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kohakuarisaka · 4 years ago

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Trial By Fire (chapter 1 of 2)

Takami Keigo x (fem!)Reader

[ SUMMARY ] Hawks stopped by your apartment, asking for a patch up, and then asked for so much more.

[ WARNINGS ] R18+ for graphic sexual content and language. Role reversal: Keigo is a villain and Touya is a hero. Liberties were taken with Hawks’ quirk and is non-canon compliant. This fic is not nice to Touya. Reader and Hawks smoke. Reader has a quirk. Reader is a female with descriptive female genitalia. This fic contains graphic sexual content, including penis in vagina sex, oral sex, spanking, dirty talk, biting, degradation, and knotting. Consensual ♥

Keigo’s appearance in this fic was inspired by this lovely art piece!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

[ My BNHA Fanfic Masterlist ] ~ [ Also on my AO3 ]

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You hadn't heard him approach, not his footsteps, nor the flutter of his wings. It was a little windy tonight; but, that wasn't why you hadn't heard him. He was just that good at sneaking around, or maybe you were just that lost in thought.

Suddenly, the cigarette in your hand was plucked out of your grasp. You followed the burning bud and watched a calloused hand bring it to a pair of soft lips that weren't yours.

He took a drag, looking at you innocently, before huffing the smoke out through his nostrils.

Sometimes, you really hated how weak you were for him. Even when he deserved it, you couldn't bring yourself to get mad at him. Maybe, it was his stupid beautiful face, or his mismatched eyes, or those wondrous crimson feathers.

"What are you doing, pretty bird?" you scolded him softly, reaching out to take your cigarette back.

Hawks let you, and some deluded part of your mind told you it tasted better after his mouth had touched it. Still, you turned away from him, finding it difficult to think properly when he was staring at you like that, his gaze soft and his lips quirked into a faint smirk.

In the distance, a car was honking obnoxiously. You peered down at the streets below and watched the traffic lights change colors.

"Was hoping you'd patch me up?" he asked, perhaps a little too sweetly. "Or is Touya gonna find out and arrest my ass?"

You sighed and gave him a dirty look in the corner of your eye. "No. It's over between us. He isn't gonna be comin' around," you retorted, a little venomously.

"Ohh," he whistled. "What happened? Must'a been bad. You were always so far up his ass."

"Get stuffed," you spat back at him.

He laughed in response to that. It was a little louder than expected, and you could see his shoulders trembling in the corner of your eye. Hawks leaned against the railing next you, matching your posture.

Before he could take it again, you remove your cigarette from your lips and brought it to his. He snatched it from your grasp with his mouth and took a careful drag before lifting his hand to pull it away. You watched the smoke drain from his mouth before looking away again.

"You wanna talk about it?" Hawks offered. Strangely, he sounded sincere.

"As much as I wanna get fisted by sandpaper," you replied hoarsely.

"Shit," he grumbled.

You let out a loud sigh. "There's nothing to talk about. I just couldn't take it anymore," you explained.

In the corner of your eye, you could see Hawks staring at you as if he was trying to decrypt your words or decipher your expression. You avoided his stare for just a little bit longer before finally giving in and turning to face him.

When you looked at him, he returned your cigarette to your lips, or tried to anyway, but you took it with your hand. It was almost burnt out, but had enough left for one more drag, which you took slowly.

"You're hurt?" you asked him softly before turning around to burry your burnt up cigarette in the nearby ash tray.

"Not too bad. I'll fuck right off if you want me to," Hawks replied.

Sometimes, you didn't really think his superpower was his feathers, but just how he managed to always show up at the perfect time. Maybe, someone to talk to was what you needed, even if you told yourself you didn't.

Ending things with Touya was exactly what had to be done to try to get back on track with your pitiful life; but, that didn't mean that everything would be magically okay again, that wounds would just heal and every trace of him would be gone forever.

But, you weren't childish enough to think that anyone could save you from that. No, you had to save yourself.

"Come on, pretty bird," you tossed over your shoulder.

Hawks hated when anyone called him that, except you. Maybe because anyone who called him that did so to put him down, to emasculate him. But, you called him that because you actually meant it. He was so, so pretty. Or, maybe, he just had a soft spot for the girl he used to bum cigarettes off of.

The winged villain followed you down the stairwell to your room. He made a grumbly cooing sound, like a hum in chest, when he stepped inside.

"Place looks great."

It had been quite a shithole the last time he was here. You scrubbed the walls and floors, replaced most of the furniture, gutted out the shitty kitchen cabinets and replaced them. It did look great.

"Thanks," you hummed, pushing at his shoulders until he obeyed and plopped down on the couch.

You sat down next to him and didn't bother asking what was wrong, but just began sliding your hands down the arm of his leather jacket, pushing it up to his elbow to expose his forearm.

You worked your hands over his skin, using your quirk to navigate his nervous system. Your eyes went glossy and distant as you did so, staring at him without actually looking at him. Hawks was patient, watching you work.

"You broke some ribs," you observed quietly. "The gash on your back isn't infected, but your blood cell count is low. You have a cavity forming, too, you manchild."

Hawks burst out laughing. "Do I need to call a dentist?"

"No," you laughed softly. "I'll take care of it." You let go of his arm and looked up at him, head tilting slightly. "Mind if I go by your neck? It's easier closer to the spine."

"Sure. I like choking," he teased.

"Tch," you grimaced at him. "Shut up."

He laughed softly in response to that. Despite his teasing, you still shimmied in closer and reached up, sliding your hands one either side of his neck. His skin was soft. Even the healed burn marks were soft.

Your eyes went glossy again as you focused on the task at hand. Hawks made a low, grumbling hiss as you pulled the injuries from his body, focusing first on his broken ribs.

It hurt like a fucking bitch, feeling each one crack back into proper place. Where your hands touched him was cold as ice; but, it was just an illusion, a side effect of your quirk, a sensation without the actual stimulation.

The wound on his back followed, muscles and skin tissue forming back over into proper place. That didn't hurt as bad, and felt more like a dull ache in comparison. You took care of his cavity, too, which he noticed like a stab in the mouth.

You were done, and Hawks knew you were done. The icy cold touch of your hands had subsided, and the warmth of your skin returned. Still, you didn't let go right away. Your vision returned and you peered up at him, and he looked down at you just the same.

The left side of Hawks face was covered in a scar, a healed burn. It started at the center of his forehead, traveled across the bridge of his nose, took most of his cheek, but just barely missed his lips.

The burn continued down his jaw, onto his shoulder. You had seen him shirtless before, and knew it extended down his chest, ending somewhere at his waist.

Along with that burn, his left eye had been blanched, now pale white instead of the golden, sunlight hue of the one on right. He could still see out of it, just not as well as the undamaged one.

Still, despite all that, he was so, so-

-beautiful.

"All done," you sighed, letting go of him and standing up, turning away from him maybe a little quickly.

"Thanks," he grunted, watching you rise to your feet.

He reached for you; but, you had already stepped too far away and eluded his touch. It wasn't intentional. Your back was turned and you didn't even see it. Yet, your sudden retreat made him feel an unpleasant ache in his chest, and another, very different sort of ache somewhere else.

"It's gettin' kind'a late, so-" you started, heading for the hallway that connected to your bedroom.

Hawks was fast, dangerously so, and was suddenly right beside you. His wing jutted out and smacked into the wall, blocking your path. Your eyes shifted to his, not entirely surprised by his actions. Maybe you should have been. But, he was the kind who liked attention, especially from you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

"No," you deadpanned. "There's a birdman loitering in my house."

That seemed to calm him a little, for he pulled his wing back, lips twitching into a faint smile. However, he replaced his wing with his body, blocking you from continuing down the hall.

"I'm sorry I haven't been around lately," he began, surprising you a little with the sincerity in his tone.

"I get it," you answered immediately, with just a bit of bite.

Life led people down different paths. Touya was following in the footsteps of his dear father to become a great hero. Hawks ended up joining a league of supervillains and was wanted for murder, amongst other things.

-and you worked a 9 to 5.

Maybe, facing down one of Japan's most wanted villains should have been frightening. Being trapped with him in your apartment probably also should have been frightening.

He was a dangerous criminal and on a power level than most could never even dream of. But, you trusted Hawks more than you trusted most people... most heroes.

By the look on his face, there was something he wanted to say; but, it didn't come out.

"What's with the constipated look?" you blurted.

The compressed look on his face softened and Hawks threw his head back, letting out rolling laughter. His hands clutched his tummy and his shoulders trembled. Maybe, that was your real power: making him laugh like that, to the point tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

"I missed you," he stated plainly when he finally stopped laughing.

"Y-yeah, me too, pretty bird," you replied softly, tearing your gaze away from him.

"I hate when you call me that," he murmured.

Hawks stepped towards you and you reeled back. His wings came up on either side of you, forcing you to duck back and hit the wall to avoid him. The bright red plumes towered on either side, caging you in, trapping you with him.

Yet, you weren't scared or perturbed. Hawks liked to play, after all. Even when you were kids, he would fly after you and tackle you to the ground, laughing about what terrible prey you were, always so easily caught.

"No, you don't," you retorted gently.

There was still some distance between you, just enough that you'd have to extend your arm to reach him. His wingspan was massive and the soft, red quills were like curtains caging you in, absolutely gorgeous.

"I'm not good at this sort'a thing," Hawks began, murmuring softly into the darkness of the hallway. His face was cast in shadows, but his eyes were bright, pale white and sun kissed gold.

"Formalities and playin' nice," he added on, a little hoarsely.

You knew where this was going.

"You want Touya's sloppy seconds?" you asked him lowly.

Immediately, it was clear that he didn't like what you said. His eyes narrowed and he stepped in closer.

Hawks might have only been a couple inches taller than you and while he certainly was muscular, he wasn't a hulking beast. Still, he managed to make you feel so small.

His hand landed on the wall behind you with a smack, and it startled you a little.

"Don't fucking say things like that," he snarled.

You gawked up at him, surprised that something like that would upset him.

"You're more than that - a lot fucking more," he added on lowly.

It was only then that you realized he wasn't just mad, he was hurt. He had been your closest friend since you were 13, back when you were stealing cigarettes from upper classmen and sneaking into R-rated movies.

-and he had to watch Touya have you.

"What do you want from me?" you asked him, voice low, a harsh whisper, and it shuddered out of you.

"Everything," Hawks replied in a harsh whisper.

You couldn't help but lick your lips at that proposition.

He stepped in closer, sliding his forearms against the wall on either side of your head. The closeness forced you to crane your head back to look up at him.

"You want me, too," he commented lowly, peering down at you like a hawk circling above an unsuspecting prey.

"I let you in here because I care about you. Don't be so arrogant," you scolded him softly, lacking any real authority to your tone.

"Then, tell me to fuck off," Hawks challenged you.

You stared up at him, lips unmoving. His feathers picked up the faint change in your breathing pattern, just the slightest bit of acceleration. Even if you didn't say it, your body gave it away: this was exciting you.

He was one of the most powerful villains in Japan; but, you were his greatest weakness. He'd do anything you asked, deliver the world to you if it was what you wanted.

"You want this," Hawks murmured darkly, as if he had just made some grand discovery.

His eyes flickered down from your face to below, signaling what he was talking about.

He was hovering with just enough space between you that you could tilt your head down to investigate his claim and take a glance at the tent he was pitching, pressing against the zipper on his black cargo pants.

When your eyes moved up and caught his gaze, you felt hypnotized by the dark stare he had focused on you.

Hawks didn't look expectant or desperate. He looked hungry, yes, but there was some hope to that stare, maybe even the faintest bit of sorrow in those mismatched eyes.

He didn't want to be rejected by you. But, he didn't want you if you didn't want him back.

There probably should have been a little voice in the back of your head telling you not to do this. There had to be some sort of negative repercussion, right?

But, all you could hear was the rattle of the heater in the other room and the shuffling of your neighbors in the room above.

Normally, your thoughts ran rampant with worries, negativities and fears. All had been silent since Hawks arrived. He just had that sort of effect on you, clearing your thoughts with nothing but his presence.

Expectantly, you tilted your head back and parted your lips slightly. Hawks leaned in, following the temptation you presented him with.

Maybe, it would have been wisest to remain as just friends. Even if you tried to tell yourself otherwise, this would change that forever: a door would open that could never be closed.

But, you weren't kids anymore.

"If I kiss you, I won't be able to stop," he promised, or threatened, warm breath fanning over your cheeks.

He smelt like the cigarette he stole from you earlier. It made you all the more eager to taste him.

"Last chance," he added, voice low and hoarse.

"What happens if I say yes?" you dared to ask, eyes peering up at him almost innocently.

You watched Hawks' throat bob. "What happens if you say yes..." he parroted lowly.

The predatory gaze he gave you reminded you that he was a bird of prey and you might as well have been a mouse.

"I'm gonna fuck you like no one ever has before," he began, the words falling from his mouth in a sultry whisper. "Stuff you stupid with my cock, cum so deep inside you that you feel me for days. My name will be the only god-damned thing you remember when I'm done with you."

Oh.

"Promise?" you whispered hoarsely, leaning up a little to try and reach his lips.

You must have been making quite the lewd expression, for Hawks' eyes pinched with amusement.

Hawks tilted his head down. "Promise," he agreed in a whisper, breathed against your lips.

This must have been what it felt like for a spark to meet gunpowder.

Something as simple as a kiss had sent a powerful shockwave down your spine. Your skin prickled all over, flushed with a sudden need to be touched. Your heart began thundering away in your chest and you unconsciously released a very pathetic little sound.

His feathers picked up the rage of your heartbeat and he couldn't resist a shudder, aroused at the excitement he had give you with just the press of his lips.

In a split second, he had his body pressing against yours, flush from shoulder to thigh, pinning you to the wall. Your hands weaved through his hair, pulling him down to crush your mouths together.

It was probably the sloppiest kiss you ever had: a little violent, crushing, and wet. But, nothing could even compare to what this felt like, the taste of him mingled with tobacco, to the way it made you feel like you could melt.

His hands grabbed at your thighs and hoisted you up off the ground. He slammed your back roughly against the wall, cores pinned tightly together, and perched your legs on either side of his waist.

"You feel that?" Hawks breathed, lips touching the shell of your ear.

It was clear what he was referring to: his clothed erection rutting shamelessly against your clothed cunt.

"Every time I see you take a drag, I get fucking hard," he confessed, pulling back to chuckle a little. "Maybe that's why I always stole 'em: fucking jealous."

Before you could get a word out, his head dipped down and took your mouth again. Your hands dragged down his back, clawing at his jacket, threatening to venture further.

Hawks pulled back violently, bumping his forehead against yours to force your gaze to meet his.

"You touch my wings and you're gonna get something you can't fucking handle," he threatened, the words rumbling out of his chest like gravel in a cement mixer.

You looked back with a drunk expression, partially frightened by his threat and partially curious to what that entailed. It resulted in a ridiculously lewd expression on your face.

"All I've done is kiss you, and you already look like that," he observed with intrigue, chuckling softly.

"All I've done is smoke, and you're hard," you retorted sharply, leaning in to bite at his bottom lip.

He hummed, amused at your teasing; that sound, however, died out when you dipped your hands down into his shoulder blades and slid up, brushing the baby feathers that jutted out of his skin.

Hawks let out an almost inhuman sound, head tilting back and moaning, eyes fluttering shut, as his entire body vibrated against you. You stopped, hands shifting away from his feathers, surprised by his reaction.

Immediately, his head fell forward and he settled a frightening glare on you. The growl that emanated from within his chest sent a violent tremor down your spine.

"Oooohhh," he cooed hoarsely, the sound rumbling through his throat. "You don't want me to be nice, do ya'?"

The question went unanswered, for Hawks rolled his hips, pressing your clothed sexes together. Your hands flew up, grabbing at his wings again, fingers tangling in the feathers for purchase.

The friction was nice; but, it wasn't good enough, and Hawks seemed to have that same thought process, for he removed you from the wall and carried you to the bedroom.

He tossed you down on the bed like you were a toy and watched your body bounce a little with an amused look on his face.

You shrieked when red plumes departed his wingspan and swarmed your body. They surrounded you in a wispy tornado before descending, tracing your skin softly and pushing under the hem of your clothes with purpose.

The brief moment of fear washed away when they carefully, albeit swiftly, worked your clothes off. Your arms were forced above your head so your shirt could be discarded while other feathers peeled your pants and underwear down your legs.

Hawks watched, standing at the bedside with a starving expression as his crimson feathers exposed you for him. You didn't take yourself for the shy type, but something about the whole thing had your skin prickled with embarrassment.

Once they were done, his feathers retreated, returning to his wingspan like good little soldiers. Hawks approached, sliding his knees onto the edge of the bed.

Before he could arch over you, your foot flung up and you flattened it against his chest, pushing in protest.

"You, too," you tried to demand. Unfortunately, it came out breathless and desperate.

Hawks eyes shifted from your heated gaze, trailing down to shamelessly take in the sight of your sex, now exposed due to the position of your leg. Instinctively, you wanted to close your legs at that predatory stare. But, somehow, you found the strength to resist.

He hummed and stood back, returning to his feet. You leaned up to watch him work his jacket and shirt off, wings shuddering to peel the fabric away before dropping the materials carelessly to the floor.

He seemed caught off guard by your sudden advance as you got up on your knees at the bedside to reach for him. Your hands landed on his pectorals, shamelessly squeezing at his muscles before drifting down, fingers gently digging into his abs as you traced the outlines.

"Are you having fun?" he laughed.

You were about to answer, but he suddenly grabbed your wrists and brought your hands down to his belt. He didn't have to demand anything, you started working at the buckle, eagerly working the clasp open and undoing his pants.

His mouth opened, likely to spew teasing words. Whatever was going to come out failed him when you suddenly palmed his erection over the fabric of his boxers.

"F-fuck," he groaned, leaning into you suddenly as if he was going to fall over. "Damn brat," he added on in a snarl.

"Are you touch starved, pretty bird?" you murmured, tilting your head to nibble at his jawline.

The red that tinted his the tops of his ears failed to hide the truth from you. It had been a little while, just long enough to make him hungry for it.

Suddenly, he pushed you down on the bed. You flung over with a startled yelp and felt his hands pry your legs apart, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.

He flung your legs up over his shoulders, careless that your feet knocked against his wings, and buried his face between your thighs.

"AH!" you cried out, startled by the sudden sensation of his textured tongue lapping along your slit.

Normally, when someone ate you out, there was some finesse to it, tongue tracing delicately, some soft kisses, just barely lapping at your slit as if you were a dainty little flower.

Not with Hawks. He was smearing his tongue all over the place, lapping at your slippery folds as if he was starving and this was the only meal he'd had in weeks.

You didn't mean to, but in the process of grounding your heels against his back, your toes curled and touched his feathers. You felt his wings flap once and his back muscles tremble.

He leaned back and peered down your body, taking in the look of your aroused expression with a pleased sigh. You felt delirious, wearing a lost look on your face, and he looked damn proud with your wetness smeared across his cheeks.

"Hawks-" you squeaked.

"A meal fit for a king," he praised you in a hoarse voice, tilting his head back down to continue where he left off.

Trying to get on some equal grounds, you twisted your foot and poked at his feathers with your toes. His shoulders twitched, so you continued, digging in as best you could considering the awkward positioning.

Hawks moaned at the touch, the sound vibrating against the folds of your sex. He probably would have scolded you if his mouth wasn't preoccupied. Instead, he pushed back on your thighs, forcing your legs a little higher, until you couldn't reach his wings anymore.

He fucked you with his tongue, mouth suctioned around your opening and slurping lewdly. It was a strange sensation you weren't quite used to, but it felt amazing.

It was clear that he wasn't doing it out of obligation. He did it because he fucking wanted to, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. When he needed a break from your core, he lapped his tongue up your folds, smearing wetness all over the place.

He purposely avoided your pearl until he was confident it was throbbing, the tiny bud forced on display with lewd the way he held your legs apart.

You practically screamed when his tongue finally touched it, hands pulling at the bedsheets beneath you and making a mess, pillows and blankets going askew.

Hawks groaned, mainly because the sound made his cock throb painfully in his pants. He ignored that ache and focused on lapping at your little button, not relenting, even when you were trembling and sobbing.

At the risk of your feet getting touchy again, Hawks dropped one of your legs, needing a free hand to bring you to peak ecstasy. He hardly had to force the calloused digits inside. Your squishy walls took him in eagerly.

"Fuck, Hawks," you sobbed, struggling to remain still.

He leaned back, just enough to get some words out. "Come for me," he uttered hoarsely.

You whimpered at the command, head falling back into the sheets. He had been getting you there before he even said anything, even when it was just his tongue. But, now, with his thick fingers drilling into you and voice making such demands, you felt it approaching like a speeding truck.

"I said fucking come," he added on with a demanding, low growl. "Come on my fucking face. I wanna taste it."

He growled into your sex, loud and rumbling like thunder while his wings flapped once, knocking some things off your walls. The loud noise was a little startling, but didn't break the spell.

He kept up the pace with his fingers, even when the slippery mess of your slick dribbled down his knuckles, and his tongue returned to your pearl, lapping at it roughly.

Your orgasm started in a small wave, rolling over you once, twice, before crashing down and forcing a bizarre concoction of moans, sobs, and whimpers to pour from your lips.

Hawks was unwavering, tongue and fingers working you over expertly through the whole thing, until you sagged on the sheets and stopped whining.

He pulled back and stood up, setting your legs down on the bed. You looked up at him dizzily, and watched him lick his fingers and knuckles clean as if he had spilt some treat on them.

It was such a shamelessly erotic display and left you trembling.

When he was done, he dragged his palm down his chin, wiping your essence away. He caught you staring, of course, and quirked his lips into a prideful smirk.

"Nothing smart to say?" he uttered teasingly. "'Thank you, Hawks'?" he suggested with a warm chuckle.

He had pulled his wings back in; but, there was no way to miss that he was holding them up just a little bit higher than normal. If you weren't so blissed out and eager for more, you probably would have laughed at such a blatant display of dominance.

He was still in the state you had left him in, pants hanging limply around his waist, erection pressing eagerly against his boxers, belt undone and dangling at his thigh.

Hawks lifted his dominant hand and wagged his index and middle finger, beckoning for you to approach. After that mind numbing orgasm, you didn't dare refuse and shimmied over to the edge of the bed.

"I deserve a reward for that, don't you think?" he suggested, that predatory expression taking over his face again as he looked down at you.

"Say 'please'," you challenged him softly, looking up through your eyelashes.

"Hmmm," rumbled out of his throat. He sounded amused, maybe even a little impressed.

You expected something snarky when he opened his mouth. Surprisingly, he uttered a sultry, "please."

You didn't plan on denying him even if he disobeyed; but, after hearing that, there was no way in hell you would dare refuse.

Your hands pushed his pants down his thighs, simultaneously leaning in to mouth at his clothed erection.

Hawks drew in air sharply, like a low hiss, before drawling out, "fuckin' tease."

In all fairness, he hadn't held out on his services for very long; so, you pushed at him, until he relented and let you turn him around. His butt hit the edge of the bed as you settled on your knees on the floor, between his thighs.

You were supposed to be ridding him of his clothes. However, in the desperation to see what he was hiding, you simply pulled his boxers down, until his cock sprang free.

Staring at it like an idiot would have probably pleased his ego; but, you opted to wrap your lips around the tip and take him in your mouth promptly. You went down just a little too eagerly, and nearly choked; but, it was worth it to hear the strangled sound he made.

"F-" he hissed through clenched fangs, "-uuuck."

You stroked what your mouth couldn't fit, starting off sloppily to get him slicked up well enough to make the glide easier. Your eyes fluttered shut, concentrating on the task at hand, and to make every little noise he made just a little clearer.

He was breathing harshly through his nose, groaning out the occasional curse, before he opted to just blurt what was on his mind.

"Daydreamed about this all the fucking time," Hawks grunted.

Maybe, that sort of thing should have been concerning; but, if you were being honest with yourself, your thoughts of him weren't always so pure, either. Sometimes, laying in bed alone at night, masturbating, it was easy to start thinking about his long, calloused fingers, and wonder what kind of things he would say.

Hawks had one hand gripped at the edge of the bed, while his other weaved carefully through your hair. You expected a painful, demanding grip; but, he was surprisingly gentle, touching you with a sort of adoration.

"Yeeahhh," he groaned, the word undulating as it exited his chest.

"Fuck, you look so cute like that," he praised, pushing your hair out of your face so he could admire the lewd expression you were wearing, lips spread wide over his girth.

"I bet you were curious, huh?" he uttered arrogantly. "Bet you wondered how big it w-" He cut off, moaning lowly when your tongue flattened along the underside and lapped at the thick vein there.

"Does it - aghn - taste better than a heroes?" he taunted in an amused, gravely voice. He even laughed a little at his own crudeness, albeit briefly.

As you drew back, you suctioned tightly, maybe to punish him, or because you were spurred on by such vulgar words. You weren't sure which. His hips lifted off the bed, chasing the sensation, and he moaned shamelessly loud into your dimly lit bedroom.

It startled you a little when you suddenly felt something staring to swell at the base of his cock, fingers smoothing it over curiously.

Just as quickly as you felt it, Hawks hand rotated from the top of your head to the underside of your jaw, pulling you back and forcing you off his cock. The fleshy sound your mouth made echoed around the room.

When you peered up at him, it seemed he was as caught off guard as you were. His mouth was hanging open, cheeks tinted pink, fangs bared while labored breaths wisped through them.

Did he want an answer? You were ready to tell him that he did taste good, when he suddenly leaned down. His arms wove beneath yours, and he hoisted you off the floor, spinning you around and tossing you onto the bed, almost carelessly.

He quickly rid himself of his clothes as you bounced atop the sheets, and climbed on top of you, forcing your legs up and onto his hips.

Just a little dizzy, you were surprised when he suddenly slotted over you, his mouth colliding with yours. He barely gave you a single kiss before shoving his tongue inside.

Your tongue joined his, sliding together in a pointless dance. You felt him lean down, the warmth of his body caressing yours. Hawks weaved one arm around your head possessively, while his other slid up your side, fingers dancing along your ribs.

You expected him to just ram into you. That was usually how this went. But, he was proving to be unlike any other man you had been with before. You could feel his cock jabbing into your thigh, throbbing with need; but, he seemed more concentrated with another task at the moment.

The kiss went on, and on, and on, as if he hadn't already kissed you senseless earlier. He seemed enraptured by the taste.

One of your hands fell onto his shoulder, while the other slid up to cup his face. You weren't really thinking about the where, until your fingertips touched leathery skin. Hawks flinched as if you had hurt him, and you realized you were touching the burnt half of his face.

He pulled back harshly from the kiss with a wet smack and stared down at you. He looked like he was trying to be mad, like a retort was hot on the tip of his tongue. But, instead, he just looked lost.

You stared up at him, unable to hold back just the slightest tinge of fear, afraid that the moment was ruined, that the spell had been broken, that you had crossed a line that Hawks didn't want you to cross.

But, then, he leaned into your palm, surrendering something that went unspoken. Your thumb smoothed over his cheekbone and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Hawks?" you hummed, wondering how long it had been since someone touched him there, touched skin tinged red and scarred over, forever a reminder of the past.

His eyes fluttered shut as your hand explored, down his jaw, down the side of his neck, over his shoulder, touching places he had once been burned. He dipped his head down, brushing his cheek against yours. You trembled at the sensation of his soft, short beard hairs tickling your skin.

It seemed he had grown impatient, for he tilted his hips up and slid forward, until the tip of his member brushed your folds. Your head fell back with a sigh and you tightened your legs around his waist expectedly, eagerly awaiting him to finally take you.

But, Hawks was unmoving, hovering. His lips nibbled at the shell of your ear before you felt his warm breath as he uttered lowly, drawling out the words, "beg for it."

He was so close, you could feel his chest vibrate with each syllable. You gazed over his shoulder, down his back, where his wings fanned out beautifully behind him. The appendages were tense, fingers bristled tensely.

When you didn't answer fast enough, Hawks reeled his hand away from your side. His palm collided with your ass and a smacking sound echoed around the room, immediately followed by your pained yelp.

"I said," he snarled, "beg for this cock."

It was far more arousing than it was menacing, and it was clear, despite the anger he was displaying, that he was pleased by your refusal to immediately obey. It meant he got to punish you, to drag this out a little longer, to play with you some more.

You bit your lip and delayed giving him the answer he wanted, skin prickled with excitement at the thought of what would follow.

"Are you tryin' to piss me off?" he asked lowly, tilting his head back to look at your face.

He didn't look mad. He looked painfully aroused, cheeks tinted pink, eyes taking in your lewd expression hungrily, fangs bared through slightly parted lips, where he drew in sharp breaths.

"I-" you began.

He either guessed you were going to sass him, or just decided he didn't care what the response was going to be. His hand collided with your backside again, just a tiny bit rougher than last time.

Your eyes pinched shut and you cried out again, body jerking slightly from the touch. Even with your eyes closed, you could picture the smirk he wore at witnessing your response.

Hawks leaned down, nose nudging at the soft spot behind your ear.

"Last chance," he whispered, almost tauntingly. "Beg. For. This. Cock," he added on lowly, almost snarling into the skin of your neck.

You probably couldn't have suppressed that shudder if you were dead, and Hawks felt it. His wings twitched behind him and he groaned softly, pleased by your reaction.

To taunt you further, his hips nudged forward, just until his tip breached your entrance. At the sound of a sweet moan leaving your mouth, he pulled back, then pushed back in, again and again, not breaching you past the tip.

It was sweet, delicious torture.

"Okay," you hissed out, unable to take it anymore.

You tilted your head, lips trailing along his jaw, kissing at the soft, short hairs there, until you found his ear.

"Keigo," you growled.

Immediately, you felt the way he stiffened above you, muscles going tight beneath your hands. A barely audible gasp escaped him.

It had been a while since someone said his name. He was the villain Hawks, now. Keigo was dead, according to him... but not to you. The blonde haired boy with crimson wings and big smile would never die as long as you were alive to remember him.

"Please give me your cock," you uttered softly, lips moving against the shell of his ear as you spoke.

Surprisingly, you didn't hate how desperate you sounded. If it sounded sweet in your ears, then you could only imagine how it sounded to him.

You had barely finished your sentence before he was shoving his hips forward, filling you to the brim in a split second. Your voice was caught in your throat, but Hawks let out a startlingly loud sound, bellowing out a roar into the darkness of your bedroom.

You trembled beneath him, shaken by his roar and by his girth filling your insides. His wings twitched fiercely, lifting up into the air for a brief second before fluttering back down to a relaxed position.

"Oohh, fuck," Hawks wheezed.

He gave you, or maybe it was for himself, a second to breathe before he started moving, pistoning in and out of your heat fiercely: halfway out, back to the brim, the skin of your hips smacking together noisily.

One of his hands had purchase on your thigh, holding on for dear life, while his other hand was fisted in the bedsheets by your head, the grip looking tight enough to rip the fabric.

Your legs were hoisted high on his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. Your nails dragged down the backs of his shoulders, leaving behind pale impressions, and nearing his wings.

No one said it, but you both felt it: finally.

Destiny, soulmates, and all that nonsense was bullshit to you. Hawks made it clear he never believed in fate; whatever happened was because of choices, your own or someone else's, that shaped each and every outcome.

But, in that moment, your unity felt like destiny. His weight above you, his warmth, the smell of his skin, felt familiar, felt like home. His breath fanning out in hot wisps across the skin of your neck, his manhood nuzzled deep in your core, felt like harmony, like it was meant to be.

Maybe, you were just stupidly aroused, to the point that sense and reason was lost. Maybe, Hawks was just so good at this, that he already had you drunk on the sensation, drunk on him.

But, you decided that you didn't care what the answer was, just as long as he didn't stop.

"Fuck. You feel so good," Hawks praised, leaning up to look down at you.

"You like that? 'm I making you feel good, baby?" he slurred, huffing out breaths between each thrust.

"Keigo," you whined affirmingly, or maybe scoldingly, maybe somewhere in-between. His words were embarrassing; but, you didn't want him to ever stop talking.

He leaned down, nuzzling his forehead affectionately against your temple. It seemed to contrast the vulgar words he spewed.

"Fuck, yeah. Say my fucking name," he grunted.

The hand gripping your thigh tugged you down a little, putting you a bit further beneath him. It changed the angle slightly. The fact that he even considered that was enough to knock the wind out of you. But, now, with him reaching all the best places, his hips were doing that quite well.

He laughed darkly at the way you cried out sharply, legs trembling on either side of his hips.

"Right there?" he hummed. "Right fucking there?" he added on immediately with a particularly harsh thrust, clearly demanding an answer.

"Yes!" you almost screamed, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice.

Every time he plunged back inside, bringing your hips impossibly tight together, a smacking sound echoed around the room. He buried his face in the divot between your neck and shoulder, alternating between slurs and nibbling on the soft, sweaty skin.

"Feels so fucking good," Hawks groaned. "So fucking warm 'n soft. Ya' feel that - feel your juices dripping all over the fucking place? Yeahhh - all over my fucking cock."

He lapped a wet tongue up the side of your neck, teeth biting gently at your jaw and cheek before rising to hover against your lips.

"Look at me," he demanded softly. The skin of his lips touched yours as he spoke.

You almost didn't realize that you had closed your eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming, making it near impossible to force your eyes open.

You could picture him perfectly in your head. Still, you weren't prepared for the sight of him when your eyes fluttered open: Hawk's handsome face, looming over you, cheeks flushed red, fangs peaking out between parted lips, messy blonde locks flopped over his sweaty forehead.

"Don't look away," he demanded in a low growl.

It likely wasn't intentional, but he sounded more pleading and less demanding. Still, you were eager to comply. Even if he hadn't requested it, it would have been difficult to look away when he was wearing an expression like that.

Your hands clawed down his back, venturing lower and lower until they reached his shoulder blades, where beautiful, heavenly plumes grew. Hawks cried out, eyes squeezing shut, when you dipped your hands down and slid one along each wing, tangling digits in the feathers.

"Ohhh, fuck," he snarled.

You whimpered when he dipped his head down and bit at your lips before forcing his tongue inside. His command for you to look at him was briefly forgotten as he kissed you, if the harsh motions of his tongue could even be called a kiss.

The swift pace he had set became brutal suddenly, and he was smacking his hips against yours almost violently. Something slithered between your bodies, and you realized faintly that it was a feather.

The soft little quill curled between your bodies and found purchase against your clit, rubbing at the bud almost like a fingertip. That touch got your grip on his wings to loosen as the pleasure became almost blinding.

Hawks pulled back from the kiss with a wet smack, looking down at you almost angrily. You had gotten used to that look, and recognized it as pure lust. Maybe, he was a little mad at you, in his own way.

"Grabbing my wings? You fucking brat," he snarled. There was no venom, however, just animalistic lust.

You wanted to bite back at him; but, the sensations between your legs made it near impossible to think properly, let alone speak. His feather was flicking at your pearl, sparking white hot pleasure, while his cock pummeled your insides, burning aching pleasure at your core.

Somehow, you found the strength to return your hands to his wings, curling fingers and palms beneath the lower end where the appendages jutted out from his back. You grabbed on, felt the feathers fold and twitch between your fingers, making room for you to settle in, almost as if they were working against him.

Hawks cried out, head falling back; but, his pace didn't falter once.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he whined, head nearly smacking into yours when he came back down.

"Holding on like that, gonna make me-" Hawks cut off, moaning shamelessly, breath fluttering out across your cheeks.

Gods, he looked beautiful like that: eyes clouded with lust, cheeks and the tops of his ears tinted red, mouth hanging open. You didn't look much better, laying there and just taking everything he gave you, and loving every fucking second of it.

Normally, his hair was blown out and brushed free from his face. It was cute seeing long strands clinging to his forehead and brow. You could see short, fluffy strands clinging to his neck, skin shiny with a thin layer of sweat.

He could easily jostle his wings or use a strong hand to push you away, to free himself from your grasp; but, he didn't. It felt good, too fucking good, to possibly do that. But, that didn't stop him from bitching about it.

"-touching my fucking wings," he snarled, sounding almost unlike himself, breathless and senselessly aroused, as he growled into the shell of your ear.

"-knot you as punishment," he threatened, words slurred and growling. "Yeah - make you take all of it."

It became clear to you, then, what you had felt earlier, while sucking him off. Perhaps, it shouldn't been so surprising that he could do that. Still, the promise was enough to make you cry out.

Hawks laughed darkly. "That's not a punishment, is it? No, nooo - you would like that."

You weren't sure if it was his words, or the thought of what he intended to do. Maybe it was the way he growled at the end of his sentences, or the feeling of his feathers shuddering in your grasp. But, before you knew it, your orgasm was creeping up on you.

"You want my knot? Hm? Fucking say it - hgnnn," he demanded, words drawling out into a low growl that rumbled through his chest.

"Keigo, please," you sobbed.

"'Please' what?" he snarled.

You barely heard his response. Your orgasm was suddenly overtaking you, so strongly that you could only hear your heart thundering in your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut and you trembled helplessly beneath him, fingers releasing his wings to claw down the skin of his back, trying to find purchase in his skin.

His feather never ceased pinching at your clit; Hawks hips, however, began to falter, feeling you come undone beneath him, tightening and gushing. You failed to feel him swelling at the base, his own orgasm approaching rapidly.

"Oh fuck - oh fuck," Hawks chanted, panting above you like a wild dog.

Without separating, he hiked your leg up and turned you over onto your side, nuzzling into the space behind you. There was barely a second where his pace faltered, and suddenly he was pressed up tight against your back, snarling into your neck while he continued jackhammering into you.

"I need to hear it," he uttered harshly.

Weakly, you reached down between your sopping wet thighs and pushed at the feather that never stopped fluttering against you. It felt good, so, so good. But, it was bordering on painful. The little plume refused to obey your weak protest, and continued flicking expertly at your bud, sending shockwaves across your body.

"-need to hear it," he added on again, insistently.

As your orgasm started to wane, you remembered his request.

Hawks' legs were tangled with yours, resting on his side behind you, sweaty chest slotted against your back while his hips fucked into you feverishly. He had one hand curled over your hip for leverage while his other arm was tucked under your head.

He was panting wildly, nearing completion, fucking into you so fast and hard that it almost hurt. You could hear his wings flap once, stirring the air around you.

"Baby - fuck - please," he sobbed, so fucking close that it was starting to claw away at his insides. He buried his face in the back of your neck, wheezing harshly between sharp moans.

You felt deliriously high, insides still churning in mind-numbing pleasure, skin silky with sweat. You could feel his harsh breaths fluttering out against your neck, felt his hair tickle your skin, felt what he was begging for, prodding at your entrance.

"Y-yes," you stammered, arching your back to try and meet him. "Knot me, Keigo, pleas-"

He pushed it in just in time for his orgasm to take him. The gland at the base of his cock swelled, locking you two together, and Hawks let out a harsh cry that rattled your bones.

The sob you made at the sudden fullness was drowned out by the sounds Hawks was making behind you.

Hawks' sharp cry faded into low moans that stuttered past his lips, one right after the other, as if he was helpless to stop them. The hand that had been holding your hip lowered until his arm locked around your waist, holding you close. His cock throbbed against your walls, gushing his seed in hot spurts.

Even when his orgasm seemed to wane, Hawks couldn't stop shuddering behind you, low wisps of pleasured sounds leaking from his mouth and fluttering across your skin.

It was only when his cock stopped throbbing that he finally went quiet and the feather fluttering at your pearl ceased. The blinding pleasure slowly faded into blissful tranquility, leaving you in the soft ambiance of the ceiling fan, Hawks' breathing, and the bustling streets outside.

In awe, you stared ahead as some of his feathers fluttered free from his wingspan and floated around the room, caught in the breeze from the ceiling fan.

Hawks held you close, panting into your neck, barely an inch of your sweat soaked skin not touching.

Most of the time, guys pulled away as quickly as they could when they were done. Feeling him linger felt nice, warm, comforting, especially when he finally started to calm down, and you felt his lips trail up your neck before nuzzling behind your ear.

"You okay?" he uttered lowly.

"Yeah," you replied softly. "Are you?"

"Still feels good," he answered hoarsely.

"Mmm," you agreed.

You wanted to close your eyes and sink into the sheets; but, you didn't want to look away from the sight of his feathers floating around the room. He must not have realized yet, for he surely would have pulled them back by now.

His arm left your waist so he could free his hand to wander, smoothing over your belly before rising up your sternum. He palmed your neck softly before smoothing over your shoulder, down your arm, then over the curve of your side, briefly squeezing the meat of your behind.

That hand then lifted to brush the hair out of your face and away from your neck, freeing up more skin within reach of his lips, which he promptly peppered with kisses.

Sensitive from such powerful orgasms, your sensitive skin prickled at the feeling of his short beard hairs, and you couldn't hold back some giggling and twitching, which did nothing to deter him.

When he was satisfied, his arm returned to your waist, bringing you in closer as if such a thing was possible.

"Is this... your first time?" you asked him softly, hesitantly.

"What? Having sex?" he blurted, laughing a little.

"No," you sharply retorted, snorting at him.

"Knotting?" he answered with a chuckle. "Yeah. Never wanted to be like this with someone before."

You slid one of your hands over his forearm, the one curled over your waist, until your fingers touched his knuckles. He opened his fingers, letting you intertwine the digits to caress his hand.

"Good," you hummed. "I'm special."

Hawks laughed breathlessly, his chest trembling softly against your back. "Yeah... Yeah, you fucking are," he agreed in a quiet whisper.

Everything was quiet for a little while. Hawks eventually realized he lost some plumes and drew them back into his wingspan. You could hear the feathery appendages shudder softly as he stretched them out, wiggling the masses, before drawing them back in.

He relaxed behind you, pliant and lazy atop the sheets, occasionally blessing your skin with a kiss: a rough one on your shoulder, a soft one on your cheek, a wet one against the shell of your ear. His other arm was still beneath you, making for a decent, albeit hard, pillow.

It was possible that his knot had already gone down by now; but, if it had, you hadn't noticed, and didn't care to move or to tell him to move. You didn't want the moment to be over quite yet.

"Soooo," Hawks uttered suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He carefully drew his arm out from beneath your head and propped an elbow up so he could lean elevate his hand against his palm and look down at you.

"How was that?" he asked, and you, of course, noticed his cheeky tone.

You groaned in response, highly suspicious of where this was going.

"Better than-"

"Don't you fucking say it," you interrupted him sharply, turning your head a little to look back at him, just in time to watch the wicked smirk on his face turn into a pout, an annoyingly adorable pout at that.

You sighed and turned your head back, away from him, uttering quietly, "yeah, it was better."

Hawks hummed happily. "Better than-?" he cooed, cutting himself off intentionally to tease you.

Testing the waters, you gently pulled away from him, confirming that he had softened and slipped out with ease. You lifted up into a seated position and shimmied to the edge of the bed. Hawks hadn't moved an inch, you realized, when you paused to look back at him.

"The best I've ever had," you sighed at him. "Happy?"

He closed his eyes, beaming a smile at you. "Yep!" he chirped, wings twitching subtly behind him.

"Are you staying, pretty bird?" you dared to ask, just a little fearful that he would take that opportunity to see himself out.

"I sure hope so," he replied. "Or are you the kind to throw men out to the cold when you're done with them?"

You leaned over the bed to give him a playful, harmless smack on the top of the head. He let you, smile not faltering and not flinching in the slightest.

"I might start tonight," you teased.

Still, you gently pushed his hair out of his face, preening him until you were satisfied, and stood up. You couldn't help but stare at him for a moment, spread out on his side, beautifully naked and looking happier than you'd seen him in ages.

"Gonna clean up. Keep the bed warm," you gently commanded him.

Just as you turned away from him, you felt his hand wrap around your arm, stopping you from retreating. You jerked back just a little, not expecting that sudden touch.

"Be mine," he requested.

It was possible that Hawks intended for it to come out demanding. It was, just a little bit; but, there was no missing the plea there, the fear that you were going to tell him that you belonged to no one, or that you didn't want what he was asking for.

You looked at him over your shoulder. The stern face he was making startled you a little. He was always joking about something, making dumb faces so people would underestimate him. It was rare to see him look like this, and you realized-

He was serious.

You gently peeled his hand off your arm. "I was yours when you stole my cigarettes, asshole," you beamed at him, a little bit more venomously than you intended.

That didn't stop Hawks from grinning like a madman.

"Fuck, babe. I love that dirty talk. Let's go again."

For some reason, that got you laughing. "Fuck off."

"Fuck me?" he teased.

You laughed again. "No."

#takami keigo x reader #takami keigo x you #takami keigo smut #takami keigo fanfiction #hawks x reader #villain hawks x reader #villain hawks fanfiction #villain hawks smut

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goldentournesol · 4 years ago

Text

to be true, to not be true (part 1)

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: early in y/n’s and spencer’s relationship, y/n fears the growing distance between them, although what seemed to be possible infidelity, is actually much worse–for spencer.

Length: 2.9k

A/N: i wrote this in collaboration with one of my favorite writers on here, Mia over at @mggpleasedontlookhere. She is so wonderful and hopefully you can see both of our writing styles here!

masterlist

The sunlight streaming through the windows made the hairs on my skin dance in glee, although it was the soft breeze invading the space that contrasted the radiant warmth. An equilibrium was achieved–a needed balance. The same can be said about the nerves crawling about my stomach and the naive excitement that made me light-headed whenever I was around Spencer. I glanced up at him from where my head lay in his lap. The reflected glow from the TV danced across his features making my heart jolt. My stare caught his attention and he sent me a small smile, his hand leaving traces in my hair. It was his day off and I had no problem spending it in suffocating proximity with him.

“This is nice,” I breathed, leaning back into his soft touch. He hummed in response, almost in contentment, if not for the moment his eyes seemed far off, entangled in a distant thought. It was so brief, I might have missed it. His job took a lot from him and I knew that, which is why I never pushed him. Instead, I let the subtle aroma of morning coffee and fresh linen confine my senses, leaving me oblivious to reality.

Although not a few moments later, the ping from Spencer’s phone burst the fantastical bubble that surrounded us. My eyes lingered on the cartoon characters plastered on the screen but I couldn’t help noticing the way Spencer’s fingers would thump rhythmically against the floor. Adjacent to his palm, rested his phone, revealing several notifications as it came alive. Albeit I paid no mind to their context given I was enamored by the picture of me on his homescreen. A faint smile graced my lips at the observation, feeling a wave of warmth rush my cheeks.

“I wonder who that is,” I teased, referring to the image. Spencer must have misunderstood my point of reference, hastily explaining that new language that Morgan had introduced him to through text messages.

“Spencer, using emojis does not constitute a new language.”

“Considering its context, I would argue it is–I mean look at hieroglyphics!” I covered my face in amusement, running my hands over my eyes. A sharp exhale left my lungs as my chest filled with contagious giggles. It seems that I was too consumed in my fit of laughter to notice Spencer stealthily concealing the device and turning off his ringer.

“First of all, hieroglyphics is a formal writing system-”

“And does that not ‘constitute’ a portion of language? Also, isn’t texting a writing system in itself?” His lips formed into a sly smirk, thinking he’d gotten the best of me.

“You’re right in the way that hieroglyphics is part of the language, however it’s all but the ‘expression’ of that language.” I debated, gesturing to the air as I explained my point. For a moment our eyes met, and I could feel my playful resolve melt away under his gaze. Despite the pause in my confidence, my stubbornness shone through.

“All I heard was that I was right,” he jested, tickling the side of my waist. I jumped at his mischief, collapsing into pleas and begs as he continued his assault at my skin. My stomach churned in delight as my hands attempted to pry him off of me, the premise of our conversation vanishing into air like wisps of smoke.

Spencer’s days off were becoming increasingly rare, I’d barely seen him in the last two weeks, but we’ve managed to salvage enough time between cases for a date. The excitement buzzed through my veins as the clock ticked closer to 7 pm. I was growing restless in the apartment, obsessively checking my phone for the time. Spencer is usually right on time, if not early. Dread and anxiety clogged up my throat as I waited for him. For hours, call after call would be sent straight to voicemail. The weather outside seemed to be in tandem with the way I felt. The rain was as unforgiving as the tears that striped my face.

I was never one to hold a grudge. But it happened once, then it happened twice. Slowly, it became a habit and it was impossible to reach him.

I guess date nights on Thursdays were now obsolete.

He came over to my apartment maybe once whenever he was in town and even then he was nearly unrecognizable. His shy, loving demeanor was replaced by explosive irritability and general unease. I wished he’d just talk to me, but he continued to brush me off. He was being distant and strange, his behavior was so unlike him. Knowing him though, he was probably too stressed or busy to get around to doing simple tasks like eating a balanced meal. Spencer can be quite scatterbrained, and I hadn’t seen him in around a week. So, around lunch time, I made Spencer a healthy meal packed with proteins and veggies and decided to pop into the BAU and drop it off. It felt like a good way to cheer him up. Maybe we’d have lunch together at the park he always liked to visit. It wasn’t that far from headquarters. Hell, I’d even eat lunch with him at his desk at this point.

The walk into the BAU was strangely nerve wracking, I could feel my heart in my throat. I had an uneasy feeling in my gut but I took a deep breath and pushed the heavy glass doors open. My eyes scanned the bullpen for my boyfriend but I couldn’t find him. Standing there in confusion, I was only snapped out of my trance when someone bumped into me from behind.

“I’m so sorry–oh, it’s you! Hey Y/N, what are you doing here?” JJ said, closing the file she held in her hands and wrapping me in a one-armed hug.

“Hey JJ! I was looking for Spence, I got him lunch, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere? Do you know where he is?” I said as I pulled back from the hug, she began to say something but was interrupted.

“Woah hey, sunshine! I was wondering why it suddenly got so bright in here.” The deep voice of none other than Derek Morgan came from beside us and he was, of course, donning his signature cheeky grin. I couldn’t help but grin back, even though my chest was nearly caving in on itself.

“Did Spence come in today?” JJ asked Morgan, whose brows immediately furrowed.

“No, I haven’t seen him today. I think he might be coming in late, I’m not sure. He’s been kind of off, lately.” Morgan said, eyes searching my own for an answer.

“He has, hasn’t he?” I exclaimed and the two nodded in agreement, “I’ve been worried about him, maybe all that emoji-talk finally got to him.” I laughed slightly, but stopped when I found Morgan’s expression shift.

“What do you mean? I stopped trying to explain emojis to him like months ago, if the genius doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it.” Morgan shrugged, unknowingly allowing the literal caving in of my chest to take place. JJ noticed the change in me immediately.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” She asked in her usual caring manner, but I could barely hear her over the rushing of my blood in my ears.

“Nothing, nothing. Um, if he comes in today, can you just give him this?” I dismissed the conversation and handed over the brown bag with the lunch I made, disguising the sharp exhale that left my lungs. Before JJ had the opportunity to utilize her profiling skills, I gave both of them a cordial nod and left the office.

My steps felt heavier with every collision against the tile, albeit the loud thumping of my heart drowned out reality around me. My mind warped itself around irrational thoughts as my loyalty to Spencer attempted to retaliate against the invaders. The concept of Spencer as dubious and sly fell foreign to me. However, that lack of knowledge only added fuel to the imminent blaze that engulfed my head and stomach.

I swarmed with alternate realities, trying to make sense of the unknown. If Spencer was aware of my method of defining a solution, I would’ve been scolded by my naivety and illogical thinking. Oh to be a scientist–to have a mind like his. It’s a gift yet a heavy burden to carry. Is that it? Was that it? Does he not believe I’m capable of understanding a mind like his? Was I stupid? No. He had shared intimate momentos of his life before, so what was it? What can I not offer…What can I not promise to make him drift away like this?

It must have been me, right? I must’ve hit a boundary the last time we spoke! Or was it his work? No. By the time my thoughts stopped buzzing, I realized my feet carried me to the park I intended to visit earlier with Spencer. An unfamiliar pang hit my chest, sending reverbing waves throughout the cavity. A sort of ache rested in the core of my heart–something I didn’t think I would feel when reflecting on my relationship with Spencer–my Spencer. I guess I was so used to the warm bubble he fabricated that I forgot how cold the real world was.

Was that it? Did I stop being that for him too?

The thought of the slow degradation of our relationship sent a chilling shock through my veins while I swallowed pins and needles. My hand rested on a park bench next to me, letting myself use the wooden beams as support. Looking out into the far pond in the center of the park, I pulled myself to take a seat. The wind began to whistle through the trees, and the lake of glitter–the nickname I gave whenever the sun casted its glow onto the surface–lost all of its beauty. Crickets didn’t even dare to sing their usual melody and birds flew south to their homes. The breaths I took kept going nowhere, dissolving into nothing even though my chest expanded and retracted.

I pulled at the ends of my sleeves, tucking my knees into my chest as the air grew crisp. Questions of infidelity and unfounded justifications collided creating a mass of insatiable curiosity. My head coincided with entropy–it enjoyed the chaos–until suddenly it went blank. Every tether that kept me grounded vanished, my consciousness going into autopilot. I didn’t even realize the burn that resided in my eyelids or the wet streaks coating my cheeks–maybe from the dryness or something more. It was only the small drop of water landed on the back of my palm that pushed me out of the addicting trance.

Another one had landed on my forehead. And another one. And another one. I cringed as I felt the water drip from my head to the crevice of my ear. The clouds began to rumble a somber tune as it began to rain. Plucking myself from the bench, I made no hurry to make it back to the house. In a way, the droplets cascading the skin distracted me–seemingly blissful compared to the former events.

Once again, my feet held a prominent consciousness as it was the only part of me that was stable, leading me to the doorstep of my apartment complex. With what felt like a last ditch effort, I checked my phone for any new messages from Spencer. My heart lurched seeing a new notification pop up. To my surprise, it was from him.

With a deep breath and newfound hope, I unlocked the device, taking a moment to gaze at the picture of I and Spencer on the screen, before proceeding. My shoulders dropped, the tight squirming in my stomach halting. A hopeful smile crept on the corners of my lips, the previous distrust dissipating from my unreliable mind as I read the words displayed in front of me.

“Date night tomorrow?”

Tomorrow night couldn’t come quick enough. It somehow felt like I was holding my breath the entire day until I finally saw him. He was apologetic and sweet enough that it quieted my anxieties for a while. If he held any guilt or shame, it wasn’t apparent, or maybe he hid it well. Or maybe I was being ridiculous and reading far too much into things that could be circumstantial. But this was Spencer…my Spencer, the tenderhearted, gentle soul who made way too many corny physics jokes.

Dinner went by much smoother than I expected, but I still felt like there were things unsaid. The words felt lodged in my throat, almost like an itch I couldn’t reach. Either by mindless habit or by sheer deliberacy, we ended up in our favorite park. The very park that I found myself running to in a fit of frustration yesterday. Our feet seemed to know the way of our usual path along the pavement. I wondered briefly if there was a place I stepped in twice without noticing it. There was a lull in conversation and before I realized it, the words escaped me stealthily.

“Hey, Spence?” I started, and he took his attention off his shoes to look at me, “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something.” The way the words stumbled ungracefully from my lips had me cringing. He lifted a brow in intrigue and caught my eye, silently profiling me and my nervous behavior.

“Anything, love.” The use of the amorous term caught me off guard and I had to swallow under his intense gaze. I felt myself open my mouth, but the words died on my tongue as the blaring of his ringtone took the place of my voice between us. It was almost as if the scratchy melody startled him because the way he snatched himself away from me to look at his phone was worrisome.

His brows bunched together as he took a look at it, “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

Without waiting for my confirmation, he pressed the phone to his ear and took a few large steps away from me, as if the space would give him more privacy. I suddenly felt extremely exposed without him by my side.

The emptiness beside me lingered of his scent, almost mocking me, the words constricting my tongue. If I had a second longer, maybe the phone call would’ve been obsolete, maybe for the first time in a long time he would’ve been selfishly mine, even for another moment. I found myself suffocating in the same place I was yesterday like some poetic injustice. Perhaps I’m just a marionette, dangling from loose strings as the universe had their way with me. Frankly that would be less upsetting than watching Spencer slip through my fingers, knowing that it was possibly me who sealed that fate, and not some otherworldly being. It would’ve been my doing, and that’s something I’m not yet ready to realize.

Maybe it was my undying curiosity or growing twinge in my chest every second passed that led me to consult the moral figures weighing down my shoulders. At two opposing extremes, they debated the right course of action–or if doing the right thing was even the course of action to consider. Surprisingly in the end, it was my impulsivity that answered for me, wasting no time to stipulate consequences.

I shook off the twisting feeling in my stomach, pushing myself off in Spencer’s direction. I kept justifying my actions by telling myself that all I would be doing is checking on him, although the underlying motive was nothing under disguise. I whispered the same mantra to myself with every inch closer. I gritted my teeth as the antsy sensation traveled to my shoulders, slowing my steps to contemplate my reasoning.

What am I doing? A harsh exhale of detest left my lungs, leaving a light yet deserved burn in my esophagus. It seemed incredulous to me that I was willing to eavesdrop on my own boyfriend, although it didn’t seem like that minutes ago. I bit the inside of my cheek in shame, turning myself around.

Has this all been in my head? No, it can’t. Then why would he lie? He wouldn’t, but he did. Confusion set deep within me, however it was my guilt that left an everlasting mark. Maybe Spencer had his reasons, he would never deliberately fib–at least the Spencer I knew would never. But what if that’s it? Did I really know Spencer that well? The world around me closed in rapidly, my senses overwhelmed. Did I make him lie? It would make sense considering my recent possessiveness. Did he see that? Did I drive him away?

I bit down on my bottom lip, threatening to break the skin. I ran my hand through my hair several times, taking a few calming breaths to compose myself. No, I can’t think like that. This is Spencer, he’s my Spe–no, maybe he never was mine?

Unable to contain my contradicting thoughts any longer, I shifted around with a newfound determination. Pushing the bile building up at the bottom of my stomach, I prepared to march my way to him. My body set aflame with feigned confidence, hopefully enough to fuel the overpowering desire to know the truth.

To know whether the truth actually lied in the irrationality of my mind

To know whether the truth lied in the coarseness of my behavior.

To know whether the truth lied in the prospects of Spencer’s job.

To know whether the truth-

“I guess I’ll see you on Thursday!” Spencer smiled with endearment–a smile I thought was reserved for me. “It’s a date…”

To know whether the truth was that he was no longer mine.

part 2 feedback is always appreciated!

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid masterlist #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid one shot #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #cm #mia <3

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thetaoofzoe · 4 years ago

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Fic: Crescent Moon 1/1

Title: Crescent Moon

Pairing: Henry Cavill x YOU

Rating: Sexy, fluff, teasing, some swearing and borderline language

Summary: As a working model, you landed a coveted Dunhill Cologne job. The number one rule in the industry is NOT to get involved with your fellow models. But, the delicious blue eyed boy waiting for you on set changed your mind.

Gif by amancanfly

Note: this is absolutely a trash fic. So.. here ya go :)

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

‘I can’t very well put my tongue in her mouth without even knowing her name, Jamie,’ Henry groused and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder to where you sat in a rickety director’s chair getting your make-up retouched.

‘You’re so fucking, English, Henry,’ Jamie replied easily. ‘Do you need a little page three girl? Get your courage up?’

‘Fuck off.’

Why would he need boobs in newspaper form when he had a real live woman right there on set?

Jamie laughed and slid an overly friendly arm around Henry where his tuxedo jacket stretched crisp and inky black across his broad shoulders.

‘Listen. You are the handsome face of Dunhill. Right? You are paid to do what you’re told and to sell the product. It’s my job as principal photographer to make you look delicious so that every little wet twat out there wants to buy this cologne for her ruddy, beer bellied husband and every lad wants to look exactly like you in the hopes of pulling a posh bird.’

Jamie thumped Henry’s chest with the base of his palm and smoothed down the artfully undone bowtie around his neck.

‘We understand each other?’

Henry nodded. He depended on Jamie for the campaign and pissing him off wasn’t in his best interest.

‘Good, now go sit in the chair and put your fucking tongue into her mouth. And for the love of god, act like you like it.’

‘What’s her name?’ Henry asked shrugging out from under the heavy arm weighing him down.

‘Fuck if I know, ask her yourself. While you’re at it, why not ask for her ring size as well and her old gran’s maiden name.’

‘Jesus Christ, Jamie. What the hell is wrong with you?’

Jamie scrubbed a hand across his unkempt face and was tempted to spill his guts about the divorce papers with which he’d been served that morning.

‘Just…. go do what I tell you and we can all get paid. We still have a night shoot on the bridge and we have to make it quick.’

With that, Jamie turned round and walked off of the dimly lighted set. To calm himself, Henry tried to push his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and not for the first time that day he remembered that they were rented and the pockets had been sewn shut. Instead, he swiped his moist hands on his thighs and went back to the curved, crescent shaped chair on the set. It was supposed to be an easy shoot. Lounge in the chair, smoulder, have girl between his thighs leaning adoringly over him, avoid looking down her low-cut top and boom – 5k in the account.

When you joined him on set, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes, and half-smiled awkwardly. He’d been paired with high end models before who had been icy and hurried. But you were someone he felt he could talk to. He asked your name.

To which you turned to him, smiled curiously, and gave it.

‘I thought you already knew it,’ you said.

Henry leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together between them.

‘I turn up, do what they tell me and go home to walk my dog,’ he laughed and then cringed, caving beneath the weight of how lame he must have sounded.

He was Fat Cavill all over again, floundering and unable to talk to a pretty girl. He hated himself for it.

Henry was heartened when you made an interested noise and leaned in close.

‘What’s his name? Your dog.’

Names, he thought. See Jamie? Names were important.

‘Kal,’ he said.

‘Kal… like Kal-el?’

With his eyes brightening, he turned towards you.

‘Yeah! Like that. Do you.. I mean are you… so you know about Superman?’

You grinned and bobbed your head.

‘Who doesn’t know about Superman? I mean… my little brother collects comics and I used to watch that show back in the 90s.’

You shrugged and teased slyly, ‘Pfft, who doesn’t know about Superman,’ but in a way that asked if he was really wondering if normal people didn’t know about one of the most famous comic book superheros.

Henry wasn’t bothered by it. He he smiled, intrigued and was about to continue the conversation when Jamie, holding his massive digital camera, swaggered over and pointedly waited for you to stop talking.

‘Right, you two lovebirds getting good and acquainted?’

‘He’s nice,’ you said, pressing your elbow into Henry’s side. ‘He’s got a dog named Kal. You know, like Superman.’

Absolutely pleased with you in that moment, Henry ducked his head and squashed a grin. But Jamie looked blankly at you and then made a face of disgust.

‘Here’s how it’s going to go. You two are having an illicit night out, met at a party, little drinks, a little dancing and you’re into each other. You can’t wait to leave together. You like her, you like him and shagging is definitely on the table. I want that from you. I want longing looks, I want wet parted lips, I want sex. Ok, got it?’

He looked directly at Henry.

‘Or shall I bring out the finger puppets.’

You smiled and nodded happily. You weren’t sure what was going on with the photographer, but a job was a job and you had dealt with worse.

‘Get into your original positions, please,’ Jamie said motioning towards you.

You got up, untwisted the thin shoe strap across your ankle and waited for Henry to lay back against the chair. He reached up for you and cradled your hips as you positioned between his spread thighs. You put your knee down between them, careful not to press up against his sizable bulge and with one hand on his shoulder, you artfully leaned in. Your breasts swung forward in your skimpy top and you turned just a little so that they wouldn’t bounce out and hit him in the face.

Not that you thought he would mind, considering how fixated on them he had been for nearly the entire shoot.

But you yourself hadn’t been so innocent.

You had noticed how much he was packing when you were first posed together and that little lizard part of your brain wanted to feel him.

Henry was fixated on you and you were fixated on him. You looked down into his big puppy dog eyes and could tell that he was still feeling nervous, as he had been all morning. You wanted to relax him, maybe play a little.

‘Look at you,’ you murmured, leaning in closer as his attention snapped to your face. ‘Lying there like the perfect boy.’

Henry’s lips parted and he gave you such an adoring look that you greedily drank it in like a cool glass of wine. You popped open a few of his shirt buttons and gingerly curved your fingers about his naked throat, marvelling at how immediately the shyness melted from his eyes. One corner of his lush mouth curved up into a slight smile and the fingers clenching your hips pulled you closer. He froze when his own actions pressed your knee right into his groin. You both looked down at where you were touching him so intimately, yet neither of you moved.

‘Whatever you two are fucking doing, don’t you fucking stop.’

Jamie was close now, the camera shutter clicking madly, but he was an annoyance in your peripheral. Your entire focus was on the boy beneath you and the big hand working across your bottom.

Not wanting to give away what you were doing to him, Henry hissed in a long indulgent breath and undulated in response to the upward press of your knee. Colour seeped into his cheeks and when you leaned down, hovering your wet mouth over his, he groaned softly. Everything muted and faded into the background and he lifted his chin to close the distance between you. The gentle confident stroke of his tongue along your sensitive lips rippled a delectable sensation through you and tightened your nipples into tender peaks.

This couldn’t be real, you thought. Are you that willing to fuck this man right here in front of the whole crew?

‘Ok, that’s good you two. I think I have enough.’

Someone was talking.

It was Jamie.

And just like that, the spell was broken. You scrambled back and off of Henry. Standing up, you quickly dusted off the back of your dress. Henry’s hand had been so hot against your arse that you were sure he had left handprints.

You tried not to look back at the man still lounging on the chair. But you couldn’t help it. One sly glance at him looking positively debauched, told you that it wasn’t over between you. And it was later in the back of the setpiece Bentley that Henry showed you how much more he wanted.

-end

Thank you for reading and please consider reblogging to help me to reach a wider audience :)

@lightsidecalling @omgkatinka @igotkatiepowers @emmaofgreengabbles @justaboringadult @jencanbeyouryengeralt @skittywittykitty @g0ldenlush @xxxkatxo @the-soot-sprite @rachie725 @harrysthiccthighss @little-green-love @littlefreya @foxyjwls007 @xshadyladyx @angreav @mstgsmy @ruthoakenshield @wheretheriversrunintothesea @maizyistrash @liquorlaughslove @henry-owns-these-tatas @supernaturallymarvellous @cynic-spirit @whiskey-cokenfanfic @laketaj24 @october505 @inlovewithhisblueeyes @foodieforthoughts @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @singeramg @sapphirescrolls @emyearns

#henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader #reader insert #man of steel #the witcher #august walker #geralt #sherlock holmes

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zodiyack · 4 years ago

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Gut-Feelings

Requested by anon: Hiya there ! Could you please do 19 and 39 from your 2nd prompt list with Tommy Shelby whenever you have the time? Thank you so muchasdfghjkl in advance! Xoxoxo

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, angst, fluff, violence

Prompt: [19] “Go to hell.” “And leave you here all alone?” [39] He kissed her brow as the world around them burned. “See you in the next life, my love,” he whispered.

Words: 2003

Note: GUESS WHO’S BACK!!! Also I got really caught up in this lmao... hope you like it!

Taglist: @captivatedbycillianmurphy, @stydia-4-ever, @matth1w, @redspaceace, @simonsbluee,��@jenepleurepasbaby, @peakysputain, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read-it

Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist

He was fucked. And she made sure he knew. Tommy practically had everything a man could desire; a beautiful and loyal wife, a huge house with an equally as huge property, family and strong bonds with them, a fancy car, loads of money, and a child on the way. Not to mention, business was successful as ever, but it apparently just wasn’t enough for him.

Tommy almost wanted to blame Linda for Y/n’s accusation, but he knew she was only telling the truth. They fought, arguing about his choices, but hidden behind her reddened face and daggered words formed with anger, she was terrified. Beyond terrified.

“Thomas! You’re going to mess up, and I’m only telling you beforehand so you find a way to prevent it. And the way to prevent it is to take a b-”

“Take a break? Y/n, we have money, food, loyal allies, and so much more-”

“Yes! That’s exactly why you should stop! And when our child comes into this world, they’re likely to wish for the same thing!”

“And what may that be?”

“Your goddamn safety, Thomas!” He scoffed, walking to his desk and pouring himself a drink as he reclined into the chair. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yep.”

“I’m worried sick, Tom! It’s not like you have to go through the horror-fueled thoughts of ‘will my husband even come home tonight?’ or ‘will my child be lucky enough to experience life with a father?’ So please, indulg-” He shot up, grabbing her arms and pushing her into his desk lightly. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you calm down.”

“Go to hell.”

“And leave you here all alone?” His smile was cocky, sure he would get her to stop fighting him. But she wouldn’t let him win. She couldn’t.

“You can sleep on the couch tonight. Or, you can indulge me in why you should continue putting yourself into danger.” She ripped her arms from his grip. “Make up your mind by dinner, Thomas.” she spat, giving him one last glare before she left.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Tommy dropped back into his seat with a heavy sigh. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t find it himself to admit such a thing. This work was too much. Far too important. But so was family, and everyone knew that family went first.

Even Thomas.

Tommy gave it his best. He avoided sporting, gambling, and most of the Peaky Business. He turned to working from home, giving him more time with his wife and their new baby boy. She was happy, to say the least, and quite relived.

She told him she didn’t care if he returned to the business, as long as he waited until their child was older and had known him for at least a year or two, and he actually came home to them. Slowly, he was getting back into the business, Guns and fire, however, were postponed.

At least, to Y/n’s knowledge.

“Tommy?”

He grunted from his seat, fag hanging out of his mouth as he carelessly scanned the paper; it’s words of no interest to him. “Yes, love?”

Y/n walked over, sitting on his lap and gaining his attention. His blue orbs dragged all over her form, so small- no- fragile, compared to him. Her hands adjusted his collar, then his cigarette, placing it between her pink lips before putting it back between his. His eyes watched her every movement, fixated on her like he was in a trance.

“I’m feeling a bit drowsy. Would you care to join me for bed?” Her suggestion was tempting, truly, but he had promised he’d meet Arthur at the Garrison. For the work he told her he’d stray from.

“Of course, Y/n.” Setting down the paper and putting out his cigarette, he stood up and rested his hands upon her waist. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

“You’ve made me well aware quite a number of times, Mr. Shelby. However, it’s time for bed. Proving it to me can wait until tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Shelby.” He pulled her in by his grip on her sides, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. They could’ve stayed like that forever; Y/n wouldn’t mind, neither would Tommy, but he had work to get to.

Picking her up bridal-style, he carried her to their bedroom and set her down on the middle of the bed. He crawled over her, kissing her roughly, smiling goofily to the sound of her giggles. Y/n pushed her off of him, stripping him of his clothes and sliding under the warmth of the blankets.

“Goodnight Tommy. I love you.”

Guilt panged inside of him, knowing he would be breaking her trust, as well as her heart. “I love you too, Y/n. Sleep well, darling.” He allowed her to rest her head on his chest, drifting to sleep slowly as he stared up at the ceiling.

“She know you’re here?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Arthur.” He was in no mood to talk about Y/n’s knowledge of his activities, the guilt far too much to bare. “Now, what do we need to do?”

“Nothing. You don’t need to do anything, Thomas.” A familiar voice spoke from the doors. Y/n’s words dripped with anger, hurt, and sorrow. Tommy began to think of how she knew where he was.

Arthur was removed as a suspect, his immediate response once Y/n had entered fully was a simple mumble. “Shit...” Though Arthur told Linda everything, there was no way he told her of this.

“How’d-”

“How’d I found you? Well, you leaving in the middle of the night is kind of hard to miss, Thomas.”

“We’re just getting drinks, love.”

“Don’t lie to me. Either way, you’re not telling me something.” His brows furrowed with confusion, a mocking laugh to escape her lips in response. “You come and get a drink this late at night? There’s something wrong and you refuse to tell me. You’re lying to me and you’re actually doing something else? You’re still not telling me.”

“Y/n-”

“Don’t start.” Arthur cleared his throat, Y/n’s attention switching to him. “And you! You knew I didn’t want him involved for at least a little longer! How could you!” Her voice began to break and her eyes began to water.

“Isn’t this a surprise!” A new voice interrupted their confrontation. The three of their heads snapped to the entrance, Thomas and Arthur exchanging glances with wide eyes full of fear. “Too bad I hate surprises.”

The man, whom Y/n didn’t recognize, snapped his fingers. Two other men came out, grabbing Y/n and dragging her to him, ignoring her squirming.

“You leave her out of this!” Thomas lunged from his chair, only to be pushed back by another man.

“Oh? Is she important to you, Shelby?” The mystery man’s hand came to Y/n’s face, grabbing her cheeks harshly. “She’s a beauty, I can see why you like her.”

Another pair of men walked in, pouring gasoline all over The Garrison as the man toyed with a match in his free hand. The look in Y/n’s eyes as she continued squirming sent a wave of hurt to Tommy’s heart. Just as he was about to give in, offer the man what he’d been after, and idea sparked. And Y/n was the one to thank, as it was for her.

While he was distracted, poking fun at Y/n, Tommy whispered is plan to Arthur, who hesitated- but agreed to initiate it. They would need to time it perfectly.

“Before you set this place ablaze... Let me say my goodbyes to my wife.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, pushing Y/n towards Tommy as he cackled.

“Your wife? Damn, when did gypsy-trash like you get this lucky?” Nevertheless, he turned to speak with the men who were previously holding Y/n. “You have five minutes.”

Tommy nodded, pulling Y/n closer to him. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he explained his plan in a soft whisper, leaving out details he knew she would never agree to. “Do you understand?” He took her face into his hands.

“I understand...”

“Good. Now, hurry, kiss me, make it seem like it’s the la-” She pulled him forward by his collar, kissing him desperately, the act genuine.

“Time’s up, love birds!” Y/n was yanked backwards as the men finished pouring the rest of the gasoline. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, Thomas. I’d like to keep her as... well, a little prize. Souvenir perhaps?” He continued making comments, pointless ones at that, until Arthur snatched the match from his hand.

“Now Y/n!” She darted for the doors, but the man’s guards blocked it. The window was her next escape, and luckily, she made it on time. Tommy helped her out of The Garrison’s window.

To her horror, he rejected her offer for escape. “I thought... I thought you said-”

“I only said it to get you to agree.” From behind Tommy, Y/n could see Arthur strike the match and drop it with a grin of success. Her attention flickered back to her husband. Her hands gripped his so hard her knuckles turned white, a newfound race to her breathing.

He kissed her brow as the world around them burned. “See you in the next life, my love,” he whispered. In a blur, Thomas let go of Y/n’s hands and nudged her back slightly before the window shut and locked, preventing Y/n from forcing Tommy to leave with her.

Y/n knocked on the glass as hard as she could, but as the fire spread, Tommy and Arthur disappeared into the smoke. A hand slamming against the window, relief entering her body once she realized it didn’t belong to either of the brother’s, was her cue to leave.

As she ran, her heart felt oddly relaxed. It freaked her out, but somehow, she knew it was right. Her gut-feeling was always right. It was right when it told her not to sleep, it was right when it told her to go to the Garrison, it was was right when it told her to go for the window, and now it had to be right.

The boys had to be alive.

Her gut was always right, and though they had their moments, the boys were smart.

A smile graced her lip, prompting her to run faster. The uneven ground had no effect on her as her bare feet hit the rough surface, shoes left behind at the now burning bar. She kicked them off unintentionally whilst she struggled to escape the men’s grips.

But she didn’t care.

She didn’t care how much the ground would’ve hurt had she walked upon it like this any other day. She didn’t care how cold the night air was, the chill nipping at her nose until it turned pink. She didn’t care about anything except for getting home, butterflies in her stomach as she raced past the folk of Small Heath.

She didn’t care; because Thomas would be waiting for her, Arthur likely sitting next to him on the sofa, soot on the soft material from the two’s escape, a glass of whiskey in both of their hands. She could see it, she could see herself hugging him tightly, the black powder rubbing off onto her skin and nightgown, and her not car

The boys were always a tad bit faster than her, and they had a head start with her hesitation, so she was sure they’d be home first. Despite who would be home before the other, she was ever so determined.

It was like her legs had minds of their own, never stumbling over each other, never faltering, just as eager to get to her family as she was. The wind didn’t slow her either, the cold nips just encouragement to move faster.

Even if she stopped to take a break, which she didn’t, she wore her smile. She wore it without a second thought. She wore it with determination.

She wore it because her gut-feeling was never wrong.

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modern-vellichor · 4 years ago

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Grief, is a Beautiful Thing

Stage Two: Anger

Warnings: Grief!! Mentions of death, suicide. Loss of a major character. Battles with depression, silent tears, heart and gut wrenching sadness, minor smut just to keep you on your toes.

Series Masterlist

Anger; a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.

Eventually, after weeks of watching the front door with a longing look in your eyes, after weeks of keeping Steve's things untouched, after weeks of waiting up at night for him, you realised, maybe, he isn't coming back. You were mad.

You were angry at Steve, angry at him for lying to you, for leaving you. You were furious at him for leaving you cold and broken and empty and thinking you were strong enough to pick yourself back up again.

You were angry at Bucky for trying. He was always there for you, calming you, telling you everything was okay, and it wasn't, it really wasnt.

You and Steve never argued, never in public anyway. God, if you could see him now, you would scream and shout and make sure he knew how wrong he was, how much you hated him right now. How could he do this to you.

You had disobeyed direct orders on a mission. Steve told you to hold back, but you saw and opportunity, and you took it, it was the right decision. Sure, you got stabbed a few times, but you got what you needed, quicker too.

"I can't believe you, Y/N. I gave you a direct order and you didn't follow it. Look at you now, you could have died"

You rolled your eyes at the love of your life, sighed, and stood up, blood trickling through your fingers clutched to your side.

"With all due respect, Captain, I did what had to be done, and it worked. So don't criticize my decisions", you only called him Captain when you were raging, when you thought he didn't even deserve the acknowledgment of a name.

"You are hurt, you went against me. I could ruin your career for that stunt"

"You wouldn't dare, don't lie to yourself"

"God, you're so fucking full of yourself, Y/N"

"excuse me?", you scoffed, eyebrows raised. Steve immediately regretted his words, uttering hurried apologies. "You know what, Cap, I am full of myself. I'm such a narcissist, such a bad person, huh. Where did our little golden boy go wrong, ending up with a good for nothing gal like me, huh?"

As if right on time, the jet had landed, so you made a grand exit, waltzing off the jet with your head held high, and tears in your eyes.

You couldn't go to your own room, not where the sheets smelled of him, not where his things sat snug next to yours. So you knocked on Bucky's door, he let you in without hesitation. He walked you to his bed, he held you as you cried, cradled you until you slept. He tucked you in under blankets that smelled like coconut, gun powder, and whiskey.

So as you lay, head buried into a pillow that smelt like Steve, tears staining soft satin, you thought about doing the exact same thing.

You picked yourself up, untangling yourself from the sheets, bare feet padding to the elevator. Straight to Bucky's door.

knock knock knock. gentle and soft, barely audible.

"doll?", he was half asleep in his doorway.

"hey, buck", you muttered, smiling sadly.

"what's up?"

"I can't sleep in there, Bucky. I can't do it. I swear to god, hes everywhere", you sobbed.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his room, into his bed. For once, you welcomed the cooing and the soft touches. You appreciated the way he cradled your face in his hands as you cried, catching tears with his thumbs as he watched you fall apart. He was holding you together, his legs tangled with yours, his lips uttering sweet redemption into your hair, hands softly drawing circles on your back.

You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around him in return, you pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, soaking him up. This was what you need right now, and you fell asleep bathed in the warmth of his bare soul.

Bucky's eyes opened to you making your way out of his room. He sighed, hands reached out to you, lazily.

"why are you up so early, doll?", he checked the clock. 05:57am.

"I gotta work"

"you really gotta take some time off, you're gonna work yourself to death, especially in your form"

You gave him a small smile, "I'll be fine, Barnes. Go back to sleep"

He happily obliged, rolling over and closing his eyes, hearing the far away click of his door closing.

You locked yourself in your office the entirety of the day, making angry phone calls to people who just wouldn't listen, pacing as you waiting on stats to come through, filing reports, organising mission after mission, without even considering a break.

Bucky knocked on your door around 6, pushing it open softly.

"Hey, Barnes. What is it?", you asked, not looking up from your computer as your fingers danced quickly across the keys.

"Its dinnertime, come eat"

"I'm not hungry, but thank you"

"Y/N", you answered his calls, not taking your eyes off the screen. "Y/N, look at me, for God's sake"

You slammed the laptop shut, eyeing him up and down dangerously. Sure, Bucky Barnes might be able to snap your neck with his little finger, but he couldn't break a man down like you could. He couldn't stare at people so hard it bore holes in their skulls, he couldn't exude power like you did, he couldn't tear into someone's soul with spiteful words and a harsh tone, not like you.

"What was that? I'm looking now, Mr. Barnes, please, embarrass yourself further, you have my full attention", you smiled at him, but it was sly and condescending.

"You haven't eaten all day, you need to eat"

"I need to do my job, and I think you've forgotten that I am, in fact, your superior, so get out of my office", with that, you opened the laptop again, and continued on with your furious typing.

Bucky didn't budge, he knew you could get irritable on a good day, and good days usually didn't involve dying, being resurrected, losing half your team, and taking over Stark Industries.

"Y/N, please, come on. You're being irrational"

"And you're forgetting your place, you always do. I care about you, Buck, but now is not the time to be sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong, go annoy Sam or something, I don't have the time for you"

You stood up and ushered him to your door, with a hand on the handle, you gazed at him with a harsh stare.

"Have a goodnight, Barnes, stay out of my office"

You swung the door closed, if slammed shut mere inches away from Bucky's nose.

You avoided him like the plague for the next few days, not meeting his gaze, not uttering his name. You spent all your time locked in your office, not saying anything to anyone, until you had to.

You called a meeting, the pathetic remains of your team gathered around you. A teenage boy, a bird man, a god of thunder and an ex assassin walked into a room, what a wild joke.

You briefed them, you flew them out to the hotel, nicer than the last one you stayed in. You could only get three rooms, Sam got one to himself, he won rock, paper, scissors.

The awkward silence had settled thick and heavy between you and Bucky, sat on your own separate beds, neon light filtering in through the curtain.

"I think it's your turn to tell me a story", that was the first thing he had said to you in days, you were shocked, a little taken aback.

"what?"

"The last time you and I were in a hotel room, you asked for a story, and I gave you one. I want a story."

"oh", you chuckled, "what about?"

He thought for a minute, shifting to face you, blue eyes bright and playful.

"a boy"

You both laughed, all remnants of anger and spite evaporating. This was exactly like Bucky, make everything better with a joke and a laugh.

"I don't really have stories about boys. I was only 18 when I started with Stark. I met Steve when I was 23-"

"How did you meet Steve?", he cut in. You realised then, no one had ever told Bucky that story.

"He never told you?", Bucky shook his head in response.

"Well-"

You met Steve before Thanos, before Bucky, before Ultron even. You were young,

You walked with purpose across the dirt and sand, General Sanchez struggling to keep up as he briefed you. You were in an old army uniform, one that had once belonged to a friend, it was a little tight but it made do.

"Ms. Y/L/N, you said you called backup?", he asked, hesitant.

"I did", on cue, the quinjet handed some feet ahead, and Tony stepped out. "and there he is"

Tony started to walk alongside you and the General, the team walking a few feet behind you.

"Stark, pleasure seeing you again"

"same goes for you, Y/N, what's happening"

"ever seen Godzilla?"

These creatures had been popping up around coasts all over the world, a couple even had gone as far as peaking tails out of the water, ridges on their backs visible deep below the surface. All you knew is that they were massive, monstrously big, and dangerous. They had been testing the waters, seeing how ready you were for an attack, and today was the day. According to radar scans, the biggest off them all had showed up off the coast of L.A, so here you were.

Steve couldn't help but stare at you, walking tall and dignified, head held high, voice strong and authoritative. Even as you were bleeding out on the floor, cheek swollen, lip cut, eyes blackened, he thought you were beautiful, angelic.

"Really?", Bucky laughed. You just nodded, saddened by the distant memory. "you guys always seemed so, settled"

"once upon a time we were running around like kids, sneaking into empty offices to make out like horny teenagers. We settled down eventually", bitterness was evident in your voice as you spoke. You missed those days, running around with Steve's hand in yours. He had really ruined hand holding for you.

"You wanna know what Steve said to me on our first date?", you asked, breath trembling and voice shaky, tears brimming in your eyes.

"sure..", he spoke hesitantly, not sure if that was the right answer or not.

"He said, "you remind me of a girl I knew back in the war", the same girl he left me for. He fell in love with me because I reminded him of a dead girl."

You and Bucky ducked behind a car, both of you officially out of ammunition. You sighed, looking around for any form of weapon as bullets came ricocheting towards you.

"If this is how we go, I'm gonna be pretty fucking pissed", he scoffed, always making a joke.

"me too, Buck"

Your eyes scanned the ground desperately, Bucky was trying to get to Sam, Thor, even Peter, but the comms had been cut. Your eyes settled on a baseball bat not far from Bucky's feet.

"Hey, Bucky?"

"yeah, pup?", for a split second that dream flashed behind your eyes. pup.

you were snapped from your thought by a bullet flying past your ear.

"I got another story for ya", you grinned. Bucky cocked an eyebrow.

"Now?"

"I used to play a lot of baseball in high school", he followed your gaze, mischievous grin playing at his lips.

"you sure?"

And with that, you emerged from behind the car, bat in hand.

"Hiya, boys", you called out to the two thugs stood in front of you, they trained they're guns on you, just not quick enough.

Before they could even process what was happening, you were on top of them, swinging, punching, kicking. Bucky snuck up behind you, joining in on the fight.

Your breathing was heavy as the two men collapsed at your feet, blood spattered across your chest and face, Bucky couldn't help the butterflies in his stomach, red always was your colour.

There was a wicked smile playing on your lips, teeth sharp and glinting, you looked psychopathic, killer, and Bucky loved it.

Maybe he could help you release some of that anger, he hadn't gotten a good beating in a while.

You went out the night you got back. You almost went to knock on Natasha's door to invite her with you, you stopped yourself with tears in your eyes when you remembered.

You didn't tell anyone where you were going, to be honest, you didn't know yet. You slipped out of the compound quietly, the kind of thing Steve would have disapproved of.

You decided on a quaint little bar, a few blocks away, small and cozy. Old jazz hummed softly through the speakers, you fit right in, blending in with the crowd, no one paid you any mind, and you reveled in it. Being normal for once, being another someone in the crowd, instead of some comic book superhero.

A few hours went by, you spent the time people watching. You paid particular attention to a girl, not much younger than you, she looked just like Natasha, she even ordered a vodka and soda, you just smiled to yourself.

You heard someone slid into the barstool next to you, it must have been at least midnight at this point. He ordered an old fashioned, Bucky's signature. You just kept your attention trained on the other patrons, that was until you felt a hand splayed across your back and warm breath fanning out across your bare shoulder, you were ready to punch a man at least twice your size. You turned around, hand balled into a fist.

"Hey, pup"

"Bucky?"

It must've been the drinks, it had to have been. Bucky's tongue was hot and heavy in your mouth, hands all over your body. He kicked your door closed behind the both of you, pushing you up against it, rough. The wind was knocked from your lungs, his lips travelled down your face, leaving a trail of wet kisses across your jaw and down your neck. He nipped at the shell of your ear before growling, low and animalistic.

"I saw you covered in that blood on the mission, and I just couldn't help myself, pup, I had to get myself a taste"

fuck. me.

@vicmc624 @dee-vn

#captain america x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader smut

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beautifulterriblequeen · 4 years ago

Note

41. "Can you be the one to do it?"

I hope you’re ready for Ruthari and also moonfam angst.

Can you be the one to do it?

The runic message pops up unexpectedly, displaying over its communication crystal in a softly glowing turquoise font Ethari designed just for Runaan. The crystal’s low vibing alert noise rumbles against his worktable for extra noticeability. Ethari knows how hard he focuses when he’s in the zone, but if Runaan needs him--if he sends him a text--Ethari wants to be damn sure he gets it in a timely manner.

His heart goes molten, and then icy, melting a hole straight through him, out the bottom of his feet, through the tree house, into the earth. It takes with it a magmatic cry of denial that Ethari wishes he couldn’t hear.

But he can. It’s his own cry, from the moment he learned of Lain and Tiadrin’s betrayal. It echoes forward through time, bouncing off this moment like a desperate bird fleeing a forest fire, frantic to escape the reality that’s burning down the world.

Ethari saw it in his husband’s eyes when Runaan told him. He’d seen it. The fracture in those flawless gemstone eyes. He could hear the crystalline wrench that spidered fault lines through Runaan’s heart. Runaan used to know his exact place in this world, down to the very millimeter, the very second, the very breath. Heir to Tiadrin, mentor to Rayla, leader of the Moonshadow assassins, bearer of a thousand years of unbroken Moonshadow honor. He’d done his best to hold everything at once, and Ethari willingly added his strength to that grip, holding Runaan as well.

Together, they held so much.

But in the middle of the afternoon, Runaan’s eyes shattered, and his soul along with them.

Gems aren’t metal. You can’t just melt them down and start over. You can’t just erase their damage, reforge their strength from the start. Gems are fragile, for all their solidity. Brittle. They hold, until they don’t. And once they crack, there is no repairing them.

Ethari saw, felt, heard his husband’s spirit split. He told Ethari the news, coolly, hiding his shaking hands, and then he spun on his heel and said he had work to do. He left. He ran. Ethari reeled back from that moment, retreating to his workshop after Runaan left. And now, an hour later, this message.

Can you be the one to do it?

Ethari knows what Runaan’s talking about. But he’s feeling shut out, aching, hurt. He needs connection. Even if he gets it from pushing Runaan into admitting his feelings. He picks up the message crystal and presses at its facets.

Do what? he asks.

And then he stares at the crystal. Willing Runaan to admit he’s hurting too. Willing him to confess he needs help. Let me help you, my heart.

Runaan’s single-rune reply comes in a minute later.

Rayla.

Ethari hopes he was staring at his crystal, too. His fingertips hover, about to agree to tell Rayla about her parents’ horrible, confusing, painful choice. About to take that burden from Runaan’s shoulders.

Then he thinks again. Runaan waited to reply. Runaan always knows what he wants to say, choosing his words with exquisit care. Why did he wait?

Ethari rests his hands on his worktable and stares at Rayla’s name. After so many years, he’s fluent in Runaan. Everything the assassin does is an open book to the craftsman’s eager, curious, willing heart. If he can just take a moment, he can suss this mystery out...

Runaan, you’ve asked me to do something, he thought. Something you had to text me about, rather than ask. The crystals are for things we don’t want to say aloud. There’s more here than just shock and your assassin tasks, isn’t there?

Ethari drags the weeping shreds of his own heart together, and he focuses through the pain. Focuses on Runaan, on what Runaan would be focusing on right now.

Duty. Always duty. What’s he doing? The very first thing he’s doing right now, what is it? Ethari’s mind leaps to Tiadrin’s other chosen assassins. He’s telling them, too. They deserve to know first. And he’s thought of Rayla. Of course he has! She’s Tiadrin’s daughter. She needs to know first, too. But...

An echo of Ethari’s cry bounces off another tree in his heart, still fleeing from that initial heartbreak. But he can’t. He can’t be as hard with her as he can with his old squad. He loves Rayla more softly than those he trained with under Tiadrin’s tutelage. And he can’t break her heart like this.

He’s asking me to do it for him. But he’s hesitating, too.

Ethari draws a shaky breath. “You’re not certain about this, are you, love?” he whispers to the message crystal. “You’re out there looking like the leader everyone needs you to be. But you’re just as lost as everyone else. You’re just as lost as I am.”

His bottom lip trembles, and the crystal vanishes inside a sudden fist. If you fall, my heart, we all fall. He can’t even say it out loud, the vulnerable truth runs so deep through his soul. He’s seen Runaan’s soft heart broken before. So much more is at stake this time. Everything’s at stake. Ethari’s next move will determine Runaan’s path. And where Runaan goes, so go the Moonshadow elves.

I must be perfect, the craftsman realizes. For Runaan, and for everyone i love. I must be perfect.

He wipes sweaty palms on his pants and nibbles at his lip, holding an aching breath in his lungs

Then his thumbs move across the crystal’s facets, and the fate of the world is sealed.

No. Hold to your duty, my heart. You can do this. I believe in you.

__________________

Runaan stares at the lavender runes hovering over his crystal, feeling a shocked tear gather in the corner of one eye. Heavy stone doors in his heart, open for years and years now, begin to rumble shut before the pain of Ethari’s message can truly sink in.

I’m on my own. Again.

“Runaan?” Andromeda asks, pulling his attention back across the room where his colleagues and friends have gathered to begin planning their honor-bound response to Tiadrin’s baffling cowardice.

Runaan blinks and takes a deep breath. The honor of the Moonshadow elves isn’t going to save itself.

Very well. To the task, then.

“One moment, before we begin,” he says. “There is another whose honor is at stake, and she deserves to be involved here, as well, to whatever degree she chooses.”

“Rayla?” Skor asks doubtfully.

Runaan lifts his chin and offers a cool stare. “My protégé, as I was Tiadrin’s.”

With her lineage established, the other assassins all nod. They trust Runaan as much as any among them, all of whom trained under Tiadrin’s expert tutelage. When he says Rayla should be included as part of Tiadrin’s assassin legacy, they instinctively agree.

“We’ll wait, then,” Ram murmurs, running a finger along the point of a dagger.

Runaan nods crisply and heads outside into the chilly winter air. He crosses the village, heading for Rayla’s school.

Ethari was right, he tells himself, over and over, as the cold breeze infiltrates his skin and tousles his ponytail. This is my duty, and mine alone. My squad and I will go to Katolis together. But this part, breaking Rayla’s heart for love of our people... Only I can do that. Only I should do that.

Ethari was right to tell me no. He was right. I was too soft. It won’t happen again.

Runaan strides into the school and pauses at the door of the round classroom Rayla’s currently in. Chin high, hands clasping his forearms behind his back, waiting to be seen. Slowly, his presence sinks in, and one by one the young Moonshadows look over at him with wide eyes. Then they all look at Rayla.

Rayla.

She slouches against her pillow, flicking her pen in the air and catching it like a dagger, only half listening to the history lesson, her eyes on the window, mind elsewhere.

“Rayla,” the teacher prompts gently.

His protégé’s mood shifts instantly at the sight of him. Her eyes light up, and she leaps to her feet, immediately attentive. “Runaan!”

The conspiratorial smile that lurks in the corner of Rayla’s mouth drags Runaan’s heart out, kicking and screaming, through the closing gap in those heavy stone doors. She thinks she’s free. The thought stabs at him. He tenses his gut and starts driving it back inside again. She thinks I’m saving her from her boring class. I’m not freeing her. I’m binding her. Moon help me, Tiadrin. How did you manage this part with me?

“...Runaan? Is something wrong?”

Runaan’s hands clench around his forearms. He blinks away his tears and lifts his chin. “Rayla... come with me.”

#ruthari angst #moonfam angst #tdp angst #runaan #ethari #rayla #my writing #hooo boy #just headcanoned to my dc peeps that ruthari send texts for bad news #and good news in person #so ethari texting back is bad news and they both know it #aaaaaa it's so angsty help #i kept runaan and ethari separate because that makes the isolating feelings worse #yes i know #it's right there in the blog name #written to lady gaga's Just Dance #big moonshadow mood recently #is it bad that making that song an irl mood would be a step up from where i am rn #anyway i need to visit my chickens because rayla hopped onto the warmer and that's adorable and i need soft chick time now

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bellakitse · 5 years ago

Text

A Witness to their Love

Owen doesn’t call attention to himself for a moment as TK and Carlos get lost in each other. His heart squeezes tight as he watches. His son looks happier than he can remember in the longest time.

Owen is a witness to his son falling in love.

30 days of Tarlos - Day 4

Owen is in the kitchen, working on a power green smoothie when he hears the beginning of the debate.

“I’m just saying Brad Pitt is one of the greatest actors of our time.”

He hears TK, his voice firm in his convictions, and Owen finds himself already amused by the conversation. This isn’t the first time he’s listened to this argument from his son; it’s always passionate and a little hilarious.

“And I’m just saying Pedro Pascal has him beat.”

Carlos answers calmly, and Owen’s smile grows as he hears his son scoff, his voice is tinted with enough of the green-eyed monster that Owen can hear his jealousy from the kitchen.

“You’re just saying that because you have a crush on him.”

Carlos snorts, and Owen is impressed by the young cop’s guts, a pissy TK is no joke.

“Oh, and what do you call your Brad thing?”

“Recognizing talent,” TK barely gets out before Carlos is laughing mockingly.

“Yeah, okay, Tyler.”

Owen makes his way out of the kitchen as not to miss the exchange. He’s still not used to someone using TK’s name without his son throwing a fit. In the last two weeks since TK’s been home on medical, it’s become his new favorite pastime to watch him react to Carlos using it against him.

He finds them in a position he’s quickly become used to seeing them since TK got released from the hospital. On the couch, with Carlos sitting up, while TK rests back against the armrest as he sits sideways, his legs thrown over Carlos’. They’re as close as they can get, their faces inches away from each other.

“You can’t keep using my name against me,” TK tells Carlos seriously, or at least it would be if there wasn’t a soft dream-like smile on his face.

Carlos seems to agree with him by the smile on his own face. He watches as the man touches his son’s face, cupping his cheek gently, his thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth. His son has always been a soft-hearted kid, gentle, and yet Owen is amazed to see just how much he melts under the soft stroke his boyfriend gives him.

“I’ll stop when saying it no longer makes you look like this,” Carlos says softly, it’s both tender and teasing.

TK blushes under the attention, but he doesn’t lose his smile. He wraps his fingers around Carlos’s shirt, reeling him in. Carlos goes easily, smile still in place as TK kisses him.

Owen doesn’t call attention to himself for a moment as TK and Carlos get lost in each other. His heart squeezes tight as he watches. His son looks happier than he can remember in the longest time; it fills him with hope for him.

He clears his throat loudly when it looks like the kiss between the two young men isn’t going to end any time soon, and he can’t stop the smirk that takes over his face when they both spring back at the noise.

“Dad,” TK startles, looking much younger than his 26 years as he’s caught making out like a teenager.

He’s laughing before he can rein in the impulse, the moment getting funnier as both men blush something fierce.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, still chuckling as TK glares at him half-heartedly. “I had to interrupt before you two get caught in the moment and forget about your stitches, kid.”

“Dad,” TK drags out the word, dropping his head back as he lets out a groan, while Carlos coughs once into his hand.

“I, ah –“ he starts awkwardly. “I was going to go pick up some food for us, so I’m going to go do that now.”

TK lifts his head to look at his boyfriend incredulously. “You’re going to leave me to deal with him by myself?”

Carlos looks at him and then back at TK.

“Yep,” he nods, and Owen has to cover his mouth to hide his grin at the look of betrayal on TK’s face.

Carlos seems to be having the same problem, his mouth curving up at the corners as TK gives him a pout. “I’ll get pizza from Russo’s, you liked them before, and brownies from the bakery next door,” he says, trying to appease him. Carlos might be embarrassed at being caught by him, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in to kiss TK under his ear. He whispers something Owen can’t hear, but whatever it is, it seems to work as TK smiles again blissfully.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. “Run away to get food while I deal with my dad, but don’t think brownies are going to satisfy me. You better come up with something sweeter for later,” he finishes with a leer, and this time Owen can’t stop the snort that escapes his throat as Carlos sputters.

He scowls in TK’s direction. “Just adding fuel to the fire, aren’t we?” he says dryly, his cheeks red.

Still, as he gets up from under TK’s legs, he does it gently as not to shift TK too much. Once he’s up, he stands by TK’s head, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” he says softly, earning another dreamy smile from TK.

Carlos looks over at him, hesitating for a moment. “Veggie supreme for you too, Sir?” he questions respectfully. With his back to TK, he misses the way he rolls his eyes at his politeness.

“And a brownie, if you please, Carlos,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Unlike my son, I don’t need any more sugar than that from you, thanks.”

Carlos gawks at him for a moment as he grins, it’s only when TK starts giggling that he snaps out of it.

“Smartass Yankees,” he mutters, walking away towards the door.

Owen shares a grin with his son when the front door closes a little harder than needed.

“He’s fun to mess with,” he comments, and although TK doesn’t answer, the amused twinkle in his eye is more than enough.

“Stop teasing him when he gets back,” TK scolds him, even as his mouth twitches. “He really respects you and embarrasses easy.”

“I was just protecting your injury,” he protests innocently, chuckling when TK rolls his eyes.

“Go try that innocent act with someone who doesn’t know you, dad,” he scoffs. “I’m not buying it.”

Owen chuckles as he walks over to his son, sitting down next to him. He looks at him, taking him in. He looks so much better; it’s hard to believe he was in a hospital bed not too long ago, or even in a burning bus almost drowning. He looks healthy, happy, and at peace.

“You good, kid?” he asks, needing to hear the words.

“Yeah, dad, I’m good,” TK answers with a nod and a smile. “I’m really good.”

Owen smiles back at him, the weight he’s been carrying since New York slightly lifting.

He’s always going to worry about his son, just like he’s always going to be there for him. But now he thinks there is someone else who cares about TK as much as him who is willing to help be there for him.

“I really like him, TK,” he says quietly, and the smile TK gives him is unlike any he’s ever seen.

There is so much love and pride in his son’s green eyes.

“I really like him too,” he says softly, pausing for a moment to pick at a loose thread of his shirt before looking up at him with awe. “I think I might even – “

“Love him?” Owen questions gently when TK hesitates.

“It’s too soon for that, right?” TK questions uncertainly. “We are only just now defining what we are, what we were before doesn’t count.”

“Says who?” he asks. “Maybe it didn’t have a title, but it’s pretty obvious that boy has cared about you from the start. I saw just how much the night you were shot, and you care about him too. Who says it’s too soon to love him?”

“You don’t think I’m jumping the gun?” TK asks, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Owen reaches over to him, running a hand through his hair before cupping his neck to give it a gentle squeeze. TK immediately leans into his touch the way he has since he was a kid. “I think there is no timetable for love when it’s real and honest.”

TK swallows audibly, letting out a slow breath at his words.

“And this is just my observation, but I’d bet good money that he feels the same way.”

“Yeah?” TK asks, hopefully. “You think so?”

Owen rolls his eyes hard, laughing when TK slaps his shoulder in response.

“Kid,” he starts, making sure his amusement at the question comes across loud and clear. “That man looks at you like you’re the most wonderful thing on this planet,” he says, his smile going soft. “Which you are. Which is why I like him, it means he’s smart enough to recognize just how precious you are.”

“You’re such a dad,” TK mocks for a moment before he leans into his side, throwing his arm around his waist. Owen chuckles softly as he wraps his arm around him, returning the hug.

“I love you, dad,” TK whispers into his shirt.

“I love you too, son,” he answers, holding him closer. They stay like this until there is a knock on the door.

Grinning happily like it’s been hours since he’s seen Carlos instead of only thirty minutes, TK all but skips to open the door. He gives them a moment to reunite at his doorstep, smiling as he hears soft words and kisses.

“Okay, love birds, your romance is cute, but I want my pizza and brownie,” he yells out, chuckling when he hears his son grumble.

He’s happy TK is in love again, and that he’s lucky enough to be a witness to it. He’s glad it’s with a good man that he genuinely believes is going to treat him right.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to tease them while being happy for them, it’s his right as a parent, and since he’s pretty sure Carlos isn’t going anywhere, he’s going to enjoy every opportunity they give him.

#911 lone star #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star fic #30 days of tarlos #tk x carlos #my writing

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dwaynepride · 5 years ago

Text

the unfortunate case of nonchalance

PART II - BIRDS OF A KIND

summary: while in town, jethro bumps into the endearing lady he met several days ago. and he finds it hard to tell her no.

words: 3,943

warnings: female reader

tags: @fairytale07 @jrenn10 @f4nboi @purplestarsr5 @ladyzombiielove @littlemiss3ma @minikate--24-05 @consultingdoctorwholock @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy @ms-allenbrown @ikbenplant @dylpickles1267 @diaryofafan17 @specialagentlokitty @pageofultron @stanathanxoox @kittenlittle24

author’s note: part 2 of the cowboy!au series. this is a part of meg’s 11k challenge. the prompts are cowboy au and secret relationship trope.

PART I | PART III

February 22th, 1889

It finally feels as if we’re settling down, even just a bit. Nobody likes being this far East - I can see how on edge everyone is. But we’re safe here, for the time being. That’s what matters.

Anthony still hasn’t told me his grand money-making scheme. Says he won’t until he’s worked everything out, but that don’t make me feel any better. There was a time when such promises of a plan would’ve interested me. But now, it only leaves me with a sour gut feeling.

For now, I’ll wait and hope that man has enough sense in his skull not to get us all killed.

At least Doctor Mallard is rescuing me from sitting in camp - he wants to go into town for supplies, and asked if I would accompany him. He says he’ll need help bringing everything back, but I suspect he knows I’ve been idle for too long.

He thinks I’ve been distracted. Thinking about what we left behind in the West.

I’ll let him keeping thinking that.

Doctor Mallard brought only one sack to carry the supplies in. And Jethro’s holding that single sack, tucked against the crook of his arm. It only confirmed his suspicions that the older man felt Jethro was spending too much time in camp. As tedious as camp is, though, it’s preferable to walking through town.

A man bumped into Jethro’s shoulder. “Hey!” He snapped, but the man just kept walking without a single apology. And it made Jethro huff. “Rude bastard.”

“The youth today have scarcely any manners, Jethro,” Doctor Mallard muses. He didn’t seem all that bothered by the rude display.

Jethro just gives a small hum, head shaking as he hitches the sack up higher and glances around at the bustling street. People coming in going, paying little attention to two dirty cowboys who are merely making their way back to their horses. Their clothes are spotless, stylish, full of lace and pristine furs - Jethro’s never felt quite so different than he does now.

The sun comes down on them hard. The long brim of his hat keeps the light out of Jethro’s eyes, but the day is long and hot. He’s looking forward to riding out of the stifling town. Feeling the wind and returning to the camp, where everything seems more free. More normal.

They pass the bank. Jethro’s eyes are shielded by his hat; he doesn’t see the person coming out of the building. Barely cares, until he hears her voice say his name in a way he recognizes.

Well, it’s more like his body recognizes it. Because his feet stop, his head comes up, and his eyes peer out from under the shade.

“Mr. Gibbs,” you repeat. Slower, this time. But still high-pitched; obviously pleased to see him away, and Jethro honestly cannot tell if he feels the same. He enjoyed your company, sure. Enjoyed talking to you. Found you amusing and endearing and interesting, all that once.

On the other hand, Doctor Mallard was right there...

“Is this your friend?”

You’re looking to the doctor now, stepping closer and holding out a hand, which he obviously takes. Jethro has to swallow before nodding his head. “This is Donald Mallard. He’s a very good friend of mine,” he answers. And the older doctor may be able to fool strangers, but Jethro was no such fool. When he introduced Mallard to the girl, he gave Jethro a look. So nonchalant - barely there - but he knew its meaning:

She’s quite pretty, isn’t she?

Jethro looked away so his face wouldn’t answer.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Doctor.”

“Believe me, dear. The pleasure is mine.”

“Well, we must be leaving,” Jethro cuts in quickly. You look at him, surprised. But he keeps his eyes away as he puts on hand on Doctor Mallard’s shoulder, trying to steer him away. “Our friends need these supplies...”

“Oh, that’s alright! I was just on my way home, anyway!” You call out after them. And Jethro can’t help feeling relieved. He can only imagine how Doctor Mallard will tease him about this back at camp. Meeting and befriending a pretty lady without mentioning it - scandalous stuff.

But the Doctor stops, and for an old man, his feet are rooted to the ground quite firmly. Despite Jethro’s shoves, he turns back to the woman still standing before the bank. “Jethro, what kind of gentleman are you?” He asks in a scolding voice. “You’re not going to offer to take this nice lady home?”

Jethro sighs, his fingers tight on Doctor Mallard’s shoulder but lets his hand drop away. He knows what the older man is playing at, but he’s also right.

“That’s not necessary,” you pipe up. When Jethro looks over, you’re smiling shyly. Obviously trying to wave off the offer.

And yet, Jethro hands the sack over to Doctor Mallard, who takes it gleefully. “No, it’d be my pleasure,” Jethro says. And he hopes you don’t catch rueful tone of his voice.

“Our horses are hitched right over here, dear.” You and Jethro follow Doctor Mallard in silence. He’s ranting off about the price of canned goods in this town; how they’re impossibly high compared to other towns. Jethro barely listens. He’s focused too much on you - how you’re walking next to him, movements so elegant, it’s alien to a rough cowboy like him. His own spurs clinked against the gravel road, footfalls heavy. A startling contradiction.

Jethro waits silently as the doctor pulls himself onto his old nag. And once he’s settled, Jethro dips his head to him. “Safe ride,” he says simply.

“And you, as well,” Doctor Mallard replies. And there’s a certain edge in his voice, almost teasing without being blatant about it. But Jethro heard the mischief in his voice - it made him scowl and turn to his own horse.

You’re waiting patiently, wearing a soft smile, and he realizes why the good doctor had told him to ride safe.

“You live far?” Jethro asks while pulling himself up. Once he’s in the saddle, he reaches down for your hand. And when you take it, his eyes avert away. The contact was so small and simple but the soft skin of your hand and the light grip you have, it affects him. And he hopes the wide brim of his hat is enough to hide his face as Jethro pulls you up to sit behind him.

“Not very. On the edge of town - it’s the big white house. Just head down the main street-”

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Jethro cuts in. He pulls the reins and starts heading down the main road. “Big house like that, it’s kinda hard to miss.”

There’s a light laugh from you. Jethro’s grateful his back is turned, face hidden. “Almost too big, in fact. There’s a lot of empty rooms. Sometimes it feels almost....lonely,” you reply.

Feeling lonely in a big ol’ house, that’s not a feeling Jethro was too familiar with. Then again, he knows he owns his own brand of loneliness. The type that lingers, even when he’s surrounded by people. Especially in this town, when the strangers are even more strange to him than usual.

He doesn’t feel that loneliness right now, though.

Jethro clears his throat, head turning a bit to see you in his periphery before looking forward again. “So, what were you doing in that bank?” He asks nonchalantly. Though, he scolds himself; the question was both mundane and prying.

But you didn’t seem bothered, remarkably. “Visiting my father and his associate,” you answer quickly. “He says I should become familiar with how the business is run, since I may be involved running it, one day.”

He hums low while pulling the reins, turning his horse in the direction of your big white house. “Sounds like your father’s got your life all figured out,” Jethro says.

You’re quiet for a moment, and Jethro’s worried that perhaps he’s offended your father. Or worst yet, offended you. “Oh, it’s not like that,” you tell him. “I’m happy to learn. And he’s right, after all.”

Still, Jethro disagrees. But he doesn’t say anything, this time. Doesn’t want to run the risk of angering you. Or give you a reason to stop seeing him in a good light. And Jethro’s well aware that such a thing will happen eventually; just not right now.

There’s a bit of rough terrain on the road. Lots of mud from when it rained the night before, and it has the horse’s hooves sliding. It lets out a little whine, and Jethro pulls on its reins to keep it balanced. But the sudden jolting around must’ve spooked you - your arms are suddenly around his midsection. Holding on tight, afraid to fall. A normal reaction, of course.

But it shocks Jethro. His hands grip the reins even harder, and he’s grateful for the muddy road. Because you can’t feel the way his lungs suck in a deep breath.

What a humiliating response, Jethro chides himself. It’s as if he’s some dumb young man getting squirrelly when a woman touches him. And yet, that’s how he’s feeling. With your arms around his midsection, your front against his back, Jethro can’t think of any words to use to continue the conversation.

He rolls his eyes at himself.

It feels like an eternity to reach your home, riding in silence. But Jethro stops by the end of the fence, lifting his eyes to get a good look at the impressive white house. He imagines it must be even more beautiful inside, and quickly decides it fits you just fine.

“Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Gibbs.”

Your voice draws his attention away from the house. Jethro immediately dips his head, and his hand comes out to help you down from the back of his horse. “Wasn’t a problem,” he replies simply. Once down, your hands run down the length of your dress, straightening it back out.

He’s gotta go.

“Well, you have a good day, miss,” Jethro says. And with another nod of his head, he steers his horse away from the magnificent homestead. He’ll just ride back to camp and lock himself away in his tent for the rest of the day...

“Mr. Gibbs, hold on a moment.”

Despite himself, Jethro stops his horse. Sighs, and turns to look at you. “Yeah?”

You’re nervous, he can tell. Not on your face, but in your hands. How they wring together and keeping running down the fabric of your dress. “Would you like to join me for a drink in the saloon tonight?” You ask.

A drink? Jethro doesn’t know how to respond. He knows his answer should be no. He should make up an excuse for not being able to join you tonight, or any other night. Instead, he says nothing. Just stares.

Still nervous, you continue. “Or perhaps not tonight, if you’re otherwise engaged. I would just like to thank you for bringing me home when you didn’t need to.”

Jethro’s hands are in his lap, absently fiddling with the old leather reins. “A lady like yourself enjoys the company in a saloon?” He asks, tone conveying a teasing disbelief.

Just say no, you old bastard...

Finally, you smile. Jethro doubts he’ll be able to go through with his plans.

“You forget my father, sir.” Your hands come behind your back; more relaxed than you outta be, around him. “No man dares to lay a hand on me, if he knows what’s good for him. Not without my consent, that is.” You add on that last part with haste, and Jethro doesn’t miss it.

In spite of himself, he smiles and shakes his head. Disbelieving that you’re so able to change his mind in a snap, but somehow, not adverse to it. “I think I’ll let you buy me that drink, ma’am. I will meet you there tonight.”

Looking pleased, you dip your head to him and turn to walk up to the house. Jethro watches, just for a few moments. Once the breeze picks up and starts billowing your dress, that’s when he turns and rides toward camp. And he doesn’t see when you look back to him.

The ride back to camp was slower than usual. It gave Jethro a few peaceful moments to think things over. It was just a simple drink, he told himself. A thank you from a nice lady because he rode her home. Not all the women in this town are so snooty and uptight, he reminds himself. A couple glasses of the finest bourbon they have (Jethro’s confident you can afford it), and he’ll be gone.

He’s still in his own head when Jethro comes back into camp. Everyone seems to be doing their own thing; too preoccupied to bother with him. Abigail and Eleanor doing chores. Doctor Mallard going through his medicinal stores. Tim seems to be scolding Jimmy for getting the fishing line in knots again.

Jethro ducks into his tent, going straight for his clothing chest. Surely he has something decent to wear. It won’t be anywhere close to the level of prestige he’s sure you’re used to, but it’ll have to do.

He opens the chest, and instantly spots a pure white cotton shirt. That outta suffice.

“Hey, Boss!”

Instantly, Jethro closes the chest and straightens up when Anthony comes in.

He’s wearing that troubling grin again. Jethro’s mood instantly drops a little; he has a hunch of what the younger man is here for. “What do you want?”

Anthony isn’t turned off from Jethro’s icy question. In fact, it prompts him to step closer. The excitement is nearly palpable from the Italian, and it’s slightly worrying. Anthony’s not-exactly-legal idea to get some cash was something he hadn’t divulge that day in town. He said he wanted to work out a plan first. Wanted to make sure it was full proof.

Evidently, he’s worked it out.

“My plan to get us some money,” Anthony starts off. His grin turns into a proud smile, and he’s standing straight. Jethro’s stomach is suddenly a little tight. “The big bank in town. It’s sure to have a lot of money and valuables in it - you know these rich folk would keep their money in a vault. Tim and Jimmy said they’d come along as extra guns. Even Ellie is going to provide a distraction. I’ve worked it out, and it can’t go wrong. Especially if you’re there with us.”

Perhaps in the past, and Jethro was a little more reckless, he’d agree to the plan. And for what it’s worth, it seemed pretty solid. Anthony’s annoying, but he’s competent. A born thief and this is just flexing his muscles.

But Jethro remembers just this afternoon when you came out of the bank - how much time you must spend in there. Knows that you think him a good man, for whatever reason that he can’t understand.

“No,” he says. And instantly, Anthony’s face falls. Jethro’s head shakes as he takes a step closer to the younger man. “Our plan was to lie low. To not get into trouble while we’re here. Our life is out west, don’t you remember that? A bank robbery would ruin all that.”

“We’re wearing masks. Nobody would know-”

“You have my answer, Anthony,” Jethro snaps out. “I suggest you go tell the others that your plan is off. We’ll find other ways to get money.”

Anthony’s silent. Doesn’t move for a few tense moments, and Jethro wonders if he’ll continue to fight for his plan. But eventually, he huffs and stomps out of the tent. Jethro watches him go, and he hopes he rejected the plan for the right reasons.

The music could be heard from outside the saloon. Music, and the rowdy noises of dozens of people inside. Every one of them drunk and that’s what gets Jethro wary. Drunk people are often very stupid.

Still, he knows you’re inside. Waiting to buy him a glass of bourbon, and Jethro’s not known for keeping a lady waiting.

He pushes through the door, and instantly gets more than a few sets of eyes cast on him. And by now, he’s used to it. Being in this town, looking how he looks, he’s accustomed to side glances as these rich people size him up and decide he’s likely lower than dirt.

But while they’re looking at him, Jethro instantly finds you. He notices you’re wearing a finer dress than you were earlier, and new sets of jewelry twinkle in the saloon lights. Jethro’s not really a religious man, but he reckons this is about as close as angels can look. Both ethereal and warm.

His good mood is halted, however, when his eyes finally drift away from you. There’s a man beside you, leaning against the bar on one arm but facing you and judging from the look you’re wearing, this man isn’t wanted. The look, Jethro notes, is more-so the lack of an expression. Because he’s known you to be smiley and friendly with those you like.

There’s not any smile gracing your lips.

The man touches your arm. Not aggressively, granted. A brush of his fingers. But Jethro recalls your words earlier, and his feet are instantly moving. Thudding hard against the wood to bring himself to you.

And you see him approach first. Your eyes lighten up, but there’s still no smile.

So Jethro stops beside the man. His clothes are expensive, and his hair (if it weren’t so messy) is expertly cut. He can dress like a gentleman all he wants, but Jethro knows better. “Leave the lady alone, alright? She don’t want your company.”

The drunken man looks to him, only just realizing his presence. And then he pushes off the bar, standing at full height, but Jethro keeps his eyes steady on his. “Excuse me, sir? Don’t believe you were invited in on this conversation,” the man rolls out. His words are slurred and his breath reeks of liquor. Jethro can’t help but wrinkle his nose.

“You ain’t excused,” he replies steely cold. “Go stink up some other poor bastard’s saloon.”

It seems the man is finally catching on that Jethro was antagonizing him. His red eyes narrow, shoulders squaring. Jethro’s hands curl into fists, even after he feels your hand on his arm. A light squeeze, almost desperate. “Let’s just leave him, Mr. Gibbs. It ain’t worth-”

“I’ll show you who’s excused!”

The punch he throws is sloppy. Uncoordinated. Jethro should’ve been able to dodge it. But your hand had been on his arm. He was distracted.

The fist connected with his face, just below his eye - a solid hit, despite a poor swing. Pain exploded against Jethro’s face, and it’s nearly enough to knock him to the floor. But his hands hit the wood first, and he stumbles back up to his feet; Jethro’s not about to let some drunken idiot get on top.

He whirls around, fists up, ready to strike. In the background, he notices the music stop. People are cheering. But Jethro’s attention is only on the man advancing on him, arm cranking back for another punch.

But this time, Jethro’s ready. He dodged the punch easily, even feeling the wind of it brush past his face. And in the next second, his own fist connects with the man’s jaw. A more solid punch than he was given. More power behind it. More pain delivered.

It sent him crumbling to the ground, hitting the wood floor with a solid thump and made the bar patrons all gasp in shock. A few of the drunker, more rowdy ones even cheered. Jethro kept his eyes on the man, now out cold but silently hoping he’d get back up. To give him another reason to deliver another hard punch.

There’s a hand on his arm again. The same soft, lightly gripping touch that Jethro was so quickly becoming familiar with. His head swung around, instantly catching your eyes. They were wide and worried; a bit frightened, but he couldn’t tell why you’d be afraid. He’d just taken care of the problem. “Let’s go, Mr. Gibbs. You should get that cut cleaned up.”

Cut? What cut?

It was then when Jethro remembering the throbbing ache of his cheekbone. And rest assured, when he raised a hand to touch it, his fingers came away red.

You started pulling him away toward the back of the bar before the bartender called out. “Hold on, little lady! Your man just caused a fight - the law’ll want to speak with him!”

With a huff, you turn back around. Jethro wasn’t aware you could look so mean, but the look on your face was nearly enough to make him go running for the hills. “I know you saw that big oaf swing the first punch. If anything, my man was only defending himself - and me! You wanna bother the law about something like this?”

Jethro watches the bartender grapple with his words before sighing and turning away back to his work. That’s when you continued pulling him along to one of the back rooms, grumbling about the no-good idiots in this place, but Jethro was only really focused on how you called him your man.

That drunken bastard must’ve hit him worse than he realized.

He’s silent as he watches you move to the washing basin, soaking a piece of cloth in the water. “Sit on the bed, please,” you tell him. A polite request spoken in a snipped voice, so Jethro doesn’t think twice to obey. And just as he sits, you’re approaching him.

“That was a very stupid thing you did,” you remark sternly. The cloth is cool, at least. It soothes the quickly-swelling bruise. But still, he’s bleeding. Jethro can’t help but wince when you have to rub harder.

You scoff at his wincing, not seeming to care. “I swear, you’re just as much a ruffian as any cowboy I’ve ever met. Are you in the habit of getting into fights over something so trivial?”

Getting into fights? Sure, he’s used to it. But Jethro wouldn’t call defending you to be trivial. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He doesn’t say so. He’s too focused on how gentle you are in cleaning him up. Perhaps gentle in a way he doesn’t deserve - you’re right, he is a no-good bar-fighting ruffian. It’s difficult to understand why you’re this gentle with him.

So Jethro watches your face, screwed up with tight brows and a flat frown. And he can’t help his own lips from quirking up. “Are you busy tomorrow?” He asks.

You stop, and your eyes flicker to meet his. Jethro could’ve sworn he’d seen your face flush. “Don’t change the subject, Mr. Gibbs.”

“I’m not attempting to,” he replies quickly. “In fact, I’m trying to stop something like this from happening again.”

You’re confused. Looking skeptical, but your head shakes slowly. “I’m having brunch with my mother tomorrow at noon. But after that, I’m available. Why do you ask?”

The quirk in his lips grows into a small smile. “Good. Meet me behind the old church on the south side of town after your brunch.”

A small sigh comes from your lungs as your hands fall away from his face. The blood must be cleaned up, but Jethro can’t even feel the throb of his swollen cheek. “Can I ask what for?” You prod on.

“I’m gonna teach you how to shoot a man who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

#ncis imagine #ncis reader insert #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #ncis x reader

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okaybutlikeimagine · 5 years ago

Text

Harringrove for Australia: okayshitbird

hi there everyone! ♥ the amazingly magnificent and so insanely sweet @okayshitbird requested this fic from me for #HarringroveforAustralia! for anyone thinking “wow you’re incredibly late with this”... you’d be right! but I tried and it’s finished now and isn’t that all that matters?? ~♥

prompt: Billy has to meet Steve’s parents, w/ fluff and enough angst to make the fluff hit hard

tags: mentions of non-graphic sex after the fact (I don’t know how else to tag that 😬), humor, fluff, angst, romance, Dumb Boys TM

You can catch it at AO3 right here if you want!

Word Count: 18,910 (way over word limit you say?? sorry can’t hear you, woops...)

thanks hun, and thanks again to @tracy7307 for being SUCH an amazing doll and putting HfA together for all of us!!

alright i’m gonna go pretend like I have the attention span to deal with my responsibilities, bye babes.

Stay safe! ♥

-----

More Than a Crush

It’s a gorgeously warm summer evening. The chirping of the evening birds mixes with the hum of the bugs creating a far more pleasant chorus than anyone could ever expect, especially someone from a place so different than this. The sound of the world outside is what Billy thinks the sun would sound like. The feeling around him is what he thinks happiness feels like. True happiness. The pure feeling of being content. There’s a short list of things in Billy’s life that have ever felt as gorgeous as this moment.

He’s really not sure why Steve insists on ruining it.

“My parents want to meet you.”

It’s Steve’s voice, saying it plainly, as if he’s talking about the weather. There’s immediate silence, Billy’s fingers digging into the warm-to-the-touch flesh of Steve’s arms as he’s holding him.

“Excuse me?” Billy asks, Steve’s statement hitting Billy sharp in his chest because what the fuck.

“My parents-”

“It’s been a good day, right?” Billy cuts in, because he’s not sure he can hear that again and stay calm. “We’re having a good time?”

They pause again. Steve just blinks from his position on Billy’s chest.

“Yes?” There’s obvious trepidation in Steve’s voice. “Are you having a good-?”

Billy cuts him off. He’s antsy.

“We got lunch, we smoked a little bit, we watched those birds… we fucked. Twice.”

Steve rolls his eyes like he’s trying to make a point of the action, but nothing hides the smirk on his face.

“It’s been a good day.” Billy says again.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “It’s been a good-”

“So why are you screwing it up?”

Steve’s face pulls into something that looks appalled, rearing back to punch Billy’s shoulder lightly.

“Shut up!” Steve is indignant. “I’m not screwing with anything!”

Steve’s face is so genuinely irritated that Billy feels like the one screwing things up right now, and he definitely doesn’t appreciate the feeling.

“You should be screwing me-” Billy says with notes of resentment he’s sure he’d never be able to hide.

Steve shoves at Billy’s shoulder again before leaning down to bite lightly at it. Billy squirms involuntarily at the feeling, his body running a bit hot at the feel of Steve’s teeth. It always does that.

“Yeah yeah, shut up.” Steve mumbles against Billy’s shoulder, soft lips grazing the tanned skin as he flops his head down on the pillow next to Billy. “Look, I’m just saying, my parents told me they wanted to meet you.”

“Why do your parents even know about me?” Billy’s voice is a lot softer now as Steve traces little circles around his chest. It’s not voluntary. It’s those damn doe eyes and those damn soft touches that knead his heart into something more malleable; something more gentle.

It lasts for about a second, because he has to slap the hand of his stupid boyfriend who decides he wants to start pulling at Billy’s curly chest hair. Steve chuckles.

“Because I tell them about you.”

Billy sighs. “That’s my question, dipshit. Why are you telling them about me?”

Steve props himself back up on his elbows. His eyes are earnest. It feels like Steve’s hands have reached into Billy’s chest to play with his heart instead. Billy doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to someone looking at him with so much… care in their eyes. So much admiring love. It’s so much that Billy couldn’t even put a finger on what it was for months. He just felt this gut feeling bubbling up in him, even lashed out the first few times out of confusion, but now it just makes him feel weak at the knees. Weak all over. Billy’s not used to feeling weak.

But here he is, falling into that now-familiar weakness as he looks into Steve’s eyes that search him like he’s Paradise. Like he’s got all the answers within him.

“Because…” Steve starts again, voice silky smooth and hitting Billy’s heart all over again. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

It’s… earnest.

So earnest it makes Billy sick to his stomach.

Billy lightly slaps the top of Steve’s head.

“Shut up, Bambi.” Billy can’t find an ounce of malice to inject into his voice, but it’s not for lack of trying. He hates all this mushy stuff. At least… he wants to hate it. “You’re gonna ruin everything.”

“Am not! My parents always meet my friends.”

“I-th…” Billy pauses. “They do?”

Steve nods. “They’ve known Tommy since we were toddlers and they met Carol a few years ago.”

Billy must get some kind of wistful look in his eye- on his face -because Steve nips it real quick.

“It’s not as sweet as you might think.” Steve pipes in quickly, groaning a bit as he lays his forehead on Billy’s chest. “They do it for their… reputation or whatever. They just wanna make sure you’re not ruining my image. They probably hear shit from their friends.”

“Am I ruining your image, babe?” Billy asks, holding the sides of Steve’s head gingerly to pull him up towards his face. He runs his tongue along the shell of Steve’s ear, revelling in the breath released before he twists his tongue around to stick it at least somewhere near the inside of Steve’s ear.

Hey, Billy’s the first to admit he’s a brat.

He gets pushed away, a disgusted sound coming from the boy on top of him. Billy chuckles, liking the feeling of Steve’s weight on top of him as his chest vibrates from his laughs.

“Cut it out!” Steve groans, scooting away minutely. “You’re not ruining anything. They’re just stupid. And they wanna meet you.”

“Okay, well…” Billy’s not sure what else there is to say. He finds no other words fit in his mouth. He gives in. “Okay.”

The air between them turns still and Billy watches Steve’s shoulders stiffen as he looks up, eyes impossibly wide.

“Okay?” There’s so much hope in his voice.

Billy sighs, his chest tight from more than just Steve laying on him. He’s being constricted by every expectation, but he’s not moving any time soon. There’s no way he’s moving away from Steve.

Billy nods.

“Yeah, okay. If your parents wanna meet me… fine. Alright.”

And now the pressure in Billy’s chest is mostly Steve, who has decided to squeeze the life out of Billy in a crushing hug.

If the sound that comes out of Billy could be labelled as a “squeak” or even “unmanly”, he would never in his life admit to it.

“Alright, alright!” He shoves at Steve’s shoulder until the boy lets up. “What are we gonna do? Dinner at the Harringtons? Do I need to wear my slacks?”

Billy wiggles playfully under Steve and winks at him for good measure. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Uh… not exactly.”

It’s not what Billy expected to hear. His heart skips with nerves.

“Well, what are we doing?” Billy couldn’t explain the racing of his heart if he tried. “Your dad doesn’t seem like the type to take me hunting to protect your honor.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, no… uh…. Well…”

“Well what? Spit it out, Bambi.”

Steve bites his lip and it takes all of Billy not to get distracted so he can hear Steve say: “We’re gonna need to go shopping.”

~~*~~

Billy hates shopping.

He hates the bright signs, he hates the fake smiles… he hates capitalism. Really, there’s nothing redeeming about going shopping. Not even Steve Harrington can help his hatred of shopping.

“Billy...” Steve sounds like he’s about to chastise Billy and it’s really not helping.

“Shut up.” Billy hisses, near snapping, but he holds himself back enough to take a breath. “Why do we have to be here? Why can’t I just borrow something?”

“Because you’ve already ripped enough of my clothes trying to fit into them.” Steve says, face blank as he turns to walk into the Polo store. Billy’s mad about it, but he follows after a few steps.

“It’s not that bad.” Billy mumbles, sauntering as much as he can until he walks through the doors and effectively feels himself shrink down. He hates the Polo store. He’s come here a couple of times before, only with Steve. His family isn’t rich enough for this and, truthfully, he can’t imagine going anywhere that would warrant these clothes anyway. All these pastels and collared short sleeves… it’s semi-idiotic to Billy. Not to mention those stupid little shorts…

And… yeah, don’t get him wrong, Steve looks great in all of this stuff. There’s nothing like Steve’s ass in some preppy pants, sure, but that doesn’t mean Billy has to wear them just to appreciate them.

“What about this?” Steve asks, pointing out a baby blue shirt that makes Billy gag.

“Are you kidding?”

“I think it’d bring out your eyes!” Steve says, sifting through the sizes. Billy can’t think of a single thing to do with himself except stand there and watch his preppy boyfriend sort through preppy clothes to dress him in like a doll.

“I think it looks like I’m going to brunch on my parent’s yacht.” Billy pulls a face as Steve chuckles, with some kind of pity.

“That’s kind of what we’re going for, here, babe.” Steve says, keeping hold of the shirt as he searches for more colors. Or something. Billy’s really just being pushed by the wind, here.

And he wants to throw more of a fit. He kind of wants to be a brat about it. He wants to be that little kid inside of him that’s kicking and screaming to leave because he feels uncomfortable and out of place and exhausted… but…

But he knows he can’t because this actually means something. This is meeting Steve’s family for the first time and yeah, they’re not telling them about their relationship or anything, but it’s still important to get this right. He doesn’t wanna give Steve any grief because his parents think Billy is an asshole, and he definitely doesn’t want to have to hide in public any more than they already do. They hide enough, he doesn’t want it getting worse.

It’s just…

“It looks like the Easter Bunny ralphed in here.”

“You’re not wrong.” Steve says on a chuckle before shoving a few shirts into Billy’s chest. “Alright, try these on.”

Billy pulls a face.

“Uh… real funny, princess, but no.”

Billy has only admitted it out loud a handful of times, but Steve looks cute when he gets all defiant like that with his hands on his hips.

“You��re trying them on.” Steve orders. Billy won’t lie, it gets him a little hot watching Steve order him around. “You’re not going to this with a ripped shirt.”

“Like you wouldn’t love that.” Billy says on a scoff, but his voice is quiet. The more he talks back the more sour it tastes on his tongue.

“You know I’d love to rip them off you myself but you have to-”

“I don’t want to go into that stuffy dressing room.” Billy raises his voice. He’s pouting like El. Like a brat. He feels it on his lips without even thinking about it but honestly, he’s not sure how he can be rightly blamed for this. He’s so deeply uncomfortable that he’s slipped into default mode, which happens to coincide with “bratty mode”. So sue him.

Steve’s eyebrows are knitted with irritation. He looks like he wants to do more than just sue him.

“Look,” Steve starts darkly, hitting Billy with a look that immediately shuts him up. “You’re talking to the guy who went through a major growth spurt the same summer that his mother decided she needed to go to every stupid country club function. I was in that stuffy dressing room every week. You can handle like, one hour.”

Billy doesn’t want to say he feels sheepish… but he’s feeling pretty sheepish. He watches Steve pant a little bit from the energy he’s exerted. It’s kind of cute, even though Billy’s heart feels sore for having to be told off.

Because he knows this means a lot. Steve knows this is killing Billy and he wouldn’t make Billy sit through something so draining if it didn’t mean a lot and… and Billy’s been kind of an asshole. He’ll be the first to admit… he’s the only one allowed to admit, thank you… and…

Billy shrinks about 3 sizes. He eyes Steve through thick lashes.

“One hour?” He asks, voice small. Steve is the only one to ever get him this way.

Steve gives a hopeful smile and nods, holding the shirts out yet again. He looks triumphant. Billy lets it slide.

“That’s about as long as I wanna be here, too.” Steve admits, raising an eyebrow to get Billy to accept the shirts.

He does with a sigh.

Billy heads into the dressing room with an irritated flair, aiming for melodrama. He’s standing in the dressing room and feels physically pained every time he puts on a new pastel polo. Which isn’t to say he’s unable to pull off these looks, because he can wear a garbage bag and still be one of the most fuckable people in Hawkins, it’s just… all this pastel and these stupid collared shirts. If anyone were to see him like this, he’d have to beat them up. There’d be no option.

He purposefully ignores the tags, knowing Steve is going to insist on buying everything no matter what he says. He still remembers the time that Steve insisted on buying Billy a new pair of fancy shoes, saying he had just been given some “emergency money” that actually equated to “you just caught your dad cheating for the 3rd time this year, please don’t talk about it to anyone” money before his parents left for yet another extravagant business trip.

Billy felt some kind of pride in “taking money” from an asshole like that.

Now Billy is going to have to meet that asshole...

But still, he doesn’t like money being spent on him. It always leaves a weird type of pain in his chest, knowing he can’t reciprocate all these gifts to his boyfriend who very clearly is acquainted with the finer things of life. He can’t spoil Steve as much as he wants to. Not that he’d ever in his life admit to wanting to… but still. He knows. He knows how badly he wants to give the world to Steve and how incapable of doing so he is, but that doesn’t change a whole lot. Steve seems happy with what they have.

But will he always be?

“Billy! How long does it take to put a shirt on?”

Billy jumps, stepping out of the dressing room with a scowl on his face that looks far more like a pout.

“You look so good!” Steve nearly coos and Billy is about to throw something at him.

“Shut up.” His face burns and if he’s blushing he’ll punch someone for pointing it out.

And as Billy tries on the handful of shirts that Steve shoved his way, he starts to feel like he’s in some kind of cheesy movie montage. He pouts his way through it, walking out each time and giving his best unimpressed look, spinning when Steve tells him to spin before going back in to change his shirt.

He walks out in a particularly vomit-inducing polo with pale pink and blue horizontal stripes, spinning slowly with his arms out at his sides, before turning quickly to look over his shoulder with a single eyebrow raised. He figures hamming it up is the best way to give himself some entertainment.

Steve laughs.

“You’re a stunner!”

Billy winks in response and saunters back into the dressing room, turning around to face Steve, still eyeing him sexily before saying: “I hate them all.” and closing the curtain with a swish.

And if he smirks at the loud, frustrated groan Steve gives… well he wouldn’t necessarily call it sadistic...

They take another walk through the store, and Billy refuses to drag his feet. He may hate it here but he’s not a child, thank you.

Then, the unthinkable happens: something catches his eye. In a good way.

“These.”

Steve seems eager to see what Billy’s talking about, turning quickly. His face cracks into a smile before it’s replaced by a (probably forced) scowl, because there’s no fooling Billy. He knows the boy was about to laugh.

“No… no Billy.”

“Yes.”

“Billy they… they have skulls on them.”

They do. They’re a bright, almost Pepto-Bismol looking pink with tiny skull-and-crossbone images embroidered on them. They kind of make Billy’s stomach ache because of how heinous they are but they’re also the best things Billy has seen in this hell of a store and he thinks they match his own “image”, so… he’ll take them.

“You bet babe.” Billy adds a wink for good measure, picking up the shorts in a couple of sizes before sauntering over to the dressing room. “It’s this or I’m going in just a jockstrap. You know I mean it.”

Steve takes a breath, makes like he’s gonna speak, but Billy turns and gives him a look that lets him know that whatever he’s about to say isn’t going to effectively reach Billy’s ears.

Steve sighs, but there’s a laugh on his lips and its twin can be found in his eyes. That’s one of Billy’s favorite things about this stupidly good looking boy.

When Billy gets to the dressing room, two shirts are being thrown in after him.

“You have to wear a shirt.”

Billy sticks his tongue out.

Steve leans forward to steal a kiss, lightly and playfully biting Billy’s tongue before separating and closing the curtain.

Billy’s mind feels so fuzzy, he barely registers the clothes he’s putting on.

~~*~~

The day has finally come and never in his life has Billy felt like this much of a dork.

Something about this really does feel like torture. Even though he knows that right now he’s only surrounded by people who love him wholeheartedly, this still feels like a form of sadism. Billy suddenly thinks he might understand what those little toy poodles go through.

Because right now everyone is… cooing at him. Joyce has stood Billy in the hallway (where Jonathan said the lighting is probably best) and is currently attempting to work Jonathan’s camera to take pictures. Jonathan is right next to her, trying to show her the buttons to press and where to look when she wants to take a picture. Jim is standing behind them, deep chuckles clearly bubbling up in his chest and a smirk he can’t keep hidden smeared all over his face. Every now and then he makes eye contact with Billy and tries a little harder to keep his laughter down. Billy tries to find something to appreciate about it.

El is bouncing around in the back, giggling and pulling Will over to whisper to him. Will just shrugs, face red and laughter hidden in the corners of his smile. Billy knows he can’t get mad at them.

Jonathan though…

“Oh here, you just take it, honey.” Joyce concedes, handing the camera back over to her son with exasperation in her voice. Jonathan scrambles for the camera, hanging it around his neck before turning to Billy with a smirk on his face- a smirk that says: you’re never living this down. It’s in his raised eyebrow and all.

Billy’s gonna kill the boy.

“Say cheese.” Jonathan says with the smarmiest grin possible.

“I’ll kill you.” Billy says through gritted teeth, keeping his tone as sweet as possible. Jonathan laughs before taking the shot.

“Okay, okay, now I think we should get one over here!” Joyce is bouncing, tapping Jonathan’s shoulder excitedly. “The wallpaper is nice over here.”

Jonathan is cackling now, mixing with the low rumbles of Hop’s laughter as they walk down the hallway. Will and El move out of the way, heading to the kitchen for something.

Billy’s teeth are still clenched tight.

“I’d really rather not.” Billy says with as little anger in his voice as he can muster.

“I know, I’m sorry, dear, just a few more pictures! It’s just, I have pictures of all the other kids all dressed up and you look so nice!” Joyce brings a hand up to replace a curl that’s slipped out of where Billy has attempted to grease them back. Everything she does is so maternal- it all has such a loving touch that it softens Billy instantly. “Just a couple more pictures? Is that okay, honey?”

It’s just them in the hallway now, the chatter of the other people in the house sounding distant enough that the irritation in Billy’s chest simmers down to just about nothing. It’s just him and this woman who somehow always makes him think about the good memories of his mother. Not even the tangible ones, but rather the fuzzy ones that crop up more as feelings than as pictures. It’s something he’s not sure he knows how to truly appreciate. It’s something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to again. It’s warm. It makes this whole place seem a little more like home.

It also makes it a lot harder to say no.

Because there Joyce is, looking at him like he’s one of her children. Like he’s her son all dressed up for picture day. He’s not fully sure what to do with himself. Especially because she’s asking his permission. So few authority figures ever do that.

He sighs.

“Alright.” He says, giving her a tired smile when her eyes light up at his response.

He follows after her into the living room, exhausted just from existing in these stupid clothes, having to look at all of these stupid smiles laughing at him like he’s a clown. He feels like a clown.

They’d probably insist it’s out of love and care. He’d definitely beg to differ.

But he’s still standing there, chin tilted up and hands clasped behind his back, doing his best to puff his chest and broaden his shoulders to look as manly as possible… even though he’s dressed like a damn Easter egg.

“C’mon, son, give us a smile!” It’s Hop, humor dancing in his eyes. “Let us see those teeth!”

Billy’s teeth are still gritted, mirth and pain definitely visible in his eyes.

“I swear to God.” He mutters under his breath before allowing the corners of his mouth to tilt up into a smile.

“C’mon a little wider.” Jonathan says through a smirk.

“Just take the picture.” Billy says through his smile, followed by the click of the camera.

Joyce fusses for a bit, moving over to the wall where all the kids have their pictures hung and trying to figure out the best place for Billy’s to go when Jonathan eventually produces it. Jonathan, still with that amused smirk on his face, wanders over to Billy.

“Hope you know how blackmail worthy these are.” Jonathan says with a glint in his eye. Billy makes sure to shoot daggers back.

“You better sleep with that camera under your pillow tonight, bud.” Billy says with sugar in his voice. He elbows Jonathan, who elbows him back, to which Billy responds with a harder hit.

The two are tussling about like a couple of kids before there’s a knock at the door.

Everyone stops at the sound, but when the bubble pops in the next second they’re all moving to answer it.

“I’ve got it!” Billy calls over the sound of them rushing to the door, taking long strides to push past them and get them away from the knob. “God, you’re a bunch of animals.” He chastises as he swings the door open.

On the other side of the door is Steve all dressed up in matching Easter colors. He’s looking down at his shoes, kicking a bit at the doorway in a nervous kind of gesture the second that Billy opens the door, and in the next he’s looking up with wide eyes.

He’s nervous why is he so nervous now I’m even more nervous oh God...

Billy squirms a bit where he stands.

Steve blinks hard. Billy doesn’t appreciate the silence, or the gathering of everyone behind his back that he can sense.

“Well? You got something to say, Bambi?” Billy’s foot is tapping incessantly. He can’t help it. He cracks all the knuckles on his left hand just by using his fingers. He’s nervous... and he swears he can feel everyone’s collective breath on his back.

Steve shakes himself out of his stupor.

“You look so good.” Steve nearly breathes it out. It kills Billy.

There are more than a few coos behind him, followed by a few amused chuckles. Billy’s face is currently burning red hot, but it’s not distracting enough to keep him from turning around and glaring at his family.

They’re all crowded together, doing their best to look at the scene in front of them without getting too close. When they get caught, they scatter.

Billy turns back to Steve, face still bright and hot. He absolutely hates the feeling, so much so that he can’t even think about wiping the scowl off his face.

“Yeah, whatever. You do too.” Billy feels sophomoric. Like a young girl who got asked to prom by a Senior guy. Like he’s waiting for his corsage or whatever. He feels so foolish.

“Thanks.” Steve says, eyeing Billy up and down. “You slicked your hair back.”

Billy reaches up for it self-consciously. He feels that curl that fell out earlier and brushes it back.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Why?” Steve asks, a little smile on his lips.

Billy’s not sure why he’s so irritated by the question, but he wants to believe the red on his face that he’s deeply sure is out of nervousness is actually red out of anger.

“I tried to look presentable. This is about impressing your parents, isn’t it?”

Billy’s trying not to snap, but it’s hard not to after being so strung up all week. It’s all he’s been able to think about is standing out in a field of flowers with a bunch of stuffy rich people.

Steve nods. His eyes turn softer, even though Billy’s close to barking.

A tiny shoulder is pressing into Billy’s arm then, shoving him out of the way with surprising strength.

“Hi Steve!” El says cheerfully, beaming her little smile up at the boy.

“Hi kiddo.” Steve says, smiling back just as bright. Billy shifts in place.

“Steve!” Joyce calls from inside the house. Steve and El turn to look at her, but Billy is staring at the stupidly nice shoes on his feet.

Nervous nervous way too nervous why am I so nervous please don’t ask him in...

“Won’t you come inside? I’ve got lemonade!”

Pictures she wants pictures don’t ask for pictures...

“I’d love to get a good picture of you both, too-”

Billy cuts in. He doesn’t feel too bad about it.

“We’re running late, already.” Billy says, loudly, to try to send a hint to this room full of people who can never seem to take one.

Billy still has his back facing the house, so he can’t see Joyce’s face. He figures it’s better this way, otherwise they’d be dragged into another photo session and Billy really cannot handle that right now. Not when his heart is trying to pack it’s bags and run away to the fucking city. He just looks up at Steve, shooting the boy his biggest, cry for help, ”please-have-my-back-here-babe” face that he can.

Steve takes the hint and gives a little nod.

“Yeah, we really are kind of late. My parents don’t like me being late to this stuff.” Steve shrugs. There’s more words on his tongue, Billy can see it. Steve kind of word-vomits when he starts talking about his parents and all the ways he seems to think he disappoints them. It makes Billy’s chest hurt more often than not. It ends in Billy kissing the guilt away more often than not.

“Oh of course! No worries then, dear!” There’s not a lot of disappointment in Joyce’s voice. Billy lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He leans himself against the doorway, facing the other side of the threshold’s frame.

“You can’t drive us?” El asks, looking up with puppy dog eyes that could pull at anyone’s heart.

“Nah, can’t today, kiddo. We have to be somewhere.” Steve says. It makes Billy think something so stupid he wouldn’t even admit it to himself.

Kids kids kids kids…

He pushes the thought away to briefly wonder why Jonathan can’t take them. Figures it’s something with Nancy. He’s not dressed yet and the kids seem antsy to be somewhere. He’s fine with his mind on that, on anything away from where he’s about to be headed.

“It’s okay, El, we can just take my bike.” Will says, suddenly showing up at the side of them.

The four of them push through the door, giving their respective goodbyes before Billy and Steve climb into Steve’s car and El crowds Will on the back of his bike. They make the bike look a little small, but they’ve done this before. It still makes Billy laugh a bit. Seeing the two giggle a little when Will loses his balance for a second lightens Billy’s heart.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks, like they didn’t rush out to the car to get going. Like they aren’t really late and like Steve didn’t really mean what he said about his parents, even though Billy knows he did.

Billy nods.

“Yeah, let’s just… do it.”

Steve nods for a little too long. He can’t get the keys in the ignition without fumbling a bit. They drive and Billy can’t even think about how much he dislikes the song currently playing.

He’s fidgeting still.

Nervous nervous so nervous why am I so nervous what the fuck is wrong with me-

“You nervous?” Steve asks around a bubble in his throat. He clears it with a cough after he speaks.

Billy snorts unattractively and pushes back his hair, even though the curl isn’t loose anymore. He reaches for the top of his button down, unbuttoning and rebuttoning because he needs to do something.

“No.” he lies through his teeth.

Steve gives a little sigh.

“Yeah, me too.”

It confuses Billy for a second.

“What?”

“I’m nervous, too.” Steve says, voice a little shaky. Billy doesn’t know what to say. He feels appreciation bubble up inside of him that he tries to mask with irritation.

“I’m no-” His voice catches and immediately he’s mad about it. “I’m not.”

It sounds so stupid now that it’s out in the air. He looks out the window, like it’ll help the heat blooming on his face. He unbuttons the second button too.

Then there’s a hand taking hold of his left one. Billy looks at it, watches Steve’s thumb rub at the skin between his index and thumb. He looks up at Steve, who’s still got his eyes on the road.

“Thanks for… agreeing. I know it’s shit. Trust me, I don’t want to be going here either. But… it means a lot. And no matter what, I’m still your boyfriend, alright? I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Billy’s eyes prick with tears. He’s not even sure why they’re there, but he blames it on how high strung he’s been all week. How pulled taut he’s felt since Steve brought this whole thing up. He’s just boiling over, that’s all.

Steve looks over at him, eyes getting soft and worry resting in his brow.

“Billy?”

“Just drive, you idiot.” Billy mumbles, turning back to the window while grabbing firm hold of Steve’s hand.

~~*~~

Billy is beyond uncomfortable.

Truly beyond uncomfortable. He’s itching in his button down, which Steve insisted looked better than the dark blue polo and would be much cooler to wear than the dark color in the bright sun, but Billy barely heard him. After a certain point (and that damn kiss) Billy just trusted Steve’s judgement.

But now he’s itching. He’s still unbuttoning the top button on his shirt, fingers twitching to unbutton the next one (or two) along with the first, but knows Steve would just close them up like he’s been doing with the top one.

“You’re not my mom.” Billy had muttered, squinting in the sun of the bright summer day.

“No but I’m your boyfriend.” Steve had said quietly, fixing the button again and making Billy’s heart palpitate.

And now they’re standing in a damn garden, big, bright, white, fancy, canopy tents propped up and scattered around the park, a little ways away from each other so you have to wander into the bright sun to get to the next one. There’s fancy tables with fancy trays of fancy food that Billy finds absolutely ridiculous.

Steve’s parents have been talking to people for the past twenty minutes. Steve made eye contact with them and waved once they arrived, but both of them just gave vaguely pleasant smiles while still schmoozing whoever it was that was more important than their son and his friend. That they themselves requested to meet.

Assholes.

“Whatever.” Steve had muttered under his breath before veering towards a waiter carrying around what Billy assumed was a tray of mimosas. Billy, for as nervous as he was and still is, didn’t exactly want to start drinking before he even spoke to the two. Y’know, good first impressions and all that. He hadn’t known before what it felt like to care this much, but he doesn’t exactly hate it.

Steve has downed about 3 mimosas, the two of them standing a ways away from his parents so that they can jump in when they’re free.

They still have to wait about five minutes before it’s their “turn”.

“Hi mom, hi dad.” Steve says, something plastic about his movements. It’s weird for Billy to watch.

“Hello there, Steve.” His dad says in a pleasant enough way. He doesn’t set off enough alarm bells in Billy’s head for him to get upset.

“Hello dear.” Steve’s mom says pleasantly in turn, leaning forward to give Steve a sideways kiss on his cheek, keeping her lips from making contact so she doesn’t smear him with lipstick. Steve purses his lips a bit as well.

“This must be your friend!” His mother says it like she just noticed him standing there. She offers a delicate hand, palm down, showing off her perfectly manicured nails. It seems like she’s asking Billy to kiss it or something. He reaches for it and decides it best to give her the satisfaction. He’s been trying to parse out how thick he wants to lay all his charm on. He finally decided “real thick” was the best option.

He leans down and gives the back of her palm a light kiss, immediately noticing that her hands don’t really give away her age like some other mothers Billy has come into contact with. Billy isn’t able to tell what age she may be. Steve insinuated once that his parents had him young- younger than was advised for them both- and now Billy thinks that probably makes sense.

When he comes back up, she’s giving him that look that makes his stomach churn. The look that every mother in his life has ever given him, save from his own and now Joyce. The look that comes off as if she thinks she’s the first to give it, but that Billy has seen since he was about 14 and his voice dropped.

Billy turns his attention to the father. He gives the firmest handshake he can, just on the edge of bruising the man’s skin. He’s a lot taller than Billy, hair perfectly groomed back with just the right amount of gray in it to make him seem wisened. He’s real young too- so young Billy thinks he may have dyed his hair a little gray to get that “salt and pepper” look that’s probably on trend or something. It makes Billy internally roll his eyes.

The man’s not exactly stocky, but he’s not trim either. Probably eats his fair share of expensive meats and works out a couple of days a week just to say he does. Maybe to fuck his personal trainer. Billy’s extrapolating now, but he doesn’t think he’s reaching very far.

“Nice to meet you.” Mr. Harrington says like he’s not at all displeased by this interaction. Billy takes it as a win. “I’m Charles Harrington.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir.” Billy’s mouth doesn’t want to form around the title, but he gives it anyway. Laying it on thick, and all. “Billy Hargrove.”

“He is quite a handsome one, isn’t he?” Steve’s mom asks, grabbing Steve’s arm to wrap her own around it. It’s like she’s talking with one of her socialite friends and thinks she’s out of ear shot.

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Yes, and he can hear you.” Steve mutters. Billy watches as her face doesn’t move a muscle but her hand claws slightly into her son’s arm.

“It’s always so nice to meet one of Steve’s little friends.” She starts again, eyes crinkled into a smile that’s not entirely disingenuous.

It’s not evil. Billy’s seen his fair share of evil women. She just seems a little less than satisfied with whatever situation she’s in. Billy does know that Mr. Harrington is a serial cheater, but he hasn’t heard anything about the mother. She’s still young and an attractive enough woman as far as Billy can tell. She could probably get one of these rich bastards to fuck her in one of the dozens of rooms at the country club.

Either way, it’s not really his business, and he doesn’t really want to think about his boyfriend’s mom getting railed while she’s gazing hazily at him like he’s the one that would do it for her. Either that or like he’s the man she probably reads about in her horny novels.

Steve has something poisonous on his lips, probably something like “he’s not little”. Be it with a dirty undertone or not, Billy guesses it doesn’t really matter.

He’s still fidgeting a bit, but he keeps his charming composure up.

“And it’s nice to finally meet the Harringtons. I’ll say, you’re definitely far from matronly, Mrs. Harrington.”

Billy doesn’t know if he should do the typical, cliche thing and say she looks like Steve’s sister. Considering she had him pretty young, it might strike the wrong chord.

Whatever, he said what he did with enough sugar to make her blush.

“Oh, Billy.” She tuts, rolling her eyes a bit and placing a hand on one of her cheeks, clearly becoming a bit flush. Billy takes a bit more pride in it than normal. He is here to schmooze, after all. “I bet you drive all the girls just crazy, don’t you?”

Billy’s been in this situation for about two minutes and already he has to feel out if he should act like a smarmy slut or like a proper gentleman.

He figures in-between is the best bet. Doesn’t want them catching on or anything...

“There’s definitely a few girls.” He says, hands clasped behind his back so he can hide his fidgeting. “But they don’t seem to get that I’m a wine and dine kind of guy.”

Billy has had what probably equates to about 2 glasses of wine in his whole life. He figures the tiny details don’t exactly matter.

He’s laid the charm on thick enough to get Mrs. Harrington giggling again, and said it with just enough charm to get Mr. Harrington to chuckle the smallest bit as well. It’s an oddly good feeling.

“We’ve got a regular casanova on our hands.” Mr. Harrington says with something that sounds like acceptance in his voice. “Good thing, too. I feel like we don’t get a lot of your kind in Hawkins.”

Billy gives them a smile and shifts his eyes to Steve, who looks a mix of nervous and amused. If only these two knew that more often than not he’s riding their son in the front seat of his Camaro, or fucking him up against the hood, or laying out in a field shotgunning a joint. If only they knew he sucked their son dry in the locker room after basketball practice back when they were still convinced they hated each other.

Casanova indeed. Real wine and dine.

“And your shorts!” Steve’s mother pipes up brightly. “So colorful! I love the little spots embroidered on them.”

“Actually, they’re skulls.” It’s Steve who admits to it, an irritated look on his face that’s somehow also laced with smugness. He’s clearly trying to get under their skin as much as they’re under his.

They both turn to Steve, before looking back down at Billy’s pants. The two lean in a little bit.

“That they are, huh?” Mr. Harrington says, sounding semi-impressed. “Well, would you look at that! A sense of fashion, as well!”

Steve rolls his eyes. Billy makes eye contact with him so he can share this semi-triumphant moment.

Steve seems about to say something, but his father cuts him off.

“So tell us, Billy-” Mr. Harrington seems hard pressed saying the name “Billy”, and it gives Billy some weird, perverse joy. “What does your father do?”

Billy’s immediately winded by the question, throat held tight by the thoughts that race through his mind in an instant.

In his stupor, Billy’s vaguely aware of Steve puffing up in defense.

“I already, told you, dad, he-”

Billy waves him away.

“It’s fine.” He mutters, before looking Mr. Harrington squarely in the eye. “My dad is the Chief of Police.”

It feels weird- alien on his tongue and in his head. It sets stress loose from its reign, running wildly through his body. It causes his blood to rush too fast, too loud through his veins.

“Oh! Chief-” Mrs. Harrington says, before her mind catches up with her ears. “Uhm… Chief…” Her voice is getting quiet, eyes hooded in confusion as she turns to her husband. “Chief… Hargro…” She’s clearly grasping for straws here. “Chief Hopper? Right?”

She’s speaking in a rather loud whisper, but only to her husband. Mr. Harrington shrugs a bit.

“Yes, ma’am.” Billy speaks up, when he’s finally able to. “My dad is Chief Hopper.”

“Ahh…” Mrs. Harrington breathes, still a little confused and looking slightly unconvinced. She’s giving him a smile as she processes the information before it hits her. Billy sees the realization light up in her eyes. “Oh, the adopted one.”

That whisper is quieter, more secretive… more careful that others won’t hear.

It strikes a chord in his chest. Billy wants to be mad about it. He wants to close himself off from whatever feelings it gives him. He wants to build up some armor… but it just makes his heart sink. He didn’t think that would be the response people would give.

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s something upset living on his mouth, making it twitch.

Mrs. Harrington gives a careful look to her husband, before turning back to Billy with a pleasant smile. It’s a little hard to find anything false in it, but he can definitely see it. It makes him briefly wonder how much of their life has been hidden behind polite smiles just this side of false.

“That’s very interesting, Billy!” She says, like he’s a toddler that just told her about how he picked up frog collecting- like he’s a child. It’s condescending. It should make Billy angry.

It sinks his heart further.

“It’s not interesting, mom, it’s normal.” Steve hisses under his breath, eyebrows low over his eyes. Billy feels stupid, standing around, letting them talk about him right in front of him.

“Well, yes.” She sniffs haughtily, straightening her back ever so slightly. “Of course it is, it’s…”

Mr. Harrington cuts in. “Chief Hopper is a good man. He does a lot for this town.”

His voice is like that of a robot’s, inflectionless and calculated. Billy doesn’t need to be told about Jim, but he’d be interested to hear Mr. Harrington say more. As far as Billy knows, Hop hates these two.

Mrs. Harrington takes a light breath in, about to say something when her gaze is suddenly locked on something far away, and she’s tapping her husband’s arm incessantly.

“Charles, the Wilson’s just arrived.”

She gives her husband a look that he returns, and then they’re turning to the boys with matching smiles that make them look like they belong on a billboard advertising new homes.

“It was just so lovely finally meeting you, Billy.” Mrs. Harrington says, eyelashes fluttering.

“But we do have some business to attend to.” Mr. Harrington chimes in, allowing his wife to take his arm. They stand together like a shiny puzzle, obviously matching but not worn enough to really fit. “But enjoy yourselves, boys.”

“Yes!” Says Mrs. Harrington again, pleasantly, even though they begin to walk away. They’re floating away gracefully while still talking to the two. “I suggest the deviled eggs over on that table there. Mrs. Carlton finally made them again and I swear they’re to die for.”

They wave politely before rushing off, sending tittering words of hello to everyone they pass by.

Billy watches after them, stunned a bit at their presence and unsure of what to make of everything that just happened. He opts for turning his attention to Steve, who somehow has another mimosa in his hand.

“God.” Steve mutters before downing half in one gulp. “Well, say goodbye to them for the rest of the day.”

Billy’s shocked at the admittance.

“Seriously?”

Steve shrugs with an eye roll as he downs the rest of his drink. He gulps around his answer.

“Probably. Business usually means buttering up a few people for the rest of the party.” Steve sighs. “Trust me, I’ve been left alone at enough of these to know.”

He sets his glass on a passing waiter’s tray.

“So… I did good?” Billy asks, wondering how Steve picks up drinks so easily from those passing trays and wondering still if maybe he can do it or if he needs Steve to do it for him.

Steve is a little ways away, a little distracted if his eyes are anything to go by. Billy pinches his arm back to the present.

“Oh! Yeah, you were perfect. I think you pleased them enough to make them ignore us for the rest of the day.”

Billy feels proud about that.

“So we can go?”

He knows it’s hopeful thinking, but he lets his chest lighten for a second. Steve’s chuckle brings him back to reality.

“Not if you care about me, we can’t. My mom will have a tantrum if we leave before four.”

“Four?” Billy asks incredulously, eyeing more drinks as they walk by.

“Yeah.” Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s some stupid, unspoken rule.”

Billy sighs, watching all the rich, pretty people around them as they socialize. He’s still itching in his shirt, but a little less so, knowing the worst part is over. It has to be over. He did his job of impressing the parents and now he just has to… be eye candy or whatever. Whatever these rich people want.

“Let’s just hope I don’t run into anyone who wants to talk about how much I’ve grown.” Steve mutters. “C’mon, I wanna find those deviled eggs.”

Billy follows like a puppy.

~~~

It’s…. strange… watching Steve float around from table to table, effectively deflecting people he doesn’t wish to talk to in such a polite and collected way.

Billy was prepared to take the brunt of the conversations, but to his surprise Steve does most of the talking. He schmoozes almost as perfectly as his parents did, giving the same plastic smiles Billy has been watching him give all day, allowing the women to pat his shoulder or grab his arm or tell him how “strong” he is now; how “old” and “mature” and “handsome” he’s gotten.

Something a little sick fills Billy’s stomach, but it’s pushed away by the butterflies… probably more accurately described as something akin to “moths”. Or lightning bugs. Or maybe those big, thick, black flies that buzz louder than they ought to. Yeah, those.

It’s just that every second that passes leaves him out of place. Pushes him further and further to the left of where he should be. Women are laughing and talking with Steve, and Billy really is just the arm candy. He gives them smiles as polite as he can muster. Sometimes they eye him up and down (always getting caught on his bright shorts), and ask who he is, where he’s from… what his father does.

“He’s the Chief of Police, ma’am.”

“Oh!” They say, eyes wide and smiles fallen, before picking them back up and insisting Chief Hopper is a “very kind man” before sauntering away with some excuse of finding a friend, or a drink. Or their husband. Sometimes they have something a little more knowing in their eyes; sometimes their eyes get wide with memories and they look at Billy with blushing faces that aren’t because of his own good looks. Billy’s not an idiot- he’s heard about Hop’s affinity for “getting around” before El came into his life, and he kind of figures that must be what they’re so embarrassed about now. It makes Billy chuckle.

He doesn’t like watching these women touching Steve, though. He’s glad when they turn leering gazes onto him rather than reach out to grab at Steve’s arm.

“Oh, so you’re Billy Hargrove.” One woman, a Mrs. Sadler, says with a weird glint in her eye and irritation spread thin over her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Billy says with as smug of a look as he can muster, trying his best not to look as awkward as he feels. “Does my uh- reputation precede me?”

He hates that he falters, but he says it with enough charm that she laughs a shrill sort of thing.

“Oh, yes. You really caught my Addison’s eye when you first moved to town. My lord, you are all she would talk about for at least two weeks.”

Ah, Addie Sadler; the quiet little sophomore girl who stared at Billy every day at lunch from across the cafeteria before getting dared to lay a kiss on Billy at a party. Ever since then she hasn’t so much as made eye contact with him. He’s kind of happy about it- her stares used to weird him out.

“Now I can certainly see why.”

The woman reaches a hand out to touch Billy, but somehow Steve talks their way out of the situation, grabbing hold of Billy first and saying he needs some company to find his parents to “ask them something” but “thanks for the well wishes on college, Mrs. Sadler” and “say hi to Addison and Jacob for me”.

Billy’s so thankful for his boyfriend he could kiss him. Lord does he want to kiss him. Billy’s been trying to scope out the place for the past hour to find a corner they can hide away in.

They end up at the next tent over, where Billy recognizes enough people to know they’ve already talked to them and thus, shouldn’t be bothered.

“Thanks.”

“Course.” Steve says, love in his voice even if he can’t show it physically.

Billy’s itching again, absolutely itching. He feels like there’s ants crawling all up inside of his pretty, new, collared shirt.

He eyes another tray of fruity drinks that passes by them and taps Steve’s shoulder.

“I’ve been trying to get a drink all day, how the fuck do you stop one of those guys?”

Steve laughs.

“You just reach out and grab a glass. Here, what do you want?”

Billy looks around, weighing his options. He’s never tried champagne, but he’s not the biggest fan of orange juice. He thinks there’s someone walking around with sangria but he really doesn’t care for the taste of wine.

Then he sees a couple of men huddled in a corner together, laughing heartily, drinking some beers.

Billy points.

“They’ve got beer, where’d they get beer?”

Steve eyes them curiously. “Oh, you have to ask someone for that. I can- uhh- waiter!”

One of the waiters stops suddenly in his tracks, tilting his head to indicate his attention.

“Can I get a couple of beers, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

He asks about different brands Billy’s never heard of. He assumes they’re probably craft beers. Steve looks to Billy, who probably looks more than a little shocked. He’s never had any kind of craft beer before. They’re expensive, and he just gets what he can from the drug stores. He shrugs.

“Whatever you recommend is fine.” Steve answers, slipping money into the man’s hand and giving another plastic smile before turning to Billy with a simple look. “See?”

“Well la dee da, Mr. Country Club.” Billy says, giving a little bit of a smile back. Steve shoves Billy’s shoulder.

“Shut up. I had to go to enough of these I’ve lost track, I had to learn some things to keep myself sane.”

“It’s just… weird.” Billy admits, leaning against a table behind him that luckily isn’t littered with tiny foods or abandoned glasses of wine. “Seeing you in your… ‘natural habitat’ or whatever.” Billy uses air quotes for good measure, because truthfully, the words don’t seem right.

Steve snorts.

“Yeah, sure, so natural.” He says almost huffily, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just know enough to get by at these things. I hate them. I bet only about 3 people of the dozens here actually give a shit about if I’m going to college or not.”

“That why you’re lying and telling everyone you are?” Billy asks, the smirk on his face masking the worry he feels. Steve sighs.

“Yeah, because they don’t care. Not really.” Steve grabs a tiny biscuit or something as a waiter walks by with it. “They just wanna hear me talk. Seem polite to keep up appearances or whatever.” Steve shoves the food in his mouth with a shrug. “Plus they all got their kids into college. They paid them all off. My parents would kill me if I told people they didn’t pay my way.”

Billy tries to think of something to say, but the waiter is back with the two beers.

“Thank you.” Steve says politely after swallowing. The man bows his head a bit before scurrying off.

“Here ya go, babe.” Steve mumbles the last bit. “I’ll hold the other till you want it.”

“Thanks.” He mumbles back, thinking about how if he’s this uncomfortable now how he can’t imagine what he’d feel like as a kid.

They stand around and talk, Billy taking note of how anxious Steve seems to be now that he can’t pick up another fruity drink being paraded around.

“I think you should slow your roll on the drinks, babe.” Billy says, lips at the tip of the bottle. “Not unless you want me driving your fancy car home.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. I guess.” He sounds bitter. His eyes are shifty, looking at everyone around him, waiting for the next person who’s gonna come after them to start asking questions.

Billy reaches a hand out, time feeling a little sticky in the summer heat as he decides where to put his hand. What he wants to do is grab Steve’s hand and put his other on Steve’s chest, over his heart, and pull him in tight and kiss his nose and be soppy. It’s soppiness that heals Steve faster than anything. Soppiness that gets him all melted and calm.

What he does is grab Steve’s shoulder and squeeze, shake his shoulder a tad till Steve is looking him in the eye. He injects as much love into his gaze as he can, knowing that’s the only place he can really get away with it.

Steve seems to appreciate it. He takes a deep breath and breathes out slowly, albeit a little unevenly.

“Sorry.” Steve says like he’s ashamed. Billy pinches Steve’s shoulder.

“Stop that. This place is shit, I know you think so too.”

Steve nods. “I just… I know I’m different here.” Steve swallows because he’s nervous. “It’s gross but I- I can’t help it. It just comes out. I grew up here, I-”

Steve is reaching up to run his hands through his hair, mussing it up until Billy pinches his shoulder again and slaps his hand away.

“Shut up, you idiot.” Billy’s stern, but not harsh. Steve looks him in the eye again. “The only thing that’s different is you’re not happy. I haven’t seen that famous Harrington smile of yours all day.”

Steve chuckles a bit, but it’s not good enough. Billy reaches out to poke Steve’s side, eliciting a laugh and a noise of indignation.

But there’s the smile.

“Hey, warn a guy.” Billy chastises with a smirk on his face. “You’re gonna blind someone with those.”

Steve laughs, and shoves at Billy’s shoulder again. It’s the only contact they can get without attracting unwanted attention. But it’s not much different from their everyday lives anyway, careful of every touch they give so as not to get anyone suspecting anything. They just enjoy what they can when they get it.

They’re standing there, chuckling lightly with each other, eyes sparkling and bright, when-

When they’re interrupted by the roar of an engine, followed by the shrill sound of La Cucaracha blasting through the air, causing more than a couple of women to shriek and jump.

Everyone in the party turns to the parking lot, where a pale yellow, 1953 Coupe DeVille is currently driving past.

Billy’s heart jumps a bit at seeing the car. He can appreciate a nice car when he sees one.

“Now that guy, knows how to ride in style.” Billy says, arms crossed, looking at the car in appreciation.

When he doesn’t get a response, he looks to his boyfriend, to see his face has fallen in shock.

“Grammy.” He whispers under his breath, so low Billy almost doesn’t hear it.

“Huh?”

Steve blinks.

“It’s… it’s Grammy.” He shakes his head a bit, blinking heavier, coming out of whatever weird memory he’s in. “Uh, my grandma. It’s my grandma.”

Billy’s about as surprised as Steve looks. He signed up for two parents, not a family reunion.

“Your grandma? Drives that?”

Billy hasn’t seen his grandmothers in a while, but he can safely say they never drove anything like… like that.

Steve just nods.

“Yeah… uh. God, they didn’t tell me she was coming, why didn’t they tell me she was coming?” Steve sounds more on the side of shocked than angry.

Billy looks around to find Steve’s parents standing amid a small crowd, looking at the parking lot in what Billy could only describe as “shameful horror”.

He laughs.

“Somethin’ tells me they didn’t know.”

Steve looks over to them, shaking a bit. Billy wants to help. He places a hand on the small of the boy’s back, knowing no one’s paying anything else but the coupe much attention. He leaves it there for a second or two and takes it away just as quickly, but it’s the thought that counts.

Suddenly, Steve’s parents turn towards them, and then they’re gliding towards them with a purpose.

Billy isn’t sure what exactly to do with himself. He feels stupid for thinking it, but he thought he was done. He really thought he was done, but now he’s fidgeting again. Itching in his shirt, itching in his skin, itching itching itching.

“Steven.” Mr. Harrington says by some way of greeting. It’s far more authoritative than before. It almost doesn’t feel like the same man. Steve just nods his response.

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Well, we’ll just… we’ll just have to... “ It’s Steve’s mother. She’s obviously shaking with nerves before she turns to Billy with a collected smile. “Billy, I’m so sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to have to… steal Steve away. For just a bit.”

Billy nods, but doesn’t get much of a chance to say anything before Steve’s mother links her arm with her son and the two drag Steve away, leaving Billy there to watch.

Steve shoots an apologetic look back at him.

Billy waves.

He downs the rest of his beer before he realizes that Steve left the second bottle there on the table for him. Billy picks it up and looks for a way to kill time.

He feels immediately untethered. It only takes a few feet between him and Steve for Billy to feel the line connecting them snap, and along with it his sanity in this place. In an instant he feels like a child, lost without his parent. He feels idiotic, bobbing out at sea, an untethered boat floating away from the dock, pushed into vulnerability.

Nervous nervous fucking hell why am I so nervous goddamnit I… I…

He needs to sit.

He mentally debates between staying close enough to Steve just to be able to see him and have comfort, or getting as far away as possible so as not to attract attention to himself from Grandmother Harrington. Or… whatever side she’s from.

He figures the latter is probably better. Maybe if he hides away, acts busy, looks somewhere else… he won’t have to meet her.

Another tent another tent another tent…

Billy wanders out of the tent he’s under and towards another one, before getting caught up in the sun and the comfort it gives him for a second. He lets it burn comfort into his skin.

Standing in the middle of a perfectly manicured field, staring at the patches of well-gardened flowers with something boiling and vile in his chest. Something so deeply uncomfortable and unnatural. Something almost rotten. He thinks of the time and the effort spent on making just these flowers look presentable enough for these rich people. He thinks about the poor men who sit out here and work at maintaining all these stupid plants that these people never come out to appreciate because they don’t go anywhere near the damn sun. Like they’ll melt. Maybe they will.

…

He thinks about how pretty that flower is. That one. With the reddish-purpleish petals. Lots and lots and lots of thin petals. He thinks about Steve. About how the only reason he’s here is because of Steve. About how that’s what makes all of this worth it… Steve.

He feels something bubble up again in his chest. It overpowers the other stuff. It makes him a little less sick.

As he reaches out to pick it, all he can think about are Steve’s eyes. Steve’s skin. How good this flower will look in the pocket of Steve’s stupid little button down.

“What are you doing?”

Billy startles.

As he turns his head to find the voice, he doesn’t expect to have to look down to see a face.

It’s a little girl. Her curls are perfect and pinned away from her face with shiny little things that Billy thinks Max would gag at, no matter her age. Her dress is a pastel blue and just the slightest bit too fancy for what Billy thinks this event is supposed to be. Billy’s still not even sure what this event is supposed to be, truly, but this girl looks like she’s going to church. She has earrings Billy thinks may be her mother’s and a bossy little scowl that’s definitely all her own.

“I said, what are you doing?”

Billy’s still got his hands around the stem of the flower. He plucks it from the bush. The girl gasps.

“You’re not supposed to do that.” She says, matter of factly. Her hands are on her hips. Billy raises his best oh-yeah? eyebrow, paired with a what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it? smirk.

“And who said that?”

“My mother.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I used to try to pick ‘em and my mother said no.”

Billy snickers. “Maybe you should stop listening to your mother, kid.”

Her eyebrows curl in on themselves. “Hey! I’m not a kid. I’m eleven.”

Billy laughs something a little fuller. “Sounds like a kid to me.”

“I’m eleven.” Her hands curl into fists on her hips. “And you’re not supposed to do that.”

She looks pointedly at the flower in Billy’s hand. He follows her gaze to look at it too.

He wants to give it to Steve. He wants to lay it on his ear, tipped under his hair. He wants to tuck it into his shirt pocket.

He can’t do that out in public. Billy twists the flower in thought, mesmerized for a second by the petals spinning in a dizzying pattern. He’s taken out of it in an instant. He decides what to do just as quickly.

“Not even if it’s for you?”

Her eyes light up immediately, glued to the flower like it’s a promise ring or something. Her smile sneaks its way out and something about it makes Billy feel warm. Like when he makes El laugh, or when he makes Max smile and punch him, or when he makes Joyce giggle that happy little giggle where she has to cover her whole face with her hand. He doesn’t know this girl at all, but something about her smile after seeing her scowl at him like that makes him feel like he’s accomplished something. He smirks in some kind of strange triumph.

She takes the flower and holds it close to her, inspecting the petals like she’s doing a quality check.

“I guess that’s okay.” She says into her flower, shrugging little shoulders. Billy laughs a bit, looking back at the flowers and wishing again for a second that he could have given it to Steve instead.

There’s a moment of silence, Billy getting lost in his thoughts of Steve and kids and family and if Steve is done yet-

“Are you famous?”

It’s the girl. Billy looks back down at her.

“Huh?”

“Are you famous?” She enunciates like he’s dumb for being confused. Like what she just asked wasn’t supposed to catch him off guard.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs her shoulders again, looking down at her flower with a face scrunched up by the sun. “The only time I see boys with hair as long as yours is when they’re famous.”

“Really?” Billy asks on a scoff. He knows his hair is a little over the top here, but he couldn’t even count on his fingers how many people he saw with mullets back in California; with hair longer than his back in California. There were countless people that had hair that could rival your local hair band. Then again, there are probably no ‘local hair bands’ out in Hawkins.

“Indiana’s pretty boring, huh?” Billy asks.

She shrugs again, picking at something on her flower like she’s bored. “I guess. I dunno.”

Billy scoffs and looks back at the flowers. He briefly wonders what it’s like for the kids who grew up here… who spend their whole lives here. The poor kids who get stuck here. They’re probably the ones who sit around in the parking lot of that drug store on the corner of Hyde.

“What’s your name?” Comes the little voice again. Billy becomes vaguely aware of the awful slow rock in the background. It sounds like something by Paul Simon.

“Billy Hargrove.” Billy licks his teeth around it.

“Ha!” She nearly shrieks. Billy doesn’t get as startled with this one. “So you are famous!”

“I’m not.” He’s definitive about it, but her determined face doesn’t let up.

“Are too.” Her hands are on her hips again, the flower still held gently in her left hand. “My brother used to talk about you all the time. He doesn’t shut up.”

“Really?” That perks Billy’s ears up. His mind flips through all of the faces at his school like a flipbook. “Who’s your brother?”

“Connor.”

“Huh…” There’s only one Connor that Billy can think of: Connor Blake. He sticks his nose up at everyone. Billy can’t say he’s less than curious about whatever that prick would have to say about him. “What’d he say?”

She shrugs again, looking towards the tents with her face still scrunched up in the sun. “Weird stuff. Stuff about your eyes and your muscles and your hair. He’s weird.”

That makes something electric light in Billy’s chest. There’s a full blown cackle brewing in him, but he just lets out a cool chuckle. Connor is a more than decent looking guy. He has a nice nose, for whatever that’s worth, even if his lips are a little non-existent. He’s always come off as the ‘holier-than-thou’ type. Not like Billy is much of one to talk, but still. Something about the boy and his high horse never seemed to lend to any particular gayness in Billy’s eyes. Obviously he pegged him wrong.

“Maybe you’re just not old enough to get it.” Billy says over a smirk.

The girl shrugs again. At this point Billy’s sure her shoulders are going to get caught in those earrings. “I dunno, I’m pretty old. I’m eleven y’know.”

Billy rolls his eyes but there’s still a smirk on his face, albeit a tired one. “Yeah, I know. Where’s your brother now? Did he come?”

Her curls flip around themselves as she shakes her head. “No, he never comes to these because my parents say he gets to pick, but I’m still too young to pick if I wanna go or not.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’m eleven. I should get to pick.”

“Yeah, you should.” Billy really does agree.

“Can you tell my mother that?” She’s looking up at him now, nose all wrinkled up.

“Sorry kid, I think you have to do that for yourself.”

“Olivia!” Comes a shrill voice that Billy wishes wasn’t getting closer. “Stop bothering this young man and come say hi to Mr. and Mrs. Whitman.”

“Mom!” The girl yells back. “Billy says I’m old enough to pick if I wanna come here or not.”

“Billy?” The woman asks, getting closer. Billy turns to greet her. “Billy…” She says quietly, doing her best to place the name right up until she sees his face. “Oh! Well hello there.”

Billy gives a tight, close-lipped smile. The woman fixes her hair where it’s already perfectly piled on top of her head.

“Why, you’re Billy Hargrove, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes yes… everyone’s talking about how Jim Hopper’s son is here today.”

Billy’s confused at that, wondering what everyone’s deal is about him being adopted. His mouth twists up a bit, involuntarily.

“Jim Hopper?” The girl asks. She looks about as confused as Billy feels. “The policeman? He came to our school once. He’s kinda fat to be your da-”

“Olivia!” The woman clicks her tongue, swiping purposelessly at the air in her daughters direction.

“It’s true.” The girl mutters, looking down at her flower and spinning it. Her mother clicks her tongue.

“Oh please.” Her mouth twists in distaste. “And didn’t I tell you not to pick flowers?”

“Billy picked it for me!” The girl says indignantly, crinkling her nose up in defiance now. There’s a very obvious difference.

The mother’s demeanor changes instantly, face smoothing over in understanding as she turns approving eyes in Billy’s direction.

“Oh! Really? Well then, that’s fine.” Her voice is dripping in liquid sugar. She looks like she wants to reach a hand out to touch him, but her daughter is piping up again.

“Hey!” She yells, catching the attention of both of them. Billy’s not religious, but he might want to bless this child. “That’s not fair! Why can he pick flowers but I can’t?”

Her mother looks exhausted. It makes Billy chuckle.

“Because, sweetheart,” She says, the sweetness entirely fake now. It makes Billy taste something bitter. “You’re a lady and he’s a gentleman.”

“And gentlemen get to pick flowers?”

“Yes. For the ladies.”

The girl, Olivia, gives her mother a look like her mother is trying to pull one over on her. She looks down at the flower, and then up to Billy, who gives an unimpressed look matching his unimpressed, single-shouldered shrug.

The girl turns back to her mother.

“That’s dumb.” Olivia states, very matter-of-factly, before walk-skipping away, dress flouncing around her.

Her mother looks beyond exhausted.

“Olivia!” She tuts again, calling after her in her shrill voice before turning back to Billy.

“I’m so sorry about her, Billy. I have to go get her. But it was so nice to meet you!”

And with that, she flutters away, skirt flipping around her calves as she takes tiny steps in her tiny heels along the grass.

Billy chuckles a bit. He eyes the flowers for a second before walking away, deciding against picking another one in favor of finding some kind of food to eat.

He winds up in front of a very large tray of the world’s tiniest sandwiches. He’s immediately irritated by them. He can’t pick one up in a way that feels… manly. He has to pick them up with just his fingertips or else he squishes them.

But they’re made of some kind of surprisingly hearty turkey along with some fancy tasting cheese and a little bit of crispy ultra-green lettuce and the softest white bread Billy’s ever seen… so…

He picks 3 up in one swipe and places them on the nearest empty plate he can find.

They’re disgustingly good. Like, unnaturally good. By his 5th one he wonders if maybe it’s their size that makes them taste so good. They really shouldn’t taste this good.

He nearly forgets his beer in his tiny-sandwich-stupor. He takes a swig as he grabs more tiny sandwiches. He checks his wristwatch (that Steve insisted he wear) as he shoves a sandwich in his mouth.

It’s been about 20 minutes since Steve left to go talk with his grandma.

Billy settles in, slouching over the table a bit.

A woman comes up to politely chat him up, making like she’s bored or like she was sent here on an order or something equally unbelievable. Billy just as politely turns her down.

He checks his watch. About 25 minutes since Steve left.

He takes a pull off his bottle. Turns down another woman coming by feigning extreme interest in the beer Billy’s drinking. She ends up walking away dejectedly with just a couple of sandwiches on her tiny plate.

29 minutes.

He’s on probably his tenth sandwich when a man comes up with a weird glint in his eye. He’s persistent, he’s tall, and worst of all, he’s drunk off his rocker. He leans a hand on the table, right next to where Billy’s leaning on his elbows. Billy leans back in his chair.

The man has a proposition on his tongue, hidden by the slimiest grin Billy’s ever faced.

“Hey there.” His voice is gravely. It grates on Billy’s ears. “I haven’t seen you at one of these before.”

Billy shakes his head and chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Nope. I’m a friend of someone.”

“Ah, you’re the adopted kid.” Billy’s not sure why that’s such a hot-button topic around here. He’s sure that he doesn’t like it, though.

“Yup.”

“Y’know,” the man slurs in what he must think is a hushed tone, leaning down a little further. Billy does all he can not to lean back any further away from the man’s physical advances. “I heard our Chief Jimmy Hopper is a pervert.”

It sets Billy’s skin on fire and absolutely boils his blood. He’s a kettle over the highest heat.

The man starts to laugh a real heavy, guttural laugh. Billy’s seeing red. He takes a deep breath and absent-mindedly plays with one of the fancy napkins on the table.

“You’ve got about 5 seconds to get away from me before that nose of yours gets broken.” Billy keeps his voice strong and flat and as intimidating as possible.

Billy watches in his periphery as the man moves back.

“You… what?”

Billy looks him straight in the eye.

“I didn’t stutter. Get away from me now or you’re gonna end up walking away with a broken nose.”

The man blinks hard twice before his face shifts into anger.

“Is that a threat, son?”

“It’s a promise, sir.” Billy’s face is screwed up in anger, surely red as a brick. His eyes shift over to the man’s wife on the other side of the tent. He knows it’s his wife, because she’s one of the women that came up to Billy and Steve earlier in the day. This man was with her. “Or I could always tell your wife you’re the real pervert.”

“Oh come off it-”

“It’s Marci, right?” Billy asks, leaning over so he can see past the man. He takes a deep breath to make like he’s going to call out-

“Okay, okay!” The man stops him, grabbing his forgotten glass of some dark drink off the table and taking a swig of it before leaving, muttering darkly to himself.

Billy’s disgusted. He checks his watch.

34 minutes.

Billy’s fuming. He shoves a few more sandwiches in his face and gives a mad eye to a woman who approaches him. She gives a kind, nervous smile before grabbing a piece of fruit off the plate and walking away a little quicker than she came, no words exchanged.

38 minutes.

Billy’s tapping his fingers on the table, watching everyone schmooze and laugh their twinkling little laughs and he’s gonna go mad.

A young girl walks up to him. He recognizes her from school.

She opens her mouth to speak, eyelashes fluttering so hard she could cause a hurricane, but Billy cuts her off before she gets a chance.

“No thanks, dollface.”

She looks like she’s been slapped for a second before she recovers and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

“But I haven’t even said anything, yet.” Her voice is as mousy as her features. Billy’s so irritated he can barely see straight.

“Yeah, well you’ve got that look in your eye-”

“What look?”

“And I know you’ve got a boyfriend.”

She swallows and straightens her back out a little bit, shifting on her feet haughtily.

“Well, I could just as well not have one.”

Billy’s stare is poison. He makes sure of it.

“Yeah, and I could just as well tell Trevor that you stuffed your bra just to come over here and talk to me.”

She balks.

Billy doesn’t exactly like saying it. He doesn’t do that shit anymore and he doesn’t like to let people rile him up like this. The words feel gross and heavy on his tongue. He’s just fed up and everyone is bothering him and he feels like he’s been on display since he’s been here and… and… and these stupid tiny sandwiches and-

“Well, those shorts look idiotic on you.” She spits out at him with tight lips, like it’s an insult he actually cares about. She turns quickly on her heels and swishes away purposefully. Billy doesn’t find any atom of his body that cares.

He’s sitting there staring at the sweaty condensation that’s collected on the bottom of his beer bottle, then at the intricate pattern on the fancy napkin, then at the fancy tray holding the sandwiches, then at the face of his borrowed watch.

He’s on the last sandwich on the middle of the tiered tray when he hears someone clear their throat. He rounds on them like a bull, mouth prepping to tell them off… when he sees that soft, chocolate brown hair that (irritatingly) comforts him instantly.

“Whatcha doing, stud?” Steve’s hands are shoved in his pockets and one annoyingly nice eyebrow is raised.

Billy grumbles.

“Eating.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These sandwiches are stupid by the way.” Billy picks a few up in one hand and flops them down on his plate. “They’re so small. Why are they so small? I hate them.”

“Uh huh. That why you’re eating them all?”

Billy gives Steve a dirty look, and makes it even harsher when he sees the boy smiling at his expense.

“Yes. The sooner I eat them all the sooner I don’t have to look at them anymore.”

Steve laughs and Billy responds to it with a growl.

“You’ve been gone almost an hour.” Billy mumbles, thumbing at the napkin in front of him again.

“You’ve been counting?”

Billy shrugs. He’s not sure what to say, so he figures saying nothing at all is best. He glances at Steve for a second, before deciding he doesn’t wanna see the boy’s smug face.

“And this what you’ve been doing while I was gone? Eating all the sandwiches?” Steve reaches out for one on the bottom tray. Billy watches with rapt attention and wants, impossibly, to grab the boy’s hand and hold it in his own. He feels a little sick to his stomach at the thought, but decides to blame it on how quickly he’s been eating.

“I also picked you a flower.” It’s out of Billy’s mouth before he can think about it.

Steve outright laughs at that, and if Billy’s face turns the same color as that sangria everyone’s drinking, he’ll kill the person who points it out. He slouches down a little further, tearing slightly at the napkin.

“You did what?”

“I picked a fucking flower for you, alright?” Billy hisses, looking his boyfriend straight in the eye this time. He’s even more mad at what he sees, which is the softest expression to ever grace this boy’s stupidly pretty face. God he wants to deck him. If he wasn’t so in love with those dumb doe eyes and that idiotic pink mouth… and his soft heart… he would really deck him.

Steve’s smile is melting Billy into a puddle.

“Really?” Steve asks on a whisper. It makes Billy itch in his skin. He looks back down at the napkin he’s slowly tearing to pieces. “Well, where is it, then?”

Billy nods his head in the direction he saw the girl last. “I gave it to a girl.”

“You gave it to a girl?”

Billy smirks at the jealousy he hears in Steve’s voice. He feels even better when he looks up and swears he sees green on the boy’s face.

“Little Olivia Blake.” He says with a smug grin. Steve visibly relaxes before laughing in on himself. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just funny you picked her.” Steve says, grabbing a few grapes from the top tier of the tray. “They’re close family friends. Her parents always joked that if they ever had a daughter, they would marry her off to me.” Steve rolls his eyes at the statement, but he’s got a fond smile on his face that twists Billy’s stomach up.

“Why would they say that?”

“They’re nutty. They own a big department store a couple of towns over, but they like to live here because it’s quiet or something. I dunno. My parents used to joke that it’d be a ‘good move’ to merge our families together. We’ve got a running gag that Olivia and I are ‘betrothed’.” Steve pops a couple of grapes in his mouth. “She gets a real kick out of it.”

“Hm.” Billy grunts, spinning his beer bottle around on itself where it sits on the table, making the tablecloth wet underneath it. A thought hits him with a smirk. “Hey, did you know Connor Blake wants to fuck me?”

“What? Connor Blake? What makes you say that?”

“Your little fiance told me he used to talk about my muscles all the time.”

Billy looks up at Steve through his lashes with a sly grin to see Steve’s face flushed red. There’s a second or two of silence between them, something light and electric in the air before they melt into helpless giggles, both dropping their heads and shaking them in disbelief. It’s a good couple of minutes of laughter between the two, and it’s the happiest Billy has felt all day.

When it’s over, Steve finally sits down.

“So uh… your grandma?” Billy asks, half his napkin torn into ribbons.

Steve nods like it’s an answer, before he seems to remember his words.

“Yeah, she wants to meet you. My mom accidentally let it slip that one of my friends is here. I think she’s kind of drunk.”

Billy’s heart takes off running, beating wildly like a bird in a cage. Most of his napkin is in shreds now. He watches Steve for a bit and notices that the boy seems just as nervous as he is… fumbling with his fingers and biting at his lip.

“So… I have to go over there?” Billy asks. Steve shakes his head.

“No, she said she’d come find us. She had to talk to someone else first.” Steve’s tapping his fingers on the table and it’s rapping on Billy’s head at the same tempo.

“Is there uh… anything I need to know about her? Before I meet her?”

Steve sighs a very tired sigh, but at least his tapping stops.

“Yeah I mean… she’s a little… crazy?” Steve says, biting at the corner of his bottom lip and rolling a grape around on a napkin. His posture is hunched and small. His eyes flicker on everything near his hands and back again. He’s nervous. It’s freaking Billy out.

He doesn’t say anything other than that. Billy figures he has to take the non-existent bait.

“Her car is pretty killer.” He says, sitting up from where he himself was slouched and leaning over the table, both arms folded as support in front of him.

Steve snorts.

“Yeah well, funny you say that…” Steve says, popping the grape in his mouth when he seems to be done uselessly playing with it. “She bought it after my grandpa passed away.”

He pauses again, for a little too long. Billy’s jumping to fill the silence with something.

“That’s not weird.”

Steve snorts again, grabbing more tiny fruits off the tray.

“ Well there was this big rumor that she killed him for his money so… she thought it was funny and wanted to play into it or something.” He eats a little piece of cantaloupe and Billy tries very hard to understand what any of Steve’s words mean. “I mean obviously she didn’t do it but, she thought other people didn’t need to know that.”

Billy’s mad at the pause now, moving to sit forward still, waiting impatiently for the end of the story.

Steve just shakes his head at his fruit with some weirdly disapproving face.

“You’re serious?”

Steve laughs a tired laugh.

“Yeah. I told you, she’s nutty. She’s also like, super into going to church. She started getting extra involved because her neighbor accused her of being friends with Satan or something? She’s really old fashioned though and has all these awful thoughts about poor people and she likes to rile people up for no reason. And she’s not very… motherly.”

Steve’s a little out of breath. Billy wants nothing more than to hold his hand.

“What side of the family is she from?”

“My mom’s side.” Steve’s a little quieter now, heavily mesmerized with the fruit in front of him. “My mom hates her. I can tell.”

Billy knows Steve’s relationship with his parents isn’t exactly cherries and ice cream, but… seeing your parents get so upset is emotionally draining. He’s felt something like that before. He used to get blamed when members of the family would reach out to Neil. It was stupid and it made Billy grow to resent any time the phone ringed.

He reaches his hand out, linking just his pinky with Steve’s restlessly tapping one. It’s a small gesture, hidden well between the tray of food and the centerpiece on the table.

Steve’s body visibly melts out of its stressed out state. When he looks up at Billy, it’s with that appreciation in his eyes that makes Billy want to kiss him harshly to get him to stop. Billy has to look away, but he grabs on tighter with his pinky and hopes with his heart to make this the least painful experience possible.

“Steven!”

Steve jumps.

He jumps nearly out of his skin and hits his knee on the table in response. He scrambles out of his seat, knocking a couple of grapes off the top tier of the tray when his hand hits it in his hurry to unlink himself with Billy, even that slightest bit.

“Steven did you have to wander off so far away?” She accuses, voice a little young on Billy’s ears for what he would expect of a grandmother. Billy feels glued to his chair, a little out of breath from the sudden fracture of the moment he was just in. Steve’s back is covering the woman from Billy’s view.

“Sorry. Hi Grammy.”

Billy hears her tut. “Stop that, we already said hello to each other. Don’t waste our time.”

“Sorry.” Steve mumbles, fingers fidgeting restlessly where he has them hidden behind his back.

Billy watches a hand grip Steve’s right arm, nails manicured just as perfectly as Mrs. Harrington’s were, but a deep red that come to a bit more of a point than Steve’s mother’s. She has rings on all fingers, each different sizes with different shiny stones embedded in them. She grips rather tight, and Billy watches Steve lean down to give one of those weird side kisses everyone has seemed to do today when they recognize someone. It’s over quick enough that Billy doesn’t get a good look at her face.

“Where’s your friend, Steven? I came over here for him, didn’t I?”

Billy’s heart jumpstarts like a car.

“Oh, yeah, Grammy, this is my friend Billy.”

Steve opens his posture up to Billy sitting behind him. He figures this is the time he should stand up.

As he does, he finds himself standing in front of a short woman. She’s got her hair smoothly styled in something Billy thinks would look fashionable for the 1950’s or 60’s rather than the 80’s. Her earrings dangle and sparkle almost blindingly, even though they’re nearly hidden from the rays of the sun. Her makeup is fairly minimal and her eyes are youthful but knowing, piercing Billy’s mind in a way that makes him feel stuck and helpless. Like she’s a black widow preying on him and his weaknesses.

She has a fur wrapped around her. Billy assumes it’s mink because that’s all he knows about furs. Her bag is rather large and unmistakably fashionable. Billy doesn’t want to stare for too long, but he swears something is moving from inside of it.

“Billy, this is my Grammy Genevieve.”

She reaches one of her manicured hands out. Billy accepts it, her hand a lot younger looking than Billy was expecting, but still showing age in a way that Mrs. Harrinton’s didn’t. When Billy leans down and gives it a kiss, it’s on instinct rather than decision.

He straightens back out to find her eyeing him curiously. Billy holds her gaze, fearful this is some test he needs to pass. Her grip gets tighter and tighter.

A few moments go by before he’s released from her grip and being given an approving look.

“Well isn’t he just as handsome as the day is long?”

Steve gives a grateful smile for a second before training his face back into something blank. When she moves to sit, both Billy and Steve go to hold the chair out.

Steve’s hand gets hit.

“Stop, let your handsome little friend here do it.”

Steve sits down with a muted nod, but he keeps his back held straight.

After Billy sits down, in a whirlwind of thoughts that he can’t pin down, he comes back to reality to find Steve’s grandma mumbling into her bag.

“What is it? What do you need?” She asks, reaching a hand in to… stroke something? It looks like she’s stroking something. “Do you need food? Water?”

Billy looks to Steve with a look he’s trying his best to keep away from ‘bewildered’, but he shouldn’t be blamed if it gets there. Steve’s still got his back rod straight, but his eyes are tired and he’s idly playing with a grape again.

“Stop fidgeting.” She chastises, again hitting the top of Steve’s hand. Steve quickly shoots his hand into his lap, nodding.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just do it.”

Steve nods, but Billy notices another apology on his lips. Billy matches Steve’s posture, back up straight, but he’s abusing the inside of his lip in his nervousness. Something about this woman freaks him out a little more than he thinks she ought to.

“Steven, get me some water, will you?”

Steve nods and steps away, leaving Billy there with the woman and her moving bag that Billy really can’t take his eyes off of. It looks like it’s breathing and Billy’s waiting for a snake to slither out or something.

“So, William.” Grandma Genevieve starts, still stroking the inside of her bag like it’s a normal gesture. She doesn’t continue what she’s saying until Billy looks up at her, making him realize she’s referring to him. Billy hasn’t been called William in… he’s not even sure he could count how long it’s been. “How are you in school?”

Horrible. My teachers hate me. They give me bad grades for no reason. I have to get my dad to rough them up to treat me fairly-

“Fine.” He lies, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Thanks.” He tacks on quickly when her eyes don’t let up.

She seems satisfied with the thank you, but she’s not letting up.

“Are you going to college when you graduate?”

No because there’s no point. Why would I? They’re just going to drain all the money I don’t have and it’s not like I have enough potential to actually make it there, let alone make it through-

“I don’t graduate until next year.” Billy offers.

“That’s not what I asked.” She stands firm, fixing him with a look that makes him want to apologize, too.

“Uhm-”

“Don’t stutter. Speak clearly.”

“No.” He says quickly and honestly. He can’t lie with her looking at him like that. He feels like he’s been cornered.

She lifts a single eyebrow, the look in her eyes entirely disapproving.

“Hmph.” She says, looking down into her purse like he isn’t worth looking at. It makes his chest boil with something less than anger; something that makes him want to apologize again. “That’s a little foolish. What do you plan on doing?”

Billy doesn’t even fully register the insult of being called foolish.

“I don’t need college to go into a trade.”

“What trade?” She asks, voice dripping with what Billy thinks must be venom. He’s more than half expecting that snake to come out soon.

“Auto Body work. Mechanic work.” Billy speaks in stuccatto. He really can’t help it. “I like cars.”

She looks back up at him, eyeing him up and down in the most brutal evaluation Billy thinks he’s ever been given. He feels frightened in a way that feels entirely new.

It’s a few moments of that- a few too many moments.

“Hmph.” She huffs out again. “I see.”

She’s still pinning him down with a stare, but after a few more seconds of silent judgement, it’s over. Her gaze is a little softer at the end, but it may be a trick of the light. Billy’s just glad it’s over.

Steve is speaking before Billy even notices his presence.

“Here you go, Grammy.”

“Thank you, Steven.” She says, taking hold of the clear bowl holding water inside of it. She places it in front of her and moves her bag closer to the edge of her lap, just resting on her knees.

Steve sits and sighs a bit, getting Billy’s attention. His eyes are apologetic and his mouth twists up in a way that lets Billy know he’s asking if he’s okay. Billy nods, eyebrows furrowing a little to prove it. His heart is beating wildly, but he’s sure Steve can probably tell.

In the corner of his eye, something flesh colored and… rat like slowly rises out of the woman’s purse.

He snaps his head towards it, nearly jumping.

It’s… it’s a cat. It’s a naked cat.

It leans forward, slowly and gracefully, to lick up the water in front of it.

“There you go, Cleo.” The woman mumbles, stroking the cat’s head once again. It gives a croaky meow as a response in between it’s licks.

Billy can’t stop staring. He’s never in his life seen a naked cat before. It has wrinkles and folds that go on forever.

Why does she carry this thing in her bag-?

“So William,” The woman says diplomatically, again not continuing until Billy gives her his undivided attention. “Are you the reason my grandson looks like a beatnik?”

“Grammy-”

“Enough, Steven, I wasn’t speaking to you.”

Steve hangs his head, looking to the left of him, possibly staring out at the flowers.

“I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.”

“Your hair is outrageously long for a young man.” She states plainly, still stroking her cat’s head.

A little fire starts in Billy’s chest.

“I didn’t tell Steve to grow his hair out. If he did it by himself, that’s his business.”

Steve’s head whips around so quickly Billy’s sure his neck must be sore, but Billy doesn’t break eye contact with the woman.

She’s eyeing him harshly again, mouth twisted up like she’s tasted something bitter. They stare at each other for a few moments, but there’s a lot less fear in Billy’s chest now. He’s right and he knows it. He shouldn’t have to sugar coat things for this woman who obviously doesn’t sugar coat things back.

The distaste on her lips twists into a smirk, Billy’s sure of it. He doesn’t get too hopeful though. She looks back down at her cat.

“Hmph. Alright.”

She doesn’t say anything after that. Billy’s not sure why, but he feels pretty safely like he’s won something indescribable.

He’s overwhelmed with the need to take a piss.

“Steve.” Billy says clearly, looking at his boyfriend who’s eyeing him owlishly- like he’s shocked.

“Yeah?” Steve answers, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Can you show me where the bathroom is?” He’s sure to be as concise as possible in front of this woman.

“Yeah. Uhm, excuse us, Grammy.”

She waves a manicured hand in the air.

“You’re free to go.” She says dismissively before mumbling to her cat.

The two boys, for as cool as they typically are, jump out of their chairs a little less than smoothly.

They don’t speak until they get to the building that houses the bathroom.

“Holy shit, Billy, how did you do that?”

They’re out of breath, both from rushing to the building and from the tense exchange they just shared.

“Do what?”

“Get her to like you?”

“She likes me?” Billy tries his hardest not to sound so shocked, but it’s difficult.

“I think so.” Steve admits, looking back at the tents even though they’re much too far away from them to see her from here. “What did you talk about while I was gone?”

Billy catches his breath.

“College. What I’m gonna do after school.”

Billy doesn’t even have to say what she said for Steve to look sorry.

“God. I’m sorry about her.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, she’s so… she’s so harsh.”

“It’s fine, Steve.”

“It’s not, I can’t even imagine what she said-”

“Steve.” Billy grabs Steve’s hands, which are reaching up to rake through his hair again. “Shut up. Stop worrying. It’s fine.”

Steve’s eyes are wide and nervous, his hands shaking slightly, his lips worked over by his teeth.

He melts.

“Yeah… yeah okay.”

“I love you.” Billy mumbles it out before he even thinks about it. They’ve said it a few times before, but every time feels like shots of electricity shooting up through Billy’s bones. It makes Steve start to shake a bit again.

But his eyes soften, the skin around his forehead relaxes, he looks a little more peaceful and that’s what Billy wants.

“I love you too.” Steve whispers.

They separate quickly, even though they’re far away from anyone that could see them. Better safe than sorry.

They take their time to be quiet for a second while they’re both in the bathroom, letting the water of the sink drown out the silence between them. Billy’s mind is swimming with so many things they don’t slot correctly in his mind. He’s trying desperately to make sense of anything through his still-present nerves.

As they’re walking out, he just says the first thing on his mind.

“So are you really gonna marry that little eleven year old?”

It slips out of his mouth like a piece of gum when he tries and fails to blow a bubble. It feels stupid. It’s all he could think to say.

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets but doesn’t say anything for a second. Billy turns to see his mouth moving around a smug little smirk.

“Are you gonna fuck Connor Blake?” Steve asks by way of response. It hits Billy’s chest.

“What? No.” Billy’s adamant, annoyed that he didn’t get an answer. “Why would you ask that?”

Steve shrugs with a chuckle. “I dunno, I thought we were asking stupid questions.”

Billy chest unwinds. He laughs. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Just asking.”

Steve shakes his head, but Billy doesn’t look up to see it.

“How’d you even meet her?”

Billy shrugs. “She came up to me when I was picking a flower for you.”

Steve grabs Billy’s arm to get him to stop. They’re close to the tents now, but the gesture isn’t too suspicious.

“Are you serious about that? Did you actually pick a flower for me?”

Billy’s face blooms red as blood rushes to it. “Yeah, I told you.” He wants to fidget. His shirt feels too tight again.

Steve smiles.

“You’re a sap.”

“Shut up.” Billy hisses, ripping his arm away. His face won’t stop blushing. “I just… I love you.”

Billy’s mumbling now, his head down. Steve clicks his tongue.

“Awww…” Steve coos quietly, and Billy doesn’t need to look at him to see the irritating smirk on his face. He looks up anyway, just to glare at him.

“Whatever. You know I love you. How many times do I have to say it?”

Steve’s smug and Billy swears he could slap that look off his face if he didn’t care about him so much.

“I dunno. A few times a day would be nice.”

Billy rolls his eyes. He’s gonna say something, but suddenly there’s a synth song overtaking the previous synth song. Steve gasps.

“I love this song!” He hits Billy’s arm.

“All this music is awful-”

“Shut up!” Steve hits Billy’s arm again. “This song is good!”

Billy listens a little closer to the rhythm of the synth. It sounds like “Is This Love” by Survivor. Joyce likes to listen to this song with Hop sometimes when it comes on the radio. It’s kind of gross, honestly.

“Aw,” Steve coos again, watching the pretty little fancy couples on the make-shift dance floor in between two of the tents, out in the sun. “I wish we could dance. Is that stupid? That’s stupid. Sorry-”

Billy rolls his eyes as his boyfriend babbles next to him. He does a quick scan of what they can see, and decides something without much thought. Maybe it’s the singing that picks up that pushes Billy’s heart.

~I’ve heard talk of blind devotion…~

“Go ask Olivia.”

Steve turns with confused but earnest eyes.

“Huh?”

“Go ask Olivia to dance.”

“But why-?”

“Just go. You’ll see why.”

~Faithful to the bitter end…~

Steve still looks confused, but Billy shoves into his shoulder to get him going.

“Go! Trust me.”

Steve eyes him still, but he goes to find Olivia, who’s off sulking in a chair in the corner of one of the canopy-tents.

Billy watches Steve walk away fondly before taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He takes a few breaths as he walks towards his target, psyching himself up, striking up his confidence…

“Grandma Genevieve?” Billy asks, making sure his voice is clear and free of any shakes. She’s sitting alone, thankfully.

She looks up with her piercing eyes, an eyebrow raised. That’s all she gives him.

“May I have this dance?”

Her clear eyes pierce him for a second, the song striking Billy in the chest, making him feel vulnerable.

She looks down at the cat still in her lap, before looking back up at Billy.

“Please?” He asks, not taking his eyes off of hers, even if he wants to know where Steve is and how far he’s gotten at convincing the other girl to follow him to the dance floor.

There’s another beat of silence, another line of the song hitting Billy hard, before she gives a smirk that lets him know maybe she really does like him.

She takes his hand and stands, before slipping her bag off her shoulder and shoving it into the chest of a free-handed waiter walking by.

“Watch my child Cleo for me.” She states plainly, like it’s not a request. The young waiter’s eyes go wide as the cat peeks it’s head out and croaks a meow in his face. “If anything happens to her, you’ll be fired by the end of the day.”

She says it with a smile before Billy escorts her to the dance floor.

He turns his head and immediately sees Steve walking next to him, being pulled onto the dance floor by Olivia.

~I need to prove to myself this is more than a crush…~

The two boys lock eyes, Steve laughing a bit, Billy smiling easily.

~Can you convince me it’s not just a physical rush…~

Billy grabs Grandma Genevieve’s hands in his, interlocking their fingers, and begins stepping side to side. He watches her face for a second, and sees, surprisingly, something that looks like uncertainty. She’s watching their feet like she’s unsure of what they’re doing.

Billy chuckles a bit. She squeezes his hands so tight they hurt a little bit, and she sends him a glare to match. She must have heard him chuckling.

“Don’t laugh at me.” She chastises, before looking back down at their feet.

Billy keeps stepping side to side along to the beat as he looks up to find Steve, who’s dancing right behind his grandmother and facing Billy. They lock eyes over their partners. They’re swaying almost in time with each other. It’s like they’re dancing with each other.

~Is this love that I’m feeling? Is this love…~

Billy gives a little kissy face in Steve’s direction. Steve rolls his eyes and looks back down at his own partner, who’s currently standing on his feet with her own little ones as they dance.

Billy looks back down at Grandma Genevieve, who’s very clearly struggling.

“You’re doing well.” Billy tries to assure her. Her face twists up.

“I haven’t danced with anyone in a long time.” She admits quietly. Billy’s shocked to hear it.

“Well, there’s not much to it.”

He leads the way, stepping the two of them back and forth to the beat. She seems to relax a bit at the words and it hits Billy’s chest with pride.

There’s a very girlish giggle that snaps Billy back up to Steve, who’s swaying a little more forcefully now with his eleven year old partner in tow. He looks up at Billy and their eyes lock again.

They’re connected in an instant. The distance doesn’t matter.

~Now look me straight in the eye ‘cause tonight is the night…~

Billy’s heart is beating so rapidly he’s worried Grandma Genevieve will hear. Steve is looking at him like he loves him. Like he really loves every bit and piece of him. Like he’ll never have to say it, never have to be asked again, it’s just a known fact of the world now. Steve Harrington is in love with Billy Hargrove and nothing is going to change that fact. It clings them together, to the point that Billy feels like he could be pressed to Steve’s chest right now, even though there’s several feet of distance between them.

~We’ve got to ask each other if the moment is right…~

Billy could melt onto the floor right now in a puddle. He feels ridiculous but he’s fine with that. He’s never been so into someone and he’s fine with that, too. He’s fine if he gets to see Steve’s eyes before he falls flat on his face in love. He’s fine if he gets to see that gorgeous smile forever and ever.

The chorus picks up again, singing loudly as Olivia swings Steve away, spinning them into an uncontrollable circle of smiles and giggles.

~Is this love that I’m feeling?~

The song sings as Steve and Olivia spin in a tornado of pastel colors, storming around the dance floor like a couple of children.

Grandma Genevieve laughs. It catches Billy off guard and makes him tear his face away from Steve and all his beauty.

“Do you wanna spin too?” He asks.

“Spin me and I rip that curly hair of yours out.” She promises, gripping his hands tight again.

The threat of it makes Billy laugh.

They dance out the rest of the song, but after it Grandma Genevieve is tired and Olivia’s mother is chastising her for causing a ruckus.

Billy sits down with Steve’s grandmother for a second, watching Steve intently as he speaks with Olivia.

He laughs as he sees the girl grab the flower Billy picked and give it to Steve, waving the boy down to her level so she can kiss his cheek and run away with a giggling, red face.

Steve watches her, laughing, before looking down at the flower with a kind of intent that Billy can see from yards away.

Grandma Genevieve is still worrying over her cat by the time Steve makes his way over.

“Hi Billy. Hi Grammy.”

“Steven, you made a fool of yourself.” She says immediately, without even looking up at him.

It smacks Billy hard in the chest, and he can only imagine what it must do to Steve. The two boys watch her, shocked at the harsh words.

She looks up at him, a rare smile wide on her face.

“It was rather charming.” She admits. Steve releases a breath, about to say something, before his grandma hits him lightly. “But don’t do it again.”

“Yes, Grammy.” Steve says obediently, with a small, disobedient smile on his face. Billy chuckles a bit at it.

“Well, it’s been a lovely afternoon, but I need to get going.” The woman stands up, accepting Steve’s help as he reaches a hand out to her. Billy stands as she does, and moves next to Steve.

The look she gives the two almost makes him nervous again; it’s harsh and judging and almost dissatisfied.

“Steven.”

“Yes, Grammy?”

She shifts a hard look over at Billy. He does his absolute best to keep her eye contact and stand as straight as possible. It makes him uncomfortable, even with all of the practice he got of standing at attention in his youth.

Her eyes shift back to Steve.

“I like this boy.” She says plainly, and something about it immediately lifts the heaviest weight off of Billy’s chest. “He’s honest and he’s practical and he’s brave. And he’s definitely handsome.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Billy sighs out a bit. She waves a hand dismissively at him, telling him it was unnecessary before she turns back to Steve.

“Tell your mother I need that paperwork in the next 3 days, got it?” She pats Steve’s arm harshly and pulls him in for a light kiss on the cheek before turning to leave without getting a response. Billy’s not sure what she means, but he’s not even going to think about asking.

The two boys stay right where they are, rod straight, watching her walk away. It’s not until she’s a few yards out that they let out a collective breath.

“She likes you.” Steve says with amazement.

“Yeah… Guess so.”

There’s silence between them for a second, some Journey song playing in the background. A slight flash of purple hits Billy’s periphery.

“Hey by the way,” Steve starts, voice playfully wistful. “Thanks for the flower.”

Steve’s got a sly grin on his face. Billy looks over at the purpleish-reddish petals twirling delicately on top of the stem in Steve’s fingertips. The smile he gives in response is involuntary.

“You’re welcome, babe.” He says quietly, chest alight with love and love and a little bit of love and maybe a dash of love... just for good measure.

And if Billy smiles every time he hears “Is This Love” by Survivor from now on… well he doesn’t see a need to explain why.

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spottedlekkudancer · 5 years ago

Text

Lady of the Stars Part One - Contact

@paytonita @tranquility-or-chaos @inumorph

THIS IS A SW/Witcher CROSSOVER.

Geralt x Jedi!Reader

2.8K words

Originally planed on having 2 or 3 parts to this story but apparently I have diarrhea of the mouth and moved the plot too slow. So get ready to be strapped in for at least 4 if not 5 self indulgent parts. And feel free to send me all the questions you like.

Warnings: Adult language, mentions of death, violence, and other adult themes.

By whim or by destiny light catches your attention though fluttering lashes. It kisses your cheek with warmth and the subtleness of a gentle dawn. After a moment the fog of sleep sheds from your brain. You adjust. The orange glow crackles at your nose and you realize that you are in more peril than the lingering caress of your dreams led you to believe. The pilot’s dash in front of you is consumed with flame.

“Crinking Hell! Dol'bfai!” You smack the Weequay to your right in an attempt to get his attention, but your hand meets nothing but the padding of your co-pilot’s chair. Heart dropping to your gut you look about the cockpit of your HWK-290. The leathery skinned man was in a broken bloody heap on the floor behind you. You might have felt bad if he wasn’t such E-chu-ta each and every day. If fact you couldn’t help but scold him mentally for not wearing his seat straps. “So much for ‘the experienced never falter’ line, Chuggnut.” You grunted, ejecting yourself from your own buckles to take care of the more pressing matter.

You leaned over the Weequay smuggler’s body to get to the extinguishing hose and with a little effort you salvaged what was left of your controls. Outside your ship was another wreck all together. Fires were smoldering at every corner of your limited view from inside. You had half a mind to run out immediately, but thought better of it. If your ship was going to blow up it would have done so already you told yourself in a comforting manner. Sending your droids for damage control was the safer option on foreign planets. However, you couldn’t stay put forever. The damages weren’t going to evaluate themselves, moreover, the body of your partner needed to be dragged out before he started to stink. By the looks of things the atmosphere had to be breathable. Most planets with such green life gave off suitable levels of oxygen for humans. Whatever the case, you would have to risk it; your employer refused to provided vacuum suits or travel tanks. Too costly.

You were use to the miserly ways of the former pirate leader Hondo Ohnaka. You had been working with his smuggling cover company for half a decade now: ever since you ran from the Jedi training academy, or rather, Ben Solo. You didn’t know Solo to be a liar, in fact he had treated you like a little sister for all the years you had grown together, but when he told you and the others how Luke had turned on him you were too confused to chose between the two of them. Luke was your master, and Ben your friend. The force whispered something to you then. A soft encouragement to leave everything. You chose to listen; to not pick sides at all, and made a new life for yourself under an identity the Weequay stole for you.

Once free of your hot metal cage it was clear that things were not as horrible as you imagined. You were safe from any fuel combustion’s or reactor leaks. The two DUM-series pit droids were clumsily scurrying about trying to put out the fire that was inching ever closer to your turret. It was also evident from the back that only one of Pathfinder’s two hyper-drive systems had taken on some heavy laser canon damage. Looked like the shielding component was scored too, but that wasn’t a necessity for getting back in the air.

“The kriff happen?” you weren’t fully talking to anyone, not even yourself. You had a vague memory of being cornered by Absolution, a First Order R-SD, and their TIE fighters on your way to a high bye delivery. But how, moreover where, you crash landed was still a mystery. You tapped the remote on your wrist. A projection fizzed in and out of view with vertical blue static. You must have knocked it out of order in the crash. Now you had no way of knowing what planet you were on or what it’s population consisted of.

“O-T!” The droid with the painted yellow stripe above his singular oculus ambled in your direction. “Once you get this mess under controls see if our Nav is still in tact. The job is a sham but we might be able to at least back track to base. I’ll go scout out the area for any nearby scarp yards. We aren’t getting off this durkload of a planet in this condition, that’s for damn sure.” O-T nodded and whistled a question in response. “Don’t know. Com link is out and I’m not able to check for life forms. If anything happens just lock yourselves in the ship 'til I get back.” You didn’t wait for the little droid to argue with you more as he usually would. It wasn’t likely you would be getting an extraction from Ohnaka Transport Solutions this close to First Order territory anyway. You were on your own.

You traveled 500 paces from your ship in each cardinal direction before you came to something of interest. Flowing SE to S was a small river bed. With noting more than a seemingly endless forest as your surrounding it was your best bet to finding civilization. For another hour you saunter down the unbeaten path until you felt night approaching. There was already little light beneath the canopy and you didn’t have the eyes of a cat, so with your wits and strength still about you you turned back. The rusted roof of your Corellian light freighter would have to suffice for the night.

The cacophonous sounds of shrieking and the boisterous gargling of goose like honks was your first indication that something was awry near your ship. The closer you got the more defining the racket became. Whatever the creature was, and you were sure it was some kind of animal, had to have a massive pair of lungs on it.

With much disappointment you found your analysis to be correct. Thought the brush you could see some kind giant blue feathered lizard-bird striking at your dead co-pilot’s flesh. You cursed yourself for not burring the poor man right away, and true to your command your pit droids had barricaded them selves inside your transport.

“Mother of …” You sighed to yourself. Your Jedi teachings told you to let the beast be, however, just hiding behind a tree all night while it desecrated the Weequay’s body didn’t feel right to you. Regardless you held yourself back from attacking the thing. It was just trying to survive after all, and if you didn’t have to get into a fight you didn’t want to. You were already stranded. Adding injury to that would not be wise.

When morning came the feathered brute had not yet left; roosting atop your ship like it had always belonged there.

Well if the giant critter wanted it, he could have it. In your groggy state you had little patience and didn’t want to be bothered with defending what you didn’t currently posses. You had everything you needed: canteen, provisions in your belt pouch, republic credits, and of course your trusty light-saber. Once you got what you wanted from the scrap shop you would deal with the overgrown pidgin.

“You’re alive.”

The voice of your pursuer was clear. This wasn’t part of your imagination. The force had bonded you and Solo again. “Careful Ren, you almost sound relived.”

Kylo scoffed. “Surprised is more likely."

You stood and turned around. Were there was once endless forest now stood the masked Dark Jedi you both dreaded and longed to see. "How is it you keep your standards for me so low when I’ve evaded your every move."

"I wouldn’t call narrowly escaping with your life an 'evasion’.” Gloved hands ringed rightly around themselves. Anger or worry built like a tumultuous storm inside of him: you couldn’t tell which. “How did you manage that Jump?”

“Jump?” The query slipped though your lips too quickly.

“Don’t remember? Maybe your not as well of as you look” Kylo straightened with pride. You were sure he was gloating to himself on his small victory. “My Knights had you cornered at the edge of a nebula. With no larger ship close enough to tractor you in I gave the order to immobilize you.”

“Why not just kill me?"

It was an abrupt interruption that went unanswered. Kylo waited for you to calm yourself before continuing. Even now as a villainous "dark lord” he was patient with you. “We took out your Hyperdrive, Y/N. That jump should have been impossible.”

It was coming back to you now. You had prosperously led the TIEs to the cloud of gas and dust. You planed to enter into it blind and use the force as your guide. You figured the lot you were running from wouldn’t dare try to fallow. Instead your ship started to shake and spark as it tried desperately to hold against the onslaught. You panicked. You didn’t even complete the calculations before you pushed your freighter to enter hyperspace. You could have died. You could have been thrust into a star or another mass and exploded into dust.

Your stomach tightened. Dol'bfai was dead because of your rash behavior. He was in the middle of un-tethering a knot in his seat straps when you made that decision. You pulled out of it almost immediately, giving your best attempt at the “skipping” the other smuggler pilots did so often, but it was too late. You were entering the atmosphere of another moon or planet. There was not time to pull up, and you crashed.

If Kylo saw the tear you shed just then he didn’t bother to comment on it. “If you were with those goons of yours you could have planned better for that. You know as well as your father that every standard HAWK series come with two hyperdrives."

You could have sworn you heard Kylo curse from beneath his helmet. His breathing was expeditious and heavy now; you cold feel his fury swarming in the force around you.

"Cookie points to you if you are able to find me this time Ren. Even I don’t know where I am.” You teased rather lightheartedly.

This only pushed his buttons more. He gestured to you pointedly. “Oh don’t worry about that. I’ll bring you in myself if I have to.”

And with that your force connection faded. The experience left you feeling diminished and torn. Your past kept endangering the people around you. With a heaving breath and shaking knees you looked ahead to the southern half of the forest. You could dwell on these events all day if you’d like, but it would just be a waist of time. You needed to set your pity party aside and focus on getting off this planet before he really did find you.

~~~ Two days had passed and you thanked the force that not one of them brought you any sign of the First Order. Your only gripe was that the town you had found proved your worst nightmares had come true. This planet was primitive. The citizens here weren’t even literate, moreover, building any sort of machinery. You were shit out of luck, money, and a plan.

Was this punishment? You thought it might be far more often than you would like to admit. The force had never led you so astray before. What kind of design could it have for you now?

Your credits weren’t worth anything here but one tavern keeper in this shit stained town you did take a fancy to your Heart of Beskar necklace. You debated for a long while if you should give it to him in exchange for a few hot meals and a bed. It was the only thing you had to remember your birth family of after all. But after a particularly stormy night you didn’t have choice any longer. Not unless you wanted to freeze to death. It was hard to let go, but not as hard as it was each day that passed knowing your parents let you be raised by a stranger.

Sure becoming a Jedi was a noble cause to enlist your child into, but unlike so many of your piers you did not ever go back home to your parents. Ben and the others always got to see their loved ones for a few weeks every so often, and yet you were kept locked away on the training camp with Luke year round. When asked Luke assured you that your parents were still alive; he even gave you their names and home planet. Even now after having found their old home and poppers grave you didn’t understand.

So to the inn keep you gifted your father’s old armor piece, and two nights stay was what he offered you in return. Not a fair trade by any means, however, how exactly were you supposed to explain the galactic value of Beskar to these simple people?

A man dressed in bright colors played a 15 stringed instrument in the corner of the tavern. He was merry and boisterous; entertaining at the vary least. You pitied that the crowd this morning was not taking well to him. Half of them were hung over, the other half looked mean and dirty enough to scare a Dewback.

The Musician caught you staring at him. A smile brighter than the three suns of Helioss graced his features. You cringed internally and returned his gesture with a timid one of your own. Silently you prayed he wouldn’t goat you into some volunteer sing-song delights so publicly.

The Man’s strut was so vaunt it had every patron staring at him as he made his way though the tables to presumably talk to you. You shrunk a little in your seat, not wanting this kind of attention. You had already drawn enough as it was with how oddly you were dressed; you didn’t need any more. He plopped down opposite you at the table.

“So! How come the only person in this shit stick interested in my song is a pretty young woman like you?” He gave you almost no room to think of an answer before continuing his self serenade. “If it’s my corky charm or boyish good looks please don’t keep me waiting in sufferance to hear those sweet words leave your lips.” The line could have been considered smooth to some, however, the awkward and eager demeanor he carried was a little too much. You could see how it was putting off the rest of the room.

The only response you had to offer was a perplexed smile.

He rested his chin in the palm of his upturned hand. “Come on!” He whined enthusiastically. “Care to comment on the quality of my performance? I do love getting reviews from the public.”

You sighed though your nose and fiddled with the food in front of your. “Yes, well… I suppose we all yearn for validation. Don’t we?”

It was the bard’s turn to bewildered. He sat up stat tall in his bench now, brows furrowed, taking a briefer moment to ponder. “What’s your name?”

Your head tilted. “Where I’m from it’s rude to ask for someone’s name without offering your own first.” It was a plane way of throwing his question back at him; you weren’t looking to get overly acquainted with anyone if you could avoid it.

“Oh!” He was beaming excitedly again. “Where is it you are from?!"

You gave him an unblinking stare for what felt like a medium sized eternity. Clearly he was not accustom to taking non verbal ques. You decided to just give in to his delicate personality. "Florrum.”

“Ahh.” He nodded in a knowing matter. “Beautiful country.”

“Right.” He was pulling Bantha wool over your eyes in an attempt to impress you. It was arguably charming.

“Where is that exactly? From here I mean.” The bard laughed nervously as he knocked his head playfully. “I get so turned around while mindlessly fallowing my muse on his travels.”

“Your Muse?” It was time to change the subject.

“Oh hohoho! He is a man of Destiny, Heroics, and Heart Brake.” The man practically jumped out of his seat and with one leg propped up onto the bench he swung his instrument back front side. “Shall I play you a song about him?”

Head half in your hands you nodded. Your bashful nature told you you would regret this, but you didn’t have the heart to say no.

He was taking his first heaving breath before starting to strum when another interrupted the musician, yanking him back by the shoulder. “Jaskier. We’re leaving.” The new man was hulking and clad in black studded leathers, with eyes of gold. He wasn’t old, but his hair was as silver as his blades. A striking appearance. Perhaps humans weren’t the only sentient species on this forsaken planet.

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firebrands · 5 years ago

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a catalog of non-definitive acts | steve rogers/tony stark (7/7)

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, mature, 5k of them gala drama, pining, and after all this - confessing how they feel | previous | on ao3

The press has a conniption when Bruce opens the door of his car and Tony steps out of the passenger seat. They haven’t arrived together for a party in years, and Bruce looks very dapper, Tony is sure he looks even better, and it’s very easy to fall into a standard pattern. They smile and wave, and Bruce tosses the keys to the valet.

As they walk up the steps, they stop to pose for photos at the entrance of the Met. Bruce wraps an arm around Tony’s waist, holds him close. A reporter shouts over the din of shutters snapping: “Are you each other’s dates?”

“Why must we come with dates?” Bruce says, smirk on his lips. “Is it not enough to arrive at all?”

Tony laughs, ducks his head close to Bruce’s ear and whispers to him: “You’re the worst.”

“So what am I tonight, bait or a rebound?” Bruce had asked in the car.

“How about a friend, you asshole?” Tony laughed, shoving Bruce’s shoulder.

“How boring,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes.

“Somehow I think you’ll manage,” Tony said, settling into his seat and fiddling with Bruce’s selection of music. He briefly considers taking a nap, but he’s still too wired from the indeterminate number of coffees he’s had, all to make up for the indeterminate number of hours he hasn’t slept.

The press goes a little wild at Bruce’s possessive grip, and Tony hams it up, rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder for another photo before they’re ushered inside.

“Friendly enough?” Bruce teases, picking up two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handing one to Tony.

“One could argue that you were too friendly,” Tony says, rolling his eyes again. He figures he’ll be doing that a lot tonight, if Bruce keeps this insufferable flirt persona up.

They make a round of greeting their standard socialite circle, stopping occasionally to admire the art. It’s in those pockets of silence that Tony’s mind drifts back to someone he knows would appreciate it more.

Tony probably looks pensive, which is probably why Bruce elbows him softly in the ribs and says, “You’d tell me, right?”

“Tell you what?” Tony asks, taking a step away from Bruce and his elbows.

“If you needed me to be bait or a rebound.”

“Good lord Bruce, what are we, fifteen? I don’t need your help with my love life.”

“Oh, sure, because you’ve had such a stellar history.”

“Oh and you do? Fuck off.”

Bruce laughs at this, takes Tony’s hand and rests it in the crook of his elbow, and steers him away from the Magritte they’d spent too much time standing in front of. It’s one of his famous ones; a man and woman with veils draped over their faces, kissing. The Lovers.

“So what happened between you two?” Bruce asks, downing his glass and holding his hand outwards, waiting for a tray to appear under it.

“Was I wrong to expect anything more than gossip from you?” Tony asks, taking a sip of his tiny espresso, prepared especially for him.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to roll his eyes. “Concern, Tony. Ever heard of it?”

“Phrase your concern in a tone less suited to a fishwife, then.”

“Fine,” Bruce says sarcastically. “Do you love him?”

“This a scoop for page six? Jesus, Bruce. Why do you care?”

“Because you’ve been moping this entire evening.”

“And here I was thinking I was having a good time. Thanks for illuminating me on how I really feel,” Tony snaps, tugging his hand away from Bruce’s elbow.

Bruce makes an exasperated noise and catches Tony’s wrist as Tony turns away. “God, Tony. I’m sorry.”

Tony wrenches his wrist free and sighs, the fight going out of him all at once. “It’s fine.” He downs the rest of his coffee and a waiter appears at his side, ready to take the cup. The man’s mouth opens, about to ask if Tony wants more, but Tony cuts him off with a shake of his head. He feels tired. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from everything else; long hours in the workshop, making conversation with the other attendees of the fundraiser, the surprise of seeing Steve in the lobby earlier that night—pretending, pretending, pretending.

Maybe, he thinks, as Bruce once again places Tony’s hand on the crook of his elbow, it’s time to get some rest. He recognizes these signs best, when the fight goes out of him, when he’s tired himself out through sheer force of will. Maybe tonight his brain can finally shut down for a few hours. Hopefully.

He’s tired of missing Steve most of all, missing the casual banter they shared, the way Steve would look at him. And why did loving someone have to render you so helpless against it? If Bruce had continued his line of questioning, if he’d ask, well—why? Tony wouldn’t be able to answer. It’s—it’s a feeling in your gut. Attraction, affection, the small pockets of acceptance that only Steve could ever telegraph.

But it’s done now. Tony’s done with that now, and he’s tired. He’s tired of everything. He never wants to feel anything ever again.

Tony picks up a glass of champagne and drinks it in one gulp. Bruce makes a face.

Eventually they stop and stand in front of another Magritte: a self portrait of him painting a bird. The work is called La Clairvoyance. Tony snorts when he reads it.

“What?” Bruce asks, eyes trained on the canvas.

“Some futurist,” Tony murmurs.

Bruce hums in response, then says, “Sometimes we focus too much on the possibilities instead of seeing what’s right in front of us.”

Tony makes a face. “That’s not what this painting is about.”

“You know sometimes Tony, you don’t know how to listen,” Bruce says, very casually, like he isn’t striking the core of Tony. “Or maybe you just don’t want to.”

“Or maybe,” Tony ventures, very sarcastically, “there’s nothing to listen to.”

“Oh?”

“I—I just.” Tony shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Bruce sighs. “Okay,” he says, giving Tony’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

A beat passes, then Tony says, “I pay attention.” He knows how petulant he sounds and doesn’t care.

“I know,” Bruce says softly. “But maybe not to the right things, sometimes.”

Tony makes an annoyed sound, but says nothing else. He had asked him to stay, and he hadn’t. He’d done so much to convey everything he’d felt inside, and yet—and yet here he is, standing in front of a painting called clairvoyance beside a man he wishes was Steve. Some futurist.

“Shouldn’t have asked you to come with me,” Tony whispers, because it’s a lot to admit, and it’s hard enough to admit anything, these days.

Bruce moves his hand to Tony’s other shoulder and pulls him into a half hug. “I’m glad you did.”

Tony rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. He knows he shouldn’t be too bold, can already hear a murmur go through the crowd, and as he pulls away, someone behind them tugs Bruce’s arm off of him.

“Tony.”

Tony whips around at the sound of Steve’s voice.

“Captain,” Bruce says, turning to Steve with a lopsided smile.

“Steve?” Tony nearly shouts, horror, confusion, and worry coloring his tone.

Steve blanches when Tony’s eyes meet his. Then he takes Tony’s hand. “Tony,” he says, “we need to go.”

“Why?” Tony asks, still completely bewildered.

“It’s an emergency,” Steve says, and Tony lets himself be led out into the lobby, dazed by the thought that of all the times he’d imagined walking in a party with Steve holding his hand, this image never came to mind. (Again: some futurist.)

Bruce follows after them, and as they exit the doors of the museum to the foyer, they’re immediately surrounded by photographers—much less than earlier in the night, but still waiting for a scoop.

Steve doesn’t stop, keeps dragging Tony towards the steps where Happy’s stationed at the curb; he can see the outline of Happy’s profile from the barely tinted window.

“Happy?” Tony says, because it must be some emergency for Pepper to lend him over. “Steve, what is happening.”

They stop a few feet from the car, and it’s well past midnight, so there’s barely anyone around anymore. Still, Steve looks around to make sure.

It makes Tony’s heart ache.

Steve’s still wearing the suit Tony had left him in, which means he was wearing the suit for hours, and there is an emergency, and his mind is going into hyperdrive.

Tony’s thoughts stutter to a halt when Steve turns back to Tony and takes both his hands in his. “Tony,” he says, and he’s beginning to breathe hard. He swallows, licks his lips, and Tony stares, confused as hell. He feels heat rise to his cheeks despite it all, though. He hasn’t touched Steve in weeks.

Steve takes a deep breath.

“I thought—” Steve takes another breath, tightens his grip on Tony’s hands. “I thought we had something, and then you said it was nothing.”

Tony can’t tell whose hands are trembling. Can’t tell if his palms are sweaty, or Steve’s. Tony tries to focus on his breathing.

“But I don’t think I can live with that, because—because. You must know.”

“What are you talking about?” Tony says. His brain is slowing down considerably, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling.

“Tony, I—”

“I thought there was an emergency.” Tony says, pulling his hands away from Steve’s. Everything feels tilted. The words are swimming in Tony’s mind, blinking and disappearing and rearranging—it does not compute. He adjusts his tie, just so he has something to do with his hands. No, this can’t be right. This doesn’t make sense. He turns to go back inside, where he can see Bruce holding an impromptu interview with the paparazzi.

Steve touches Tony gently on the forearm. When Tony turns to look at him, Steve says: “You can’t—you can’t not know,”

Steve takes a deep breath, eyes downcast, now. “You must know,” he whispers, almost to himself. He looks up at Tony again, eyes wide. “I love you,” Steve says, his voice almost breaking as he admits it.

The words hit Tony like an avalanche. If he were younger, he would have fainted. Maybe he’d be dramatic enough to have a heart attack. Alas, he has something in his chest that insists on its beating. Tony’s mind is all static.

“What?”

“I love you!” Steve says, more forcefully this time. There’s a sudden wildness to his eyes that Tony’s never seen, and at those words Tony feels heat rise from his belly; everything blurs out into red.

“No,” he says, voice shaking with barely contained anger, disbelief, humiliation. “No.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair and looks very close to tugging it out from the root. “Can we get in the car and talk about this at home, please?”

Home.

Tony takes a step back. He feels anger swirl in his chest and spill out of his mouth. “What the fuck.” He spits out the expletive.

Steve bites his lip. “Tony, please, please just get in the car,” he says, reaching out and taking Tony’s hand in his. He grips it tight for a moment, then relaxes. He turns his palm up, like he’s waiting for Tony to complete the movement.

Tony’s breath shudders out of him. This is something they do, something they’ve done so many times before; he remembers the gold light of the late morning sun, Steve’s smile, knowing, knowing deep in his bones that Steve had wanted him back. His own palm open: an offer, not a request.

They stand like that for so long, and it’s broken only when Steve whispers, “please.”

Tony can’t feel his hands. Can’t feel his face. This feels unreal. This feels like the world is about to collapse in on itself.

Nothing is making sense. Not a single damn thing makes sense—“I asked you to stay,” he whispers, half to himself, remembering everything all at once. He pulls his hand back and tucks it against his chest. Images are flashing in his mind like a sick slideshow of rejection: hands pulled away, checking hallways before entering the elevator, the space between them that only ever existed when someone could see.

Waking up alone, every morning, no matter how he fell asleep the night before.

“I asked you to stay,” Tony repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and then forcing them back open. Steve is still standing in front of him, his cheeks red, his eyes glistening. Tony shakes his head, as if trying to force something else to float up in front of him.

“Boss?”

Happy’s standing outside of the car, looking at them. “Are we leaving or should I park…?” He asks, trailing off and looking worried.

Tony huffs out a laugh, his brain somehow rewiring now that he realizes he’s in public, and he walks towards the car without looking at Steve.

He plunks down and his brain is frighteningly silent; all black and empty, like it’s rebooting. Half of him wants to sink into the chair and go to sleep. Maybe, he considers, when he wakes up it’ll make sense.

When the door opposite him clicks shut, Tony blinks.

The privacy window rolls up, and Tony’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from Bruce.

You okay?

Sorry

It’s okay. Are you okay?

Yes

Rooting for you, Tony. You let me know.

Nothing to root for

Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought you were.

Tony turns off his phone and slips it back into his pocket. He’s wilfully not thinking, which is much more difficult for him than it is for any human being currently alive. Tony purses his lips.

No, no, no.

Beside him, Steve tugs off his jacket and begins rolling up his sleeves, like he’s getting ready for a brawl. He’s breathing very loudly through his nose.

“Are you going to say anything,” Steve says it like a statement. His eyes remain fixed on the privacy screen in front of them.

“What do you want me to say,” Tony says back. He feels blank, like a surprise safety measure has been enacted in his brain that allows for nothing, absolutely nothing.

Steve grunts. “All right.”

“No, Steve.” Tony asks, turning to Steve and frowning, emotion slipping out of the cracks of his mental lockdown. “What do you want me to say?”

“Apparently you have nothing to say,” Steve bristles.

“Oh, wow, okay,” Tony says flippantly. “Fine.”

Steve presses a button on his side, turning on the intercom. “Stop the car, Happy.”

“What are you—”

The car slows to a stop, and Steve opens the door.

“Steve—” Tony calls out, reaching over the seat to try and grab Steve’s hand.

Steve’s too quick. “Have a good evening, Tony,” he says, as he slams the door shut.

Tony’s waiting in the lobby of the Tower, tapping his foot against the marble. He’s been waiting for ten minutes, and he figures he can wait ten more. He thinks he needs all the time in the world to figure out what to say to Steve.

Tony begins to pace.

What if Steve had gone straight up to his room? Tony scrubs his face. When did he regress to fifteen years old? He paces around again for a while, weighing the options of going up to Steve’s room and waiting for his arrival here in the tower lobby (and slowly driving Gerry, the security guard on duty, insane with his fretting). At this, he figures he should head up.

At least that way Gerry won’t witness his heart being torn out of his chest.

Tony steps out onto the communal floor and finds Steve standing there, looking like he’d just arrived. There’s a bit of sweat on his brow.

“Stairs?” Tony asks.

Steve nods in affirmative, wipes the sweat off with the back of his hand, and walks to the kitchen.

Tony wants to ask, how or when but those would just be questions to fill the air. He follows Steve into the kitchen.

Still, against his better judgement, Tony asks: “When did you…” he trails off when Steve levels him with a look.

“We don’t need to speak any more than necessary.”

Tony sucks in a breath. This is a tone he’s grown unaccustomed to, and even when Steve was at his most upset, he’d still manage to say Tony’s name. On any other day, that sentence would have ended with his name. We don’t need to speak more than necessary, Tony. We can try a different maneuver, Tony. You’re being difficult on purpose, Tony. It’s like having the air sucked out of the room, realizing how much you miss the sound of your own name rolling off the lips of someone you—Tony balks. Of someone you care for. Someone you’ve fucked. Someone named Steve Rogers.

Tony bites his lip, then hazards: “Have you considered that maybe we do?”

Steve shakes his head as he fills up a glass of water. “I don’t think so.”

Tony nods, contemplating this, wondering why on earth Steve would have said those things only to cut him off so immediately.

A wild thought comes to mind: La Clairvoyance.

“Okay, can I ask why not?” Tony asks, and it’s horrifying, degrading, to have to beg for information like this, he’d much rather just crack Steve’s head open and dive in to search for answers.

“You really need me to say it,” Steve says, completely expressionless as he takes a sip of water.

For a second, Tony thinks he can hear glass cracking. Steve sets the glass down very deliberately.

Tony swallows. He feels nervous, like they’re on the cusp of something either awful or wonderful, but odds don’t seem to be in favor of a good outcome right now; there’s a storm brewing in the space between Steve’s brows.

“I don’t mind,” Steve starts. He picks up the glass again, then seems to consider it and puts it back down. “I don’t mind, about you and Bruce. But I think the decent thing would have been to tell me, rather than wait for me to make a fool of myself.”

Sometimes, Tony hates his brain. This is definitely one of those times: he hears distinctly, in his mind, the sound of a computer blue screening. Back in the day, when he hadn’t built his own laptops, he’d fiddled around too much and was rewarded by the sudden screen announcing doom, coupled with a strange electronic thud.

“Me.” Tony says, mouth falling agape as he pieces things together (and behind all this haze he thinks, good lord, maybe it’s time I sent MIT back my diploma), “and Bruce.”

Steve responds with a pinched smile, then takes a step towards the door.

“Wait,” Tony says, reaching out to grasp his wrist. “Wait a minute.”

“Please don’t do this,” Steve says, gingerly extricating his wrist from Tony’s grip.

“Steve, I need to explain—”

“No, you really, really don’t.” Tony only manages to sputter in response, and god, only with Steve is he so unable to get a word in edgewise. “I understand. This is what seeing someone is like, right?”

“No, no, god Steve, no it’s not.”

Steve sighs, exasperated. “Okay.”

“No, it’s not okay, jesus Steve—”

Tony stops when Natasha enters the kitchen, hair in a braid and a frown on her lips. “It’s late,” she says, as if anyone in this damn tower has any semblance of time.

Steve takes the opportunity to leave the kitchen, and as Tony moves to follow after him, Natasha catches him by the shoulder.

“Nat,” Tony says, warningly.

“Tony.”

They stare each other down for a moment.

“Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Tony’s heart is beating fast in his chest with the implication that she knows—she knows. How? When?

“Don’t be an asshole,” she says, letting go of his shoulder and opening up the fridge.

Tony makes a face. “Me? Have you considered that he’s the asshole?”

“Have you considered that you’re the asshole, is a fair question to ask, too,” Natasha says, nonchalant.

“Who gave you the fucking right,” Tony shouts, slamming the door to the fridge shut and situating himself in front of Natasha. He knows that on any other night he never would have yelled at her like this, never have yelled at anyone, never have admitted that there was something for Steve to be an asshole about, but he’s over caffeinated and lacking sleep, and maybe he had a few too many glasses of champagne, and if Natasha knows then that means Pepper or Rhodey could’ve known, and none of this is fair.

Natasha regards him inscrutably. “Well, are you the asshole, Tony?”

“Why are you on his side?” Tony fumes.

Natasha snorts. “I resent that. I’m not on anyone’s side.”

“Sure seems like you are!” Tony scrubs his face and presses down on his eyelids. He’s exhausted.

Natasha sighs very dramatically, and takes Tony’s hand in hers. She strokes the inside of his palm in an effort to calm him down. “I’m not on Steve’s side, and I’m not on your side,” she repeats. “He didn’t tell me. He hasn’t told me anything.”

“And yet, here you are,” Tony sighs, sagging against the cool metal of the fridge.

“And so are you,” Natasha says, letting go of Tony’s hand.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tony admits, feeling very small and young all of the sudden.

“Neither does he,” Natasha says.

“That’s not very comforting,” Tony says, smiling ruefully up at her.

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

“This is some pep talk,” Tony laughs.

Natasha returns his smile. “Good thing it isn’t one.”

Tony throws Natasha a lazy salute as he shifts to leave. “Thanks,” he mumbles, then walks slowly toward the elevator, his heart thudding in his chest loudly, picking up speed.

Tony’s been standing in front of Steve’s door for so long that he’s lost all track of time. His phone in his pocket buzzes with an email alert from whoever, and he startles when he realizes it’s been almost an hour. Not that he’s come to any great ideas in that span of time; his mind is still buzzing.

He takes a deep breath, and for the nth time that night, he raises his fist to the door.

It lands with a small knock, but it feels too loud in Tony’s ears. He regrets it immediately, wants to take it back—wants to shout through the wood: nevermind, I’ll come back next month, it’s okay, let’s just leave it.

The door swings open and Steve doesn’t look surprised to see him. His lips are set in a firm line.

They stand staring at each other for a few moments, and Tony takes a deep breath, readying himself and trusting his mind to make something sensible up.

“Good evening,” Steve says, beating him to it.

“Morning, actually,” Tony says immediately.

At this, a small smile tugs on Steve’s lips. Tony feels a small part of him relax.

Tony uses every ounce of courage left in him to ask, “Can we talk?”

At this, Steve’s mouth settles back into a frown. “What about?”

“I’m not with Bruce,” Tony blurts out, going straight to the point, half fearing that at any moment Steve will close the door.

Steve nods.

Tony has to say that he expected a bit more of a reaction. “Uh,” he says.

Steve nods again to himself, then looks at Tony expectantly, eyebrows raised as if he’s waiting for Tony to say something more.

Oh, Tony thinks.

That.

“Oh,” Tony says. He bites his lip. He feels, all of the sudden and all at once, very, very, scared. “Would you… like to say anything,” Tony says, gesturing around helplessly.

Steve makes a small, disbelieving noise. “Good morning, Tony.” His hand is on the edge of the door and Tony sees it move in slow motion.

“Wait!” Tony screeches.

The door stops, and Steve looks at Tony impassively.

“Did you mean it,” Tony asks, his eyes fixed on the door beside Steve’s face, feeling completely unable to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Of course I meant it,” Steve says, sounding insulted by the insinuation.

Tony’s heart sinks. This, he’s familiar with. The soft rejection. Being let down gently.

“But not anymore, right?”

“What is wrong with you,” Steve hisses. Tony watches as Steve’s grip on the door turns whiteknuckled.

“Lots of things, really,” Tony says, laughing weakly as he says it. He feels off-balance, doesn’t know what to do next. This is all new ground.

Something seems to shift in Steve, and he looks pained.

“Tony,” he croaks. His hand slides off the door, and it swings open wide. “Just tell me what I did wrong,” he says, eyes downcast.

“You didn’t—” Tony starts, on reflex.

Steve reaches out and cuts him off by resting his hand on Tony’s shoulder: “I did,” Steve says. “I know I did.”

Tony scrubs his face. “Do you mind if we sit down?” He feels dead on his feet and he can tell this will be a long conversation. But a small, secret part of him just wants to know, too, if Steve’ll let him into his apartment.

Steve swallows, takes a step back, and Tony shuts the door as he follows Steve inside, something bright warming up inside him now that he’s here.

“Coffee?” Steve asks, as Tony sits on Steve’s couch and tries not to crane his neck and catalog everything inside.

“Yes, please.”

Steve comes back with two steaming mugs and takes a seat on the couch, a safe distance away from Tony.

“So where do we begin,” Tony says, smiling awkwardly.

Steve shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“I should’ve come up with flash cards.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, maybe.”

They each take a sip of their coffee.

“You know,” Tony says, licking his lips as he bides his time. “I mean—you know. I do, too.”

Steve shakes his head, looking away.

“I wanted you to stay,” Tony barrels on. “I wanted you to stay all the goddamn time, Steve.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, then,” Steve says softly, like he’s afraid to be heard.

But the words fluster Tony, annoy him almost immediately.

“I did say,” Tony snaps. “I said so.”

“What, twice?” Steve says, hackles raising now, too.

“That’s more than you ever said!” Tony says, not caring how defensive he sounds. “And what about all the times you pushed me away?”

“Me?” Steve sneers. “You’re acting as if I’m the only one who tried to hide this, when you could’ve told anyone!”

“And I didn’t! Because you didn’t want to!” Tony’s anger swells up inside him and makes him stand up. “You never wanted anyone to see that we were together!”

“And neither did you!” Steve says accusingly.

Tony opens his mouth to say something, his mind used to the twists and turns of arguments with Steve, but he comes up empty.

He stares down at Steve, whose cheeks are flushed from exertion. Steve lets out a shaky breath, and with that, Tony feels the fight die out of him. Tony sits back down, rests a hand on Steve’s knee—asking for his attention.

He’s going to say something crazy now, but he only feels like he can because of everything else that’s been said. Maybe he’s much more of a coward than he thought. He’s learning a lot of things tonight, and that may be the worst of it.

“I don’t care about anyone knowing,” Tony says, quietly. “I care about you.”

He hears Steve’s breath catch; he’s so attuned to Steve that he can tell these things. But then again, there are other things he couldn’t tell, either, apparently.

“I care about you too, Tony,” Steve says, and at the sound of his name Tony’s heart does a funny thing where it feels like it’s swollen up so quickly it bursts.

“Good,” Tony breathes out, everything feeling made of glass, wildly fragile and impermanent; he needs, he needs to find stable ground. They both do.

He figures, he’s the best one to lead them there.

“How do you feel about trying this again?” he asks. He looks up and meets Steve’s eyes, then turns his palm up, waiting for Steve to complete the movement.

“What would that mean?” Steve asks, eyes flicking down to Tony’s hand then back up to look at Tony.

“I don’t know, Steve,” Tony says, and his palm is feeling awfully chilly now. “Maybe we could try doing this more.”

“Talking,” Steve deadpans.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Don’t use that tone with me, we obviously didn’t do it enough for us to be here.”

“Fair,” Steve says, looking down at the floor.

Tony bites his lip. He’s about to jokingly say, please? But then Steve threads their fingers together, a small smile on his lips.

Tony’s sigh of relief is audible in the stillness of the room.

“I don’t know what to say,” Steve says. He shuts his eyes tight and blinks.

Tony edges closer so he can rest his hand on Steve’s cheek, turn Steve’s face to his. He slides his hand back to rest on the base of Steve’s skull, pulls him close and touches their foreheads together.

“Say it again,” Tony whispers.

Steve swallows, and Tony tries to imprint in his memory the way Steve’s eyelashes look, downcast against his cheeks, the way Steve bites down on his lower lip.

“I love you,” Steve says, his voice soft and breath warm against Tony’s chin. The words sound new, and Tony revels at how they take space in the world. I love you. The decisiveness of the statement, the unbridled unconditionality of it. How could something so simple be so difficult to extricate from someone? How could three words alleviate such a weight off of Tony’s chest? How is it that the world seems brighter, and warmer, and safer, now that he’s heard it?

It’s Steve. It’s always been Steve.

All this time has just been practice. Maybe now, he can do it right, for once.

“Good,” Tony touches their noses together, breathes. “I love you too.”

###

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