I was just thinking about you,” I explained. He nodded, understanding. I held open the door and gestured for him to enter. “I was just thinking about what to do for lunch. Maybe we can figure something out together.” I shut the door and followed him toward the kitchen. He put a paper bag up on the counter and started pulling takeaway containers out of it.

“Great minds think alike.” He started popping tops off of containers and the aroma from the freshly delivered Chinese food reached my nose. My mouth started watering.

“Fools seldom differ,” I teased, pulling open a drawer and pulling out cutlery. Bruce let out a short bark of laughter and shook his head. He swept the cutlery back into the drawer and handed me a pair of chopsticks. I looked in the containers he’d laid out. There was some gooey meat and vegetables in one of them. “What is that?”

“You’ve never had moo goo gai pan?” He asked, picking up a piece with the chopsticks. “Open up.” I raised an eyebrow but opened my mouth. He put a piece of what I discovered was chicken in my mouth. It was tender and moist. I nodded as I chewed.

“You win this round, Dr. Banner. Good lunch choice,” I picked up another piece of chicken from the box, and popped it into my mouth. While I chewed, I grabbed a container and walked over to the couch. I flopped into the corner of it and patted the spot beside me. Bruce collected the other containers and dropped them on the coffee table before he sat down beside me. I narrowed my eyes and looked at him. “Did you put Pepper up to this?”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Pepper just gave me the afternoon off. Did you arrange that?”

“No, I ran into her this morning shortly after your thing was cancelled. I made an executive decision to bring you lunch,” he responded. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good decision,” I praised him, flushing slightly once I realized how natural it felt to just kiss him. I don’t know that I’d ever felt comfortable enough with a man to just show that level of relaxed affection. He shifted a little closer and we continued eating in silence. I put my empty container on the coffee table when I’d finished and reached for the TV remote.

“Movie?” I asked. He nodded. I opened up Netflix and chose the first recommendation without even looking at it. I leaned back into my spot and Bruce slipped his arm around me. The movie was terrible. I didn’t mind so much because Bruce’s arm was around me and we were snuggled up in the corner of my couch, but it was a horrible film. Lousy plot, terrible acting, and ridiculously unbelievable premise. I handed the remote to Bruce.

“You get to choose this time. I’m fired from this job,” I laughed. Bruce took the remote and leaned across me, dropping his head and brushing his lips against mine while at the same time turning the TV off. He dropped the remote on the carpet and brought his hand to my side. I felt my pulse race and brought a hand to his cheek. His stubble was rough against my palm. His free hand slid down my waist to rest on my hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there before sliding down further to pull my thigh against his. I leaned closer and knocked us both off balance and we rolled over the edge of the couch to the carpet. Bruce knocked the coffee table out of the way as we fell, and pulled me against him to cushion my fall. I felt the breath go out of him in a quick burst and giggled, thinking I probably needed to lay off the take-out. He stabilized me against his hip and I rolled onto my back, dragging him against me, pulling him down to me with his shirt collar. His mouth found mine again and I no longer felt self-conscious or inexperienced, I just felt like I wanted whatever was happening.

His fingers dug into my thigh, almost painful, and I gasped, my eyes opening. I could feel Bruce’s heartbeat racing, his chest against mine, and when his eyes met mine, I could see they were taking on a green cast. I felt a hitch of panic, and then pulled my arms from around his neck, cradling his face in my hands. I brought his lips to mine, slowly, deliberately, and gently kissed him, focusing all my energy on relaxing my racing heart, which was beating in sync with his. The pounding in my head became less fierce, but my pulse was still hammering. I took another deep breath and tried to feel the world around me. I had no problem with my own body aligning with Bruce’s, but I was untrained in this strange magic that I owned and was unsure how I’d pushed it into him the last time he’d begun to change. I tried to remember all the connection with the world stuff I’d learned the one time I’d taken a yoga course, and for lack of a better word, followed the connection of my heart with his. I felt his heart, beating heavily, in my own chest, and broke the kiss to take a deep breath. Pulling him back to me, I tangled my lips with his own again, closing my eyes and expelling the long breath through my nose. My fingers and toes tingled, and everywhere that Bruce’s body was touching mine was tight with electricity. Bruce’s hands stilled, and I opened my eyes and met his warm chocolate eyes again. I reached up to run my hand through his hair and shocked him, startling us both. He shook his head and then dipped down to kiss me again.

When we heard the throat clearing above us, we sprang apart. I’m not sure who I was expecting. Thor, or Leif maybe. Perhaps Angela. I wasn’t sure we’d closed the door all the way, and Angela was welcome to come in when the door was cracked. Thor and Leif had a habit of showing up inside whether I wanted to or not. But I wasn’t expecting Loki. I shot to my feet, as did Bruce. I could feel his heart rate rising again and grabbed his hand, pushing all the calming energy I could muster into him through the tenuous connection.

“Unhand my daughter, you foul beast.” Loki spat the words, clearly articulating each syllable.

[lucifra-writes]

Eggshell 1.2

...stay put and keep an eye on this Amber,” said May’s father, ephemeral voice further attenuated by the tinny phone speaker. “There’s no guarantee that the Circle of the Flesh didn’t send anyone else, even if it’s unlikely given how independent Cato is, or if some other factor might be involved.” His voice took on a bitter note on the werewolf’s name- he’d been close with his mother before her death, and even lost an eye to the cannibal before his father managed to drive him off.

“And you want me to dig for information while I’m here,” May said, voice flat.

“Not as such, but I wouldn’t deny any information you can get out of casual conversation with her,” he responded, voice level.

May sighed. “Fine, fine. Let me know when the faerie forces show up so we can turn him over to them.” While most of the Fair Folk were known to be… unreliable, outside of their word, there was a contingent that had successfully earned a reputation as being reliable and, more importantly, humane prisoner transport- known for both their status as more fair than any other police force on the planet and the most devoted to their job. Michael Cato was, one way or the other, going to make it to the custody of our enclave, even if they had to storm Castle Nevermore to do so.

With that out of the way, she turned to a far more difficult task: pumping a spellcaster of unknown power, with esoteric techniques the likes of which she’d never seen, for information.

Even the humblest of hedge mages, the freshest of apprentices, and the most gregarious of ambassador-wizards treated the knowledge they’d accrued over their careers with as much miserly secrecy as the dragons of old treated their hoard, and this was those without the skill to exhale conjured anesthetics and shapeshift. Expecting her to be any less secretive was a pipe dream at best, even given her earlier comments.

That in mind, she still had to try, if for nothing else than the ability to say she did.

“So,” she said, feeling a phantom flutter of her wings as she pressed down her nerves, “That was certainly impressive.”

Amber shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t really have a frame of reference for that kind of stuff, so I just went with what I knew.”

Mentally, May adjusted her impression of the other woman from “hidden archmage” to either “neophyte savant” or “some side of inherited affinity”- an average mage, at least as far as that went, would have had much more difficulty with either conjuring or transmuting a soporific in their mouth without letting it affect them, let alone conjuring enough silver to bind a werewolf.

“Well, as someone with a frame of reference,” said May, “that kind of conjuration is very impressive, even if the application is… foolhardy.”

“Oh?” asked Amber, one almost inhumanly perfect eyebrow rising.

May ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach and the prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, the ones that told her that she’d just made a mistake, and continued speaking. “Well, yeah. Conjuration magic is tricky at the best of times, according to friends I have who rub elbows with people who actually practice that kind of magic. The extra mental focus that it would take to actually make sure you didn’t hurt yourself with that… I mean, I get having a flair for theatricality, but was that really the prudent thing to do?”

The taller woman blinked, and the not-quite-smell of ozone vanished as if it’d never existed. “Oh. Is that all? Yeah, no, it’s actually easier for me to exhale things than to do conjuration in other ways. I think it might have something to do with, like, mental associations on my end or something like that. This is all conjecture and trial and error, so I can’t promise accuracy, but it’s what it looks like at least on my end.”

May blinked, something about what Amber said not computing.

“Yeah, see, it’s easier to do this-” here, Amber pursed her lips as if to whistle, but instead of sound a plume of flame, one that seemed to threaten to scorch her eyebrows even from across the table the two were sitting at, billowed out from her mouth- “-than to do this.” This time, she snapped her fingers, causing a fireball to bloom into existence- one much dimmer and not nearly as hot as the plume of fire she’d exhaled. “See, it even felt weaker.”

“...I see,” said May, still reeling from the way that the other woman had produced two different pyrotechnics displays within fifteen seconds with no noticeable signs of effort after having conjured anesthetic inside her mouth.

“Yeah, I have no idea why either,” Amber continued, lackadaisical tone seeming almost grating to May whose brain was still occupied with how much sense this situation was making- that is to say, none at all. “Honestly, I was hoping you’d have more of an explanation than just ‘what you’re doing goes against established conventional wisdom even though the fact of your doing it means that it is at minimum not universally applicable’, I’ve been stuck with trial and error to date.”

Well, it wasn’t like May was going to get an easier chance to pump the other woman for information anytime soon.

“What have you managed to figure out?” she asked, at least as much out of curiosity as of desire to know what, exactly, this woman was capable of (or up to, not that that information was likely to be directly forthcoming even if she asked about it directly).

“Not a whole lot, the past month has been mostly yearly retraining and I only figured out a little bit before that.” She stretched, then sighed, one hand rubbing frustratedly at her face. “What I’ve managed to figure out is that I can do all kinds of funky stuff with energy conjuration and manipulation, like charging my phone like that-” she snapped, a crisp sound that was accompanied by some small electrical sparks and a distinct smell of ozone- “-or starting fires, that kind of thing, as well as doing the whole shapeshifting thing at least a little and either conjuring or transmuting some relatively simple chemicals- think, like, table sugar, salt, a couple of simple scent molecules like cinnamaldehyde, that sort of thing. Desflurane is actually a little less complicated than sugar, but for whatever reason it was harder to actually get that one than sugar.”

“I… I’m not sure what that means. As far as I’m aware, mages start with testing of one stripe or another to determine what kind of magics they’re most naturally equipped to cast either via biological resonance or mindset, and then they end up being exposed to other mages who are aligned with that kind of magic before they start learning that kind of magic. At least, that’s how it was for me when I first went into lumimancy,” said May. “Maybe whoever my reinforcements end up being could help out with that.”

“Ojala,” said Amber, running a slightly scaly hand through her hair.

The reinforcements, as May put it, didn’t make a particularly good impression.

That is to say, bursting in through a window well in advance of the Fair Folk contingent he was meant to accompany, with a blast of light in one hand, was not a particularly good look for her brother.

On the positive side, startling another spell out of Amber, at least, inasmuch as May could call an energy construct as tall as her torso that vaguely resembled a medieval triangular shield, albeit more rounded and organic, a spell seeing as how it appeared to be more instinctive than anything.

“...again,” Dylan said, antennae looking almost wilted as he looked at Amber with what May would have been comfortable calling puppy dog eyes if they weren’t on a mothfolk, “I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding, I thought that when Dad said you needed backup, you needed backup, you know?”

May sighed, resisting the urge to let her wings manifest and flutter frustratedly. “I know he didn’t send you, where’s Shawn?”

“...with the Fair Folk,” he said after a moment, deflating visibly.

“Thought so. Now then, please, try not to piss off the mage who’s in the middle of cleaning up after your mess any more than you already have,” May continued, making sure to make direct eye contact with her younger brother.

“Hey! If I didn’t-” he started, puffing himself up.

“Kid. You’re not helping.” Amber didn’t turn around from where she was assembling the shattered pieces of the window on the ground as best she could, but it was obvious that he was who her words were directed at, not least because of his age.

“Hey! I’m not a kid, I’m a teenager! I’m fourteen, you better show me some respect or-”

“Or what, brat?” Amber turned around and the same ozone-scented pressure that May had felt earlier was back, and her eyes glowed with an unearthly violet light. “You’ll make me fix another fucking window?”

Dylan shrank back, paling under his blonde hair, and Amber closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, visibly fighting down her anger. “May, please take your kid brother out of the room before one of us does something else worth regretting.”

“Good idea,” said May, grabbing her brother by his shirt collar and all but dragging the beanpole of a boy out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut, May turned to Dylan. “I’m not going to ask what it was you were thinking, since I’m pretty sure I already know what was going through your head, but I am going to ask when you’re going to learn how to think things through before you go haring off into the world like you did in Disneyland.”

“I’m not gonna apologize for that, you know as much as I do that I’m the reason that that situation worked out.” Dylan crossed his arms and set his jaw, quite visibly digging in and preparing to defend his position on the issue.

“I mean, yeah, you were a major contributor there, but at the same time you just about gave us all a heart attack after Mom looked away for like two minutes and you were gone. Plus, there’s a saying that I heard from one of Dad’s coworkers once. It’s, ah…” May looked up and angled her head, making a show of remembering the line in question. “Right, yeah, it’s ‘if it’s stupid and it works, it’s still stupid, you’re just luckier than you deserved’ if memory serves.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Dylan, glaring at his older sister with all the intensity of a particularly bedraggled kitten being disappointed over being forced to take a bath. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No, you were lucky enough to not run into any of the issues that come from being an unaccompanied ten-year-old in a public place! You’re lucky that no one took advantage of that! And again today, you’re lucky that you didn’t just ram into Michael Cato and free him, with a hostage right in his grasp, plus you’re lucky that Amber is good tempered as far as mages go!” May didn’t bother to fight the urge to flutter her wings this time. “Look, the situation was mostly handled, and you coming in all reckless could have ruined it by pissing off a mage who doesn’t work by normal mage rules. Just because you have the strongest divinatory talent recorded in decades doesn’t mean that you can just get away with doing whatever you want like when you’re working on a puzzle or a riddle. You have to look past your visions to the consequences of anything you see, which is admittedly not something that people your age are known for- Ra knows I wasn’t any less reckless- but you can’t afford not to, not if you don’t want things to go worse than they have today!”

May’s chest was heaving by the time she finished her veritable rant, and Dylan looked much more contrite than combative.

“Sorry, May. I didn’t realize how this was for you, how it would be bad,” he said, voice much lower and less brash than before.

“Well, now you know,” she said tiredly, all the furious energy that she’d displayed earlier seemingly having evaporated. “Hopefully, going forwards you’ll be more careful about this kind of thing.”

Instead of replying verbally, Dylan pressed his shoulder against his older sister’s, which she responded to by wrapping her arm around him and patting his other shoulder.

And that's that!

I might have to scale my publishing schedule back some, depending on how much of a hit my writing time takes (right now it's looking okay for me to keep up weekly updates, but things are still up in the air), we'll see.

If you want to support me as a writer, I got me a Ko-fi (Buy Lucifra a Coffee. ko-fi.com/lucifra) and a Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Lucifra), and if you become a patron, you can see my chapters a week early.

Speaking of which, my thanks to NotableRonin and Ember for being patrons!

I have a discord sir ver for author stuff - if you have questions or comments that you'd like a more direct answer to, that's another option: https://discord.gg/NHRUKz8jyy

That's about it, so read, review, enjoy, and have a nice day!

[pingutats]

wake up in some promised land

despite his best efforts to keep their relationship out of the public eye, harry & y/n are photographed together as they leave a party one night —and harry has an interview the very next morning.

warnings: a little bit of angst about trying to navigate fame and a relationship. harry has a foul mouth. but there’s a happy ending!

word count: 2.2k

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

Harry was decidedly not in a good mood. 

It had been a late night. He’d had a few more drinks than he usually did. In his defence it was earned—he’d just released an album, it was soaring to great heights on iTunes charts all over the world and already receiving overwhelmingly positive reviews—so sue him if he indulged in some expensive champagne, a couple fancy cocktails, too many rounds of shots for him to remember clearly… It was a good night all around. 

The headache he has right now though, brought on by the sudden blare of his alarm (far earlier than he would have preferred), threatens to tarnish the memory. He even considers swearing off drinking forever so he’ll never suffer like this again. 

When he voices this intention to a dozing Y/N as he pulls a shirt on, his only feedback is a pillow-muffled, “You’re such an old man, H.”

He leans over the bed and kisses the small part of her forehead that’s exposed between the pillow and the blanket. “Come on, love. Time to get up.”

“You can get up. I don’t have a radio appearance to make.” She jerks the blanket up to cover her head entirely. “I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”

He manages to drag her downstairs with him anyway, with promises of making her coffee and a hot breakfast. In the kitchen she yawns and stretches, the over-sized sleep shirt opening like bat wings as she raises her arms above her head. He has to force his fond gaze away to concentrate on turning the coffee machine on and pulling eggs out of the fridge. 

“This is a really ungodly hour,” she comments, watching him rummage around in a cupboard for a frying pan. 

“No such thing as a good night’s sleep when you’re as successful as I am,” he tells her wisely. 

She doesn’t even indulge him with a laugh, which tells him exactly how tired she is. 

The coffee’s done quickly—Harry is so addicted to the stuff he could probably make it in his sleep with all the practise he’s had—and she grabs the cup from him with greedy fingers, closing her eyes and sipping as she’s perched up on the counter. 

Harry nearly lets out a moan when the caffeine hits his lips. It surely can’t work that quickly, but already he’s starting to feel alive again. He turns to the stovetop and cracks the eggs in the frypan with one hand, using his other hand to cling to his cup for dear life. 

His phone starts ringing and the sound pierces through his head. His manager’s name is displayed, which is a good thing because if it was anyone else calling right now Harry would probably be tempted to kill them, and even if no publicity is bad publicity, he’s not sure a murder charge would be good for his album sales. He slides his finger across the screen to answer it and tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder while he adjusts the heat on the stove. 

“Hey, Jeff,” he says. 

Jeff laughs on the other end. “You sound fucked.”

“Big night,” Harry grumbles. “You don’t sound to pretty yourself.”

“All I’m saying is you better get yourself set in the next half hour, ‘cause a voice like that on the radio isn’t going to help you sell records.”

“I’m makin’ breakfast,” Harry retorts. “Got a coffee, I’ll be fine—oh, shit—fuck!” He’s mixed up his hands as he tried to flip the eggs, and poured coffee in the frypan. “Give me a second.”

He sets his coffee down on the counter and unsticks his phone from his cheek, turning it on speaker and placing it next to his cup. He stares at mess in the frypan and decides he’s going to have to try drain the liquid into the sink, without losing the eggs. He accepts this challenge with humility and grace, because he knows it’s his own stupid fault.

Y/N is cackling behind him. On any other day he might have been annoyed, but her laughter this morning just means that she’s in a better mood than earlier. He’d give anything to keep her happy, so if it takes fucking up their breakfast to have her smiling—so be it. 

“Okay,” Harry says to Jeff once he’s secured the situation. 

“Is everything okay over there?” Jeff’s voice is slightly tinny through the phone speaker, but his stress is evident in his tone. 

“Yeah, we’re just—“ he looks at the eggs, dyed brown by the coffee, and glances over his shoulder apologetically at Y/N. “We’re having caffeinated eggs. You’re on speaker. Y/N’s here too. Say hi, baby.”

“Hey, Jeff,” Y/N chirps. 

Jeff sighs. “Hi. Listen, it‘s probably good that you both hear this anyway. There are a couple of photos of the two of you from last night that are doing the rounds on Twitter this morning.”

Harry stiffens. “What?”

Here’s the thing: Harry and Y/N are definitely an item. It’s happened pretty quickly. They’ve been dating for a few months and now whenever they’re in the same city they’re practically living together. They’ve said “I love you” to each other often enough that its utterance isn’t a special occasion anymore. So, sure, they’re boyfriend-girlfriend, and if all goes to Harry’s plan, they’ll be more than that soon enough.

But in the meantime, she’s also his best-kept secret. There have been rumours, of course. They’ve been spotted having lunch together or going on walks. Anyone paying attention knows they’re good friends, but Harry has been careful not to let the other dimension of their relationship slip out into public yet. He conducts himself on public outings (secretly dates) like a Victorian gentleman, constantly vigilant that his affection never goes beyond what’s appropriate between friends. 

“They’re not bad,” Jeff says quickly. “It’s just pretty obvious what’s going on. I’ll send them to you, hang on.”

Y/N slides off the bench and comes to stand right behind Harry, leaning around him to stare at the phone. The minute of waiting for the photos to come through feels like forever. Y/N must sense his tension, because she puts her hands on his shoulders and squeezes. 

A notification pops up at the top of his screen: from Jeff, 8 images attached. He taps it quickly and frowns at the photos. 

They must have been taken as they were leaving the bar that the album release party was at. He notices Jeff and others also crowded on the pavement outside, lit by the orange glow of streetlights. The focus, however, is of course on Harry and Y/N, who were putting on something of a show for all their friends—and, apparently, the rest of the world. 

The first couple are okay. There Harry is, his arm slung around Y/N, clearly not sober as he bellows something up to the sky with a massive grin on his face and closed eyes. They were singing, he vaguely remembers, the karaoke they were doing inside the bar spilling over the rest of their night. Y/N is laughing at him, clapping her hands together.

Harry drags his finger up the screen to scroll to the next photos in Jeff’s chain. These ones start to reveal the two of them as much more than just friends. The arm around her dropped to her waist, pulling her into his body. And then he was bending his head down. And then he was kissing her. 

He scrolls down even further. 

In this one, he’s groping her ass in full view of the camera. 

“Harry, you lecher!” Y/N scolds, smacking his arm in good humour.

He just shakes his head, staring at the photo. “There’s no plausible deniability, is there?”

“There isn’t,” Jeff says over the phone. He laughs weakly. “You two put on a real show.” He must sense the panic that Harry’s feeling, because he adds, “Listen, Harry, I can blacklist questions about it if you want. Just tell me what you want to do.”

Harry looks at Y/N, chewing on his lip. He feels like a teenager again, out of control of his narrative and at the mercy of the media. He’s meticulously developed his skills of privacy for years, now, and one night of insobriety and bad luck undid it all. 

Jeff clears his throat. “The thing with blacklisting is that it might raise more questions. And even if you don’t talk about it, you’ve gotta remember that everyone else will be.”

“Yeah.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Look—“

Y/N puts her hand on his cheek, patting him. “Hey,” she says gently. “It’s okay.”

He sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth and holds it in for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says finally with a sigh. 

She scoffs. “You’re not the only one in these photos.”

He frowns. She doesn’t get that he’s apologising for more than just the photos. It’s the fact that they have to deal with this at all, that it’s such a big deal for them to simply act like a normal couple. It’s the fact that it’s him, and he is who he is. 

“H,” she presses further. “It’s up to you. Your decision. But I want you to know that I’m happy whichever way you choose.”

He searches her eyes for any hint of doubt. She didn’t manage to clean off all her make-up last night, and there’s a smear of glitter on her temple and dark smudges of mascara underneath her eyes. She looks tired, but she’s definitely serious about what she’s saying. 

“You get what it means to be public with me, though,” he says at last. He hesitates. “It’s… intense.”

She shrugs and gives him a cocky grin. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

“I’m being serious.”

“I am too.” She’s holding his head in her hands, her fingers smoothing his unruly curls off his face. “It’s just a few photos. It isn’t everything.”

It isn’t everything. Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then leans down to kiss her gently. It’s just an innocent peck, but the feel of her soft lips against his is enough to ground him.

Jeff clears his throat awkwardly. 

They break apart with embarrassed smiles. “Sorry,” Harry says, but he isn’t really.

“Yeah,” Jeff says, sounding uncomfortable. “You’re going to have to make a decision soon, because we’re really cutting it fine.”

Harry looks at Y/N, who nods. 

He turns back to the phone. “Don’t worry about it,” Harry says. “Let them ask the questions.”

“Yeah?” Jeff asks. “Okay then, that saves me a load of trouble. Good luck, man. Enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, hanging up with a sharp tap on the screen. He turns around to Y/N with a grin on his face. “Where were we…”

Y/N giggles as he gathers her into his arms, pulling her in close for a kiss that no one else can see or hear, a kiss just for them. When she pulls back to breath, he peppers his lips all over her face until she’s squirming away—“Harry, that tickles!”

He lands one last kiss on her cheek before his gaze lands on the time display on the oven behind her, which tells him he has ten minutes before he needs to be on the Zoom call for the interview. 

She notices the sudden shift in his demeanour and glances behind her to see what caused it. She turns back around. “I’ll sit with you.”

He nods. “Yeah, okay, I’d like that.”

“It’s Harry Styles!” the presenter cries. 

“It’s me! Hello, hello,” he says, waving at the screen. The laptop is set on the coffee table and he’s sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he grins at the screen. “How are ya?”

“Oh, we’re wonderful,” the presenter replies. “More importantly, how are you? Looks like you had a big night last night, judging by these photos we’re seeing!”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Big night,” he echoes, dragging out the word. 

The presenter laughs. “Sounds like a great time. Well deserved after this masterpiece of an album. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like you’re quite close with somebody there. Would you explain what’s going on here, Harry?”

Harry peers at the photo displayed on his computer screen, even though he knows exactly what it will be. The one they chose is a sweet one, with Y/N’s arms wrapped around his neck and kiss that he seems to be melting into. He can’t suppress his smile at that. “Oh, well,” he says. “That’s my friend Y/N.”

The presenter raises his eyebrows at that. “Good friend, is she?”

Harry glances up over the laptop to look at Y/N, sitting on the other couch, her cheeks pink and round from her smile. Harry surreptitiously reaches his arm towards her, out of frame, and she leans forward to hold his hand. 

“She is. She’s a lovely girl.” He squeezes her hand. “Yeah, we’re very good friends.”

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

thank you so much for reading! this fic is based on a request from @kissmyaxe140 — i really intended this to be a shorter blurb of a few hundred words, but i’m incapable of brevity. apparently. this grew into a little monster but i rlly had fun writing it!! the title is a lyric from secret life by bleachers.

if you liked this fic, a reblog and/or any kind of feedback would be very much appreciated. my masterlist can be found here and you can send me messages here. have a gorgeous day!

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part I (x reader insert)

Summary: Our favorite couple has some catching up to do.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader (or xOC)

Category: hurt/comfort, fluff

Warnings/Includes: descriptions of Mexico and prison; they have a sleepover, but it’s just talking and sleeping 🥰

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: Here we go!!!!! We’re picking up from right where we left off in tmsidk part X.

Song Rec: The Luckiest by Ben Folds

Series Masterlist

———

“Do you— would you want to— come upstairs?” he asked.

Spencer stood in front of her, unsure of what to do with his hands. Y/N was absolutely radiant— bathed in the very last of the golden daylight and more beautiful than he even remembered. All he wanted to do was hug her again and never let go.

She shook her head, and he tried not to instantly deflate. “I have to feed Roald.” She smiled a little at him and restarted his heart. “But would you want to come over? We could order somethi—”

“Yes— yes.” She let out a quiet laugh at his eagerness, and he wanted to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. “Can I— I just want to drop this stuff off and change, and then I’ll, um.” He gestured vaguely to her. “Should I drive you or do you want to walk or I can just— meet you? Whatever— whatever you want.”

“I’m gonna head back now and take care of Roald. Take your time, and just— well, here.” She held out her hand. “I’ll put my number in your phone, and you can just text me when you’re on your way.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket, placed it into her outstretched hand, and nearly vibrated with the way her fingers brushed over his. She stared at the unsophisticated phone in her hand. “You weren’t kidding about the technology thing, huh?”

He ran a hand down the back of his neck and shrugged. “I prefer to keep things simple.”

“I haven’t seen a T9 keyboard since I was in high school. This is a relic,” she laughed and then gave him a soft smile. “And… very you.”

He watched her fingers as she pressed along the tiny keys, still sort of in shock that she was here, that he was getting a second chance, that she wanted to do this with him. She handed the phone back to him and then stuffed her hands in her pockets. “So, I’ll see you in a little bit?”

He nodded and gave her his best smile. She stepped forward into his space, and his eyes went a little wide as she leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. She stepped back with a smile, then waved and turned on her heel headed to her car.

He stood rooted to the spot until she had disappeared from view, then let out a long breath and looked down at the small screen of his phone at her contact information. His lips twitched at the name she’d given herself.

Miss Honey <3

…

Forty five minutes later, Spencer smoothed down the front of his cardigan and blew out a sigh. He’d spent five of those minutes reveling in the magic that was Y/N, and the other forty convincing himself that she’d already changed her mind. But he was a man in love, and so he was standing in front of her building, willing himself to press her buzzer.

He was jolted out of his stupor by the buzzing of his phone. He pulled the device from his pocket and saw her name on the tiny screen, hesitating only a moment before pressing the button to answer. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He could hear her smile through the tinny speaker, and it immediately set him at ease. “I was just checking to make sure you remembered where you were going.”

“Yeah, I— I’m outside now, actually,” he confirmed.

“Oh, great! I’ll buzz you up.”

The door buzzed open, and Spencer pocketed his phone, stepping into the small foyer. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants as he made his way to the staircase. He had barely taken the first step when she called, “It’s the third floor!”

He barely resisted the urge to take the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing of the third floor, she was standing in the doorway in a purple sweatshirt, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks with dragons on them. He couldn’t help but grin.

“Hey.” She returned his smile. “Come on in.” She moved aside and waved him into her apartment.

He stepped over the threshold, and she closed the door behind him. “I can take your coat. Feel free to leave your shoes there. Roald will be in hiding for the next half hour or so,” she informed him.

He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to her, looking briefly around the tidy space. The walls of her living room were a calming mint green, adorned with plenty of art and photographs. Her couch was a blush pink velvet, exactly as soft as she was.

“Okay, I’m starving,” she admitted, turning to hang his coat in the coat closet. “We can order pizza, Indian, Thai— any preference?”

He shook his head. “No, whatever you want.”

She closed the closet door and cocked an eyebrow. “So if I wanted to order a huge pizza with extra cheese, you’d be cool with that?”

“Sure, absolutely,” he nodded.

She tilted her head. “Even with your dairy thing?”

He was surprised that she even remembered such a tiny detail from all those months ago, and his heart would have fluttered if he wasn’t so focused on making as few waves as possible. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d made a mistake letting him back in, and he didn’t want to do anything that would cause her to rethink her decision. “Well, it’s— it’s just a sensitivity, not a true allergy. Although it’s gotten a bit worse in recent years. But really, whatever you want to do is fine.”

He suddenly struggled to make eye contact, feeling overwhelmingly awkward and out of place. Now that he was here in her apartment, it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. He cracked the knuckles on each finger as he waited for it. She let out a small sigh, and he braced himself for impact.

“Why don’t you come sit?”

Her voice was quiet, and then her hand on his arm was soft, and she was leading him to the couch and sitting down next to him. She kept some distance between them, placed her hands in her lap, and then she was still for a long moment. He could feel her eyes on him, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know if she wanted him to say anything at all.

“You know I forgive you, right?” The question was tentative. He met her eyes, and he didn’t see the regret or pity that he expected. There was something else there; something he couldn’t quite decipher. “Because I do. Forgive you. You apologized, and you meant it, and you allowed me space and time to process. And that’s— that’s all I could have asked for.”

As seemed to always be the case, the task of articulating what he was feeling began to crush him under its weight. The words were there, but he couldn’t get the order right. If it were anyone else, he would have just evaded the conversation entirely. But he’d promised her that he would try. After everything he’d put her through, she deserved that much.

He breathed in through his nose, expelling it in a sigh. “I’ve just— I’ve spent the last month thinking about this— about you— pretty much exclusively,” he admitted, staring at his hands. “And I’m just realizing that I never really… allowed myself to think about what would happen next, because I wasn’t sure that this would happen at all.” He gestured between them and then looked at her. “And now I’m here— with you, and I just— it’s…” He let out a sigh.

“Doesn’t live up to expectations?” she prompted.

His eyes went wide, and he moved closer to her on the couch. “No— god, no.” He instinctively reached for her hand, felt that electricity again when she allowed him to lace their fingers together. He was already making a mess of things. “You always exceed expectations.” He shook his head, and she squeezed his hand. “I just— I don’t… I don’t wanna mess this up.”

She covered their intertwined fingers with her other hand, rubbed her thumb along his. “I don’t think you will. Something tells me you don’t typically make the same mistake twice,” she inferred.

He laughed a little at that, and she gave him a sweet smile, and then she said, “So, no pizza. How about Indian?”

���

They were just cleaning up the last of the take out containers when Roald made his way out of Y/N’s bedroom.

“There he is! Hey, buddy,” she cooed, leaning down to give Roald a quick pet. She gave Spencer a sheepish smile. “He takes a while to warm up to new faces, so don’t be offended if he’s not—”

She was stopped mid-sentence by Roald’s decision to make a beeline for him. The cat stopped to give a cursory sniff before weaving between Spencer’s legs, purring loud enough that they could both hear it. Her mouth dropped open a bit as he leaned down to scratch between Roald’s ears.

“He— he is never that friendly,” she said incredulously. “There really is something about you, Dr. Reid.”

He looked up at her with a smile. “I’m just glad he approves. Would have been kind of awkward otherwise.”

“He’s a very good judge of character, so that bodes well for you,” she confirmed.

“Oh yeah?” Spencer scratched underneath Roald’s chin, grinning at the contented cat. He brought his gaze back to her, standing back to his full height when he realized she’d moved… a lot closer. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he watched her eyes track the motion.

“Yeah.”

He thought back to that night nearly two months ago, the way his mouth had verged on violent when she’d kissed him. He hated that their first kiss was tainted with his foolishness, that he’d marred that memory for them both. He couldn’t take it back, and he wasn’t certain that she wanted to kiss him now, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please,” she breathed.

He brought his hands to her face and used a gentle grip to pull her in. She rested her warm palms against his waist and let her fingers dig in, holding herself steady as his lips met hers.

He kept the kiss as soft as she deserved, opening his mouth to let her in but letting her lead and take him wherever she wanted to go. Her hands slid around to his back, and she tugged him in closer. He left one hand cradling her face but moved the other to the small of her back and pulled her flush against him.

She huffed out a tiny breath against his mouth, her lips turning up in a smile that he could feel in his toes. She brought one hand up to his jaw, rubbed her thumb across his cheek and then wound her fingers into his hair. She tangled them in his curls and tugged just enough to break the kiss, pressing their foreheads together with a sigh.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’m just gonna wipe our first kiss from my memory and replace it with that one,” she murmured.

“I’m very much on board with this rewrite,” he agreed.

“Excellent.” She used the hand in his hair to pull him forward into another quick kiss. Roald made his presence known at their feet with a loud meow, pulling a laugh from both of them.

They de-tangled themselves from each other, and she ran a hand through her hair. “It’s getting late.” He nodded in agreement, although he never wanted this night to end. And then she continued, “Do you wanna, um— do you wanna stay the night? I’m sure I can find some comfy clothes that’ll fit you.”

He’d been a ship on a turbulent sea for the past two months, just barely staying afloat at times. It had been heart wrenching and nerve wracking and terrifying— and all of his own doing. And in one night, she’d anchored his vessel amongst the crashing waves. A solution kit, a hug, forgiveness, a kiss, and now this.

His racing mind came to a standstill. The near constant noise was quieted. The turbulent sea became calm, still waters.

“I’d really, really like that.”

…

Spencer ended up in an XXL t-shirt from a school fundraiser and a pair of stretchy bike shorts. Y/N had managed to scrounge up a new toothbrush from the back of the cabinet, and they brushed their teeth together with foamy smiles in the bathroom mirror.

It had taken very little convincing for Spencer to agree to share the bed. Y/N climbed in under the covers, settling back against the pillows and turning down the duvet for him to join her. He held up one finger and disappeared out into the living room, returning a minute later with the solution kit in hand. He moved to the bed, sliding in between the soft sheets and pulling up the duvet.

He leaned back against the pillows and turned toward her, opening the box. “This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me,” he admitted. “Can you, um— explain them to me? Some of them I figured out, but others— well, I just want to hear you, really.”

She scooted closer to him and leaned over to look in the box. “The first few are pretty self-explanatory. This one,” she said, pulling out a picture of her with her hands over her heart and belly, “is taking deep breaths until you’re calm and ready to try again. This one is reading a favorite book— which I know will take you about five minutes,” she joked.

She retrieved the card with the clip art book, and then the one behind it with a pencil and paper. “You can try to write down the difficult thoughts and feelings to get them out of your headspace.” The next card had a picture of an old rotary phone. “Hmmm, almost a match to the dinosaur phone you actually have,” she teased. “But it’s an option to call someone. Could be your mom, or a friend, or—”

“Or you? Could I call you?”

She looked up to find his eyes on her and smiled. “Yeah. You can call me, too.” She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, and— not for the first time that night— he could not believe how lucky he was.

She drew back to pull out the next card: a clip art rendering of a desktop computer. “Oh! This one is for researching something. I know you’ve got a seemingly endless encyclopedia of knowledge up there,” she tapped on his temple, “but there’s always something new to learn. And teaching yourself something can help you feel capable in moments where you’re feeling— a little helpless.”

There was also a small wooden puzzle cube in the box. She took it from the box and held it up in front of them. “I know your IQ will probably solve this thing in fifteen seconds, but at least it’ll be a nice fidget toy,” she laughed.

The last card in the box was a picture of a timer. “This one might seem kind of dumb, but sometimes it helps me to set a timer to remind myself that feeling shitty is a temporary state of being.” She held the card between her fingers and shrugged. “Even if I’m still feeling less than great after the timer goes off, it usually gives me the boost I need to move forward.”

She gathered all the cards in her hands, shuffling them and then placing them back in the box. “You can add your own options as you think of them. This was just a starter set.”

He closed the lid of the box and set it on the bed between them. He reached for her hand, and she immediately threaded their fingers together. He rubbed his thumb along her impossibly soft skin and took a deep breath.

“The timer isn’t dumb. I, um— I did something similar in prison.” She squeezed his hand. “I kept track of the— the days on this little spot on the wall. Every time it felt like I couldn’t take another day, I’d count the marks and remind myself that I— that I’d survived that long. That I could make it another day.”

He went quiet, and Y/N sat up a little in bed, brushed her free hand over his hair. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” It wasn’t a lie. He wanted to talk to her about it. He wanted to talk to her about everything. He wanted to let her into the shadowy corners of his mind that he kept from everyone else.

“If you’re sure, then I’m right here.” She pulled their intertwined fingers into her lap and leaned over to press a kiss to his shoulder.

When she pulled back, he let out a long breath. He watched her thumb as it traced an unwavering line across the back of his hand. “I was, um— I was in Mexico getting an experimental Alzheimer’s drug for my mom. I’d been going down there for a few months, and it wasn’t ideal, but the medication really seemed to be helping her. And I was just— I was desperate. Desperate for anything that would give me more time with her. More lucid, meaningful time, you know?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“It wasn’t the, uh— drug that got me arrested,” he admitted. “There was an unsub— one of the serial killers that we put away a few years ago— a psychopathic, narcissistic hitwoman who had this— I don’t know, vendetta against me, I guess. She, um— she manipulated another woman into drugging me and framing me for the murder of the doctor I was getting the medication from.”

He could feel her eyes on him, and he drew his brows together. “I know the— the whole thing sounds completely absurd— fictional even,” he admitted. “She used a mix of drugs called sevoflurane and scopolamine to trigger dissociation and hallucination, which made it really— um... For a long time, I couldn’t tell which of my memories were real and which were drug-induced delusions.”

He focused on the motion of her thumb against his skin. “The team got me out of the prison in Mexico, but because I went against FBI protocol when I crossed the border, the Bureau wouldn’t fund my legal representation here. Emily hired a great lawyer, but the judge was less than sympathetic. And it really, um— snowballed from there.”

He took a deep breath. “I was sent to Millburn, which is a maximum security prison, and then I didn’t get the protective custody detail, so I was in general population, but I didn’t want to hurt people or move drugs, so I got the shit kicked out of me for a while, and then my friend Luis was killed in front of me, and I—”

Spencer didn’t realize he was crying until Y/N’s hands were on his face, wiping the tears before pulling him into her arms. “A-and then I poisoned the drugs, which just ended up hurting a bunch of people who didn’t deserve to get hurt. And then I got outed as an agent, and my mom got abducted, and I stabbed myself to get put in solitary, but I wasn’t safe there either, and I really thought... I was sure I was going to die there.”

He wrapped his arms around her middle and tucked his face into her shoulder as the hurricane of his agony swirled and raged and then swept out as quickly as it rolled in. She soothed his cries and held him against her, never rushing or shushing him. Eventually, his weeping dwindled to quiet sniffles, his heaving breaths faded to drawn sighs. She kept him anchored through all of it, rocking him gently from side to side and calming his shattered frame.

When he finally quieted, she released him and pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His chest tightened at her tear-stained cheeks, and he brought his hands up to wipe at them uselessly. When his hands fell back to his lap, she sniffled a little before taking a deep breath, releasing it on a shaky sigh.

“The choices you made kept you alive, Spencer. They were—  impossible, horrific choices that I’m sure just—” She shook her head, searching for the right words. “I’m sure the weight of the guilt and grief has to be unbearable sometimes,” she surmised. “And there’s nothing I can say that will make that any less true.”

She cupped his face in her hands, swiping at the fresh tears with her thumbs. “But I’m... I’m so selfishly thankful for every choice you made. Because it was the perfect set of decisions in that it brought you here. To me…” The tears tracked hot down her cheeks, and she took a shaky breath. “And I feel so unbelievably lucky and so incredibly grateful to have you.”

He had her wrapped up in his arms before she’d even finished the sentence. “I never believed in luck,” he mused. He pressed a kiss into her hair and closed his eyes. “I’m still not sure if I do. But I can tell you that I’m the luckiest.”

———

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[fruitcoops]

If you feel up to it can we pretty please get some more pre-coops PT sessions?

Oh, pre-Coops pining, I missed you. This is slightly different (and a bit fluffier) than the other fics. I hope you enjoy it all the same! Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

TW for mild sickness (coughing, sneezing, etc) and mentioned ankle injury

Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths, Sirius repeated in his head as he limped down the hallway, grimacing each time his crutches slipped on the freshly-waxed floor. It had been weeks since his last flare-up and as much as he hated the idea of losing a chance to see Remus, he hated the thought of waiting any longer to be back on the ice.

Sirius paused just outside the PT door to collect his thoughts. They had been doing this for months, but even the memory of Remus’ gentle hands on him still made his breath catch in his chest. He rested his forehead on the doorjamb with a sigh. I’m hopeless.

He frowned when he saw the closed door—Remus liked to keep it open, so anyone could pop in and say hello when they passed by. It was one of Sirius’ favorite things about him.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice called from inside when Sirius knocked cautiously. That’s definitely not Remus.

“Uh, Sirius Black?”

The door swung open and Moody gave him a quick once-over, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not scheduled until Tuesday.”

“My ankle is flaring up,” Sirius said, glancing over Moody’s shoulder toward the desk by the wall. All of Remus’ things were still there, thankfully. “I was hoping Loops could take a look before the weekend.”

Moody grunted and let him in the rest of the way. “Lupin’s out today, but I’ll poke around and see what I can do. Have you been doing your stretches?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.” The mere thought of disappointing Remus almost made him nauseous.

“Good.” Moody continued mapping his foot and ankle, keeping a careful eye out for any signs of pain.

“Where is Remus, by the way? Is he okay?” Sirius did his best to stop the worry from leaking into his voice.

“Got some sort of flu. Dumb kid takes the bus everywhere, so I’m not surprised.” Despite his harsh words, Moody had a fond look on his face. “He tried coming in, actually, but his voice was shot and he kept sneezing so I made him stay home. With the weekend, he’s got three days to recover.”

Relief slowed Sirius’ racing heart. “Good to know. Does he need soup or anything?”

Moody shrugged as he straightened up and patted Sirius’ knee. “Ask him yourself. Number’s on the board if you don’t already have it. Your ankle just needs some ice and ibuprofen, by the way—don’t stop using your crutches until next Friday.”

“Thanks, Moody.”

“See you around, Cap.”

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

As soon as practice finished, Sirius pulled his phone out of his pocket and proceeded to stare at Remus’ contact information for the next seven full minutes. Finally, he thumped his forehead on the steering wheel and pressed New Message.

Message To: Loops

Are you okay?

Moody said you were sick

A few seconds passed without a response and Sirius’ good leg began bouncing up and down. “This was stupid,” he muttered to himself. “This was so stupid.”

His screen lit up.

New Message From: Loops

Hey! I’m a little under the weather, nbd

Thanks for asking : )

“Oh my god,” Sirius whispered, holding his hand over his mouth. “Why did I do this?”

Message To: Loops

Yeah no problem

Do you need anything? It’s not safe to drive yourself

I have soup

Sirius groaned aloud and flopped forward again. “No shit, Black, everybody has soup.”

His phone was silent for a few moments before three dots appeared, blinked, and vanished. It happened two more times, until Sirius’ heart threatened to escape via his throat.

New Message From: Loops

That sounds really nice, thank you : )

A link popped up below the text; an address. His address. Sirius’ cheeks started to hurt and he realized he was smiling wider than he had since they last won a game, quickly starting the car and turning out of the parking lot.

Making canned soup wasn’t difficult—for the first time, he followed every letter of the instructions on the can. Burning it was not an option. Ten minutes and a warm Tupperware later, he was back on the road and following Google Maps down the busy avenues of downtown Gryffindor.

Remus’ apartment building was almost as cute as he was, but maybe that was just Sirius’ smitten brain throwing a party over the fact that he finally got to see it. Bright yellow with brick siding, it rose many stories above the street, and he hurried up the concrete steps to the porch, where a small buzzer sat.

Fenwick, Benjamin

Fortescue, Alice

Lovegood

Lupin, Remus

Sirius pressed the button. There was a crackle, a hiss, and finally a croaky, “hello?”

“Remus? Hey, it’s Sirius. Um, I brought your soup,” he stammered, suddenly tongue-tied.

“Oh.” Surprise laced the congested voice on the other end. “Oh! Okay, yeah, thank you. Come on up. Did I send you my apartment number?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ugh, sorry. My brain is toast.” The buzzer clicked.

Sirius bit his lip and pressed it again. “Loops?”

“Yeah?”

“Your apartment number?”

“Oh my god,” Remus laughed. “I’m so sorry. It’s 6B, and the elevators just got repaired last week so you should be fine.”

“Merci.” Sirius opened the front door and carefully balanced his Tupperware on one forearm as he called the elevator and headed toward the sixth floor. Tinny music played through the speakers—if he strained his ears, it almost sounded like the Bee Gees.

The ride was quick; soon, Sirius was waiting outside a plain apartment door with his hand raised to knock, steeling himself to see Remus face-to-face. With a sharp inhale, he tapped his knuckles on the wood and stepped back.

The silver doorknob turned and then Remus was there, leaning on the doorframe in pajamas and fuzzy socks as he winced at the bright sunlight from the hall. His nose was bright red and his eyes were glassy with dark circles underneath; his soft curls stuck up in a cowlick on one side, but he smiled at Sirius all the same. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Sirius swallowed around the dryness of his throat and held the Tupperware out. “It’s chicken noodle.”

Remus blinked, then lit up when he saw the soup. “Thank you so much!”

“Ne rien. I’m sorry you’re sick.”

“It’s not your fault,” Remus said with a shrug. “I’d invite you in, but—wait, aren’t you supposed to be on crutches?”

Sirius blushed. “I couldn’t carry the soup with them. It’s just a few minutes.”

“If this wasn’t the sweetest thing ever, I’d lay into you about proper procedure,” Remus teased, reaching out. Their fingers brushed and Sirius winced a little at how cold he was. Would a hug be out of order? Remus curled his hands around the base of the container and sighed at the warmth. “God, I didn’t even know I was hungry until you brought this.”

“Glad I could help.” He could feel his pulse in his toes. “I should probably let you eat then, eh?”

That perfect crooked smile slipped a little. “Yeah, probably. I don’t want to get you sick, too.”

“Always looking out for me.” The smile returned and Sirius whooped internally. “Text me if you need anything else, okay?”

“You got it, Ca—" Remus sneezed into his elbow, then waved him off as they both burst out laughing. “Alright, alright, get outta here.”

Sirius made it halfway to the elevators before a thought struck him; Remus’ door was almost closed, and something jolted in his stomach. “Wait!” he called before he could think about it.

Remus poked his head around the edge of the door, looking confused and a little hopeful. Sirius wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and cuddle him until he felt better, then kiss him all over his flushed face. I’ll make you soup whenever you ask. “Yeah?”

“I—I missed you today. When I went in for a checkup. It was weird having Moody mess with my foot.”

The edges of Remus’ eyes crinkled gently, making his freckles pop. “Missed you, too. See you Tuesday?”

“See you Tuesday.”

“Thanks again for the soup, Sirius.”

The noise that almost slipped out of his mouth when Remus said his name would have been wildly embarrassing—thankfully, Sirius managed to swallow it down and offer a mock-salute with a smile instead. He didn’t stop grinning all the way home.

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

2 Oct. Suptober: No Vacancy

"There were no vacancies for a radius of nearly 25 miles. But I did find one room, finally. I'll text you the address."

"Thanks, Cas." Sam paused. "Have you spoken to Dean today?"

snippetfic; deancas

"Is this what it's like in Norway?" Dean asked, faint horror dripping from every word as he pushed a few cable knit sweaters from one side of a circular rack to the other.

"Sweden," Sam corrected. Off Dean's blank look, he clarified, "The store's from Sweden."

"Well, whatever. Happiest people on earth, my ass." Dean flicked the strings of a gray hoodie on a nearby hanger and sighed. "This place is giving me the heebie jeebies. Everything in here smells like ink."

Sam rehung a shirt the price tag referred to as 'muscle fit band collar' and prayed for strength. "We just need a few new clothes, and this place is closer than the nearest army surplus." And it wasn't like the three-acres large sentient mushroom purportedly threatening citizens two towns away was going anywhere quickly. In theory. 

"There's gotta be a thrift store around here somewhere. Suburb like this? There's probably nine different churches running a yard sale outta their basement."

"We have a gift card, thanks to Donna." Sam shrugged. "May as well use it."

Dean opened his mouth, no doubt to protest again, then spotted something in a far corner. Sam wanted to try on a pair of trousers and he was willing to let Dean work out his aggression towards moderately priced fast fashion by himself for a few minutes. In the cramped, smudged dressing room, Sam decided that maybe Dean was right to be unimpressed. Why did these khakis have elastic bands at the bottom of the legs, like a pair of sweatpants from the 1980s? Why were Sam's bony and pale lower shins so hideous by the glare of fluorescent lighting? 

He was spared further inane inner commentary by his phone bleating in the pocket of the jeans he already owned. "Hey, Cas."

"There are many young athletes in this county." Cas's tinny voice bled frustration. "They are energetic and loud."

"The tournament's over tomorrow."

"That did not help me today." It sounded like Cas was pulling a boulder out of his truck, with more difficulty than an angel should have had. "There were no vacancies for a radius of nearly 25 miles. But I did find one room, finally. I'll text you the address."

"Thanks, Cas." Sam paused. "Have you spoken to Dean today?"

A mirrored pause. "No?" Cas made the word seem multisyllabic.

"Okay." Sam put the terrible trousers back on their plastic hanger. "We'll see you in an hour or so." 

"Wait," Cas said. "Is something wrong with Dean?" 

The concern that radiated from the phone could have powered a nuclear warhead. Sam thought it prudent to keep his smile out of his own voice when he said, "Dean's fine, man. You just left the bunker without telling him you were leaving, is all."

"Oh." Cas was squinting; Sam just knew. "I didn't tell you either, Sam."

Yes, but I'm not butthurt about it, Sam thought. "It's fine, Cas. You found us a case." So far, all the case had really yielded in Sam was a desire to eat pizza loaded with portabellas as soon as he could get his hands on a pie, but Cas didn't need to know that. "No worries."

"All right. I'll see you…when you get here." Cas disconnected.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face to try to remove the exasperation from it. He braced himself for whatever mood he would find Dean in now.

This did not prepare him for how depressed Dean was, still in that one corner of the store, looking at flannel shirts. 

"You can't complain about the selection here," Sam said, nodding at the rack of buffalo plaids. "You own at least four shirts that look just like these."

"I hate this fucking music." Dean rolled his eyes up to the ceiling like he might try to bite one of the speakers embedded between the acoustic tiles. 

The song the ceiling blared, made more grating by a short somewhere in the speaker, was pretty bad, Sam had to concede. Why Dean couldn't just tune it out was a question Sam had no answer for. Perhaps they were no longer fit for mainstream shopping, Sam considered. Perhaps they never had been. A nearby salesclerk frowned at Dean's scowl and hightailed it away from his general grumpiness. 

Sam decided to try his luck with a different pair of trousers, checking the cuffs on them first, and was just about to head back to the dressing room when the disembodied ceiling voice sang, "Used to be that I felt so damn empty. Ever since I met you, no vacancy."

Yeah, okay. Not Sam's cup o' rock-n-roll tea either, he would readily admit. But he glanced over at Dean, and Dean was not grinding his teeth or clenching his jaw or glaring disdainfully. No. Sam saw, with both a pang of sympathy and a generous helping of humor, was that the subpar blah pop lyrics were getting under Dean's skin. 

In the midst of a bunch of mall clothes too trendy for the Winchester boys, Dean Winchester was pining. 

"Cas called," Sam said, casual as a crew neck t-shirt. "He's got a room for us an hour from here."

The transformation Dean underwent in that moment, from despondent Gen Xer disillusioned by consumerist propaganda and the kind of lonesomeness that only afflicted those lonely for a specific person to Man with A Renewed Sense of Purpose, was so instantaneous Sam physically could not keep from laughing.

"What?" Dean said, his expression morphing into a masterpiece of confusion.

"Nothing." Sam let his laugh trail off with a reasonably content, if also defeated, sigh. "I'm trying these on." He hoisted a pair of jeans aloft and headed back to the dressing room. "I like this blue plaid," Dean called out, suddenly the store's biggest fan.

"You should buy it for Cas," Sam called back. "It'd bring out his eyes."

That Dean seemed to be seriously considering the purchase was enough to start Sam smiling again. The dressing room was still unpleasant, but at least he knew the drive to even-more-middle-of-nowhere, Ohio, would be, if nothing else, fast. 

(with apologies to fans of OneRepublic :))

[queen-eevee]

Blasetober Day Four: Feedback | The Devil Goes Down to the Georgias (AKA Hiroto and Famous have a conversation about feedback)

Hiroto’s phone rings as soon as she closes the door to her room. She fishes it out of her pocket and answers without a glance at the caller ID, lowering herself onto the edge of the hotel’s way-too-hard couch. The first thing she hears is the soft crackle of static on the other end. And then:

“Fuck you.”

“Good evening to you too, Famous,” Hiroto mutters. “Miss me already?”

“Ah yes, good evening, Hiroto, darling. What the hell.”

Hiroto scrunches her nose. She hadn’t expected Famous of all people to call, certainly not to just scold her. If it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that the sound of their voice was relaxing the tension housed in her sternum, she would hang up entirely. That doesn’t mean she has to enjoy being patronized.

“You know I had no control over this,” she starts, feeling her temper begin to claw at the back of her throat. She stands from the couch too quickly, nearly falls. “If I did, do you think I really would have chosen fucking Atlantis—”

“Not that,” Famous interrupts, sharply, startling Hiroto out of the beginnings of a rant. “For the love of violence, why did you appoint me as Captain?!”

Oh. Yeah. She had nearly forgotten about that. Hiroto flops back down with a grunt. 

“Well, who the hell else was it going to be? I wasn’t going to choose Beasley.”

She hears Famous scoff on the other end of the phone and imagines them pressing their tongue against the inside of their cheek, like they always do when they’re annoyed with her. 

“Ms. Melcon is more than capable.”

“And give her even more cause for anxiety?” Hiroto draws her legs up underneath herself. “Besides, Mummy and I were both one bad day away from joining everyone else in the Shadows. And then I still would have had to ask Fearful to make you Captain.”

“Ha, ha,” Famous deadpans, unamused. “At least you would have had the common decency to grant me a rehearsal.”

They spit the words like an insult, but Hiroto’s known them for too many years to not hear the admission for what it is: the mask, slipping. So she pauses, tucking the phone against her cheek.

“Is that why you’re mad?”

A long, heaved sigh. “I was never mad, darling.”

“I don’t know, ‘Fuck you’ comes across as pretty mad.” 

“Fine, I was upset. You of all people should understand.”

Hiroto does. “So what, then? Do you want me to take it back?”

Famous doesn’t respond. Hiroto almost appreciates the awkward silence; it gives her a chance to listen to whatever sounds of the team house she can glean from the other end of the line. She thinks she can hear Ayanna’s loud voice coming in flits and bursts over the receiver, notes of classical music played from a tinny speaker, and, if she strains, she can hear her crows cawing from their perches near the dugout. The sudden rush of homesickness gives her vertigo. She steadies herself with a hand on the armrest.

“You know,” Hiroto continues when Famous doesn’t reply, “most Captains don’t even get to choose their successors. Consider yourself special.”

No clever response, just a huff to show that they were listening. Hiroto frowns. Then groans.

“Look, I didn’t get to choose before Seattle or the Elsewhere. And this feels...” She swallows. “Less temporary. The team needed to be left in good hands.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, before Famous finally hums. Hiroto wishes she was there so she could tell what they were thinking.

“The Stripes were worried you were going to fight Ms. Chark just to stay on that mound,” they muse, their teasing sounding almost wistful. Or maybe proud. Hard to tell over the phone. “Did you pick up that little trick from Mx. Figueroa?”

Hiroto snorts out a weak laugh. “I honestly didn’t think it would work,” she admits, plucking a loose string on the upholstery absentmindedly. “Dunlap didn’t teach me how to do it, I just...didn’t want to stop pitching.”

“Careful, darling, you almost sound sentimental.”

Hiroto laughs, falling onto her back and throwing an arm over her eyes. “Gods, you’re such a pain.”

“You made me Captain.”

“Lapse in judgement. I should have gone with Lottie. I’m taking it back.”

“Promise?”

“Hell no.” Hiroto grins, her voice shaking with amusement. “You’ll be fine. I have a binder of Captain things in my hole in left field and a filing cabinet in my office, in the room to the right of the concession stand.”

Famous makes a noise of disgust. “And what in god’s name am I supposed to do with leftover paperwork?” 

“You wanted preparation. There’s your study material.”

Hiroto can practically see the miserable look on their face. “What a gift.” She laughs again.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on her door. A muffled voice—Geraldine’s maybe?—lets her know that there’s room service food outside if she’s hungry. She covers the receiver to yell out her thanks and then turns back to Famous.

“Hey, I have to go, Captain—”

“Yes, all right, I—What did you just call me—?”

“—but I’ll talk to you later. Don’t forget to check in on the Shadows every now and then.”

“—I’ll kill you for that, Wilcox.”

Hiroto smirks, tongue between her lips. “You’ve threatened worse for less.” 

Finding her chest suddenly feeling tight, her mouth goes dry at the prospect of hanging up and being left with only the murmurs of the hotel guests again, but she forces herself to focus on the sound of Famous’s indignant muttering instead. She notices they aren’t hanging up first. She smiles. And she’s sentimental.

“Hey. Shut up. Go sleep, Captain.”

“Fuck you.” It’s said with a playful vitriol this time, she can tell. Hiroto cackles. “Farewell then, Hiroto. Prepare yourself to witness our victory in the morning.”

“Yeah, right. I hope Ortiz strikes you out so goddamn hard.”