#and this time (because he might as well sell himself for what he's worth dammit) he's all like “Four time winner of the blah blah whatever”

[tempests-bards-and-birds]

please god make the "three time winner of the best bard of mondstadt" one of the earliest pieces of evidence we got for the samsara without us knowing it at the time because it would be so fucking funny

[honeymoonjin]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.9k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: cursing, panic attack

A/N: apologies for my tgm crimes here but i gotta keep you on your toes since you have the old plan. also i'm not going to spoil anything but day 25 has one of my fav scenes in the show so far ;;-; so please enjoy this chapter and i will continue to work hard to finish the following one and get back into the posting routine!

DAY TWENTY-FOUR

You’re roused from sleep by the feathered sensation of fingertips on your jaw. Twitching slightly, you try and move away from it, burrowing deeper into the warm, gently rocking pillow your head is propped up on.

Before you can slip back under, however, the fingers give one last attack: a sudden flick to your cheek that echoes with a thwack. You flinch and furrow your brows, grumbling your displeasure since your words haven’t quite found you yet.

“Get up, sleepyhead, unless you’d rather I just piss in the bed.”

That’ll do it. You shoot up so quickly your vision swims, one side of your face feeling cold without the comfort of Yoongi’s chest. “Fuck you, go pee,” you slur, eyes still half-closed, the morning glare peeking through a gap in his curtains.

Yoongi happily but hurriedly trots off to the bathroom, giving you a moment of respite to collect yourself. It takes a few moments to recall the previous night, not just the way Yoongi’s voice had made you cum in your room, but also the way it later lulled you to sleep as he told you hushed stories of his childhood or anecdotes from his days as a sex education teacher.

You can even hear his voice now, just barely slipping under the crack of the door, humming and singing under his breath as he washes his hands.

When he finally exits, you’re propped up by pillows, duvet tucked over your knees and eyes crinkled fondly at his bedhead.

“Oh, no,” he starts with a frown, “you better get that look off of your face.”

Your smile drops. “What?”

Taming his hair with a few flat strokes, he shakes his head. “I need somebody sane in this house to talk to. You aren’t allowed to fall in love with me, it’s conflict of interest.”

Mouth dropping open, it takes you a few minutes to note the subtle curl to his lips. “You dick! I’m certainly not planning on it, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Hey,” he defends in a drawl, no attempt at modesty as he shucks his pyjamas before browsing his chest of drawers, “it’s been done before. You come for the massive dick and stay for the massive heart.” He pauses, shoulder muscles flexing as he reaches in to a drawer, pulling out a pair of dark wash jeans. “Stop looking at my ass, I’m trying to lecture you.”

On the contrary, you lower your gaze and narrow in on it. “You’re starting to develop a little bubble butt, Yoongi. It’s very cute.” Not leaving him time to protest, you barrel on. “Besides, your dick isn’t that big.”

“That’s only because you’re comparing mine to hyung’s. And Namjoon’s. And… And Jungkook’s, I guess. And-” Suddenly he cuts himself off, throwing himself back on the bed with his back hunched in despair. “Fuck, do I have a small dick?”

“Mm, not really,” you dismiss easily, deciding to finally get out of bed and pick out your own clothes - selecting them from Yoongi’s drawers, of course. He makes no protest, still staring blankly at the jeans in his hands. “You just have steep competition here. There’s nothing wrong with small dicks, either. They’re cute.”

Now visible from your angle, Yoongi’s face twists in a grimace. “But my dick isn’t small, right?”

You shrug, slipping on one of his FG shirts and a pair of sweatpants loose enough that you have to knot the drawstrings. “If it helps you sleep at night.”

He spares one somber glance down between his legs before he slips on a pair of underwear, finally stepping into the jeans. There’s a brief period of comfortable silence, before he lets out a small sigh. “Can I… Can I confess something to you?”

Although a quip would be easy enough to say, you sense the joking is over. “Of course, Yoongi,” you assure instead, sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed beside him. He doesn’t meet your eye, busying himself with slipping a shirt over his head. “What’s up?”

Once he’s fully dressed, he still keeps his eyes low. “When you- On Monday, when you voted out Jin-hyung. I was so glad.”

You pause for a moment. “Because you wanted him out of the competition?” you venture, but he shakes his head dully.

“Because I thought he might look at me again if he didn’t have you.”

Something sinks in your stomach, cold enough to make you shiver. The guilt in Yoongi’s voice doesn’t conceal the open vulnerability of his expression as he fiddles with his bitten fingernails. “What do you mean, Yoongi?”

“What him and I had earlier wasn’t healthy, I know that,” he defends to himself, “but… I still miss it. I miss him. But even when I spoke to him after the elimination, all he would talk about was you. And I can’t even be mad, because I get it. And I- If I’m honest,” he murmurs, feet scuffing restlessly on the carpet, “I don’t even know what I’m wanting to achieve by telling you this, but I couldn’t stand not having anybody know about it. I never wanted it to get this messy. I told myself I wouldn’t let my feelings get caught up. But I think a little heartbreak would be worth it, for him. Is that stupid?”

You feel so unanchored, like there’s nothing for you to grab onto to steady yourself. More so, you feel entirely incapable of helping your friend like you so desperately want to. “It’s not stupid,” you begin, reaching out to cup one of his hands snugly between the two of yours, head resting on his shoulder in solidarity, “and I’m so sorry. Does he- does he know you feel this way?”

“I don’t think so,” Yoongi admits in a low voice, leaning into your touch. “If he does, then he must not like me since he’s not acknowledging it. And if he doesn’t, then he must have never even considered me like that. I know I was a distraction at best.”

You knit your brows together, deep in thought to try and find the right words to say. “Or perhaps he knows and he’s respecting your boundaries by letting you initiate, especially since he was the one who took advantage of you last time. And perhaps he doesn’t know, and it’s only because he’s so caught up in his own feelings that he hasn’t considered that you may feel the same. You just don’t know these things, Yoongi. I didn’t know how you felt either until you told me.”

He nods slowly, jerkily. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Jungkook said almost the exact same thing, actually.”

You pull back slowly, curiosity colouring your tone. “Jungkook?”

Yoongi manages a shy smile, cheeks colouring slightly. “He approached me. We- we talk a lot, way more than hyung and I ever did. I know Kookie has a crush on me, and we said we’d take things slow, but dammit, I can’t help but like the kid.”

You let a surprised laugh bubble up your throat. “That- I was not expecting that, but I’m so glad, Yoongi. Even if you don’t have Jin, I’m glad you’re letting yourself be happy with others.”

His smile falters. “Is it greedy that liking Jungkook doesn’t make me want Jin-hyung any less?”

You go still, thinking of your own blooming feelings for... Well, for most of the people in this house, if not - at least a little bit - all of them. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I’d like to think not.”

Yoongi lifts his gaze to you, carefully studying your face. “Do you ever worry,” he begins, so softly that you have to strain to make the words out, “that our feelings have been set up. By the show, I mean.” His brows furrow deeper. “We’re living in a practical paradise - luxurious house with no real jobs, our food is paid for, we’re literally getting rewarded to have sex. It’s so artificial, you know? So who’s to say that our feelings are artificial, too? I- I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” he admits with a pensive stare.

You can’t lie. You nod. “I’d like to think not,” you repeat hollowly, “but… I mean, yeah, this feels like some alternate reality, and thinking of any of you in normal, mundane, real-life scenarios seems so strange. Like, can you picture Hoseok sitting down and doing his taxes?”

Yoongi snorts, shaking his head in bemusement as a line of tension eases from his shoulders. “I hope he hires an accountant. I certainly wouldn’t trust him with my money.”

You let out a deep sigh and fall backwards onto the duvet, air punched out of you on impact. “The thing is, Yoongi,” you declare in a matter-of-fact tone, “we have no way of knowing what life will be like once all this is wrapped up so why even bother worrying?”

He turns slightly, just enough to watch you warily over his shoulder. “Maybe because I could get my heart broken?”

You pout at him. “Tell me how that’s any different from developing a crush in real life?”

He opens his mouth, furrows his brows, and closes it again. “I- Ugh. Fuck you for being correct.”

Pleased with yourself, you hide your grin as you playfully knock his side with your foot, making him recoil with a groan. “Be as cautious or as impulsive as you want, but even if all this is fake, you could’ve just as easily developed those feelings outside of the show. Like come on, if you saw Jin in the grocery store don’t tell me you wouldn’t fall in love on sight!”

Yoongi shakes his head again, a wry smile playing at his lips. “I see your point… and now I’m picturing Jin getting groceries and looking hot doing it...wow.”

You cackle at the dazed look on Yoongi’s face, using his arm to pull yourself up off the bed, patting him on the shoulder. “Good talk, champ. I’m off to chow down on the leftover pork from last night. Care to join me?”

His eyes glitter, but the doctor declines. “Yoonji said she blackmailed one of the production team to bring her fried chicken from her favourite place. She’s hiding it in the bunk room, but you didn’t hear that from me. She’s selling some to me for a small fortune, the little devil.”

“Less than half a week here and she’s already set up a black market,” you muse, “I think I may be in love with her, Yoongi.”

“Don’t you dare.”

--

While the kitchen is empty when you first arrive, it only takes the sizzle of pork belly in a saucepan to draw your roommates down.

Jin is first, silently rummaging in the pantry and fridge for some side dishes to add to the mix. In return, you begin boiling some hot water, adding instant coffee mix to two mugs.

As the others join, the line of mugs and glasses on the kitchen island grows, until even the two Min twins are hovering in the kitchen, looking suspicously still hungry after their illicit breakfast.

There aren’t enough chairs at the table to seat you all, but luckily Taehyung and Jungkook are happy hunched over the bench in the kitchen, sharing a set of Airpods and snickering at a seemingly endless stream of TikToks.

At the table, Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi chow down on their meals, the latter with a considerably smaller portion made up mostly of meat. Yoonji and Jimin are on either side of you, with Jin on one end, chewing slow to savour each bite.

It’s the first time in a while that you’ve all shared breakfast at the same time, and you’re struck with a deep feeling of fondness at this little family-like group you’re living with.  Jimin sneaks extra strips of meat or spoonfuls of rice into your bowl when he thinks you’re not looking; Hoseok listens enthusiastically to Namjoon’s explanation of a summer school course he’s taking, even as he has to ask for clarification just about every second sentence; Yoongi splits his time between checking up on the two maknaes with a soft look, and scowling at his sister’s teasing comments.

“Any plans for the day?” Yoonji asks suddenly, tugging you out of your musings. She’s dressed sleekly in a black velvet mock neck shirt and high waisted denim shorts, her face as stark a resemblance to her brother as ever, with two sharp lines of black on her lids being the only visible makeup. “Except, I suppose, the mandatory fucking.”

You huff with pink cheeks, never growing used to hearing it so openly. “The days kinda blur together a little when you have no real responsibilities,” you admit, “I should probably find a hobby or something.”

Yoonji’s eyes crinkle in faux empathy. “Oh, honey, you’re gonna be so out of it when you return to the real world. You all will,” she adds, before shrugging, “except maybe Namjoon. Seems like academia doesn’t stop for anyone.”

You can’t help but agree. “He has more brain cells in his pinky finger than I do in my own body,” you swear, “he could break an arm and still type a thesis one-handed.”

Halfway through a mouthful of food, you’re rewarded to the ungraceful yet endlessly endearing sound of her snorting, a hand cupped over her mouth. After swallowing, she turns towards you to respond. “I haven’t known him for long, but that seems to check out. He’s quite the character, huh?”

You don’t miss the meaningful lilt to her voice, nor the quirk of a sharp brow. “He’s a good guy,” you reply under your breath, gaze darting down the table to where the man himself is engaged in an intensely enthusiastic discussion (okay, closer to a TedTalk) with Hoseok, now using pieces of meat to create an abstract diagram in his otherwise empty bowl. The latter looks bewildered, but is nonetheless paying deep attention to every word.

It’s impossible not to feel soft inside as you look at the pair of them, all complementary contrast. Hoseok with his slender nose and harsh facial structure and Namjoon with a round, gentle face. One of them dressed in sleek black and the other in oversized earth tones, the typically reserved one animated and the bubbly one focused in. It had taken you barely a month of shared living to become completely fond of these men, not just Namjoon and Hoseok but all of them, and as much as it was nice to have someone new in the Villa for a while, Yoonji’s presence makes you more aware of the fact that you and the seven guys had developed a certain equilibrium that seemed slightly off-balance with the change.

It makes you worry about what other disturbances this delicate system could hold, and if returning to the real world would be a shift large enough to permanently upend it.

Wishing to dispel the pessimistic narrative beginning to form, you focus in on Yoonji again. “Anyways,” you start, “how are you finding the Villa so far?”

“Certainly an interesting look behind the veil, though it’s really not ideal having to-” Yoonji’s cut off by the chirp of an incoming message on her phone. “Sorry, one sec,” she mumbles absentmindedly, but you don’t miss the way her face falls when she reads the message, immediately glancing directly across the table to where her brother sits.

To your growing concern, Yoongi is also reading a message on his phone, and he quietly excuses himself from the table, leaving his bowl half-eaten. He jerks his head towards the front door, and Yoonji manages a quick apology before they’re leaving the room.

All startled out of their separate conversations, the remaining members of the household sit in confused silence, enough that even Taehyung and Jungkook turn around from their phones.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asks in a worried voice. “Where’s Yoongi-hyung?”

Nobody replies, Jin just shaking his head with a grim frown and leaving the table himself, going after them.

“Guys,” Taehyung says more insistently, eyes not leaving the empty seats at the table.

“They both got a text,” you say with furrowed brows, “Yoongi and Yoonji. Must’ve been bad news, judging by their faces.”

“Jin-hyung’ll find out what’s going on,” Namjoon assures, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself, “let’s just clean up for them and wait for an update. Yeah?”

The two youngest nod solemnly, still with a single Airpod each bobbing in their opposite ears.

For a while, the group of you remaining sit in silence, as if caught up in some spell that would only be broken once Jin returned with some answers. The absence of Yoongi at the table is so much more pronounced, and you can’t help but feel the sickening worry swirl inside you when you look at his bowl, chopsticks strewn carelessly beside it.

Everyone is just waiting for bad news. You’ve felt this looming dread before, and it either came with a swoop of relief or a blow of despair. Your teeth find your thumbnail as you wait helplessly to see which one it’ll be.

It feels like an eternity before the door finally opens, making everyone jump, but only a few minutes have really passed. Jin is panting slightly, like he ran back from wherever Yoongi disappeared to.

“He’s-” he starts quickly, before a tremor passes over his face and he grimaces, jogging over and falling heavily into his chair at the table, face in his hands. “Their dad is in hospital. Heart attack.”

“Oh my god,” Namjoon breathes, brows knit together in sympathy. “Is he okay? Was it serious?”

Jin shrugs, looking up enough to run his hand over his face and take a shaky breath. “He’s alright for now, but apparently they need to make sure it doesn’t repeat anytime soon. If he settles, he’ll be fine, but there’s a chance that he might suffer another attack. Yoongi and Yoonji are going to the hospital now to stay with him until they’re more certain he’s stable. Just in case.”

“When is he coming back? Yoongi-hyung?” Jungkook’s eyes are wide, shiny. He can’t stop fiddling with his fingers, self-soothing.

“Not for a while, I don’t think,” Jin divulges with a pained expression. “He needs to be there for his family right now. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

The front door creaks, and all of you instinctively whip your heads towards it, as if Yoongi himself might be returning already, but you’re greeted with the weary face of Producer Sejin, joining you at the table, taking Yoongi’s old spot. Taehyung frowns deeply at the choice, turning his face away.

“What’s going on?” you ask quickly. “What happens to Yoongi? And us?”

“Yoongi is… He was in a rush to get going, understandably, so we didn’t speak in great depth. But he in short stated that he’d return when his father was in better health if the place was still open for him. I’ve got in contact with the higher-ups, and we’ve agreed to put the show on a temporary hold.”

“On hold?” Jungkook asks in a nervous voice. “What does that even mean?”

Sejin clears his throat stiffly and clicks his tongue. “Well. It means we’re putting a stop to the game for now, in short. If Yoongi is able to return by the end of the week, we’ll resume as usual. Otherwise, we’ll consider him to have permanently left the competition, and we’ll be forced to continue the game without him.”

You frown, fighting the urge to cry. This all feels so wrong, like he’s been taken from you with little hope of reunion, and discussing it like administration feels so clinical. “So we’re just sitting here, not knowing if he’s going to come back home, waiting around in limbo?” As soon as you finish, it feels like the word home lingers in the air longer than the rest of them. And perhaps this house doesn’t feel like home to you, but it certainly seems like six of the seven pieces of home are around you right now, and it’s not the same without him away. By the way the others are solemn and red-eyed, you probably aren’t the only one that’s begun feeling that way.

Sejin just shakes his head slowly, as subdued as you all are. “Listen, I know this isn’t ideal. The boss wanted to film it, make a big drama out of it, and then kick him off the show for views. I’m doing the best I can here to compromise and give him some dignity.”

Eyes widening, you stare at the round eyes of the cameras in the living room. “Are you- are you even allowed to say that?”

“I cut the camera feeds,” Sejin says in a defeated tone, “the show is officially off-air for technical difficulties. You can do what you want here while you wait - hell, you can leave if you want, just please be prepared to come back on the Sunday. We’ll have a discussion about whether Yoongi can return, and what we’ll do if he doesn’t. Understood?”

“Understood,” Namjoon offers up for the group, and the producer leaves with another sigh and an attempt at a comforting smile. You can’t help but feel bad for him, working such an emotionally draining job, especially when you’ve heard nothing but bad things about his employer.

Once the room falls into quiet again, Jin stands up, chair legs scraping against the floor. “Okay, I think we should decide as a group what we’re wanting to do. Stay or go?”

You open your mouth to give your two cents, but before you can, Jungkook suddenly chokes on a sob and covers his face with his hands, Jimin immediately scooting his chair closer to wrap an arm around his shaking shoulders.

“Hey, what is it?” Jimin asks quietly, but the room is so silent that you all catch it. “Talk to me, bun. What is it?”

Jungkook takes a few stuttering breaths to compose himself, sniffling. “I don’t want you all to leave too,” he confesses, Jimin’s thumb catching a tear dangling on the tip of his nose, “isn’t Yoongi-hyung enough?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the elder promises, pressing a kiss into his hairline before looking up at the rest of you, eyes widening intentionally. “We’ll stick together through this until he comes back, yeah? It’s not all bad. The cameras are off, remember? We can have a break now, we don’t need to worry about the show. Isn’t that nice?”

After a moment’s considering, Jungkook nods slowly. “‘t is nice,” he admits begrudgingly. “But only if everyone stays.”

You can’t help but smile fondly, getting up yourself to come behind him, stroking his hair back. “We’ll stay, of course we’ll stay. Let’s spend some time together tonight, we can put on a movie and snuggle, how about that?”

He perks up at the thought of this, glancing around the table as the others nod in affirmation. “I’ll bring down the blankets,” he bargains, cracking a small smile, and the rest of the room relaxes, immediately bursting into sound as everyone arranges the necessary supplies for a good quality movie night, almost back to normal.

Jungkook, as the member of the Villa in most urgent need of a pick-me-up, is given movie choosing privileges, so the seven of you tuck in for a rewatch of his favourite Spiderman movies, perhaps the only thing that can keep him glued to the screen.

At first, the absence feels overwhelming to you. Try as you might through the opening sequence, you can’t shake it. Your mind counts heads without thinking, keeps looking at the space on the couch where Yoongi liked to put his feet up. Even though you know it’s his father who is unwell, not him, there’s the sick swelling in your stomach that makes you feel like his departure is final, and shortly after the title card plays out, you’re quietly excusing yourself and stumbling to the back door, in desperate need of fresh air.

It’s cold outside, a brisk wind cutting through you. You barely make it around the corner out of sight before your legs buckle, and you let yourself fall into a pathetic crouch, your weight propped up against the side of the house as you try to suck the chilled air into your lungs.

The panic creeps up on you in swells, the irrational fear that Yoongi would leave the show and you’d never see him again and everything would fall apart suddenly feeling like a whole tsunami crashing against you. Your fingers claw at the exterior wall as you fall back onto your behind, unable to even keep yourself in a crouch.

More so than the intrusive thoughts, it’s the image of Yoongi’s face falling, of him rushing out of the house in frantic distress that replays in your mind and leaves you suffocating. He looked so scared, your calm, reliable Yoongi. He was like a pillar, but that news was a fell swoop he couldn’t stay strong against. Your heart burns for him, cramping and aching in your chest.

For a moment, you picture yourself staying out here, gasping for breath until the sun goes down. You feel alone, more than ever since coming here, and even as the thought spooks you, there’s no energy in your body to do anything about it.

Just as your breaths start to sound more like death rattles and you curl your face towards the ground, a warmth envelopes your back, arms circling your middle and lifting you up.

“Hey, breathe, breathe with me, Y/n. I’m here.”

You recognise the voice. You recognise the built torso holding you steady, but your mind isn’t putting the pieces together, and so you simply squeeze your eyes shut and allow yourself to be maneuvered around there are hands on your face and a deep voice instructing you to look at me. I’m here; look at me.

You crack your eyes open, body heaving with the effort it takes to get any oxygen in your lungs, but you’re met with the soulful brown eyes of Kim Namjoon, narrowed in concern.

His hands are warm despite the frigid air outside, and you let yourself melt into him, eyes sinking to watch his lips mouth instructions, demonstrating exaggerated breathing for you to follow.

You feel distinctly like you might vomit, but you force yourself to match his breaths. The shuddering in and stilted out aren’t as fluid as his, but slowly your heart doesn’t thud in your ears and your body doesn’t shake as violently.

You feel damp, sweating all over, and your whole body aches, but your hearing begins to properly tune in again, coherence creeping back. “Na-Namjoon,” you gasp, wishing you had the energy to grab his arms or hug him or something other than lying limp against the wall of the house.

“Shh, hey, don’t strain yourself. Take it easy. I’m here.” He’s crouching in front of you, eyes locked onto you as he continues to hold you steady, jaw kept aloft by his hands. “Keep breathing, and it’ll go away. It’s a panic attack, I’ve had my fair share. You’ll come right.”

Trusting him despite the persisting burn in your chest, you let him coach your breathing for several more minutes, the heightened air influx making your head go light and floaty.

Once a counted breath turns into a yawn of exhaustion, you know the worst has passed. It leaves you boneless, not a single ounce of power left in your muscles, but you can breathe again, and it’s all thanks to the man across from you.

“I’ve never had one before,” you manage, voice cracking, “not like that.”

Namjoon’s lips press together in sympathy, and he turns to prop himself against the side of the house beside you, letting you continue breathing independently. “Is it Yoongi-hyung?”

You nod weakly, and the academic hums in confirmation. “I used to get panic attacks a lot in university. I used to hate them, thought they meant I was weak. Like I couldn’t handle the pressure as much as I thought I could. But, you know, these days I just figure I’m only panicking because it means so much to me. And I don’t think that makes me weak at all. It just means I care. Don’t feel ashamed about this, Y/n. All it means is that you care about hyung a lot.”

All the breath in your lungs leaves you in one rush as you prop your head in your hands, knees tucked towards your chest. “Yeah.” You wish you had something more appreciative to say, but your mind is waterlogged, weighed down and not functioning.

Namjoon doesn’t seem to mind the curt response. “I care about him a lot too. He’s like the glue for us, isn’t he? I’m worried to fall apart without him here keeping us in line. But we survived before we knew him and we’ll survive now. What’s better is supporting each other and waiting to see how we can support Yoongi-hyung, too.”

“You’re right,” you admit with a heavy breath, wiggling your toes to will energy back into them. “We’ll be okay.”

Namjoon bends sideways to bump your shoulder warmly. “That’s the spirit. Now; I’m happy to stay out here as long as you need, but Jungkook was the first one to notice you had been gone for a while, and I think he’s probably getting concerned by now. If you’re up to it, I can give you a hand to get inside and join the others again. What do you reckon?”

You lean your head back against the wall, taking a moment to consider. “What movie is he putting on next?”

“He mentioned wanting to check out Paw Patrol on Netflix.”

“Let me die out here,” you plead weakly.

Namjoon laughs, the sound like comfort itself, and stands up, offering you a hand. “Come on, kitten, up we get.”

In the end, the Netflix viewings manage to distract you for the rest of the night. When your limbs are tangled together and snacks are flowing, it’s easy to tune out of reality a bit and focus on the television screen in the comfort of shared company. Jungkook clears space on the couch for you the second you return, and clings to you for hours, his chin on your shoulder. You don’t complain, feeling soothed by the physical closeness. But the hours pass, and when the majority of you can no longer hold in your yawns, Seokjin gets up to turn the lights back on and clean up.

“Let’s get some rest,” he decides, and it’s that return to the real world that immediately dampens the atmosphere again, the group of you turning solemn. You pause to pull out your phone, sending Yoongi a quick message of support, and that you all missed him already, but no reply comes.

Without words being spoken, the seven of you remaining find yourselves flocking together as you make your way up to bed. Jin flanks the maknae as Namjoon and Hoseok lean heavily into each other, the four of them disappearing into Jin’s room. You naturally fall into step with the remaining two men, Taehyung linking his arm into yours and holding you close all the way to Jimin’s room.

Somehow, the house is too quiet. Even though Yoongi wasn’t a particularly noisy housemate, his absence cloaks the air.

You have no energy to shower. Washing your face is as much as you can manage, and Taehyung is even more despairing than you are, slumped on the toilet seat as Jimin cleans his face for him.

The uncertainty is what makes your heart flutter on edge, unable to wind down, and you know from the restrained looks of fear and distress in the guys’ eyes that they feel the same. The show would be undoubtably ruined if Yoongi couldn’t return. But more important than that, Yoongi would be ruined if he lost his father so suddenly.

Knowing Yoongi is hurting makes you ache, and you cling to your lovers like they’re your anchors in a churning sea, tucking your face firmly into Taehyung’s shoulder. It soothes you a little to be pinned between them, but the three of you still lie awake as the minutes blink by agonisingly slow.

At some point, you must fall into a fitful sleep, because when a sudden noise fills the room, it rouses you aggressively, and you almost kick Jimin’s shin in the process. Grunting, the half-asleep man rubs his face and twists around, fumbling on the nightstand for the offending noise.

It’s Taehyung’s phone, vibrating against the wooden table, and once Jimin blinks twice at the glaring screen he gasps and yanks the charger out, sitting up in bed. “It’s hyung,” he declares in a voice more vulnerable than you’d ever heard from him before. “Wake Tae.”

You force yourself to dispel those last few wisps of sleep from your brain, and gently shake Taehyung awake. According to the clock on the nightstand, it’s almost two in the morning, but your heart leaps as Yoongi’s face fills the phone screen, looking right at the three of you.

“I thought you would be together,” he states with a rueful smile, though you can see that it doesn’t quite reach his reddened eyes. “Sorry for calling so late.”

“Don’t apologise, hyung,” Taehyung whines, half of his weight on you as he leans in close, “we were so worried about you. How’s your dad?”

Yoongi’s brows furrow beneath mussed hair. “Not great,” he admits. “A little more stable, at least, but he’s pretty confused right now. Nurses worry that it might have affected his brain.”

Your heart sinks, both at the thought of a relatively young man suffering such awful health complications, but also at how Yoongi was trying to hide his exhaustion and distress. “Oh my god.”

“Mm, we should know soon what the damage is,” Yoongi explains further, rubbing his eyes with the hand not holding his phone aloft, “and if he’s alright I can head back h- head back to the Villa. He’s just been sleeping a lot today so… We don’t really know how he’ll be until he’s conscious for enough time. Yoonji’s with him at the moment, I just wanted to duck out and give you guys an update. Where are the others?”

“Jin-hyung’s room,” Jimin answers, even as he’s throwing back the covers. “They’ll want to hear from you themselves, just hold on a minute.”

You hear Yoongi’s voice echoing from the phone and strain to make out his words as Jimin heads to the door. “No, no, don’t wake them. I actually wanted to ask if you’d like to come visit? Of course none of you know my dad, and he doesn’t know you, but- Well, Yoonji and I could do with some company.”

You jump up, rushing to Jimin’s side. As he naturally accommodates your presence and pulls you flush against him, you lift your face up to the phone. “We’ll be there,” you assure Yoongi, “just please get some rest tonight. It’s been a rough day.”

Yoongi’s pained smile breaks your heart, and Jimin leads the phone back to the bed so that Taehyung can say a final goodbye before the three of you hang up and crawl, exhausted but somewhat relieved, back into bed.

[teatitty]

Sparbossa Brainrot Part 2: I Get Crazier

Part two of my Sparbossa meta! This movie is over two hours long so of course I had to split this into pieces I'm dying out here but it's worth it. I didn’t want this to be anything above a two-parter but haha it’s gonna need a part three. Fuck

Something I didn't touch on in my previous post is that Jack and Barbossa both use over exaggerated expressions and gestures and posturing and its all done expertly well to sell their respective images; Jack's the crazy one and Barbossa's the scary one. That's why it's so important to pay attention to every subtle thing they do because a lot of their nuances are hidden behind the micro expressions, the tiny gestures. When Elizabeth is eating on the Pearl, for instance, pay close attention to Barbossa's features and you'll see the hunger that's consumed him for years. You'll see his envy that he can't enjoy it like her. Very good acting!

Regardless, we are now on the Isle and while Will is purely focused on Elizabeth look at Jack. He has eyes only for Barbossa. You can see the beginning of a sneer on that wrinkle by his nose, the zoned in focus of his eyes

Will briefly looks over at him but Jack pays no attention to him, and his breathing is deep and slow, the same way a predator might breathe when hunting in the bushes. He only snaps out of this when Will calls his name and tries to get to Elizabeth

There's a lot I can say about this scene but Jack's low threatening thrum is back in the background and not only is his body tense and strung like a bow but so is his voice. He's barely restraining himself from snapping outwards and oh that line; "Have I ever given you reason not to trust me?" the layers it has given past betrayals. Do you think he ever said this to Hector, that night of the mutiny?

His eyes are crazed, his smile no longer friendly. It’s sharp and pointed - a baring of fangs instead of teeth

Barbossa's threat of music is back here too and this is where Elizabeth fucked up by using the name Turner. This is where Will fucked up by knocking out Jack - because only he can get through Hector's rage

They all outnumber Barbossa and yet the simple act of him drawing his sword has them stepping down and if that doesnt tell you everything you need to know about him I dont know what does

More of Jack with the Cursed Crew! They don't immediately try to kill him they just gather around him in a big group because "holy shit you're not dead" he tries to leave but they all cut him off at sword and gun point and then Ragetti helps him remember the word 'parlay' and look it's just really amusing how they all like. Let him gather his words instead of just shooting him right here

“Damned to the depths whatever madmen thought of parlay”

It's about the shared history, the begrudging respect, knowing he can talk circles around you but letting him do it anyway because you still kind of like him even though you left him for dead

And of course the moment you’ve all been waiting for I’m sure. The Sparbossa reunion! This smug ass fucking look at seeing Barbossa again, Barbossa's genuine anger and irritation, the way Pintel and Ragetti are viewing this like a tennis match, the most divorcee energy you've ever seen on screen

Barbossa's little expression shift during this bit he knows exactly what Jack is about to say and he hates it lmao he’s definitely heard this line too many times to count. It haunts his dreams probably

“Well I won’t be making that mistake -” gets right into Jack’s face - “again.”

Zoom in on Jack’s face. Yeah that’s hatred and anger plain as day

The mic drop moment, the pause as Jack's words hit him, the irritation returning tenfold because god fucking dammit its been ten years but he can never ignore a thing Jack says. "Unless he knew you wouldn't believe the truth even if he told it to you" except Barbossa always believes Jack and that’s what happens when you used to be besties and know a man inside and out as well as you know yourself

Didnt get it here but there’s an impressed nodding motion he does before saying this, with a smile like he cant quite believe he's doing this again and yet here they are. And Jack, knowing he has Barbossa in the palm of his hand again

DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE HILARITY OF THIS NEGOTIATION SCENE, THE SHEER DIVORCED ENERGY THAT WE ARE SEEING RIGHT NOW, THE NOTE OF DISBELIEF IN BARBOSSA'S VOICE, HIS LITTLE CHUCKLE, JACK'S OFFENDED GASP AS HE SAYS "NO" I WISH I COULD SHOW U EVERY SINGLE MICRO EXPRESSION THEY HAVE HERE ITS SO FUCKING HYSTERICAL

The pettiness on display here, not just in Jack's words but also his eating an apple, knowing how much Barbossa loves them, right in front of him and then offering it to him like an olive branch they just dont make films like this anymore you could do an entire fucking thesis on this scene alone

Barbossa’s face falling as the mutiny is used against him here mates how the fuck else am I supposed to interpret this if not a sign of momentary regret

(Do hate that these subs change “innit” into “isn’t it” though. British rage at that)

They both turn their heads to Bo'sun when he interrupts them and says Captain but I couldn't get a good shot of it because the monkey kept blurring oops but here’s the start of Jack’s disdain for him

Jack trying desperately to stay in control, like he has been for the past however many hours, and Barbossa is having absolutely none of it so he goes for the lowest blow he can, in a voice that's almost affectionate

This is the exact moment Jack knows he's lost this round because Barbossa's jab wasn't just about losing the Pearl. "People are easier to search when they're dead" is also a morality difference. Barbossa is merciless and ruthless and Jack simply trusts too easily. It's not just about losing the Pearl. It’s about Jack losing Hector too

Now this shot is incredibly interesting to me because it's the only time we've seen him waste an apple. But he doesn't throw it into the sea immediately; he just looks at it for a moment, contemplating. Is he thinking about taking a bite himself? Is he thinking about Jack? About their past? About the mutiny? Whatever those thoughts might be he throws it because Jack is the one who bit it and he chucks it with such force that it's gone within a blink

The apple has signified Barbossa’s hunger throughout the movie and continues up till his death. It’s the first thing we see him eat in Dead Man’s Chest - it’s his semblance of humanity, his pleasure, his lust, his thirst. It tells him he’s alive and so for to contemplate the one Jack took a bite of specifically before hucking it as far from himself as possible? Well how else do you expect me to read this really

This look right here, as he sees them lower the starboard anchor, trying to pull of a move as daft as Jack...so many emotions behind just a look. And all the while he's petting Jack the Monkey with softness and affection, the same as he has all movie. I have thoughts about that but we'll get to them in a bit

This is def smth Jack has pulled multiple times in the past for Barbossa to A) know immediately what it is and B) alread have a counter measure for it ("Hard-a-port, rack the starboard oars"). I say that this must be something Jack has done because when Elizabeth proposes it Anamaria says she's daft and Gibbs replies "Daft as Jack!"

No comment just wanted to post this funny moment and the badassery of Barbossa standing unmoved as the Interceptor’s masts fall to either side of him

Parallel to when Barbossa grabbed Bo'sun's wrist for slapping Elizabeth and here Jack is doing it to stop someone attacking her again. Notice they both had the same hard grip and no-bullshit expressions :)

A couple of things here: 1) Jack really is just like a monkey, no wonder one is named after him. 2) all the passive aggressive micro expressions again! Like Jack's squinted smile after "We named the monkey Jack" and 3) why you naming he monkey you love and adore and show so much affection for after the man you betrayed and marooned Barbossa, that's kind of gay of you Barbossa, almost like you were in love with Jack Sparrow himself hmmmm

"Gents! Our hope is restored!" and more of Jack's micro expressions. The sheer pain displayed here he's so pissed off right now

Sparbossa core is being in sync with head turns

Jack is practically on his knees begging Will not to fuck up and so of course Will immediately fucks up. Barbossa has no clue who he is and honestly I think the only reason he doesn't just let Will do it is a mix of bafflement at the this boy and also because he was looking over at Jack here and saw Jack's response to this and it caught his attention

Jack: spewing out whatever bullshit he can think of Barbossa, knowing he's floundering: uh huh. sure. I bet he is

Notice how Barbossa's eyes move to Jack here, more of those important micro expressions I keep telling you about! Because now he knows what Jack was doing now he knows all of what Jack's plan was and Jack just. Slinks off to the side because haha yeah he's fucked

(Jack Voice) please save me I don't wanna be here with my ex anymore actually

Count how many times Jack looks murderous towards Will in this movie I dare you

And now Barbossa holds literally every fucking card on the table. Gotta be careful with your words Will you're dealing with pirates now and this one ain't as nice to you as Jack was

Jack in the background looking at this island like "ah shit here we go again." And then Barbossa says, "Don't impugn me honour boy!" and oooohhhh Jack's look of murder here

Top 10 Barbossa moments

I just wanted to point out that Koehler and Twigg are always together in this movie. Shame Koehler dies when the curse is lifted

It looks like Jack is repeating his "I always liked you" line to Twigg in the back here. I'm not very good at lip reading though so it could be anything but either way Twigg is taking it better than Koehler did

Trying real hard not to get thrown off again! This hurts just a little though because Koehler and Twigg do look like they were having a nice time with Jack in whatever they were doing back here

There's no hetero explanation for the way Barbossa enunciates Jack's name all the time. How he lengthens the 'a' and makes it all soft but harshens the 'k'. And the tender gaze he gives Jack, the arm around the shoulder as he points out the island... fellas this is a lot to digest I'm just saying

God but I do adore a petty queer pirate

The little squint as he brings up the rules of the code - that a marooned pirate be left with one shot in his pistol and Barbossa's aggravation at it, that constant push and pull between them. Simply unmatched

Barbossa knows Jack too well for this to work. It’s truly astounding how even after ten years these two still read eachother like clockwork

He know that Jack will dive in for the pistol, if nothing else. You can see the crazed obssession on Jack's face again and the disdain on Barbossa's in the back

That feeling when your ex takes your ship in the divorce twice

[disgruntledspacedad]

Exit Wounds

pairing: Steve Murphy x Javier Peña, buddies or pre-slash, up to you. Not part of the Better Love ‘verse.

summary: Steve comes to several realizations all at once. Steve Murphy POV.

words: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ - violence (beyond canon-typical), GSW, ambiguous ending, ANGST. You really probably shouldn’t read this one at all, my dudes.

a/n: unbeta’d. For those sharp eyed readers, there’s a slight canon change regarding Brady’s murder.

“Stay back,” Steve mouths, lifting a hand to Javier’s chest. Behind him, Steve can damn near feel Javi rolling his eyes, but he keeps still, both of them hardly daring to breathe as they pause at the corner of the stairwell. 

Feo is waiting for them. Steve just knows it.

Dread and anticipation are rising in him, age old instinct and adrenaline converging into a single minded awareness that sharpens every sense. Steve’s heartbeat thrums in his ears. Reality glitters around him. Javi huffs softly at his shoulder, eager, impatient. 

It’s like having a superpower. 

Carefully, Steve edges his gaze just around the corner, and leaps back as a single round grazes just past his left ear. He feels the zing of displaced air before he’s even aware of the crack of gunfire. 

“Shit,” he hisses. 

That had been close. 

“Think you found him,” Javi supplies helpfully. 

Above them, there’s a scuffle, receding footsteps. Javi doesn’t wait - he’s already tearing around the corner, glock extended, giving chase.

Steve leaps at his heels.

He’ll never admit it, not to anybody and especially not to Connie because she worries, but this is Steve’s favorite part of the job. There’s something primal and evocative about chasing a bad guy through the streets of Medellín. It calls back to that little boy in Memphis, playing cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids until long past the streetlamps had lit. It awakens that visceral sense of masculine justice that’s simmered just beneath the surface of Steve’s thoughts since he could remember; the burning need to protect, to avenge, to do the right thing.

And fuck, it’s just fun.

He grits his teeth and digs in, running for all he’s worth. Chases in Medellín are all sticky heat and creaking rooftops that pop beneath a grown man’s weight, the smell of spices and gunpowder and unwashed bodies. The air is thick like soup. It stagnates in his lungs, stifles his breaths. His heart pounds wildly. Sweat pours down his back and clings to his shirt, and Steve basks in it all, loving every second. 

Javi ducks into one of the zócalos, taking a short cut on a hunch. Steve follows. The world narrows, the entire cramped room smelling of tortillas and goat milk. The darkness inside is a stark contrast to the midday Medellín sun, and Steve barrels into the tiny kitchen table before his eyes can fully adjust. A child shrieks, and Javi pauses just long enough to wince toward her mother as Steve staggers to his feet. 

“Sorry,” he bleats, already stumbling out the door.

Outside, they are faced with a choice. Stairs going up to the rooftops. Stairs going down into the alleyway. Absolute silence. 

Steve takes the street and Javi takes the high ground. There’s no discussion, no pause to consider, no flicker of eye contact and a question. Steve and Javi move as one unit in two bodies, working in seamless tandem that comes from surviving and thriving together in countless life or death scenarios.

Feo is not in the street, it’s apparent immediately.  Steve has gone the wrong way. 

Well, win some, lose some. The comuna is built into a slope, like so many comunas are, and Steve makes for the top of it, determined to get a better view. Maybe he can cut Feo off while Javi herds him forward, though it’s unlikely. 

He reaches the top of the hill and whirls, shading his eyes against the sun as he glances over the rooftops, searching. 

Javier shouts in Spanish. Steve cranes his neck toward the sound. He’s close.

There.

A shot rings out. That’s nothing new - shots are always ringing out in Medellín. It’s practically how the sicarios say hello. 

But this time, it’s different. This time, Javier staggers back like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, and Steve’s world converges into two undeniable facts - dread, and absolute certainty.

Javi’s been hit. 

Somehow, Steve has the sense of mind to radio for backup with medical, an instinct honed from years of beats in the shadier neighborhoods of Miami. He doesn’t bother listening for the garbled response, he’s just running, tearing down the hill with one ominous thought replaying through his mind. 

He can’t see Javi anymore.

Steve shakes away the implications and focuses on what he can remember - where Javi had been standing, the direction of his voice. His lungs are burning, heart pounding painfully in his chest, but Steve’s totally unaware of that. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s flying, feet hardly hitting the ground as he tears through the comuna, making his way once again toward the rooftops.

His best friend’s life is on the line.

And isn’t that funny? If you’d have asked Steve an hour ago, he’d have laughed in your face at the idea that Javi was anything more than his work partner. Javi’s an asshole. A self-righteous, arrogant, hypocritical, sell-you-to-the-fucking-cartels-on-a-whim cuntstain of a human being. Yeah, Steve can admit that Javier Peña is a decent agent. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. There’s also the fact that Javi knows all of the best dives in town, and that he’s always good for a drink after a long shift, and sure, maybe he’d stuck up for Steve that one time with Messina, but friends? Yeah, that’s a long shot.

Except now, it’s not.

The stairwell Steve’s been climbing ends abruptly. He’s standing on a three foot square platform, looking up at a ten foot wall.

Shit, shit, shit.

Javi is right there, just on the roof above him.

Steve doesn’t think, he just leaps, the tin edges slicing his palms as he scrambles for the ledge. He kicks his feet hard, banging his shins with enough force to bruise as he rolls gracelessly onto the roof. Later, when Steve tells Connie that it was a feat of athleticism that would put the best of his college buddies to shame, he’s not lying.

And there’s Javi. 

Steve drops to his knees beside the body. Javi’s lying crumpled on the ground, curled on his side in a fetal position that is far more vulnerable than Steve is comfortable witnessing. 

“Javi?” Steve calls, shaking his partner hard as he hauls him over onto his back. “Shit.”

Javi doesn’t answer. The concrete beneath him is a pool of red blood. It’s smeared all over Javi’s pink shirt, an ominous, dark stain originating from somewhere near his shoulder. 

And it’s still pumping steadily from the wound. 

Steve catches a breath, reminds himself that this is a good thing. Dead people don’t bleed. 

Automatically, he presses one hand over the most saturated part of Javi’s shirt. Hold pressure. It’s basic first aid, but basic first aid is prioritized in the academy because it saves lives. Steve punches his palm into Javi’s shoulder for all he’s worth. 

But Javi’s still not moving, not responding. Carefully, Steve cups his free fingers gently over Javi’s mouth and nose. Soft, quick breaths pulse hot against his skin, and a tight bubble of tension bursts in Steve’s chest. 

Javi is breathing. Thank fuck, Javi is breathing.

Blood spurts through the cracks Steve’s fingers, warm and deep crimson, and Steve has a sudden, wild thought that it’s much more slippery than he’d have thought, more like motor oil than water. He’s seen blood in this quantity before, many, many times, but never this close, never fresh and red on his bare hands, never gushing in slick rivulets from the body of his partner and friend. 

Steve flashes back to that one sting gone horribly wrong in Miami, to being held at gunpoint in the doorway while Brady bled out onto the dirty motel carpet. 

He shakes it away. Not this time. Never again.

He shifts his position, tilting Javi’s head to the opposite side so he won’t choke and exposing the wound so he has better access to it. He can’t see the edges, and hell, he’s definitely not looking, but the blood seems to be coming from the juncture of Javi’s neck and shoulder, just to the edge of the kevlar strap of his tac vest. 

Fuck.

An inch to right, and Javi would have walked away with a massive bruise, maybe a broken clavicle. An inch to the left, and it would have all been over.

“Of course it would be your shoulder, Javi,” Steve bites out between gritted teeth. It it were an arm or a leg, he’d have already used his belt to make a tourniquet. But that’s not an option here, and by the way Javi’s breathing - fast, quick little pants that are quickly turning his lips blue, Steve wonders if there might be something wrong with Javi’s lung, too.

Fucking Christ. 

“God, get here already,” Steve mutters under his breath as he presses both palms into Javi’s chest. Shit, the bullet’s gone all the way through. Steve can feel the heat of Javier’s blood seeping into his jeans. 

‘All bleeding eventually stops,’ he remembers Connie saying after a terrible shift at Ryder. Her tone had been flippant and thoroughly blasé, cynical like the humor of all nurses who work trauma call is cynical. At the time, Steve had brushed it off as a one-off, a ruthless, humorless joke made out of frustration. 

With a slow dawn of horror, he suddenly understands exactly what Connie had meant. 

“Fuck,” Steve mutters desperately, pinning Javi’s body between his knee and his fists, locking his elbows and pressing both hands as hard as he’s able into the wound in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. 

His wild thought of ‘where the hell are they going to land the chopper?’ is cut off as Javi shifts and groans.

Steve panics. Javi’s lost a lot of blood, far, far too much blood. It’s all over Steve, all over Javi, all over the concrete, and Steve has just now gotten it under control. 

Javi needs to be still, dammit. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move, Javi, you hear me?” Steve’s voice is brittle as he leans in close to Javi’s ear. 

And oh god, somehow, the situation is suddenly so much worse now that Javi isn’t completely out, now that Steve knows that in some capacity, Javi is aware of what’s happening to him. 

Fuck.

But Javi just huffs one shuddering breath, and then goes so completely still that Steve’s heart lurches in his chest. 

“And don’t you fucking die, either, you hear?” Steve shouts into his ear.

Really, that’s more important than anything. 

Javi grunts something in response, a word that Steve, in his frazzled state, doesn’t quite catch. Later, when he relives this day over and over again, Steve thinks it might have been “asshole.”

The ensuing silence is stifling. They lay there on that rooftop for an eternity, Javi sandwiched between Steve’s fists and his knee, Steve’s back and arms burning with tension. Javi’s breathing speeds and shallows. His entire face is ashen now. Little beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead. His blood is cooling, congealing dark between Steve’s fingers.

“Please, god, please.” Steve hasn’t prayed in years, but this is different. Important. He’s not asking for anything for himself. Not for Connie, even.  

He’s begging for Javi’s life.

In the distance, the blades of a chopper are beat, beat, beating against the wind.

LINK TO SPACEDAD’S MASTERLIST

[violetwolfraven]

Hi uhh i request some ikeshot:D with “well ,   hello  sleeping  beauty .   you  fell  asleep  on  me ..” and “i’m  sorry  to  wake  you  up ,   but  i  really  need  someone  to  talk  to .” take your time btw. I know how hard it is to write when mental illness and school is constantly kicking your butt. Love you lots bro!!

Ily too Rai! Let’s do some soft canon era bois, taking place a little over a year after the strike. I haven’t written anything from Hotshot’s perspective yet, so I’ll try that for this!

Tw: non-graphic stab wound, teenagers mentioning sex the way teenagers do, implied period-typical homophobia.

...

Hotshot wasn’t the kind of idealistic kid to believe in magic, or fairytales. He knew ‘happily ever after’ didn’t exist in real life and pretending these things ever really happened was just setting yourself up for disappointment.

But looking at the boy dozing on his chest might make him think twice.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Ike had entered his life by mistake and stayed there out of spite, and Hotshot didn’t by any means want him gone, but it did scare him how much that Manhattan boy had changed things.

Before, he’d always had this anger burning at his insides, always ready to jump out and hurt someone. More than once, it had hurt someone. Hotshot had hurt a lot of people. Spot had even had to stop him from killing someone once, and even after the lecture on how killing was never worth it if you can avoid it, never, it hadn’t really sunk in how the other Brooklyn kids were prone to violence, too, but not as much as him.

He’d never known how to explain that if he didn’t hurt other people, the hurt inside him never stopped even for a second. Fights were the only kind of distraction that worked, and consciously Hotshot had known how that mentality wasn’t sustainable, but been too dependent on it to stop.

But Ike... that annoying little shit was a different kind of fight, in some ways. He was probably the only one besides Spot that wasn’t even a little scared of Hotshot, and never had been. He liked to start stupid little arguments for no reason and altogether give Hotshot grief, but he’d back off if a topic was too sensitive. Talking to him relieved pressure, somehow. Gave that burning feeling somewhere to escape, but without hurting anyone.

Hotshot ended up in fights a lot less lately. The Littles were less wary about sneaking up on him. In general, his relationships with his friends were... better might be the wrong word, because things weren’t bad before, but the others were definitely less careful around him now, no longer seeming afraid he’d soak them for something stupid.

The fact that all that was because of Ike, it was... a little daunting. There was something magic about that. There was something magic about him.

It had hit Hotshot like a steam engine to the chest months ago that he was pretty sure he was in love with this boy, but he felt it in moments like this. The kind of softness of just taking advantage of an empty Lodging House to just share warmth and be close to one another.

The kind of softness that Hotshot had never experienced before, because he’d never really experienced love before.

It scared him a little that he didn’t know what love felt like, but he’d been calling what he felt for Ike ‘love’ in his head because it felt like what the other kids said love was like on the rare occasion they talked about that stuff.

He and Ike had never talked about it, and...

And Hotshot felt a sudden jolt of panic at how they probably should, because of why they even were in the Lodging House alone together today.

It was because Brooklyn had (of course) gotten in a territory dispute, and they’d had a rumble over it last night, and even though the deal had been that neither side would use weapons, Hotshot had somehow gotten stabbed in the side. No one would fess up, so neither side was sure by who.

The wound wasn’t especially deep, but it had bled a lot. It was bad enough that Spot had made Joey watch all the Littles to make sure none of them came in and saw it. If he didn’t know any better, Hotshot could have sworn their fearless leader was actually, legitimately scared for him.

He was fine now, they were pretty sure. Or, fine enough that he wasn’t bleeding anymore and it only hurt a little if he didn’t move too much.

But according to Vince’s grim statement earlier, all the older kids had thought he was going to die that night.

Which was why Spot had sent someone over to get Ike, knowing Hotshot would listen and actually stay in bed if it was him asking.

They were in the king’s private room, though Hotshot wasn’t sure how Spot had known the privacy might be a safe bet. He and Ike definitely hung out a lot, kind of flirted, cuddled sometimes, and whenever the Manhattan boy slept over, he slept in Hotshot’s bed, but they’d never actually done anything. They’d never had a talk about what they were, let alone Hotshot having told Spot about whatever it was.

That was what was making him so anxious now; the thought that they’d never talked about it. It had taken him until now to process the fact that he’d almost died last night, and it was really freaking him out that that had almost happened before...

Well, before a lot of things. Hotshot was only 15. There was shit he wanted to do. But the one he was thinking about right now was how he really needed to ask Ike exactly what their relationship was.

He felt warm and looked peaceful, where he was curled up against Hotshot’s left side to avoid the stab wound in his right. His head on his chest, making sure he stayed down and didn’t try to go selling.

As much as it pained him to disturb the peace on Ike’s face, Hotshot shook him awake.

He stirred immediately, and that sleepy expression caused a bloom of warmth in Hotshot’s heart.

“What? What happened?”

“Well, hello, sleeping beauty,” he joked, unable to stop himself from smiling, “You fell asleep on me. Welcome back to the land of the conscious.”

“Right,” Ike propped himself up with his elbow, “We was talkin’ ‘bout... what were we talkin’ ‘bout again? How long was I out?”

“A while.”

“Shit. You weren’t too bored without me to talk to, were ya?”

“Nah, I was fine,” Hotshot assured him, “I can survive a couple hours without ya, believe it or not.”

Ike chuckled, “Coulda fooled me.”

His voice wasn’t quite light as his fingers brushed along the bandage over Hotshot’s stab wound.

Now or never. He needed to get up the courage to bring this up right now or he’d end up waiting God knew how long.

“I’m sorry to wake you up,” Hotshot blurted, “But I really need someone to talk to. I need to talk to you. You specifically.”

Ike looked slightly worried, but nodded, “Okay, what is it?”

Do it now. Just ask him. Stop stalling.

“What am I to you?” he asked cautiously, “Like, as in with you and me. What are we?”

Ike clearly hadn’t been expecting that question, because he froze up for a second before trying to fake nonchalance.

He shrugged, “What do you wanna be?”

This was the kind of fight Hotshot wasn’t good at. The kind where both of them were dancing around what they actually wanted to say, fighting only not to be hurt.

Screw it. He just needed to say it.

“Lovers?” he internally groaned at how uncertain it sounded, “Sweethearts. Dammit—whatever word ya wanna use, I... I like you a lot, Ike. I wanna be with you.”

“Yeah... it feels weird, callin’ it either of those things,” Ike admitted, “But I want... that, too. The whole bein’ together thing. You.”

He was blushing, and he looked like something out of a fairytale in the sunlight from the window above them.

He was definitely making Hotshot think twice about not believing in magic.

“Uh, good,” he stammered, realizing he should probably stop staring and say something, “Good to know we want the same thing. I just asked cause we ain’t ever talked ‘bout what we are before and I figured it was better to know. ‘Specially since I think Spot thinks we’re fucking.”

Ike laughed nervously, “I think Race thinks that, too. He gives me weird looks when we run into each other over here. But yeah, you’re right. It’s better to know.”

He laid back down, putting his head back on Hotshot’s chest.

Hotshot kind of hoped he couldn’t hear how it made his heart race.

“Finch says he got his name cause he shot a live finch out of his slingshot once. I don’t believe him.”

Hotshot laughed aloud, and tried not to wince too much at how his stab wound twinged.

“I heard ‘bout that. It’s actually true. Spot keeps tabs on all the newsies worth knowin’ ‘bout, and Finch is one of the few of you Manhattan boys that might actually be a threat in a fight.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“Not about Spot knowin’ shit ‘bout everybody, but there’s no way Finch shot a fuckin’ bird out of his slingshot.”

“I’m tellin’ ya he did.”

“Did not.”

Hotshot grinned. This kind of petty, pointless argument to pass the time was part of why he was pretty sure he loved this boy.

[annerbhp]

how you get the girl

(Harry/Ginny, meet-cute, muggle AU)

the ice-skating ring is full of fumbling people, but Ginny finds one person in extra need of help

Hot Dad is back again, Ginny texts Demelza.

Putting down her phone, she sells a round of tickets to a loud group of teenagers, passing them off to Stephanie to get them set up with skates. Their cheeks are all red with the cold evening air, the sun having just dipped behind the buildings. Mariah Carey is crooning about Christmas over the slightly staticky speakers. It’s all perfectly cheery and lovely, and even Ginny can’t help but smile at it, this season long having been a favorite of hers, no matter how old she gets.

Which probably explains how after working full days, she still lets herself get dragged into volunteering at the seasonal outdoor ice-skating rink set up in the old city center as a way to earn money for various local charities. She’s an easy mark, which her friend running the event never fails to capitalize on.

The obvious first-date skaters are the best in the evenings, the romanticism of the idea wearing off real quick the first time one of them knocks the other down and their asses get real familiar with the unforgiving ice. Ginny likes the look on their faces when she offers them one of the walkers little kids use sometimes.

Her phone buzzes with Demelza’s response.

Okay either bang him or stop texting me because this is pathetic and you know it.

Ginny sighs. I imagine his exceptionally beautiful wife would have a problem with that.

The wife you have no idea if exists or not? Seriously, I don’t have time for this. You’re cut off talking about this.

I need a new friend.

Ha! Good luck with that.

Ginny tosses her phone down in disgust. The worst part is that Demelza is right. This is beneath her dignity. But Hot Dad has been here with his son the last four nights straight, and selling tickets and collecting used equipment isn’t all that engrossing, especially considering Ginny is one of dozens of volunteers. Meaning she has a lot of time to stare and let her imagination get away with her. And her imagination’s favorite subject these days is Hot Dad. Once again here tormenting her as he wobbles around the rink with his son. 

She can’t really tell how old he is, a knit beanie always pulled low over his head and a beard covering his face. He’s got glasses too. None of which makes it hard to see how attractive he is. (One time he forgot his scarf and she nearly had to take a break when he laughed at his son and the tendons in his neck stood out as he threw his head back and she thought how lick-able it looked.) He’s on the lanky side, which on skates occasionally makes him look like a newborn wobbly-legged foal, and even that is somehow charming.

Or Ginny is just really hard up and needs to get a life. Which is what Demelza loves to say. Also that Ginny is a workaholic. And sure, it’s been a hot minute since her last date. She just has a lot going on right now. Besides, this guy is definitely more than likely married.

So instead, she is going to happily, harmlessly ogle Hot Dad while he stumbles around the rink with his son, who has shown little to no improvement over the last week. In fact, if possible, they both seem to be getting worse.

Fifteen minutes later, Hot Dad nearly takes out a pair of teenaged girls, blocking the entire flow of skaters as he stops to thoroughly apologize while his son stands nearby and nearly laughs himself down onto the ice. And then actually goes down onto the ice.

Jesus.

Talk about the blind leading the blind. They’re going to cause a pile-up, she tells herself. It’s the only reason she grabs a pair of skates and heads over to help.

Really.

“Excuse me,” she says as she approaches.

He looks up and, shit, his eyes are like the most intense green she’s ever seen, and also, he’s definitely younger than she first thought, closer to her own age. But also young enough that he must have been Hot Young Teen Dad when his kid was born. But still just as hot as she imagined him to be.

Dammit.

“Not that I don’t admire your persistence,” she says, helping the kid to his feet, “but you two are rapidly becoming a hazard.”

Hot Dad straightens his glasses, looking sheepish. “We definitely are. But it’s an emergency, I’m afraid.”

“An emergency?” Ginny asks, trying to ignore the thrill of finally hearing his voice for the first time. And what a nice voice it is.

He grins. “Ted’s trying to impress a girl.”

“Harry!” the kid shrieks, looking mortified.

Ginny blinks, both cataloging Hot Dad’s name—Harry—and noticing the strange use of it by his son. Maybe he’s in that rebellious teenage phase where he calls his parents by their first names?

He’s still wearing gloves, dammit. Not that it matters. She doesn’t have time for Hot Maybe Married Dad right now.

Really.

“And you’re somehow supposed to help with that?” she shoots back before she can think better of it.

But rather than looking offended, Hot Dad—Harry—just grins back at her. “A hopeless case, I suppose.”

“Depends on how this is meant to impress a girl.”

“He’s going to ask her out for the first time,” Harry says, smiling at his son as Ted looks even more mortified.

“To go ice skating,” Ginny surmises. “Have you considered the movies, or frozen yogurt or, I dunno, anything not on ice?”

Ted shakes his head, looking earnest in the way only a young teen can. “It has to be ice skating.”

Ginny sighs. “I suppose I could give you some pointers. At least keep you from being a total disgrace.”

The kid gives her a dubious look. “You think you could?”

Oh, now it’s on. “You doubt me?” she asks, pushing back on her skates. Without another word, she does a quick tick around the circle, doing the second half backwards. With a quick spin, she comes to stop in front of them at the last possible moment in a showy shower of ice shavings.

Harry looks impressed, eyebrows lifted. “Were you a skater?”

“Hockey,” she says succinctly, used to people making assumptions. Then again, she’s hardly a delicate thing to be twirling around in tutus. Not that she couldn’t if she wanted to, thank you very much. But she’s more into smacking people with sticks than doing toe loops.

“I think this is your best hope, Ted,” Harry says. “The ice angels have smiled down on you.”

Ginny bites back the urge to clarify that she is in no way an angel and would be happy to prove it to him. Instead, she focuses on the kid, who she can’t look down on all that much considering he’s nearly at her height already.

“What do you say?”

Ted lets out a breath. “Please.”

She smiles. “Okay. But before we start, I need to know one thing. This girl you’re asking out. What are you going to do if she says no?”

His eyes widen, giving Harry a panicked look. “Oh, god. Is she going to say no?”

He pats his shoulder. “I think she’s more trying to make sure you aren’t going to use her powers for evil.”

“Pretty much,” Ginny says.

“I don’t understand,” Ted says, brow furrowed.

Ah, the innocence of youth.

“For example.” Harry turns towards Ginny. “I don’t think I got your name?”

“Ginny,” she says, trying to ignore the quiver she feels as his gaze falls intently on her.

He smiles, holding out his hand. She slips her gloved hand into his, shaking firmly. “Nice to meet you, Ginny. I’m Harry.”

“Hello, Harry,” she says, their hands still clasped between them.

He places his other hand on the back of hers, the gesture somehow endearing even as it’s terribly old-fashioned. “Would you go to dinner with me?”

She nearly blurts out a yes before remembering that they are playacting. And he’s probably married. And they’re standing in front of his son. “Sorry,” she says. “Dating customers is against the rules.”

Harry smiles at her—fuck, that is not okay. “Okay,” he says, letting go of her hand. “Sorry if I bothered you. I hope you have a great day.”

“You, too,” she says.

Harry turns back to his son. “There you go.”

“But that wasn’t a no,” Teddy points out.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It was. If someone wants to go out with us, they’ll say yes. She doesn’t have to explain why or justify it. Plus, do you really want to go out with someone you had to convince?”

Okay, and now Ginny is not just lusting after him, but a little bit in love with the asshole too.

“No,” Ted says, frowning. “I guess not. But what would you do now?”

Harry puts a hand to his chest like he’s nursing a painful wound. “We slink back to our caves like men, feel sorry for ourselves for a little bit, and then pretend it never happened. And definitely don’t ask again.”

“But she’s at my school! I’ll see her every day. Won’t that be weird?”

Ginny expects a pep talk, don’t worry, of course she’ll say yes, but instead Harry slings an arm over Ted’s shoulders. “It might be weird for a while, I admit. But don’t be a pain in the ass and you’ll both get over it. Of course, she might also say yes. Is the potential weirdness and embarrassment worth the chance that she might say yes?”

A look of determination crosses his features. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “It’s worth her maybe saying no, if it means she might also say yes.”

“Well then, I think you have your answer.”

And now Ginny is pretty much fully in love with him. Ugh, her life is the worst.

“Come on,” she says, gesturing for Ted to come closer. “Let’s try a few rounds.”

She spends the next fifteen minutes giving him a few key pointers, enough that he’s not a complete hazard, but he’s still a long way from dating form. For one, the kid appears to have two left feet. Which, once he warms up to her a bit (and informs her that he much prefers to go by Teddy), his clumsiness pales in comparison to his general politeness and wicked sense of humor. She’s not sure what he’d say if she said those were going to go a lot further for him than his ice-skating skills.

They eventually come back to a stop next to Harry where he waits against the wall off to one side. They’ve just made it when Teddy careens over and nearly face plants into the ice. Harry reaches out for him, only to almost lose his own footing.

What a pair, Ginny thinks, not even bothering to hold back her laughter.

“Your son seems to have inherited your clumsiness,” she says once they are all steadily on their feet again.

Harry laughs, beaming at Teddy, but the kid just lets out a dismissive sound. “He’s not my dad. As if.”

“You could only be so lucky,” Harry says, ruffling the kid’s hair. “Remus may be smarter than me, but I am far better at pretty much anything requiring coordination.”

“That remains to be seen,” Ginny says, Teddy letting out an appreciative laugh.

Harry lifts an eyebrow, like maybe she’s twinged his ego. “Ice is not my natural environment.”

“Really,” she drawls. “Then what is your natural environment?”

“Pretty much anything but ice. I’m not picky,” he says, and somehow the unspoken arrogance is attractive. 

Ginny tilts her head to the side. “I think I’d need proof to be able to judge that adequately.”

“Would you,” he says, voice lowering.

Fuck, the ice should be melting in here.

They hold each other’s gazes a bit longer than is probably proper, Teddy looking between them.

Ginny gives herself a little shake, turning back to the kid. “So, Teddy. I have some bad news and some good news.”

“Okay,” he says, looking wary.

“The bad news is that winter is likely to end before you master ice skating. I mean, you can keep trying. You’ll get better just through practice. But it’s going to take a while.”

He sighs, apparently not horribly surprised to hear it. “And the good news?”

“Well, why do you want to take this girl ice skating?”

“Because she loves ice skating.”

“Is she good?”

He nods. “She’s really good.”

“There’s your good news. And because I like you, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Tell her you’d like to take her ice skating because you know she likes it so much. And then tell her that you aren’t very good, but you’re willing to try and you’d appreciate it if she’d help you. Basically, what I am saying is don’t try to hide that you aren’t great at this yet. Just focus on enjoying being there with her. Honest is so much better than cool.”

She expects him to fight that, but instead he looks thoughtful, eventually nodding. “Okay.” He turns to Harry. “Can we be done now? My butt is so cold I can’t feel it anymore.”

Harry ruffles his hair again. “Yeah. I’ll take you home.”

Teddy heads off towards the exit, and he has improved at least a little bit, Ginny notices as she follows slightly behind. Harry keeps pace with her, even as he wobbles his way along, never more than an arm’s length from the edge.

“That was some good advice,” he says. 

“Well,” Ginny says, “what’s the point of suffering through all that teenage angst if not to try to save the younger generation from repeating your mistakes?”

Harry laughs. “I hear that.”

They sit on the benches, pulling off their skates.

“I can take your skates here,” she says, stepping back behind the counter, ignoring the person already waiting to run this part of the booth.

He hands the skates up over the counter. His gloves are off now and she can see his perfectly naked fingers. Interesting.

“Thanks,” Teddy says.

“Good luck!” she calls out after him.

He waves, heading for the exit.

Harry lingers another moment, pulling his beanie off and revealing dark hair in complete disarray. “I’m realizing I’ve backed myself into a corner,” he says, leaning against the counter.

“How exactly?” she asks.

He drags a hand through his hair. “Because I can’t very well ask you out again without being a hypocrite.”

“Hmm,” she says, nodding solemnly at him. “That is a tricky spot you’ve put yourself in. I suppose sometimes it’s hard to live by our principles.”

He gives her a sad, lopsided smile. “You have no idea.” He pushes back from the counter. “It was nice meeting you, Ginny.”

“You, too, Harry,” she says.

He turns and walks away. Ginny eyes his ass, and, god, it really is a thing of beauty. He doesn’t even look back, and he’s going to do it. He’s really just going to leave her alone.

Amazing.

She counts three long beats before coming around to the other side of the counter and calling out after him. “Harry.”

He stops, turning back to look at her, waiting for her to catch up.

“For the record,” she says, “dinner never would have worked.”

“Sure,” he says, hands in his pockets.

“I already ate, and I’m stuck here until nine,” she says. “How about I buy you a drink instead?”

“You sure?” he says, voice slightly teasing. “Because I’d hate to have a date who had to be convinced.”

“Oh, believe me,” Ginny says. “You don’t need to do any convincing.”

He looks delighted, a smile lighting up his face, and Ginny is still having a hard time believing he’s real. “I’ll swing back around at nine them.”

She nods. “Looking forward to seeing you in your natural environment,” she drawls, giving him a wink.

He almost immediately nearly bumps into a trash can.

She lifts an eyebrow at him, but he just shakes his head. “Still shaking off the ice-skating legs.”

“Of course,” she says.

“Harry!” Teddy shouts from the exit.

“Coming!” Harry yells back. He looks at her. “Nine.”

She nods. “Nine.”

Giving her one last lingering look, he turns, giving her a great view as he walks away. Once out on the sidewalk, she can see Harry wrap his arm around Teddy’s neck, giving him a playful noogie as the kid fights him off.

Ginny smiles, watching them disappear before heading back to her station.

Back behind the counter, she picks up her phone, pulling up her conversation with Demelza.

Hot dad is not a dad at all, is gloriously single, and I am seeing him at nine tonight.

Get it, girl.

[samwritesforyou]

We’re gonna be okay

Diego x reader

Summary: You and Diego worked out a system for a situation if he ever comes to your place while being in the highest form of distress and needs your help. He assured you it won’t happen often. Until one night, it finally did.

A/N: i feel like i’ve read the whole tumblr dot com worth of diego x reader fanfics and yet i still wanted more, so the desperate need to finally write something myself has been fulfilled. i would actually love to take requests, so if you want, dont hesitate to message/ask me! im ready to write fics and headcanons :) (my blog might seem new but ive been on tumblr for years and years and i finally dedicated a new blog to mostly reader inserts, either my own or reblogging others)

Warnings: Mentions of a panic attack, gender neutral reader

Wordcount: 3,350

There was a knock on the door.

It was pretty late, but not too late for it to be Diego yet.

Or so you thought.

You got up kinda lazily from a comfortable chair you had situated in the corner of a room, at first designed mainly for reading or napping, but ending up doing absolutely whatever you could on the spot. Eating pizza, watching netflix, browsing through the internet after long working hours that you put in into your tiny art selling business.

You slightly opened the door and already plastered a semi-fake smile for a possible neighbor, but in front of you stood Diego.

Your dear friend, who was at the moment soaked from the rain outside, with big eyes, fast breathing and bloody hands.

Bloody hands?!

“Hello to you too, friend!” you said quite worried, quickly patting him down for signs of any physical pain. For the first time in a while he seemed fine, unscarred.

Your eyes finally went up, literally scanning his face but it was completely unreadable.

His eyes were wide and he looked as if he couldn’t comprehend what was going on around him.

You looked down again and took his fists into your hands. His own palms unclenched and you could see that they were heavily bloodied.

“Diego.. whose blood is it?”

No answer.

You rushed him inside and closed the door behind the two of you, facing the damn vigilante again.

“Diego, I need to know who’s blood is on your hands,” your voice grew steadier as you knitted your brows together in worry and confusion.

Only then the guy decided to move his arms and you noticed how shaky he is. He connected his two index fingers in the form of a cross, pressing it to his chest.

Your own eyes went wide now as you stumbled back a few steps and your mind went blank.

.

.

.

You instantly remembered a night that happened a few years back. He has come in crumbling through your window and was obviously in some new form of distress, that you couldn’t quite understand yet.

“Diego?” it seemed like your voice didn’t reach his ears, so you tried calling out his name again, getting up from the couch and patting him lightly on the body, to determine any sign of an injury.

It looked like there was none, so you tried to reach his gaze that was somewhat absentminded, all over the place, scanning everything but not meeting your eyes.

He was a tough guy, and you knew it. You knew that if you want to get answers, you need to either get them yourself or make yourself heard, until he cannot ignore you any longer.

“Diego Hargreeves, what is going on?” your voice was soft yet determined.

His dark orbs finally stopped on your face and he just shook his head, his breathing oddly fast for a man who was just simply standing.

You continued to push. You didn’t have the best day either, and to be interrupted at 1am by his visit was nothing new, but you couldn’t let him have this behaviour. Even though you’re friends, that didn’t automatically mean that he could do whatever he wanted.

Throughout the whole night he didn’t say a thing, but when you started adding volume to your voice, he.. he just broke down.

That night, you’ve witnessed Diego experience a panic attack. Caused by yourself.

You couldn’t fall asleep that night, even after you eventually calmed him down and the only thing that was left to do for you was to watch him sleep and slowly rubbing circles on his exposed arm out of the blanket.

It felt like neons before you noticed a first ray of sunshine drawing from the half-closed curtains, making you spring to your feet and drag your ass to the kitchen, trying to think of what to do for breakfast.

When you figured the recipe out and finished cooking, Diego was already up and joined you near the kitchen counter, next to which you had two stools.

He settled on one of them, looking at you.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you couldn’t muster anything better, so you just put a plate in front of him and then sat next to his side, simply digging into your portion of scrambled eggs.

“About last night, y/n..” he drifted off, probably at first deciding that it’s better to fill his stomach a little bit.

In the meantime you didn’t dare to speak up and just waited for him to say something, anything.

When he finished his meal, he finally turned to you with a sigh.

“You know that one guy I told you ‘bout? That we.. we do some vigilante shit together from time to time?”

You just nodded, not meeting his eyes.

“Well. I guess I could count him as a close friend. You know.. and,” this was followed by a slight pause and clearing of the throat.

“He died yesterday. I couldn’t save him.”

Your eyes immediately shot up to Diego and all that vulnerability and hurt that you’ve clearly seen yesterday just overtaking him were completely gone. Now present only a strong facade that he mastered whenever he needed to hide from showing emotions. You hated it.

“Shit, Diego..” you spoke quietly and softly, all the words seemed to have left you in all the things unsaid in your throat. But you tried to continue.

“I’m sorry. And I’m also sorry for pushing you over the edge. I.. I didn’t know what happened so I just acted how we would normally do,” he smirked at that, merely for a second, but you still caught it.

“Look, I.. I know, “ he simply said and then it felt as if he was weighting pros and cons of telling you something else that was clearly on his chest.

“You always help me out. Every single night I come to you.. Why do you do it, y/n?” Diego’s eyes were steadily turned your way.

At the sudden question you raised an eyebrow, “well, I.. I care about you.”

He lightly bit his lower lip and turned his gaze away, clearly thinking about something really hard.

“Okay,” he finally said, “y/n, do you think I could ask you for a favour then?”

At that your eyes met and you felt nervous, for some reason.

You really liked him. Not just like a friend. But you understood that there probably won’t be a chance for you two to ever become a couple (mostly considering that you didn’t believe that he could feel about you this way), so you settled for friendship anyways, since you two really got along well.

And having this handsome tough guy as a friend? Damn, just that is already some kind of luck swinging your way.

But your feelings of course meant that.. you’d do more for him than what you’d do just for a friend. You would get out of your comfort zone just to help him with injuries or hear him talk about his girlfriend (at the time, now they were broken up) and how they argued so much that he ended up on the streets and didn’t really want to go to his lonely place at the gym.

And you took him in. You always did. And since the day you became friends you always care for him.

And you’d care now once again.

“What is it?” in your tone danced a question, troubled with what he might ask for.

“Well, yesterday-“ he cut himself from finishing and cleared his throat, starting over.

“I imagine we’re gonna be friends for a long time, right?”

You just pushed your brows up with a small nod in affirmation.

“I never had.. anyone, really, to help me with the states I often got into,” you immediately thought of Eudora, wasn’t his ex-girlfriend supposed to be his support pillar? Or is he just making you feel sorry for him-

“Or I didn’t ever trust anyone that much, you know,” oh, okay, that kind of explains that then.

“And I guess.. I trust you enough? To share this?” he talked quietly and mumbled a lot so you realised soon you won’t be able to hear him at all.

You grabbed his hands with yours and caught his attention this way.

You were never really touchy together, but occasional hugs and even holding hands was kind of a standard for you from time to time.

His eyes met yours again and you cursed yourself for your heartbeat getting faster. This is not an appropriate moment to get butterflies in your stomach, dammit.

“I’m listening, Diego,” you confirmed, nodding again.

“Okay. It’s- it’s just really h-hard to talk about this,” he stuttered a bit, but with the next breath continued again, “When there’s some situation that’s just completely fucked up, like losing someone close to me, or- or somethin’ else, I don’t know.. I finish what I need at the scene where it happened but when I come home I just,” he breathed some air in and you felt his hands squeeze yours a bit tighter, “I just break down, you know? Sometimes it’s just all too much for me and I don’t know how to deal with it and I would just wanna.. someone to hold me, I guess? Otherwise when someone’s trying to talk at me or somethin’ I just get even more worked up and it’s even worse.”

It all started to come together in your mind. Even though it sounded really strange to hear Diego talk about things like.. wanting to be held and shit. But you always guessed there’s a far bigger sweetheart and a soft boy underneath all those harness and knives.

You tried to pick your words carefully.

“So when I started to ask you shit.. You just flipped. Basically because I was talking at you a lot and you couldn’t take it anymore, right?”

He sighed and looked somewhere up, nodding bit by bit.

“Yeah, yep. That was it.”

You clapped at his hands lightly, to bring his focus back again and he looked at you and mustered a sad, faint smile.

You did the same. In the world you lived in, unforeseen and unfortunate events were happening left and right and thinking about his childhood and everything.. no wonders he developed such a huge reaction and coping mechanism to something catastrophic happening.

“That’s okay, Diego. I’m here for you, I mean it. Let’s just talk about some things what I should and shouldn’t do when you come here in that state, alright? I just want you to feel comfortable.”

“Alright. Thank you, y/n,” he was looking down now, the whole morning kinda failing to meet your gaze and just rubbed his thumb across your hand, which send you heart into a race again.

You slowly let go of him, making an excuse to go wash the dishes.

After a while you looked behind you where he sat and said, “We also need some sort of a sign that you can easily show me, since you’re not really talkative when you get like this.”

Apparently he already used said “sign” somewhere, because he had it on the ready.

It was his hands clutching in fists, index fingers crossing each other in a form of a cross, pressed to his chest.

“Something like this. But don’t worry, I don’t think it’ll happen often. That would be really sad,” he laughed a little and then looked at you somewhat longingly and you averted your eyes back to the sink, nodding.

.

.

You almost forgot about that and now it all come flooding back.

Something terrible must’ve happened. You were panicking, but you had to stay strong, for him.

He was still standing in your hallway, with a crossed index fingers pressed to his chest.

“Okay, okay..” you mumbled more to yourself than to him, taking his hands into yours and looking him up and down.

He really seemed.. disconnected. It was kind of scary and you tried so hard not to think about what happened. Or about who died.

“Here, come with me, Diego,” you led him by the hand towards your couch as he was holding onto you, but his usual grip was gone.

You both ended up on a sofa and you really didn’t know how to act around him now, because.. he didn’t talk, didn’t look at you but when he did, his eyes were wide and big and he just seemed suddenly like a small boy to you.

Hopefully he won’t remember this tomorrow, you thought and tried to smile a little bit at him.

“Okay. Can you get your hands up for me, baby boy?” You’ve decided to approach this situation as if you were just babysitting an overgrown child.

Because nothing bad happens to children normally, right? And if you kept thinking about him as usual grown man Diego, you’d lose your mind in the process, wanting to scream and shake him by the shoulders until he spills you what happened.

Being Diego’s friend pushed you to new limits each day, truly.

He didn’t bat an eyelid at your tone change and word choosing, just obliging and putting his hands up.

You helped him to get his knives down and put his black turtleneck over his head, so now he sat shirtless right next to you, hands still smeared with blood.

Goddamit the blood!

You took him by the elbows and lead Diego to the bathroom, where you helped to get the red out of his hands. At the sight of blood dripping down into the sink you deciphered a whimper from him, even through the sound of running water and looked up.

Diego couldn’t stop looking down at his hands and tears were running down his cheeks.

You quickly took his face into your wet hands from the water and forced him to look away and lock his gaze with yours.

“Hey, don’t look at it, okay? It’ll only make you stressed. Until I’m done you can just close you eyes, okay?”

“Oh-okay,” he said and just closed his eyes here and there.

You sighed and tried to finish washing his hands as fast as possible, cursing under your breath pretty often.

“I’m sorry..” you heard him mumble and when you looked up, his eyes were still shut.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, right? Don’t worry. You’re safe now,” you smiled as you were already wrapping his hands in a towel and his eyelashes fluttered, eyes opening.

You stayed looking at each other for a second longer than necessary, but then you already lead him away to the bedroom area, where you actually tucked him in, wrapping in a soft blanket and then rushed to the kitchen, grabbing a few cookies and then leaving it on a plate next to him on the night table. 

 You almost made yourself comfortable on the couch, when he suddenly called out your name from the bed.

You sprung to your feet, thinking he’s actually hurt but you didn’t notice or that- “Can you... stay with me? P-please?” he asked, disrupting your train of thought. You did expect this, but still felt really shy about that.

Diego is vulnerable right now and does need your help and presence though.

And there wouldn’t be anything you wouldn’t do for him.

“Sure,” and after this simple answer you carefully climbed in next to him covering you both with a blanket and he curled up closer to you, almost immediately falling asleep.

From one point of view it felt like you wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, but from the other one.. you actually fell asleep just as fast as he did.

.

.

To nobody’s surprise you woke up first and actually flinched at the sight of sleeping Diego inches from your own face.

Your mind went running with ideas what happened and what’s going on until you realised the real deal and your brain caught up to yesterday’s shenanigans.

It was a wild ride and you were thankful that now it’s - most probably - over.

Your eyes were subconsciously scanning his face, until you realised what you’re doing, but you didn’t stop even then.

You’ve never been this close to his face yet and now you could admire and explore every part of it.

Having feelings for a friend that’s laying in the same bed with you at the moment is really not the healthiest thing that could’ve happened to you, huh..

You actually froze and your heart started racing billion times faster when you realised that you have a weight of his arm around your waist, pulling you closer from his sleep.

He grunted and his nose was now in your hair, shuffling a little to get more comfortable.

You had no idea how to change positions, especially when being held by such a strong arm as his and you got a feeling like Diego might actually wake up just about now, so the best solution that came into your mind was to forcefully close your eyes shut and pretend that you’re still sleeping.

He did, indeed, wake up. You were suddenly pushed to the other side of the bed, arm disappearing from your waist and a waterfall of curses fell from his lips quietly.

You used up all your acting stamina to make a believable scene of you gaining your conscious from the deep slumber that you were obviously in, stretched your arms for a good effect and finally opened your eyes.

You immediately signed up for a staring contest as soon as you looked at him and smiled a little. His face remained unreadable but perhaps a little bit flustered?.. But you may be reading too much into it.

“Hi,” you said with a higher tone than intended and Diego just nodded at that.

You tried your luck by addressing the elephant in the room right away, you never liked ignoring the problems that were always looming over you, “care to tell me what happened yesterday?”

He drew a big sigh and rested his head back on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

You couldn’t stop looking at him. At first because you really wanted to know the mystery, but the longer you looked at him, the more you realised that you’re just admiring the beauty that he holds, until his words fell like a dead weight right onto your shoulders.

“I found Eudora’s body yesterday. I couldn’t get to the place in time and someone killed her.”

What?

It felt like what he said was simply a trick of your imagination. You liked Eudora yourself, she was a very intelligent and an interesting person, you two often hung out and that feeling didn’t cease even after you found out that she and Diego started dating.

And even when they broke up some months after, you still found your way to spend time with her. So did Diego.

You wanted to cry, but thought that it might be insensitive towards him, because he was much closer to her than you were, so you tried to swallow your forming tears down.

“I’m.. I’m so sorry, Diego..”

“It’s your loss too, I know it, y/n,” he looked at you with much softer look this time.

“Come here,” he said a little bit hesitantly and opened up one arm towards you.

This was unusual, but maybe last night’s events tore down some walls?.. Who knows.

You almost threw yourself into his embrace and once your forehead rested on his chest, you started crying.

From everything, honestly. There’s been problems at work, your seemingly unrequited feelings for Diego didn’t help much either and now you learned that you lost one of your friends.

He started rubbing circles on your back, just letting you get those emotions out, while you two were hugging each other on the bed in your apartment.

And as you slowly started to calm down, he said a gentle, “it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay”

[mtherhino]

One Side, Two lives

Chapter seven

YOU WHAT?!

First Previous Next

Warnings: cursing, suggestive comments, Remus

Remus was freaking out. He liked the fucking nerd of all people! The stupid tie wearing stick up his ass nerd! But he is smart, and he’s willing to explore the undiscovered weirdness of the world. Remus blushed slightly at his own thoughts.

“Dam you Logan Sanders, I did not need this today but apparently emotions say otherwise.” Remus grumbled to himself. He was currently sitting upside down on his bed in his room. Everything in his room had been hit by his mace at least once, so there were scratches on the bed post and a thousand holes in the fabrics of, well, everything.

           The duke grumbled and threw a dagger across the room at a target that was barely hanging on. The dagger struck the middle, just like all the others he had thrown that day. The duke sighed heavily.

Remus wasn’t one who really knew how to deal with emotions. He understood them pretty well, a nice thing about being intrusive thoughts is that he could understand situations and people pretty well since his mind never stoped for one second.

           So, taking that into consideration, the only way he knew how to deal with emotions was by destroying things, but he knew that wasn’t going to work this time, no matter how freaking frustrating that was for him. Its not like he can destroy his feelings or kill Logan. Though that would be easier, Remus grumbled in his mind.

           “Gah, stupid fucking feelings.” Remus groaned as he slipped of the bed, hitting his head on the floor. He laid there on the floor trying to figure out how to deal with this. He knew that Deceit wouldnt be any hep in this situation, he would probably just tell him to get over his feeling or that there was nothing to gain from these feelings. So that only left one option on who to talk to. Remus flipped over easily, and walked to his door, having to jump over the many random items on his floor.

           He waked though the door that led to the light sides corridor and went to Roman’s door, seeing Virgil along the way.

Well, might as well screw with someone while I’m here, Remus thought with a smirk. He snuck up behind the other side who was looking at Tumbler on his phone. Remus was pretty good at being quiet when he wanted to, so he was able to get right next to the shorter of the two without him knowing.

“What are you looking at emo?”Virgil jumped a foot in the air and screeched when he heard him. Remus fell on the ground laughing as Virgil turned to him, still looking like he’d seen a ghost or something. Once he recognized the threat as the duke, his startled expression turned into a scowl.

           “Really Remus?” The anxious side said. Remus was still dying of laughter on the ground.

“Dude what was that?! I literally just asked you a question and you practically flew into the air! HAHAHA!” Remus said, its been a while since he’s scared someone that badly.

           The smaller rolled his eyes, he didn’t find it very funny to scare people.

“What are you even doing here? I swear if you are here to give Thomas more nightmares-!” He didn’t get to finish as he jumped back as Remus jumped up, already holding his hands up in a surrendering manner.

“Chill Virge, I just came here to cause a little bit of chaos.” Remus gave a shrug, trying to sell the lie. “What can I say, I got bored bothering Deceit so I decided to come here and bother all of you.”  He smirked at the end of his sentence and Virgil narrowed his eyes at him.

           “You can’t honestly think I’ll let you get away with that.” Virgil said, trying to look intimidating, though it was pretty hard when the other person was a head taller than you. Remus grinned, coming up with an impromptu plan.

“Fine emo, if you can find me in the next 15 minutes, then I’ll leave. Ready? Go!” As Remus yelled the last word he popped out of the hallway and into Roman’s room, startling his brother half to death.

“Re?! What the hell are you doing here?!” Remus was about to answer him when Roman interrupted. “You know what, I don’t even care, I need to talk to you” Roman said, getting off of his bed. He had been panicking the entire day on what to do about his feelings and was actually planning on leaving his room to find Remus before he showed up.

           “Ok in a minute, my matter is more important!” Remus said. Roman completely understood, but all logical thinking was thrown out the window as soon as he had woken up that morning.

“Remus! I’m having a crisis right now!”

“Well so am I asshole! I’m having a gay crisis and I don’t know how to freaking handle it!” Remus said, now pacing around the room, his hands buried in his hair.

“Well I guess that puts us in the same boat since I’m also having a gay crisis!” Roman said, throwing his arms in the air. It took a minute for the words to sink in for both brothers, but once they did they turned to each other with incredulous looked on their faces.

“YOU WHAT?!”

“My brother, who thinks love is stupid and will gag at any romantic scene has a crush?!?!” Roman said disbelief evident in his voice.

“Um, my brother who barely leaves his room? Liking someone?! Why was I not informed of this immediately?!”

“What did you think I wanted to talk about? But that can wait, who do you have a crush on!” Roman said, his eyes practically shining because he got the chance to play matchmaker.

           Remus blushed, he hadn’t told anyone about his feelings, hell he had never even referred to his feeling for Logan as a crush until now. He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Um well, uh.” Dammit why am I nervous talking about this! I can literally talk about any freaking topic but this!The duke covered his face with his hands, now feeling like he had a hundred eyes on him, when in reality it was just one pair of eyes. He looked and saw his brother, practically jumping up and down.

           Remus sighed heavily, knowing that he had to actually tell Roman who his crush is if he wanted his help.

“It’s uh, its Logan” Remus mumbled the last part, nearly making it impossible for anyone to hear, but somehow the prince heard. To say he was surprised would be an understatement.

“Come again?” He asked his brother.

“It’s Logan!” Remus nearly shouted, his cheeks just ever so slightly pink. Roman thought this over for a second.

“Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting, but now that I think about it it kinda makes sense.” Roman said, his hand under his chin as he tried to figure out why he didn’t try to set the two up earlier.

           Remus on the other hand was kinda taken back.

“What?! How does it make sense?! I can’t even figure out why I like that dam nerd!” Remus said, wanting some kind of explanation. Roman looked over at his brother with a bit of a smile, figured that he wouldn’t be able to figure out why he would like someone. That was just Remus being, well, Remus.

“Well you both have this bit of,” Roman gestured to his brother, “weirdness to you.” After he finished his sentence Remus summoned a green pillow and nocked his brother in the face so that he fell on the bed.

           “What? It true you know, your both fascinated by the strange and disturbing.” Roman shrugged. Although it may have sounded like an insult, neither brother had ever had anything against the others interest, so Remus knew that Roman meant it as a joke.

           The green side sighed loudly, though he couldn’t really refute Roman’s point.

“Still, I didn’t even know I could feel,” Remus gestured widely in an amusing manner, making Roman snort, “feelings.” Remus was disgruntled and sat on Roman’s bed, a small scowl on his face. Roman noticed, it wasn’t like his brother to get upset about, well, anything. To be honest, he wasn’t sure on how to handle this, he usually wasn’t the one people came to for advice.

           Roman hummed slightly, as he sat up on the bed, grabbing one of the pillow to hold and lean his head on.

“How do you feel about, liking him” he asked his brother, carefully wording his question, though it still sounded stupid to him. Remus’s thought for a moment, he wasn’t sure how he felt.

“Confused. I’ve never liked someone before Ro, so this is kinda just confusing and I don’t know how to make sense of it.” The prince nodded, and although it wasn’t shown in any way, Remus knew he was telling him to continue. What could he say, they do have a tiny bit of that twin telepathy bullshit.

“Well I can see why I like Logan, he’s great! He likes learning about everything, and he’s able to keep up with my random stream of thoughts.” Although he didn’t know it, Remus had a soft smile on his face while he thought about Logan. “Like you said, he’s, weird.” The duke finished, thinking about how he and Logan had discussed what aliens would look like and why they would evolve to be that way. Almost everyone would have said that it didn’t matter to think of all the what ifs of the universe, but Logan seemed to disagree. Meanwhile, Roman was so very happy for his brother. He had never heard Re talk like that, there was clear admiration in his eyes and fondness in his voice.

“Ok, I never thought that I would say this, but you are adorable.” Roman said. Remus turned red from embarrassment and anger.

“Hey! No I’m not! I’m the scariest thing you will ever meet! I am in no way adorable!” Remus said, well, more like shouted. He pounded his fist onto the bed, making Roman go into a fit of laughter.

“You, you look like, hahaha! You look like a little kid that didn’t get a popsicle! Hahaha!” Roman said in between fits of laughter.

           Remus pouted a little bit and summoned a popsicle from the light sides fridge just to mess with Roman. Did it take a good bit of energy and make him kinda tired? Yes. Was it worth it to see the annoyed face of his brother? Also yes. Without a doubt. He smirked and chomped into the popsicle, smirking when he saw Roman’s horrified face.

           “How the hell did you just bite into literal ice!” Roman yelled, looking almost disgusted. Remus shrugged.

“You can create glitter whenever you want, I can bite into ice with no consequences.” Roman shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Where getting off track, back onto the subject of you and Logan’s love life.” Remus was so startled by how his brother had phrased that that he fell of the bed.  However he quickly jumped back his feet.

“Why must you phrase it like that!” Roman shrugged.

“I’m just speaking the truth dear brother.” Remus groaned and threw himself back onto the bad.

           “This still doesn’t help my problem.” Remus said, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow. He turned his head to face his brother. “What do I do with these feelings” Roman took a minute to think. Although Roman was the romantic side, that didn’t mean he was actually good with how to get a significant other. That being said, he did have a small idea of what people naturally like and their emotions, especially when it involved the other sides.

           “Well, are you trying to get him to eventually go on a date with you?” Roman asked, it was an important thing to know if he was going to help. Remus blushed a little and rubbed the back of his neck. He hated not feeling like his usual cocky and invincible self.

“I mean, I’m not against the idea in any way.” He said. Roman smiled, completely understanding his brother. They where both clueless morons when it came to expressing feelings, so over the years they learned how to read each other better so that words weren’t the only way they could communicate.

“In that case, I would try to take it slow, maybe leave a lot of hints so that Logan can figure out that you like him on his own. I mean it’s clear how much that man likes puzzles so I think that might be the best way to go about it.” The red side said. “On the other hand, you could be direct about it. Logan, as smart as he is, doesn’t easily understand feelings. If you wanted to, you could try to do a bit of both.” Roman suggested, wanting to help. Remus had helped him out more times in the past than he could count, (although the prince had helped the duke many times as well) and he wanted to pay back that debt.

Remus considered all of this, trying to think off a plan.

“So I should try to show Logan how I feel about him, but tell him my feelings sooner rather than latter because, as you put it, he can be an idiot when it comes to feelings?” Roman laughed a bit, imagining his friends reaction if he knew that they had said he wasn’t the all knowing being that he thought he was.

“Pretty much, I just think that could work, but of course you don’t have to if you don’t think it will work.”  The duke shook his head.

“No I think that is the best plan. It better than the one I came up with anyways.” Roman raised an eyebrow at that.

“What was your plan?”            The dark side shrugged.

“To throw sharp objects and run out of the room whenever I see him.” Roman looked like he had seen a book that told a story by smell instead of actual words

“I can’t even tell if your being serious or not.” Remus smiles at that.

“Isn’t that the best thing about me”. Roman was about to give a retort when they both heard footsteps running towards Roman’s room. Remus quickly hid under the bed in case the whoever it was didn’t want to have a dark side around. Just as he was hidden form view the princes’s door flew open, the anxious side standing in the doorway.

           “Roman! Have you seen Remus! I lost a bet and now I can’t find him anywhere! Who knows what chaos he could be causing!” The purple side shouted frantically. Well that’s rather rude, Remus thought, I haven’t even caused an ounce of chaos since I’ve been here!  Roman got off the bed and walked over to Virgil, feigning  concern. It wasn’t that he wasn’t worried for the smaller side, its just that he knew for a fact that Remus hadn’t done anything so there was no real reason to be scared.

“Woah Virgil calm down.” Roman said as he put a hand on the hooded sides shoulders, easing the anxiety in Virgil just a little bit. “What kind of bet did you make?” Roman asked, wondering what Remus must have done.

“He said that if I could find him in 15 minutes then he would leave, but I don’t even know how long its been since then and I’ve searched the entire light sides area and I cant find a trace of him!” Virgil said, putting his hands in his hair. He was clearly frustrated that he couldn’t find the other creative side and stop whatever mayhem that he could cause. Remus chuckled in his mind, it was kinda funny that Virgil had search nearly everywhere looking for him when he was barely even hiding.

           Roman grumbled in his head and quickly formed a plan, smiling a bit when he thought of one.

“Um, couldn’t he have just gone back to the dark side and left you searching for no reason? That just seems like something Remus would do is all.” Roman said with a shrug. A look of realization hit Virgil’s face before he face palmed and groaned.

“God dang it he probably did. It seems just up his alley to make me worried and anxious for no reason. He probably can’t even cause a lot of damage if I called for Logan.” Roman laughed a bit, thinking about his brother under the bed being thoroughly offended that someone thought he couldn’t cause trouble for everyone.

“Yah, Logan is pretty good at handling Remus.” Roman said. Virgil nodded.

“Sorry for disturbing you Princy, thanks for the help.” Virgil said before giving the prince a warm smile. Roman was caught off guard and blushed as he laughed a bit awkwardly.

“No problem Virgil! I’m, uh, I’m glad I could help.” Roman said, returning the smile. Virgil waved and walked away, the creative side not seeing his bright red ears.

           As Roman closed the door and faced the bed he saw his brother with a smug grin on his face.

“Soooo~” Remus said in an almost mocking manner. “Virgil’s the one you have crush on. I didn’t take you for the type that likes angsty and emo guys.” Remus smile only grew when his brothers face lit up red.

“Well, um, yes Virgil is who I have a crush on but one annoying word and you’ll wish you had never been born.” Roman said while glaring at his brother. The creative side raised his hands in a form of surrender.

“Fine fine, but its still surprising. Didn’t you used to hate him or something?” Remus said, raising an eyebrow.

           Roman grumbled lightly and crossed his arms.

“I never hated him, I just used to find him annoying since he always shot down my ideas, but now..” Roman wasn’t sure how to finish. His brother raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting some sort of explanation.

“I don’t know, he’s just a lot more open and kinder now. He’s really considerate and overall just a good person.” Roman said.

“Bleh! Your so sappy Ro.” Remus said, pretending to gag.

“Oh don’t you even go there Mr. ‘I think Logan is amazing and the greatest person in the universe’.” Roman said. Remus threw a pillow at him.

“I didn’t say any of that!”

“But you we’re thinking it.” Roman said with a smirk.

“Careful there Roman, you know I’m more creative than you when it comes to teasing, especially with relationships.”Remus said, a sinister smile on his face. “I could easily just make you think about you and Virgil-“ he was quickly interrupted by Roman smacking him in the face with a pillow and smothering the rest of the sentence.

“Nope! One word out of you about Virgil and I will cover your room with so much glitter you will go blind.” Roman threatened.

“Alright alright I won’t say anything just get off me.” Roman gave his brother a glare before he got off him, punching him in the arm one time for good measure. Remus got up and dusted himself for no reason.

“Well, I should probably head back, its lunchtime and there’s some meat that just expired two weeks ago that I’ve been meaning to eat.” The prince gave the duke a disgusted look and shook his head.

“How in the world are you able to eat stuff like that?!” Roman asked, Remus gave a very helpful shrug. Remus walked out the door, his brother behind him.

“Well, see yah brother.” Remus said as he started down the hallway. “Good luck with your BOYFRIEND!” before he disappeared he saw his brother turn bright red and start to scream but he got away before his eardrums busted.

Remus chuckled to himself as he walked down the hallway back to his room. As he opened his door only for something heavy to fall on his head.

“What the fuck!?” The duke lifted the item off his head. A bucket?! He thought to himself. He looked down at at his outfit and saw that it was covered in. Hot. Pink. Glitter. He looked at the rest of his room and saw that it was in the same state. There wasn’t one thing that wasn’t pink at this point.

“Oh that fucking bartered is so dead.”

I’m so sorry this took so long! I have had a lot of testing lately and a big project to deal with. I still have a few test to finish but I’m going to try and get the next chapter out earlier. Thank you for reading this, have a good day humans, bye!

Tag list

@lovelivingmydreams

[when-they-write-stuff]

Imagine if after Stiles having her for so many years and the shit she’s been through, Roscoe just breaks down one day and Stiles is upset because that jeep was his baby. Derek suggests they go car shopping because Stiles needs a vehicle and Stiles gets very upset and offended cause he can’t just replace Roscoe.

Oh my gosh, nonnie. This is adorable.

- -

Derek was pretty sure there was something wrong with Stiles.

Or, something more wrong than usual. Of course, he already knew that Stiles had his many, many mannerisms and oddities. The boy was spastic, loud, and didn’t get close to enough sleep. Derek was pretty sure his diet consisted of Adderal and curly fries, and he was always getting himself in trouble.

But Derek thought there was something else wrong with Stiles. Like something on an emotional level.

He wasn’t used to seeing Stiles quiet and… sad?

Derek decidedly didn’t like it.

Things started when Stiles showed up at the loft after school one day, just like usual, and proceeded to ignore the rest of the pack all afternoon. He did his homework, flipped Peter off every time the man tried to speak and gave Isaac flat looks when he walked around in his scarves. But he was also acting off. He was acting weird.

Derek thought his scent smelled more sour than usual.

The thing is, he didn’t know how to approach this. Whenever one of the betas was feeling down, Derek would either give them a wide berth, train them until they didn’t have the energy to feel sad, or sometimes offer the beta a little extra attention. With someone like Isaac or Erica, that worked like a charm.

He didn’t know what to do about Stiles. The boy was grinning and laughing so often, Derek didn’t know how to react when he wasn’t anymore.

He tried to put Boyd on Stilinski duty. But the beta didn’t seem very excited about that.

“You want me to what, now?”

“Keep an eye on Stiles,” Derek said, trying to put as much Alpha authority into his voice that he could. “Make sure there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Why don’t you just ask yourself?”

“Because,” Derek said. “I’m putting you on Stilinski duty.”

“I still have a job and schoolwork,” Boyd said flatly. Normally, Derek admired the beta for standing up for himself. There was a reason Boyd was a second right from the beginning, but at the moment all he wanted was to hear an ‘okay’ or maybe a ‘Stiles is fine’. Derek crossed his arms, glaring, but Boyd still didn’t look cowed.

“I’ll pay you.”

“You’ll pay me to keep an eye on Stiles.”

“One week.”

Boyd looked at him for a long moment. Then, shaking his head, he just turned away. Derek didn’t think that was the answer he’d been looking for.

He frowned after the beta before sighing to himself.

There was no way he was putting Erica on Stilinski duty. The last time he’d asked her to deal with him, she’d knocked Stiles out with a piece of his own car and then left him in a dumpster. Derek figured Isaac would probably go for the ‘I’ll pay’ deal, but that might not end well for Isaac or Stiles.

Derek rubbed a hand over his face and realized with a pang that he was going to have to deal with this himself. Because clearly, there was something wrong.

Stiles was at his desk when Derek pulled himself through the window that night.

The boy startled so hard, he went flailing out of his seat. Derek fixed him with an unimpressed gaze and crossed his arms, looming over where the teenager had fallen.

“What’s wrong with you.”

When he heard himself, Derek realized maybe he should’ve thought through this one or two times more. Because that didn’t exactly sound comforting.

Stiles glared up at him. “What the hell, Sourwolf?”

“You smell wrong.”

That didn’t sound too great either. Internally, Derek cringed.

Stiles apparently felt the same way. Because the boy shoved himself up so he and Derek were chest to chest, and glared. Derek smothered the urge to retreat a few steps back. He was the Alpha after all and he’d just come here to make sure Stiles was okay.

He was trying to do something good, dammit.

“Well, excuse me for smelling a little bad,” Stiles snapped. “I haven’t taken a shower in a couple of days because I’ve been drowning underneath homework, car troubles, and pack stuff. You want to tell me I need to bathe, Sourwolf? Because if that’s the case, you can take your furry ass right back out the window—”

“Car troubles?”

Stiles snapped his mouth shut, not looking happy at being cut off. But once more, Derek noticed his scent changed. The boy ran a hand through his hair before dropping back into his desk chair with a slight grunt. “Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Why the hell do you care, Derek?”

“I’m allowed to care.”

“Yes, but that usually doesn’t happen, does it? Dude, the last time you asked about me it was when I accidentally forgot a pack meeting and you slammed me against a wall for good measure.”

Derek winced. Hadn’t that been like three months ago? He was pretty sure that had been a little while ago.

Stiles was looking at his computer screen miserably now. Derek shifted from foot to foot before sighing and turning away. 

“Fine, I’ll leave then.”

Half-way out the window, he didn’t get a reply. But then it sounded like Stiles was grinding his teeth and the boy turned in his chair, fixing Derek with a last look. “Roscoe’s broken down on me. My dad doesn’t think we can afford to get her fixed.”

Derek paused, one leg still inside of the boy’s bedroom. He blinked and then pulled himself back in. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest but only looked even more miserable.

“I tried taking her to the auto mechanic’s but he said it’ll be expensive. My dad thinks all the repairs aren’t worth it and I should think about just saving up for a new car.”

“I could…” Derek trailed off. What could he do? Offer to pay to fix it? Offer to take a look? Derek knew a thing or two about cars but probably not enough. “We could go car shopping. If you wanted.”

Stiles looked up at him with blazing amber eyes. “Seriously, dude? Car shopping?”

“... You don’t like car shopping?”

“No, asshole,” Stiles said, shoving himself up. “I’m not getting a new car! Roscoe is my baby! I’m not jumping to the next best model because she grinds in second sometimes!”

Derek blinked at him, surprised. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

“Just go away,” Stiles said, dropping back into his chair.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Derek rolled his eyes and turned away again, pulling himself out the window. This time, Stiles didn’t say a word to stop him and Derek supposed that was fine. If Stiles wanted to be difficult, Stiles could be difficult. It’s not like Derek understood what the hell was going on.

It was a car. Just a car. Right?

Quietly, he thought that if someone ever told him to get rid of or sell the Camaro— Laura’s old car— he’d be pretty pissed too. But that was different.

Derek didn’t look back.

-

Lydia cornered him after the pack meeting the next week. 

Derek didn’t know why because he and Lydia didn’t often speak. They had this grudging but quiet respect between the two of them and Derek was perfectly okay with that. He’d never admit that the girl scared him a little and he knew better than to get on her wrong side.

He’d never admit that out loud, but he was also pretty sure he’d done nothing wrong. So he wasn’t sure exactly why the girl was looking at him with flashing green eyes while the rest of the pack filtered out of the loft.

“You,” Lydia said, pointing a finger in his face. “Have some things to fix.”

“What.”

“Stiles is moping more than usual. What have you said to him?”

Derek blinked at her. Then he scowled, starting to brush by. But Lydia caught his arm before he could make his escape and Derek swallowed down a growl, turning back toward the red-head.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“So why is he acting like the world has ended?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said in a snarl. “The last time I tried to ask, he spouted some nonsense about homework, pack stuff, and his stupid broken car. Why don’t you try asking yourself?”

Lydia let go and Derek instantly regretted his words. He clenched his jaw and ducked his head.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. He won’t talk to me.”

“His mother’s car broke down?”

Derek looked back up at that, brows furrowed. Lydia raised a perfectly manicured brow at his expression and then signed, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh my god. You men really are thick sometimes, aren’t you?”

“What is that supposed to mean.”

“Roscoe is more than a ‘stupid car’, Derek. It was his mother’s. His dead mother’s. Why else do you think Stiles keeps the thing even though it’s held together by duct tape and chewing gum? It’s not like it attracts either the same or opposite gender.”

Derek stared at her. Then, as Lydia’s words sunk in, he cursed and brushed by. Derek could feel the girl watching him all the way out of his own loft but he didn’t look back.

Of course. Derek should have known.

If someone would have made fun of the Camaro, Derek probably would have disemboweled them. Because not only was it his car, his baby, but it had been Laura’s. She’d left it in New York with a promise that if Derek laid a finger on it while she was gone, she would be the one disemboweling him.

But she’d never come back. So he’d taken it as his own, if not to remember the time they’d spent together listening to 80’s music too loud and drinking crappy milkshakes from cheap fast food drive-throughs years ago. 

Derek didn’t pull him through Stiles’s window right away, though. Instead, he waited until the boy’s bedroom light had gone off and then he waited a little longer. Only when he was sure Stiles’s heartbeats were calm with sleep did Derek enter the house, creeping quietly around the boy’s room.

Stiles’s keys sat on his desk. Derek scooped them up and then pulled himself out the window again, moving toward the old crappy jeep that he sort of hated.

Not for a good reason, he thought. Other than the fact it was more likely to get Stiles killed one day than the monsters of Beacon Hills were, that is. Derek had always hated the thing with a passion because he was pretty sure one day, it would break down when Stiles needed it the most.

But maybe Derek could fix that.

The guy at the auto repair shop didn’t seem happy to see him.

“We close in thirty minutes, man,” he said, arms crossed. “And I’ve seen that piece of crap already. It’ll take a few hours at least and I don’t even know if it should be salvaged—”

Derek had the man shoved against the nearest wall in a second, doing his best not to flash his eyes. The fingers of one hand curling into the guy’s t-shirt, Derek pulled out his wallet with his other and flipped it open. He pulled out a few bills and held them up, before letting the guy go again.

“A tip. If you fix the car tonight.”

“Look, man—”

“Fix the car,” Derek said, a slight snarl to his voice. “Tonight.”

The guy’s gaze flitted from Derek to the bills in his hand, and then back. With a small, timid nod, he started toward the jeep and Derek smirked to himself, settling down in one of the waiting room chairs.

It took nearly five hours.

By the time the guy came back into the room again, Derek was half-asleep. But he sat straight up and raised an eyebrow, and the mechanic shifted nervously.

“That should do her.”

“The jeep is safe to drive?”

“I mean, she could be safer, but—”

Derek narrowed his eyes and the guy’s heartbeat picked up as he gulped. Wordlessly, he nodded, and Derek smiled, placing the bills into his hand as he ducked back out of the room. 

It was nearing five in the morning when Derek parked Roscoe back in the Stilinski driveway. He’d left the Camaro a few blocks down just in case Stiles woke up or the Sheriff came back from his shift early, but things seemed to be quiet. 

Except, when Derek pulled himself through Stiles’s window to place the keys back on his desk, the boy was wide awake and waiting.

“I’m not an idiot, Derek.”

Derek nearly fell right back out the window.

He froze with one leg half in the room and the other still on the roof. Stiles sat in his bed with his arms crossed and he didn’t look impressed. Slowly, Derek pulled himself the rest of the way into the room.

“I don’t—”

“Keys, now.”

Derek deflated. Silently, he tossed them to Stiles’s blankets and the boy snatched them up before fixing Derek with another glare.

“How much was it?”

“Was what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Derek! I thought someone had stolen her until I realized only one idiot would take the keys from my literal bedroom. Only one idiot who literally creeps around in the dark twenty-four seven.”

“I don’t creep around,” Derek said hotly. Stiles only raised a brow.

“So, how much was it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Derek, I swear to god—”

“It doesn’t matter, Stiles,” Derek said, cutting him off. Stiles glared at him and Derek glared right back. “If it would have been the Camaro, I would have done the same. It’s your mother’s car, it means something to you, and I should have understood that.”

Stiles’s glare melted away. The boy stared at him for a moment and Derek felt his face grow hot, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, cutting him off. Derek blinked at the boy and Stiles’s face softened. “Okay.”

“What.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. “For uh… you know. Thanks.”

Quietly, Derek nodded. Stiles gave him a crooked smiled, dangling his keys in the air.

“Wanna take her for a ride then?”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah, but dude, I haven’t driven Roscoe in four weeks. And I could always use some curly fries, two o’clock in the morning or not.”

Derek gave him a long look. Then he rolled his eyes and allowed himself the barest hint of a smile which only made Stiles grin wider. The boy all but bounded out of bed and bounced around his room, grabbing actual clothes and throwing a sweatshirt over his head.

Derek watched in with… fond amusement, maybe. Or whatever. 

He just liked seeing Stiles normal again. Smiling, bright, with a scent like autumn and cinnamon. It was worth it, he thought. Stiles was worth it; he always was.

With that realization, Derek smiled a little more.

- -

Okay, I dunno if this was a prompt or just a very adorable ‘what if’ but I decided to run with it and oh my god. I adore you, nonnie. So cute. 

(if you enjoy my writing, consider supporting your struggling student writer? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

[sugar-petals]

:: BTS As Your Vampire Boyfriends

warnings ⚠️ smut, blood mentions, fangs kink

♡ Includes places they gravitate towards and countries they lived in, with their current residence in italics. Imagined in a world where a vampire bite will not convert a human, but rather, where species coexist without interference.

↳ NOTE › fuck yeah, bangtan vamps! some bits are juicier, some fluffier, some funny, some heart-wrenching or romantic. you’re in for a surprise 🤓 enjoy!

⌈ Jimin ⌋ ➝ Urban Vampire. 20 years old. USA, Italy, Sweden. Dresses like your typical haute couture vanguard, complete with bow ties and fishnets. Always has the latest pop culture news from SNS to chat about. Majors in? You guessed it, fashion design. Frequents high-rise apartments of his talkative New Yorker friends, wears huge square shades to fend off sunlight whenever he can. But also just because. The new boutique around the corner? Jimin was the first one to buy that 307$ gleaming Versace choker when it opened. In gold. He might have gotten the $520 guilty pleasure loafers as well. Yes, he does own more shoes than you do. 90 pairs to be exact, it needs a separate closet. He will try on several a night even when you don’t go out and just kiss watching a movie. What on earth is the reason behind all that? It’s to look good for your human eyes only. After all, he can’t see himself in the mirror. If he’s bound to outlive you by fate, he says, at least you’ll get to see him at his very best for the time being. He condenses several of his future lives into the limited one with you. A dazzling outfit can be that diversion and solace. Changing it often makes him feel like living faster, even if he’s headed for immortality. You decided to get a couple wrist tattoo on that last September. Carpe Diem, seize the day.

So there’s a lot to do together. Bucket list after bucket list. But there’s still a routine. Jimin loves destroying his friends at Friday night bowling yet can’t help but let you win every time. No matter how much you provoke him, the guy will aim at the gutters. You actually met at bowling back then. Eleven months ago, at your bff’s b-day party where he was introduced to you as Park, inofficial Prince of Manhattan with a love for sweet blood, orgies, and fiery ladies. The orgies part turned out to be a rumor, but he does say you have sweet blood. Even if it’s bad etiquette among vampires and he knows how much of a vice it is, Jimin loves to subtly show off in front of werewolves and witchers with popular ig accounts about how affluent his vampire family is at underground runway shows. Or sometimes, even fancy dinners where he orders dish after dish for the two of you. His friends suspect it’s all to compensate for how small his canines are since Jimin dearly wishes they were pointier. You’ve assured him that it’s not just better for your neck but also oral sex in general. He’s devilishly good at that. A born lover. Small canines are cute and fashionable anyways, all other talk is bogus. Having a vampire boyfriend remains a special feat and wild ride. But it’s definitely worth it.

⌈ Yoongi ⌋ ➝ Metro Vampire. 27 years old. Japan, Nigeria, South Korea. Dressed in all black, hoodies and stretchy jeans galore. Studied dental sciences in Lagos and has quite some polished teeth himself, but hardly puts them to use nowadays because he’s been getting more Zen about it. Instead, he can’t live without the internet. It distracts him from any urges and thinking about the future, and teaches his inquisitive mind about everything he needs to know about navigating the wide human world beyond the subway. He travels from station to station in Sapporo with a ticket for eternity and the security of less sunlight, always in search for the best Wi-Fi to text you. Even after two years of dating, Yoongi is still fangs over heels in love. And, needless to say, fascinated by the antics of humankind. When you are preoccupied with work at a restaurant in the afternoon, he jobs as a casual broker with contacts to the griffin elites that run the financial market of mystical creatures. 

He frequently jokes that metro vampires are in fact metrosexual. Sometimes visits casinos to kill some time and watch people out of curiosity. His magical ability has caused several power downs in nearby flat complexes — strangely, never the one he is in — but its purpose and origin remain unknown. He’s consulted a supposedly wise street demon about it once but only got a long burp as an answer. Rude. So he travels on and on with the tube. He’s not as much on the go as it always seems, however. Yoongi spends a lot of his time gaming and lounging in your basement. Pretty much naked even if you don’t have sweaty sex at 3 AM. Although, when is it not 3 AM. You’ve developed a little late-night routine there. You bring him coffee, chat, make out, he buzzes you off with your favorite vibrator, you give him slow blowjobs that he records on his phone with shaky hands. Sometimes, with rimming involved, and more action later that night. Yoongi needs to eat pussy to stay on track, otherwise, he falls apart. He’s longing to kiss your breasts all the time and you hold hands when it gets steamy. No biting, he controls himself since he took too much one time. Because he hates planes, Yoongi once crossed the Atlantic in a cargo ship’s high cube not having blood for weeks. After compelling him to suck your whole body off cause dammit I’ve missed your lips, too, vamp guy, you were iron deficient for a month. Yoongi, forever apologetic, has made it a habit to buy you vitamin juice ever since, and orders his blood online.

⌈ Jungkook ⌋ ➝ Forest Vampire. 261 years old. Canada, Bolivia, Ukraine. Dressed in a large flaxen coat and heavy boots. Owns a distant log cabin between scenic, dense firs in the Rocky Mountains. Where most of his day is all about chopping and stacking firewood to take his laser focus off blood cravings and not so random boners. He daydreams of you moaning in just about every hot position possible. Sometimes pleasuring yourself or grinding on his cock. And your fucking scent. It’s what really makes him hard. And tremendously flustered. He could be 261 million years old, it would still catch him off guard to suddenly remember the smell of your sweat and hair. The first time experiencing it, Jungkook shortly blacked out and salivated on the ground for 15 minutes. Human pheromones are just about every forest vampire’s favorite addiction. Out of all BTS members, he is the most sensitive to light or artificial noise and instinct-reliant, so he tries to be cautious. Regardless, always hoping that you fill his mind with your red-hot image. This guy is so whipped — at this point, he can sell a portion of the wood he chops daily and still heat the oven for weeks with the rest.

Nature has everything he desires. Silence, vastness. It’s peaceful. A lot of animals roam the area. It calms his fantasies to some degree. He’s spent many decades in the Amazon rainforest, it’s no surprise. He likes to watch deer and talks to the occasional satyr past midnight. Doesn’t own a lot of money, but knows how to prepare a hearty meal for you when you visit him. That’s what makes JK feel like a million dollars. And once the plate is empty: Time for carnal sex. He can fuck for two hours, one even on a bad day. When he drinks from you, the sheer neck stimulation through sucks alone can make you approach orgasm. With a little help from his fingers on your clit, boy is he gonna blow your mind. This shit will teleport you into alien dimensions. He won’t aim for anything less. Whatever his saliva does, it infuses you with serotonin for two, three days after, and your friends back home know with one glance: Cabin guy did it again. You’ll both be lightheaded and covered in hickeys by the end of your encounters if the weather is particularly indoorsy and you don’t go fishing. He wishes he’d never have to come to a city because of the bustling streets and lack of forest fairies that soothe his mind. But sometimes, buying new clothes is due. You go to a comparatively manageable shopping mall after rush hour where you can’t keep your hands off each other in the dressing rooms. Life with JK won’t ever bore you, that’s guaranteed. The cherry on top: He wields an unregistered type of magic that can manipulate all kinds of water streams — he’s created a little creak beside his cabin and named it after you.  

⌈ Seokjin ⌋ ➝ Cottage Vampire. 311 years old. Switzerland, Morocco, and Mongolia. Dresses all cozy with big sweaters and trench coats. Jin sells self-grown fruit and vegetables at the market downtown on Saturdays and Sundays. With vivid gestures and plenty of small talk topics up his sleeve, he befriends just about any stranger with two minutes spare time to talk about cheese, chocolate, and the notoriously high prices. Jin is among the most popular stall owners because of the many discounts he grants literally anybody. The Swiss way of very neat, organized, and especially neutral living appeals to Jin who has seen far too many messy wars go down since he was turned into a vampire. You didn’t believe it at first: By a British royal named Hamish back in 1708, inheriting him a magical ability to learn languages particularly fast so his Swiss German is perfected to a T. Jin is an utmost textbook rural sweetheart of the village. He takes care of the cottage with you like clockwork. Watering the herbs, painting walls here and there, cleaning the kitchen, always saying hi to the neighbors. Drinking tea on the terrace, with some cheesecake and cream on the fork, watching the cornfields sway in the wind is the good life. Simple, but meaningful.

There are a lot of lively and busy little blackbirds around the house joining you to pick up some crumbs, and Jin turns on the radio to play old-fashioned folk music of whatever Alp orchestra was recorded thirty years ago. The cake is gone all too soon, and the sun sets. You’re happy. Jin is a loyal and moral vampire who has adopted a vegetarian diet ten years ago and didn’t look back once. No cheating! Even if the market sells a lot of tasty ham and sausages. He’s sworn off that. After 311 years, even vampires start to think about their diet. A lot of fellow vamps in the area think he’s one strange guy, but Jin won’t bother. He gets all of his blood from a nearby hospital for a hefty price because he doesn’t want to drink from you all the time no matter how much you ask him. Sex is a better pastime. Chocolate lover Kim got a big dick and decades worth of time developing how to use it. Jin, when he does nibble at you, also has a very pleasant bite that doesn’t leave marks or just about any kind of bruise. He doesn’t want to tell you his secret because apparently, an old and rather nit-picky basilisk told him. Somewhere in a dusty attic of a Marrakesh craft store selling lamps and the most splendid of perfumes, 170 years ago. If he spills the beans, the special trick is dissolved. So... hush. Some things are better left top secret when it comes to basilisk magic.

⌈ Taehyung ⌋ ➝ Museum Vampire. 750 years old. Paris, London, and Sydney. Always dons crisp vintage tuxedos in the muted, heavily tailored style of the 1920s. He’s gotten attached to that era. Unsurprisingly, museum vampires are truly nostalgic creatures. Perhaps, also a bit melancholic at one point. Immortality is a two-edged sword. So, Taehyung clings to everything that endures the times. Statues, rustic vases, coin collections, preserved tunics, temple relics, especially fossils of all kind. His favorite place to roam at night is the museum shop or department for Greek, Etruscan, and Roman Antiquities. And indeed, it is the Louvre, what other museum could it be. Taehyung has mastered a convenient invisibility spell at the whooping age of 142 by chance after sneaking around the graveyard of Montmartre, trying to blend in with some friendly ghosts who taught him a trick or two. So the CCTV and guards don’t pick up on him unless he manipulates objects displayed in the exhibitions. 

Which he feels tempted to. But Taehyung prefers to meet you in a snug alley café at dawn. The one where they don’t serve garlic-heavy dishes. You’ve already seen so much of the museum together in the course of a 4-year relationship. And he can’t possibly dick you down in the gallery of Dutch and Italian masters no matter how horny either of you is, mind you. You’d get anemic fast if you’d be sucking and fucking all the time anyways, and Taehyung really isn’t down to take a lot of blood from you. A little, as you always call it, prick’n’lick is what he usually goes for when you have time to meet in your flat. And maybe a deep, warm creampie to top it off because he knows that his semen does some stuff to you that only vampire magic can cause. You’ll be giddy and talk complete nonsense about Dadaism, Kahlo, and Kandinsky for three hours. Pregnant you can’t get since human with human, vampire with vampire is how the math goes. But extremely high, apparently. So, prick’n’lick. Your favorite activity. Talk about oral fixation: Vampire Tae has a strong obsession with strawberry ice cream. And... caressing your body, seriously. He is into some major VDA (Vampiric Displays of Affection). Believes that in your past life, you were the grand dame Mona Lisa herself. And a flapper. He writes poems about that and keeps them in a huge diary in the cellar of the Louvre. Some bittersweet, some sensual, some full of adoration. You treasure your time with him, always. 

⌈ Hoseok ⌋ ➝ Castle Vampire. 1827 years old. UK (Scotland), Greece, China. Dresses exactly the way you think a dapper castle vamp is suited up. Ruffles, tight pants, gloves, large hats with feathers, tons of Italian lace, even slightly heeled shoes with pointed toes. Has been alive when Sparta was still a thing, saw what went down in the uproar of the actual French Revolution in passing, met Marilyn Monroe, almost got on the Titanic as a passenger, but has enjoyed the Rennaissance the most so far so there’s that. He lived in forts, churches, and even a small barn for some parts of his life until deciding to buy himself a fucking hilltop palace where you can live together. Because lavish castles are, ultimately, what appeals to Hoseok the most, and there is definitely enough space for all of your interests ... and sex toys. Anyway. How did all of that begin. So: The two of you met at a medieval exhibit in Perth where they displayed armors and pieces of weaving. Fell for each other, bonded over a kaleidoscope of shared interests, history knowledge in particular. Hoseok enjoys conversations about mythology, he loves that. And binging a lot of shows on Netflix. Gotta bridge the old and the new. Not that he doesn’t own a giant home theatre with perfect sound system. Maybe he just wants to cuddle up with you in bed and sob when another character dies together so the entire castle staff will hear. No worries though, they’re used to it.

Netflix aside: Aristocracy makes him feel at home. The sunshine regularly hosts interspecies balls with flamboyant masquerade themes so everyone can show up how they’re comfortable. That concerns particularly the slightly introverted elves and shapeshifters from downtown. The last huge ball went under the motto ‘The Glamor of Old Hollywood’ and you dressed up as Rita Hayworth and Fred Astaire, dancing all night and plundering the buffet. Hell of a good time. National holidays are holy to vampire Hoseok and basically equal date night. Given his high sex drive, there can’t be enough special occasions either way. To ride his thighs, his face, mark each other down forever until the pants are a little too tight at the damn front. The guy gets shaky knees at the smallest sight of a delicious pulsing vein no matter his century-long chance to accustom himself with human necks, so you agreed to go by a schedule — #SuckingSaturdays only — and you wear thick scarves. Which fits the moody UK weather anyways. The Scots really dig Hoseok in case you’ve been wondering. You can bet Hoseok is the star of Scottish twitter. 

⌈ Namjoon ⌋ ➝ Mountain Vampire. 3008 years old. Nepal, Kenya, Peru. You tease him about wearing a long, strangely-always-white cloak and staff because it gives him the semblance of a beardless twen Gandalf. He smokes a pipe, too, but not in your presence anyways. Whatever is in there... seems to elevate him. Literally. Namjoon can levitate. There’s no other way he could use in order to visit you in the first place. A beautiful, abandoned pagoda seated on top of a snowy crest is his makeshift home, inaccessible to everyone but him. Only a secluded place like this is suitable for his ancient kind. To meet you in a warmer and more human-friendly environment, he will elegantly descend from his premises to get together with you in the town located at the base of the mountain. As many nights as possible. Always with a self-made present. Like freshly assembled tea leaves or a little talisman he carved from a piece of wood. Found on one of his long evening walks. He knows what eternity feels like best, that your life is but a glimpse compared to his, so every moment will count. He’ll make it right, no worries. It’s Kim Namjoon, taking care of things. You can always rely on him.

On all levels, he never ceases to surprise. Vampire Joon has surpassed the principles of ingestion, sleep, and a sense of temperature. Hell, even finances. He simply breathes and exists — and most importantly: reads for hours — without any external efforts. Even the Middle Ages didn’t leave a single wrinkle on his face. And he is still the best experienced person to share a bed with. No sexual technique is foreign to him, and post-sex spooning conversations are immensely entertaining. Namjoon has a lot of philosophical thoughts on human-vampire relations and met countless historical figures. He’s also befriended the Yeti at one point, resulting in quite a few hilarious narrations that he will retell on request every time you meet. And he makes them funnier every night. Because Namjoon thinks your laugh is prettier than every sunrise and sunset he’s seen around the world combined, on his every voyage. The most interesting part is: He doesn’t drink any blood even if he has fairly sharp fangs that you often catch yourself staring at for minutes. He still seems more invested in making you cum. With sweet words, brainteasers, and wisdoms spoken into your ears quietly. He’s a walking riddle himself. As expected, who are we kidding. Namjoon, no matter the fleeting centuries he has seen, is a gem and all yours for a lot of nights to come. 

◇ castle: Château de la Mothe-Chandeniers (South-East France, 13th century)

[queenpersephonesgarden]

something worth remembering

Wangxian Week Day 3: Mementos

The markets of Qinghe are lively in the golden light of afternoon, the air buzzing with the voices of peddlers and customers negotiating prices while children shrieked with laughter and dodged between the legs of their parents to run off with a newly acquired toy to show their friends.

Wei Wuxian wandered the streets with wide-eyed excitement, little rattle drum clutched firmly in one hand, and kept moving through the bustling crowd, determinedly not daring to look behind and risk catching the eyes of the great white shadow following in his wake.

He…. Doesn’t want to restart their last conversation where it left off, not when there’s so many interesting things to see in a town as bright as this one. It’s not the sort of place that should be sullied with questions about things that had happened well over ten years ago.

He doesn’t want to discuss something as trivial as the way that his first life ended, doesn’t want to bring out such dark memories on such a lovely day.

He doesn’t want Lan Zhan to look at him like he’s just stabbed him in the ribs when he dismisses his questions. Wei Wuxian isn’t sure if he could take seeing that again.

Can be read on AO3

A colorful sign with an elegantly painted pipa decorating the top of it catches his eye, and he swerves automatically toward it as he always does when something captures his attention.

He’ll take any sort of distraction at the moment, and for once this one isn’t even wasteful!

Lan Zhan slipped in just behind him as he entered the shop beneath the sign. “Wei Ying?”

Wei Wuxian turned to him with a bright smile, slipping his little rattle drum into his robes before gesturing grandly at the walls bearing a multitude of different instruments. “Rejoice, Hanguang-jun! I figured it’s about time I replaced my trusty dizi with one that has properly carved holes that won’t shriek when I play it!”

A blink. Lan Zhan inclined his head in brief nod. “Not a bad idea.”

…hmm.

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you saying my playing sounds bad?!” he demanded.

No answer. Lying is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, a voice that could belong to a teenage Lan Zhan reminded him snidely.

“I’ll have you know that that performance was not an accurate showing of my prowess! Besides, it was my exceptional music skills that saved your little disciples on Dafan Mountain, you know!”

Lan Zhan hummed noncommittally.

“Jingyi insisted it was a miracle that his ears didn’t start bleeding. I cannot disagree.”

Betrayal!

Wei Wuxian sputtered in indignation, clutching his dizi close to his chest, suddenly half-afraid it would be snatched out of his hand without warning.

“Hey! This was the only instrument I could get my hands on in the middle of a burning forest! And I’d love to see how well you’d play a guqin that was rush-made after a decade of no practice! Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan serenely inspected a row of stringed instruments on the far wall, completely ignoring the offended squawking from beside him. The nerve of the man!

Turning away with an offended huff, he met the eye of the clearly amused saleswoman behind the counter and tried his most winning smile.

“Do you happen to sell dizi as well, guniang?”

The woman’s lips twitched the slightest bit at the overly-respectful form of address, but she nodded. “Are you looking for something ceremonial, gongzi? My husband takes commissions if you were looking for something specific,” she said, calmly rooting around underneath one case.

“I’m okay with something more practical. Simple bamboo is fine,” he assured her. There would be no sense in getting a complex, highly decorated dizi that would see more use on a battlefield than in a banquet hall.

The woman pulled out a few different options, but Wei Wuxian wasn’t feeling particularly picky; as long as it was lightweight and had a similar pitch to what he was used to, he didn’t mind much for how it looked.

When he made his selection, a rather familiar money pouch was set on the counter beside his choice. He chanced a glance over his shoulder to find Lan Zhan studying an erhu not far away, doing a rather good job of appearing nonchalant.

Valiantly resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the non-apology for the slight against his musical skill, Wei Wuxian paid for the dizi and tried to ignore the suppressed laughter in the saleswoman’s voice when she thanked him for the purchase.

Stepping back out into the afternoon sunlight with two distinct weights in his hand felt oddly triumphant.

“Now look at this! I have two weapons! This way, if anyone smacks the dizi out of my hands in some vain attempt to stop me from fighting, I can just pull the other one out! Can’t you just imagine the look on their faces?” Chuckling maniacally, Wei Wuxian twirled both dizis independently in each hand, a delighted grin lighting his face.

Lan Zhan did not dignify his plans with a reply, but Wei Wuxian liked to think that his lips might be tilting up the slightest bit at the edges.

They continued on for several paces as nonexistent muscle memory made twirling the instruments more difficult than it should be, before a memory decided to smack Wei Wuxian directly upside the head.

“Oh yeah! Lan Zhan! We should have gotten one for you while we were in there!”

Elegant dark brows furrowed slightly. “… A dizi?”

“What else?” Wei Wuxian spun right around and began heading back the way they’d come. “I’m sure they’ll have at least one that could meet your impeccable standards if we ask to see more of the fancier ones like the saleswoman suggested-”

“Wei Ying.”

He slowed down from his hurried pace to glance sideways. “Yeah?”

“I do not play the dizi.”

Wei Wuxian paused. “…Ah? But I saw the really nice one you had in your room- er,” he nearly stumbled, remembering that the dizi he’d found had been hidden quite well underneath the floorboards of the Jingshi, in a compartment Lan Zhan more than likely did not wish to be found. “Well, I happened to catch a glimpse of it. Somewhere.”

Lan Zhan stared.

Wei Wuxian forced himself not to acknowledge the blush slowly rising to his cheeks. “A-anyway, you’re not the kind of person to collect frivolous things like I do, so I figured you must play, right? Or maybe you collect them for the Library Pavilion, or something? The Lan family collects instruments to use in their cultivation, right?”

Lan Zhan was silent for a long moment as they started to walk slowly down the street again.

Wei Wuxian definitely did not fidget with his brand new dizi, inspecting it for the first time to check for flaws in its design just in case he needed a convenient excuse to cause a fuss in the middle of the market.

“….. It was not for the Library, no,” Lan Zhan admitted eventually, eyes scanning the crowd around them but not really seeing any of the people walking past.

Realization was a slow thing, the far away look in Lan Zhan’s eyes as they dropped to the pair of dizis in Wei Wuxian’s hands settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

Some complicated knot of something painful and happy and confused twisted up inside his throat, but Wei Wuxian determinedly did not allow any tears to form, not here in the middle of a crowded street, dammit.

Swallowing hard, he didn’t leave himself any time to second guess; he plopped the poorly made dizi into Lan Zhan’s unsuspecting hands. His fingers instinctively tightened around the sudden weight, pale gold eyes falling to look at the dizi in mild surprise.

“Didn’t you just say-”

“Think of it as a present!” Wei Wuxian twirled his brand new, far shinier dizi between his fingers with only a slight delay in the movement, grinning wide. “I don’t really need two! But now instead of a random dizi, you can have a memento that belonged to me! A little something to remind you of me!”

Lan Zhan’s steady gait stuttered to a stop in the middle of the street.

Wei Wuxian walked forward a few more paces before pausing as well, glancing back again in surprise. “Lan Zhan?”

Large, calloused fingers cradled the dizi close, like it was some treasure made from the rarest, most precious jade rather than a clumsily carved affront to anyone with even the vaguest musical talent.

Lan Zhan studied it for a long moment, eyes almost painfully lost, and something in Wei Wuxian’s chest ached. His eyes slipped closed as he took one deep breath and held it for a moment, raising his head minutely.

When pale gold rose to meet silver, Wei Wuxian felt his own breath catch at the tender warmth making them shine.

“I do not require a trinket to remember Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said firmly, reaching up to softly tuck the dizi into his sleeve. “But the gift is appreciated.”

It was a long time before they continued on their way down the street, because it took a while for Wei Wuxian to remember how to breathe.

--

A/N:  Yeah so you know how in s2e1 WWX is rooting around in the Emperor's Smile stash and finds a dizi hidden in there? My heart broke, so now this exists. ~Persephone

[tessatechaitea]

Justice League Spectacular #1 (1992)

Just off-panel: Bibbo's ice cream truck.

I probably shouldn't be reading this or Justice League Quarterly before I read the Giffen/DeMatteis Justice League but what can I do? That's the order they were placed in the short box! It would be a different story if free will were not an illusion but since it is, my hands are tied. It's either read this or, um, I don't know. Die from a temporal paradox? I won't risk it! I was looking through a bunch of my old writing and art last week and discovered a bunch of the kind of sentimental and sort of intellectual crap young people write. It's the kind of stuff you hide away and never show anybody ever and hope that when you die, it'll just get tossed in a dumpster with your old porn and Magic the Gathering cards. But it got me thinking about how brave I am! So brave! The kind of brave you wouldn't hesitate to call some jerk who signed up for the military because he couldn't live as a civilian. No, no. More braver than that! And being this super brave kind of person, I thought that maybe I should share some of this old poetry with everybody! But not yet! You have to work up to being truly brave! So instead, I'll share this piece of artwork I did that was supposed to be the first in a lengthy and disgusting series. It's of Lord Fondlerot, a character I created for the Dwarflover online comic I used to do. He was really into fucking things and I thought, "Hey! I should do a series of drawings where he fucks every creature in the monster manual!" But instead of doing an entire series, I drew one picture and grew either bored or disgusted with the concept. So here's that one picture:

Lord Fondlerot fucking an Axebeak.

Now you're probably wondering just how terrible my poetry must be if I'm opening with that! Well, you'll see soon enough! This issue begins with Sue Dibny still alive and visiting a Florida theme park with her husband, The Elasticated Man. Wow, remember when Sue Dibny was killed and all the heroes freaked out about their secret identities and considered doing intense brain damage to every single person who ever knew any of their identities until they found out that The Atom's ex-wife Jean Loring had gone cuckoo for Atom's cocoa puffs? She wanted them back so bad that she began threatening and murdering the loved ones of all the super heroes. It was the kind of story DC sometimes does where you read it and think, "Well, the twist at the end of that mystery was definitely worth the destruction of the most stable marriage in the DC Universe and also the death of Firestorm and Captain Boomerang! So good!" I mean it doesn't make you think that. It makes you think the exact opposite. Tom King would eventually do pretty much the same thing in Heroes in Crisis but instead of Jean Loring fucking up by accidentally killing Sue Dibny and murdering more people to cover her tracks, Wally West fucks up and kills Poison Ivy and some others and then tries to cover his tracks. But at least Tom King's had all of those entertaining scenes where the heroes are doing therapy and we get to see how much they're all suffering from PTSD. That's always a fun aspect of super heroes we never get to read enough about. Dammit! I keep doing it. I meant it was the opposite of fun! Although I still liked it because sometimes I just like seeing other people in pain. Not in a sick perverse way where I pop a boner or something! Just in that way where you sit around all day thinking, "My life is terrible and everything is wrong and I hate my parents for bringing me into this wretched existence and the only thing that might make me feel better is to learn that Superman sometimes feels the same way." Oh, remember when Tom King was writing Batman and he had that two issue Booster Gold arc where we got to see how fucking insane Booster Gold was from living through all of those horrible, wretched, dark alternate timelines? And the only way he can deal with the trauma and the PTSD is by making a joke out of everything? I'll have to think of that as the canon Booster Gold when I'm reading Giffen and DeMatteis's Justice League. Maybe it'll make all of Booster and Beetle's inappropriate joking more appropriate. Back to the story, Sue Dibny, alive and well, and her husband Ralph "The Elasticated Man" Dibny are busy showing a bunch of European diplomats around the non-Disney World theme park.

See? You can tell they're European because they're all smart and shit.

The first stop in the park is to Alice's Wonderland where the diplomats are attacked by the Royal Flush Gang. They are a gang whose theme is playing cards and not expensive toilets. Their powers are the ability to ride on gigantic cards and to make poker puns.

If looking good in tight fitting costumes is also a power, it's my new answer to the question of which super power would I choose..

Ten's outfit reminds me of the days when nipples were allowed to show through tops without being erased away through some kind of editing software. The 70s were a wild decade! Sure, there were also nips on television in the 80s but the 80s, generally speaking, sucked and were a huge contribution to the downfall of America.

The King of Spades mansplaining their entire concept to the Queen of Spades.

It's true that the royal flush beats any other poker hand but I doubt Superman is going to surrender after this concept is explained to him because, in the end, they're not fucking playing poker. It turns out Maxwell Lord paid the Royal Flush Gang to make a little trouble so the Justice League could beat them up and get some media attention. But the Justice League has apparently broken up and The Elasticated Man just isn't hero enough to save the European delegates all by himself. He might have been if the Royal Flush Gang had done what they were told and not really fight back. But why would they do that?! Wouldn't they still be in trouble with federal agents?! Booster Gold finds Blue Beetle busy pouting in the old Justice League cave headquarters. Booster has decided to try to cheer his old buddy up although why wouldn't Booster just travel to a timeline where Ted Kord is already cheered up? Is that how time travel works in the DCU? Or did Booster already try that, it went horribly sideways, and now he's a little more fucked up in the head when he returns to the "real" timeline?

For some reason, Ice and Fire have also come down to the cave. Probably to accidentally go on a double date with Booster and Beetle. Booster and Fire and Beetle and Ice hear a news report about the Royal Flush Gang and decide to go save Ralph. Superman also hears about the situation and heads to Florida where he's almost immediately defeated by The Royal Flush Gang. Not because they're dangerous and competent super villains but because some mysterious benefactor has give them weapons capable of knocking out Superman's powers. Maxwell Lord is not that benefactor so who could have done it? Certainly not Guy Gardner, right?! What would he want with getting the Justice League back together. Isn't he busy being Warrior or something by this point? Power Girl, Metamorpho, and Guy Gardner all join in on the fight. The guy behind it all is that Weapons Master dude who is desperate to get a new weapon for his arsenal: a Green Lantern ring. The attack on the Royal Flush Gang fails to get him the ring so he decides to attack directly. But not in this issue! He has to wait for a regular series issue. Ice uses Guy's ring to contact Hal Jordan because somebody finally decided this Justice League wasn't really a big league Justice League. Everybody reading it knew it for years. But I guess Dan Jurgens was assigned the task to get a new, more believably powerful League together. So Hal Jordan flies around to pick up some new members to save the day. He chooses The Flash and Aquaman which seems about right. But he also chooses Crimson Fox which seems like sliding backwards into goofy Justice League territory. Not that I totally approve of Aquaman but I have to admit he's a "serious" choice for the League.

Doctor Light also joins the party. Although why she'd keep the name of a pedo, I couldn't guess. Just become Lightwoman or something. But no! Once some jerk earns their doctorate, they just have to demand to be called Doctor.

I'm sorry. I was too distracted pointing out that Doctor Light joined the fight and how her namesake was a pervert to comment on Metamorpho acting like a huge fucking pig. Crimson Fox beats up some guys dressed as cards and admits that she's a boring idiot whose favorite part of the game is shuffling the cards. I understand the need to think up some kind of goofy one-liner when you go into battle but shouldn't you at least try to think up one that doesn't make yourself sound like a pathetic asshole? Weapons Master's plan failed but he figures he has enough information to get Green Lantern's ring next time. He'll then sell it to a Dominator for a few bucks and maybe some slaves. The big hitters talk it over and decide they should start a new Justice League without the approval of the United Nations. Yeah! Who needs some stupid Earthly authority when you've got an invulnerable Kryptonian, an all powerful space cop, and the king of the seven seas! All they need is a Greek Goddess and a mentally ill furry with a long history of violent behavior and they'll have the big team back together! Booyah! I mean, without that stupid Booyah shit because Cyborg is basically a toaster at this point. Maybe. I don't know! What am I, Johnni DC, Continuity Cop?! The heroes make one more decision: split the group into two Leagues. So once again, they're forming Justice League America and Justice League Europe. How come I don't remember this shit?! Did the comics get canceled in '92 and then immediately fired back up? I don't seem to remember two different incarnations of these teams. Maybe I should have stored my comic books in chronological order so it would all make sense. Justice League Spectacular #1 Rating: C. I just read the letters pages and it looks like this comic book takes place between JLA #60 and JLA #61! So editorial decided the teams needed to be shaken up and the best way to do it was to disband the League in the regular series, have a special one-shot comic that gets them back together but with a different roster, and then send them back to work in the next issue of the regular series. I guess I should just shove this comic book into the middle of the regular series so when I reread it all again in my 80s, it'll make more sense! Let's close with the worst drawing of Aquaman I've ever seen:

Actually, he looks a little bit like Grunion Guy.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

I know I already asked for some prompts, but can I ask for one more? Or two? #4 and #37 I think would both make great fics and would be great Spideycelle NSFW content!

Of course! Thank you so much for your request! I’ve already written a fic for prompt 37 (Miss Your Train), so here’s 4 on its own. The seriousness of this fic is, imo, quite a departure from the Spideychelle stories I’ve written in the past. This one goes out to the anons who’ve asked me to write angst.

nobody actually meets in a bookshopPairing: Peter x Michelle (Spideychelle), background Ned x BettyRating: E/NSFWWord count: 7172

4. “I really wish you’d told me your mother was in town.”

“Nope,” she says. “You have to leave. Nobody actually meetsin a bookshop.”

“I told you,” Peter insists, almost laughing as she hustleshim to the door, “I do have toleave.”

He’s late now. A friend (not that close) from college isexhibiting his sculptures at the gallery one door down (he won’t realize for arelatively long time how near the gallery is). Peter turned too soon, didn’tread the sign on the door, just saw the mood lighting and a crowd of peopleinside.

“Get out then,” she tells him, and they’re already standingon the sidewalk. You’d think rain would make it cleaner, but it feels grittierthan ever under his sneakers, like the water got into all the cracks andfloated the broken things to the surface.

“MJ,” someone calls from inside right before the doorcloses.

The woman in front of him gives Peter wide, mischievous eyesand he has a feeling. A second later, they’re hurrying down the sidewalk and hefeels like an outlaw.

“Book launch,” she sighs, then glances at him and laughs,helps him get his arms out of the coat he’s been trying to give her becauseit’s still spitting. She has her purse, but he doesn’t know if she abandoned ajacket back at the bookshop when they made their getaway.

“Maybe the author won’t take it personally,” Peter offers.

They glance sideways at each other and snort. It’s amiracle, this synchronized snort. Someone would really have to gather quite anumber of pigs together to produce two snorts at the same time.

Their sexual attraction catches up with them two blockslater. On the way to his apartment, he does all kinds of things he neverthought he’d do in a taxi, like French kissing a near-stranger while sheassertively palms his cock through his good jeans. (What do you wear to an exhibitionopening, he’d wondered. Dark blue denim seemed unobjectionably andnoncommittally cool.)

An opportunity to take in her reaction to his verymiddle-of-the-road apartment doesn’t arise. They’re wrestling each other’sclothes off just inside the door, no light on yet. It’s her who reaches backand flips the lock and it’s a solid sound, solid like the kind of surface hewants to lay her down on because he’s really going to go for it, no holdingback. He grips her skirted ass in one hand, holding the front of her to hiscrotch and when she bumps her hips forward, he gets his hand up under her skirtand into her underwear while she breathes hot in his ear.

Peter wonders for a second why this decision feels so goodand realizes it’s because he made it for himself. He’s completely in control.

She uses his body like a ladder and descends to her knees,then grips the waist of his jeans and pops the line of buttons holding themshut. Fuck, maybe not especially in control. Her tongue’s caressing him―Petercan’t tell which feels thicker: his straining cock or the humid paradise of hermouth. He might be standing on Ned’s shoes. Oh well, the woman already knowsshe’s taller. Her lips close around him like she’s trapping a secret. Her handis very soft; it’s cupping his balls.

Clean sheets and a clean bounce when he drops her onto them.Turns out the terms for a negotiation of power involve three fingers movingslickly inside her (she’s moaning and Peter’s about ready to chew up themattress for how badly he wants to hold onto some part of her with his mouth)and the lights on.

“Turn over,” he pants at her, buttoned shirt wrinkled andopen.

She flops onto her stomach and he rides the motion of herhips with his hand while she rides his thread count like she’s testing her clitfor durability. His tongue fits nicely into the sweaty dip in her spine.

He wakes up for less than 10 seconds at 2-something in themorning because the light’s still on. It’s possible that he turns it off, ormaybe it just burns out before daylight.

She’s getting dressed (at an hour he’s considerably morecomfortable calling ‘morning’), but something about her says she wasn’t justgoing to slip out of here like hot butter. He rolls onto his side, glad thesheet’s over his hips because otherwise this might feel like a sleazy one-nightstand.

“Peter,” she finally acknowledges. Her hair’s up in a redelastic that she probably got from his desk on the other side of the room. Hewonders if that hurts. Seeing the length of it, wavy and held away from herneck, he’s stunned by how sexy she is. Good god.

“MJ.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He heard it, he definitely heard someone call that out toher last night. Has he done something really terrible and slept with someone(fornicated rapturously with someone)whose name he doesn’t actually know?

“But I thought―”

“Only my friends call me MJ.”

“So what do your boyfriends call you?”

He offers a smile and if it’s a dorky smile, too late. Atleast Peter’s had a chance to demonstrate additional selling points of hisbody’s features and abilities. Ahem.

With a smirk, on go her shoes. They’re classy, but flat.Good for fleeing a hookup. Which Peter suddenly (not that suddenly―the blowjobin the entryway was staggeringly convincing) doesn’t want this to be.

“They call me in the morning.”

“But you didn’t give me your number.” This is smooth, right?

She tosses her ponytail and they both know, he’s prettysure, that she does this to torture him. It’s affected yet effective.

Which is to say he’s stiff as hell beneath the sheet.

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

A tough-luck-champ smile and she’s up, crusading for thefront door.

―

No, it’s true. Nobody actually meets in a bookshop.

MJ first sees Peter in a bar six months earlier. Maybe theydon’t shake hands or trade names, maybe Peter doesn’t even see her, but he’s inher head like an inescapable fever dream after that.

Eventually, she gives up the table. She’d have been betteroff standing than grabbing a stool at the bar, but she’s wearing bad shoes, badexpensive shoes, expensive beautiful shoes that pinch and make her have to sit.Her legs are just her legs, but when she sits on a high bar stool and crossesthem, men enter her personal space like it’s a public washroom. Dammit, sheshould’ve gone to the washroom and sat on a toilet, dress between her ass andthe seat. Well, hindsight.

But washrooms don’t have ginger ale and MJ would rather notfind out if, when push came to shove, she would drink water from the tap of abar’s bathroom sink. Tonight will have to stand as it is, already total shitwithout the possibility of lowering her standards further.

Speaking of lowering standards.

“What can I get you?” a slightly tipsy man demands. He’ssqueezed in between her seat and the next one over, standing (power position).She feels the warmed texture of his suit jacket brush her arm. She’d shudder,but it’d just make him think he’d turned her on.

“Nothing, asshole.”

“What’d you say?”

MJ smiles at her ginger ale.

“‘Nothing at all.’”

He scoffs and gives up.

Bachelor number two: “What’s that?”

“Ginger ale.”

“Is not.”

This is so hilarious to her that she frowns.

“Yep, bubbles and everything.” MJ lifts her glass from thebar top for his inspection.

“I’ll get you a martini.”

Easy, Bond.

“Nope, I’ve got my drink.”

“That’s not a drink,” says bachelor number three, edging in.Number two fucks off like a woman who can’t be bombasted out of guzzling gingerale isn’t worth his time.

“Tell that to my increasing urge to piss,” MJ suggests. Menhate that, the word ‘piss’ coming out of a woman’s mouth.

“Bitch,” he dismisses.

In the three minutes before the next dickhead tries his luck,she glances backwards, into the room, and spots the man she’ll come to know asPeter six months from now. She faces forward again. She wants something thatgood. He looks kind, laughing next to someone she presumes is an old friend.

“A whiskey for her.”

MJ looks around, then up, where a man has his hand above herhead, index finger pointing sharply down. She thinks the fuck not.

“Fine with my ginger ale.”

“What are you, pregnant? Cheap? ‘Don’t like the taste’? Analcoholic? Fall off the wagon,” he dares, going ahead and assuming his lastguess is the right one, leaning on the bar. “You’ll like it.” He beginsstroking the back of her forearm with his finger. “I know what else you’lllike. Su―”

She meets Peter for real six months later and it’s like an exhalation.

―

“I miss phonebooks,” he confides.

MJ puts all her surprise into her laugh, which Peter findsflattering and trusting.

“You know why?” he continues.

She thinks.

“Because you like to stand on them to feel taller?”

“Wow.” But he’sgrinning like an idiot. “No. Because I’ve been wanting to look you up.”

“Since last week,” she confirms.

“Since you forcefully escorted me from a book launch like Iwas a shoplifter.”

MJ allows him to hold her gaze for at least half a minute asthey both struggle with their smiles. This feels right.

“And how far do you think you would’ve gotten with just ‘MJ’to go on? Uh, mustard, please,” she directs the hotdog vendor. “No ketchup.”

“I think things would’ve worked out.”

Peter cheers’s her hotdog with his when it’s ready and shehasn’t taken off. They stroll down the sidewalk together and he wonders if shehas someplace to be or if she just always looks that great. From the times he’smet her, she’s two for two, so the latter seems plausible.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s fate!” he explains, turning and pointing back at thepeeling slogan on the striped umbrella floating above the vendor’s cart. ‘It’sFate!’ it reads. Peter cannot begin to understand what the hell it has to dowith hotdogs.

MJ laughs, even with food in her mouth.

“Destiny’s gotten a little pedestrian if its big play is togive us the same favourite street meat cart.”

Peter shrugs. They walk in silence to the next intersection,the city alive around them.

“This is the worst fucking hotdog I’ve had in a year,” sheconfesses.

“I only got in line because I saw you,” he says.

“If I give you my number…” she begins as they dump theirhotdogs in the next trashcan. They will proceed to walk another eight blockstogether. “…will you promise not to call me?”

“God, of course, never.”

Peter’s beaming as she puts it into his phone.

“I’m really bad at making new friends. I hit, like, a friendmaximum and I find it psychologically impossible to add to that number.” He’snodding along with her bullshit. “Really an awful human being. A perfect NewYorker.”

“Cool, I hate you already.”

“That’s ideal,” she avows, handing back his phone.

“I’ll only be the guy you want to see when you’re hungry fora long piece of meat.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter.” Her hand goes to her throat likeshe’s almost choked, which, hello.

“Oh no,” he says in a voice that screams his words were noaccident. “Oh my god, I was talking about the hotdogs.”

“Obviously.” They eye each other with hilarity.

Peter smiles.

“Just trying to make sure you don’t start attempting to bemy friend either. That you don’t like me.”

“Well, you’ll notice that I didn’t ask for your numberback,” she points out.

He rocks on his feet, grinning.

“You want it, don’t you?”

She hands her phone over with a sigh.

“Only so I can give your contact info to my lawyer when I’msuing you for hotdog-related harassment.”

Peter nods, tapping in his number.

“Planning ahead. I can’t stand that in a woman.”

―

If the hotdog hadn’t scrambled her insides, she would’vecalled him the same night. Even with the scrambling, she can only wait a day.And, yes, she does actually call him. Phone-to-ear calls him. Shit.

He shows up with flowers although it’s almost midnight,fingers wrapped around their plastic sleeve when she opens her door.

“Don’t make that face,” he says. “They were really cheap.”

She accepts them with a carefully tempered smile, doesn’tlet him see the full extent of her happiness.

“Then I have a really shitty vase they’ll look great in.”

“You don’t have a roommate?” Peter checks, peering around alittle while she deals with the (actually lovely―fuck him) flowers.

“Um, no,” MJ says distractedly. Is she really arranging theflowers or making a mess? She gives up and sets the vase on her kitchen table.She turns to Peter.

“I―”

“Do. I know. I saw the extra shoes and took in the generalmulti-dude vibe of your apartment.” She says it without judgement, merely as adescription, but just in case he is offended, she offers something up. Unusualfor her. “I have a nice place with just me in it because my mother feels guiltyand it’s more straightforward to accept her money than her, well… You’re awarethis was a booty call, right, Peter?”

He shrugs; it’s one of the most reassuring gestures MJ’sever had directed at her.

“I was hoping. It had to be either that or hotdogs and I trynot to eat meat after nine.”

She waffled between keeping on her boring underwear (she’sat home, Peter is a low-key fuck) or swapping them for something sleek andsilky (low-key in all ways but how good he is in the sack). When his eyes goglassy, MJ feels excellent about changing.

It’s slower this time and she’ll feel his lips on hershoulder whenever she closes her eyes for weeks after this. He has very subtlefingertips. When they stroke into the cups of her bra and make tender passesover her nipples, MJ thinks she might orgasm, though prior to this, having herbreasts touched has never been much more than perfunctory for both her and theman. Peter’s circling motion is so lulling and delicate that his sudden tug onher nipples gets a scream out of her.

The feel of his hard thighs under her hands is wonderful andit’s incomprehensible to her that he hasn’t bragged about his workout routine.Gotta be squats―the guy’s ass is rock-solid too. Her memory foam mattress willprobably form to it, betraying her; it’s never been willing to hold her shapeand she’s always taken that personally. Peter groans when she kisses himdeeply.

She wants to be on top. He’s amenable.

―

Ned tells him he’s tempting fate, shoes already on, keys inhand. It’s Saturday, late afternoon, too long since he’s seen her, which couldbe any length of time at all.

“Peter,” she says when she picks up, “this number is foremergencies only.”

He flounders, sees Ned laugh at him from the couch, as if hecan hear what’s going on. Jerk.

“I just want to take you for a drink,” Peter blurts into thephone.

“How about coffee instead?”

“That’s perfect,” he agrees, giving Ned the finger as heleaves their apartment. “I’m having a heart attack, so maybe the caffeine willrestart my heart.”

“Right. And what was the alcohol supposed to do?”

“…Clean the wound?”

“There’s a wound anda heart attack. Buddy, you’re in bad shape.”

“Why else would I have called you?” He’s smiling, racingdown the stairs, barely hanging onto the handrail. “It’s definitely anemergency.”

She’s funny today, not like ha-ha. Peter’s curious aboutwhat could be making her uncomfortable in the coffee shop she directed him tomeet her at. They don’t do a lot of personal conversation though, which is himfollowing her lead. He’d like to touch her hand, but the table is a crumblingcanyon between them and he can’t get across.

“Are you al―”

MJ shakes her head. It’s not a no, it’s her telling him toscrew off.

“This is a strange place to meet,” she says.

“You picked it.”

“I know, I know. It’s just, as far as our acquaintanceshipgoes…”

“Oh, our acquaintanceship.”He shoots her a sneaky smile. “Is that what’s bothering you?” Peter shifts hislegs and leans forward, dropping his voice. “That this isn’t about sex?”

“This,” she assures him, gesturing back and forth betweenthem with one finger, “is about sex.”

“Does that mean you’re going to ask me to take my boxers offand pass them to you under the table?”

She allows him a genuine almost-smile.

“No one in here wants to see that.”

“Not even you? Crap, that’s going to be a problem if you andI are only about sex. I’m feeling a little undervalued.”

Suddenly, MJ’s ducking her head, but not before he sees theshape of her mouth change. The pain contorting her forehead.

Peter’s hand dives across to cover hers.

“Please, you can talk to me.”

“I really,” she says quietly, sniffs, “think you could workon your pacing a little. In bed.”

MJ glances up, composed. She straightens her back. His eyebrowsrise until he realizes she’s messing around.

“Sorry,” Peter says easily. “I guess I get right into it toofast sometimes. I’m too excited to have you.” He gives her burning eyes andlets them cool when she bites her lips together. “I swear, it’s like I forgetthat I don’t actually like you and this is just sex.”

“Well, it is. How’s your latte?”

“Jeeze, what else do you want to know, my social securitynumber?!”

She laughs like she’s giving in.

“You better not have memorized my coffee order,” MJ threatensas they’re leaving.

“I’ll try to forget,” Peter lies.

―

It’s been two and a half weeks and she won’t let herselfmiss him. Cindy talks her into a slow lap of a museum after work. MJ agreesbecause the publisher she does cover design for launched one of theiranticipated heavyweights last week, so for the first time in a while, she’s notstaying late to move elements around on the book jacket.

“You’re always going to need her to love you like that,”Cindy says softly, steering them on a lap of the room, “but you don’t have toneed her.”

Cindy is a counsellor and damn hyper about it too.

MJ drags her feet, lets her arm hang heavy in her friend’s.They have this conversation too much, too many times a year.

“I don’t need her to love me.”

“You do, you little liar.” She’d better not be this bluntwith her clients. “You are actually aperson, as much as you try to be whatever you’re trying to be.”

“I’m hungry,” MJ complains. “That’s one I can commit to.Let’s skip this and get Thai.”

“You’re not going to escape this―”

“And you’re not going to fix it.”

“―have to at least talk about her if not to her.”

“I did talk toher, that’s why I’m so… oh no.”

She stops in her tracks and so does Cindy, tense as a doe.Peter’s circling counter-clockwise.

“Who’s that?” Cindy asks immediately, looking where MJ’slooking.

“He’s…” But her throat is all dry.

Cindy gasps.

“He’s Book Launch. Cute.Ok, I forgive you for abandoning me with your coat and your work friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” MJ insists, still staring atPeter. She and Cindy haven’t moved and Peter and the guy he’s with are comingcloser.

He sees them. Standing obstructively in front of a display,how could he not? She used to be more invisible. Is she the difference, or isPeter?

Peter, who smiles at her a long time before his friendelbows him aside and introduces himself as Ned. Things tumble forward fromthere and suddenly Cindy is absolutely all for heading straight to dinner.

“I’m not trying to set up a double date,” Peter impressesupon them with a very serious slice of his arm, forbidding underhandedmatchmaking schemes. It’s clearly for MJ’s benefit. He’s trying not to scareher, she sees. Wanting to make sure she doesn’t feel trapped or tricked orromanced.

“I’m engaged,” Ned explains.

Cindy shrugs.

“I’m a lesbian.”

“He and I aren’t dating either,” MJ clarifies, gesturingjerkily at Peter. He looks hurt and she wishes she could wish it wasn’t true.It just isn’t a good idea. She’s not a good idea.

They make it through dinner. Cindy and Ned have connected oversome nerdy thing that MJ doesn’t want to pretend to listen to, which leaves herwith her thoughts. She keeps rolling her dessert spoon between her index andmiddle fingers.

Peter’s next to her and it’s nothing for him to lean in herdirection, frowning at her hand.

“I used to smoke,” she says.

“Is something making you crave it?”

Ned and Cindy burst into laughter across from them. MJsmiles weakly, then glances at Peter.

“I got a call from my mom.” She says it quietly, but notenough to be suspicious. Cindy already knows and there’s no reason for Peter’sfriend to have a second thought about MJ’s relationship with her mother.

“Anything wrong?”

“Just the fact that she called.” She smiles again andslouches. He’s staring at her like he wants to hold her up.

“Can we talk about it?”

His earnest eyes grow deeper, like two holes in the groundthat are being shovelled out as she looks into them. The restaurant is apleasant hum.

“Can we not talkabout it?” She squints at him. “What if, instead, we go back to my apartmentand fuck in the shower?”

“MJ!” Cindy’s staring, shocked. MJ rolls her eyes.

“Go back to talking about The Hobbit.”

“We’re discussing TheSilmarillion.”

MJ turns to Peter again.

“Shower? Yes? No?”

“Depends on the scent of your body wash.”

“I’ve got three kinds. Come on.”

The shower winds up being a bad idea. The lighting and thewhite tiles make her feel vulnerable and slimy-souled.

“Don’t be romantic,” she warns him when he begins tocarefully wash her back.

“It’s hygiene, MJ.” She doesn’t make him call her ‘Michelle’instead.

The water’s hitting her face and she closes her eyes, tryingnot to bolt, not to run from the fact that Peter cares and was a really, reallypoor choice for a one-night stand. She rests her head back against his shoulderand he stops cleaning her to hug her to him.

“I’m stronger than what you’ve seen,” she feels it’simportant to say.

He snorts and she rolls her head to glare at him.

“Sorry, it’s just… That’s the last thing you need to prove.You never let yourself be anything else.”

“Kiss my mouth.”

Peter does. And he says a lot of kind things―a lot of truethings, about them― that she tries to block from her ears, holding her head inthe center of the heavy spray.

―

Lucky that she doesn’t have the patience to be fingered thisevening, because Peter cut his nails too short (she likes a little scratch toit) while distracted by the realization that he’s started to love her. Ned’swith Betty in a wedding planner’s office somewhere and Peter and MJ are inmissionary for about three seconds before they realize it and rearrange.

It’s weird being at home. He quit the Avengers while he wasstill in high school, right after Tony died, but the feeling of alertness justin case he’s dispatched to save the world is something Peter hasn’t been ableto get out from under. Or, hadn’tbeen able to. He seems to have more control of himself and his choices whenshe’s around. Even has some authority in his voice when he speaks. He’s notjust the kid nobody wants the responsibility of saving.

They’re on their sides, his front to her back, but Peterpulls them up onto their knees, driving into her with a hand flat on her spine.It’s presence―a substitute for eye contact. He hears the way MJ throws herbreath from her lungs. Her hand goes between her legs and the squeeze of herinsides is like someone moulding the warm wax of a candle around his dick withtheir bare hands. Peter chokes, keeps going.

They don’t talk much tonight, just try to be themselves fromthat first night. Back to basics.

An interlude.

―

This birthday card is for a child, but she bought it forhim.

“Lego Luke Skywalker!” Peter exclaims, eyes going from thecard to her face.

He’s delighted and she eases back into the booth wherethey’re sitting side by side, no one across from them. Their little nook isprivate, like a heartbeat.

“You like it?” she asks. Her finger rings the opening of hist-shirt sleeve.

Peter kisses her hard and fast, making her laugh and blush.She does and doesn’t want it to be a big deal that she knows his birthday, wentout of her way to discover it. Not by snooping through his wallet while he waspassed out in bed after sex―by asking Ned. The harder route, for sure.

“I’m keeping it forever,” he says enthusiastically. “Forever!”

MJ checks in on a small place in her mind and doesn’t findanything frightening there. The only thing she’d been worried about was himliking his card. She tucks herself into his side, almost hoping he won’tnotice.

“You’re probably just about at your limit, right?” Peterasks, quickly grabbing and draining his drink. “It’s ok,” he says when shedoesn’t correct him. “I’m fine with us rushing out of here for birthday sex.”

Because she’s shied from dates. Kept him back unless hewanted to approach penis-first. It wouldn’t be a bad time to ask him to bemore. MJ has a hunger for these words to leave his lips: ‘My girlfriend’spaying tonight.’ She wants the waiter to know and the other people in the otherbooths, and anyone walking by on the sidewalk.

They have sex twice, playful both times and full ofexperimenting. In between, they catch part of a BBC food documentary marathon.The handjob MJ builds Peter back up with for their second round takes itstechnique from how they watched a turkey farmer handle the neck of a fowlduring slaughter. They laugh and laugh until Peter goes, “Oh fuck, M.” She sinks down on him, handson his strong chest. His knees bend behind her. Support.

―

“I’m not trying to talk about MJ behind her back,” Peterinsists.

Cindy gives him a suspicious stare from the other side ofher sleek glass desk.

“People come to this office for counselling appointments.For themselves,” Cindy reinforces.“Not to snoop around in the lives of their romantic partners.”

“I don’t want to snoop and I don’t want an appointment. Iwas trying to catch you on your lunch hour, which I obviously have.” He motionsto the salad she’s stabbing at on purpose to make crisp snapping noises whilehe speaks. “I’ve been wondering how long you’ve known her.”

She frowns.

“High school.”

“But you’ve become really good friends. Best friends, I assume,” he checks. Cindy nods like she’s pleasedto be awarded this title. She should be. It’s a good one. “Was it… How did ithappen?”

“You want to know how long it took.”

Ok, fair. Reading people is an important part of her job.Peter swings his arms once, tense, and nods. Cindy opens her mouth, but pausesa moment before she speaks. The clock in the corner is ticking loudly, reallyearning its paycheck; he wonders if it stops at five o’ clock too and restsuntil the next day.

Cindy points her fork at him like she’s spear hunting andhe’s the dumb fish who doesn’t know how to evade.

“I’ll tell you because it’s about my relationship with MJ.Don’t push your luck.”

“Understood.”

“Slow at first,” she admits, laying down her fork. “She’s aquiet person. Well, no.” Cindy smiles to herself. “A private person. I think Iput myself in her path enough times, included her in enough events andconversations she just barely didn’t want to escape that she accepted myexistence in her life.”

“I’m around her as much as she lets me be around her―”

She holds up a hand to stop him, but it’s not aggressive.

“It needs to be on her terms.”

“Sometimes,” Peter says, lifting his eyes to the brightwhite ceiling, “I think she’s cornered herself with her own terms. Sometimes Ithink she wants… that she wants me the way I want her.”

“Don’t push her,” Cindy says, and there’s a threatening edgeall of sudden that makes Peter straighten up. The lines of her black blazerseem sharper. “Be around her, let her see that you’re there, but don’t infringeon her―”

“―control,” he finishes. Cindy looks surprised. “Look,”Peter begins, taking a seat across from her, then shifting his weight forwardand lowering his voice, “that’s something I get, ok?”

She continues to bristle and, from what comes next, make thedecision to talk more personally about her friend than she’d prepared Peterfor. He can’t hear the clock anymore.

“You know what it’s like not to be allowed to do anything?To be without choices?”

“I know what it’s like to have no limits at all and haveevery choice be agony.”

Peter’s breathing hard and he realizes his nose feels hot,his eyelashes feel wet when he blinks. After a long pause watching him sniffle,Cindy pushes a Kleenex box across the desk.

“I don’t want to control her,” he swears, voice soft as thetissue he’s folding unevenly between his fingers. “I want her to trust meenough to need me without expecting me to fail.”

He doesn’t know if it’s for MJ or for himself, but Petertells Cindy something she might’ve heard about before. The story isn’t oldenough to qualify as urban legend―he’s banking on that―so he hopes she believeshim when he asks if she remembers a guy in a red mask who went by ‘Spider-Man.’

―

MJ hates decorative pillows. She staggers around her livingroom, snatching coordinating throw cushions off her couch and attempting tostuff them into the nearest closest.

No, what she hates is navy blue. Why is there so much navyblue in her apartment? The first thing to go will be this raincoat, hanginginnocently in the closet she’s opening. MJ snatches it off its hanger and whipsit onto the floor, then whirls, searching for anything else vaguely nautical.

Oh, but pillows and navy are nothing compared to teacups!Who the fuck has teacups? She wonders this, letting her cupboard door bangopen, exposing their glossy white shells. What self-respecting, modern,feminist woman drinks tea from a delicate little cup instead of an extra-largemug that says ‘GRL BOSS’ or ‘DON’T TELL ME TO SMILE.’

She’s holding one of the teacups in her hand, shaking, andit slips. Just like that, shards all over the kitchen floor and MJ in a heap,leaning sideways into the fridge. All of that energy, spinning through herrooms and dismantling the material aspect of her life, collapses in on her. Itpushes her down and won’t let her breathe. It’s a clawed foot on her back, likesome of those fancy bathtubs. Her mother would buy her a bathtub like that ifshe asked for it.

What MJ’s thinking, what her mind is crying out for as hermouth sobs to an empty apartment, is that she wants Peter. She wants him hereand she doesn’t want him to leave unless he’s taking her with him. It almostphysically burns to desire this, making her scream her way free from thebreadth of her misery, which is like a wide river.

The fact that he said something to Cindy is all butconfirmed; she acts weird if MJ comes anywhere close to mentioning him, weirderif Cindy brings up his name on her own. MJ doesn’t think it can be anythingterrible, but right now, in this bleak instant, it makes her furious.

She exhales. The stainless steel of the fridge door is icyand unyielding against her cheek.

Her phone’s lying on the kitchen table, she knows this. Ittakes MJ a minute of merely staring at the table to get her ass off the floor.She finds him in her contacts. Hits ‘Call.’ Sitting on the floor, MJ eyes theteacup pieces. Her gaze jumps up when the call connects.

“Peter? I know this is short notice, but can you meet mesomewhere? No, no, I just… I’m stuffed up. Yeah, really. Well, wait, Peter, Ihaven’t even told you wha― Hold on, Peter. Nothing like that. It’s just goingto be the worst dinner reservation of my life.”

―

Her under-eyes are cloudy, like literal clouds of thefuriously grey thunderstorm variety, mottled with mascara. What he’s feeling isjarred. She just looks so different than she does on the mornings they’retrying to pretend haven’t been accumulating. Going to bed without taking hermakeup off is a world removed from the same smudgy effect he sees on herstruggling face. The current damage has been done by the tears still coursingdown her cheeks.

“I really wish you’d told me your mother was in town,” Petermanages. He can feel the vertical lines his eyebrows are pushing into thecenter of his forehead. She’ll hate this. His concern.

But MJ just snorts and shakes her head. She rolls her wet,red lips and ends the motion with a smacking sound that speaks for her. Itsays, “Well.”

She’s gone all the way to the top of the stairs, holding herquiet ground on the tiny landing. Peter won’t try to squeeze up there with her.He steps one foot up and braces his elbow on it.

“You’re smoking.”

It’s true. Her thumb flicks the end of a cigarette makingthe whole thing jiggle up and down too fast on the fulcrum of the index andmiddle fingers she has clamped around it. Toxic teeter-totter.

“I wanted to do something bad for me.”

Her voice is weird―moist from distress and dry from thesmoke. It’s like playing checkers on both the black and white squares.

“Dying of lung cancer would definitely qualify,” Peterassures her, then grabs her dangling wrist, plucks the cigarette away with hisother hand. He tosses it down the stairs.

She waggles the pack so he can hear the rest of themshuffling inside, but she doesn’t extract another, just puts the pack back inher pocket and scratches the side of her head. If anything, the silent cryingmakes her menacing. The babyish head-scratch can’t touch it.

“That could start a fire you know.” MJ points past him.

Peter turns, descends, grinds out the cigarette with theheel of his shoe.

“It’s a moral dilemma, right?” she pushes, still standingabove him. “If you let it burn, everyone in this building could be killed. Ifyou put it out, it only hurts me.”

She’s told him the rules of a game he can’t win since he’salready stamped the cigarette out.

“What do you want, Peter?”

His hand is sweating on the bannister, but it’s actually toocold in here.

“I want you not to hurt.” Maybe that’s a little profound fortonight, not because it’s an outlier in the theme of the evening, but becauseeverything, everything’s beenintense. “Let’s go.” He holds his palm up to her, really not that many stairsabove.

“Oh, is it time to pull myself together?” MJ wonderssarcastically, hovers her hand elegantly past her messy face.

“Actually, I was thinking we take the side exit at thebottom of the stairs and leave your mother with the bill.”

She stares down, smiling, and flicks her eyebrows up inamused approval.

“Then you, what? Guide me out of here, slipping your handprovocatively into my coat and kissing my neck while we walk the dark streets?Take me back to my place like it’s your place and worship my body until dawn ina manner that’s dominant yet undeniably respectful? Make me feel worthwhile?” MJlooks up and takes deliberate, heavy steps down the stairs towards him. “Tellme this isn’t just a fling?”

Their eyes are locked. He has told her that.

“No. We walk to the subway entrance half a block east andride to Cindy’s stop, get out, and I don’t leave you until she’s letting you inher door.”

Though she’s been crying all along, now her face becomesrecognizably sad. Peter wraps his arm tight around her back and rubs hershoulder briskly while they march down the stairs. The staircase seriouslyisn’t wide enough for this.

It’s her who pushes the door open under the red exit sign,but him who holds it. MJ’s looking at him and there’s a lot going on in herexpression. He spanks her on the way out so she won’t have to confront thathe’s not a bad guy.

―

“He may not be a bad guy.”

“And who’s been telling you that for months?” Cindy askssarcastically. MJ tries again to stretch her feet across her friend’s lap inhopes of a massage, but Cindy shoves them away with disgust.

“It hasn’t been months. It’s barely been six weeks.”

“Feels like longer. Doesn’t it?” she presses. MJ tilts herface into the back of the couch and smiles reluctantly. “In a good way,” Cindyclarifies.

“In a good way,” MJ confirms. She sighs. “But he knows toomuch now.”

“So, do we skip the girl talk and put out a hit on him? Whatwas his last name again… Parker?” Cindy laughs. “He knows just enough, which ishonestly a miracle when it was you who had to give up personal information.”

“I did fuck up though.” MJ rubs her forehead. “I brought himinto that dinner with no warning, and I didn’t explain anything afterwards.”

“He’s not an idiot. I’m sure he picked up on the dynamicbetween you and your mom. You’ve never really been one for talking things outanyway. I know how much it means that you showedhim something so difficult.”

“It means I had a moment of weakness.”

“You like him,”Cindy counters with a knowing smirk. “You’re allowed to like him.”

“Am I allowed to lovehim?” MJ jokes, not meeting her friend’s eye.

“MJ.” She won’t look. “MJ.”She looks. “Yes,” Cindy assures her, “you are.”

―

Peter brings the phone to his ear before he’s able to gethis eyes open. Could be any day of the week. He scratches his head and speaks agroggy greeting.

“Peter, I love you.”

It’s been a long time since he’s been up and out of hisapartment so quickly, sneakers squealing in the hall. A long time since he feltso instinctively that there was a place he needed to be.

―

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, dammit,Peter, be careful!” she gasps as her boyfriend trips backwards over one ofNed’s cardboard boxes.

He catches himself easily though, even with both handsholding firmly to the underside of the couch they’re maneuvering through theapartment’s front door. She doesn’t know how he does it, but Peter has anuncanny sense of balance.

Besides getting kicked a couple of feet across the floor,the box looks unscathed. Which one is this, she wonders, craning her neck tolook as she staggers past. Could be the one labelled ‘Ned’s Bed’ (linens),‘Ned’s Read’ (books), ‘Ned’s Head’ (a curiously extensive collection of hats),or another in the series of belongings Peter’s best friend has felt the need toname in rhyme. He’s in the process of carting his stuff over to his and Betty’snew place before the wedding and even though MJ likes things tidy, she doesn’tbegrudge Ned the scattering of boxes that remain in his ex-apartment. There’smore than enough room for MJ to move in.

They sat down in the corner of a busy café, her and Peter,and she grit her teeth because it wasn’t a date. It was something far morepivotal; she told him everything. Not everything(MJ prefers to remain at least somewhat of a mystery to him―and he to her, shesuspects, which is ok for now), but the issues she feels too old to blame onher mother. The push to excel, the rejection of compromise, the slide into MJhaving her life measured and micromanaged and minimized. Never drinkinganything stronger than coffee because it’s a self-controlling, pre-emptivechoice she made to circumvent her mother ever trying to reign in her drinking.(And now that she’s a handful of years beyond the legal drinking age, she’ssort of over the hype and sticks with her ginger ales, thanks, bar creeps.)

He called her in, the way the sea called to Ahab, onlywithout the single-minded bloodthirsty vengeance. It was so simple, after allof it―their lifetime in a month and a half―to be the first (or second) to saythis isn’t a fling.

She’ll be paying her own way now, splitting rent with herboyfriend instead of feeling like a jittery squatter in the upscale apartmenther mom selected, furnished, and paid for. Turns out the commute from his placeto the publishing house isn’t bad at all.

MJ did hang onto a few things, like this couch, which isbecoming heavier by the second. Every break they’ve taken while lugging thething upstairs has been at her request. Peter doesn’t even look tired!Meanwhile, she’s too wiped to even fully appreciate the tension in those armsof his, which is a fucking crime.

“You wanna set it down?” he asks with imploring eyes thatalways make her want to get close to him.

“Where are we putting it?” She’s sweating and her hands areslipping and she’s thrilled. “How about right next to your couch, in a line?”

Peter can be indecisive, so MJ’s answering her own questionbefore they find out how much damage she would cause by dropping her end. Theliving room is bizarrely long, but it’s a weirdly-shaped apartment. The couch configurationworks when she pictures it in her head.

“That could be fun actually,” he agrees. They beginshuffling in that direction.

“Right?” she prompts, ducking her head to her shoulder toswipe hair out of her eyes. “Imagine walking from the kitchen to the bathroomcompletely on couches. We won’t even have to touch the ground.”

[amillionsmiles]

dizzy on the comedown (Keith/Pidge)

Title: dizzy on the comedown Summary: But it was molting season: time to trade the old feathers for new wings. / Keith, Katie, and the light of a small town moon. A/N: Written for the @kidgezine!

Read and review here or continue under the cut.

o.O.o

At this point in his life, Keith had two things going for him. Graduation, and—

Okay, well. Maybe just the one.

Above Mrs. Finkle’s head, the clock crept at a snail’s pace. Time moved slowly enough in Arus already—call it the universal law of small towns—but detention, Keith hypothesized, was where it froze in cryogenic sleep. If not for the one other student sitting two rows behind him and to the left, Keith could have convinced himself he was in bed at home, dreaming.

That was how most days felt, in the midst of senior spring. Like he could just float in and out of them until summer, when he’d be gone for good. As far as cities went, Altea hardly had the glitz and glamor of somewhere like New York, but its population of 100,000 was massive compared to Arus’s 1,800, and for that, Keith couldn’t wait.

In the meantime, though, he saved up his money and cut class. Which had been working just fine until he’d dropped by to grab an assignment and Iverson had spotted him, hightailed it down the corridor, and grabbed Keith by the scruff of his jean jacket before he could get away.

Dragging his attention away from the minute hand, Keith went back to fiddling with the radio on his desk. It was his mom’s, a vintage dark beige beauty that had started glitching last week. Despite not being much of a repairman, Keith hoped to fix it in time for her birthday this weekend. Mrs. Finkle ignored him, tongue darting out to wet her finger as she flipped another page of her book.

Keith messed with a wire and turned the dial. Nothing but static at first, but slowly the faint strains of music overcame the crackle. Keith smiled, stopping short when a ball of paper hit the back of his head.  

He turned around. His detention-mate stared back at him with a steady gaze, hazelnut brown hair bundled in two messy braids. Katie Holt, sophomore. One older brother, Matt, who’d graduated last year. Her dad was an astrophysics professor while her mom bounced between running the local library and volunteering at the observatory up in the hills. Keith knew all these facts through no extra effort of his own, the same way everyone knew that his dad had died putting out the fire on Mr. McComb’s farm back in 2008.

What he didn’t know was why Katie was in detention. She didn’t exactly seem like the rabble-rousing type. Then again, maybe the fact that she looked so unassuming was exactly what made her trouble.

Impatiently, Katie jerked her head toward the crumpled ball behind him. Frowning, Keith swiveled in his chair and scooped it up, flattening it on his desk.

Nice, read the note.

Meaning the radio, probably. He glanced back at Katie and raised a single eyebrow in acknowledgement.  At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Finkle’s chair scraped backwards as she stood up.

Though it took 30 seconds for her to leave the room and turn the corner toward the bathrooms, it felt like a year. Once she’d left, Keith put the radio in his backpack and swung it over his shoulder.  He didn’t know Katie well enough to say anything meaningful out loud, but he granted her a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning his back.  

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” He poked his head out into the hallway to make sure no one was around. The agreement with Mrs. Finkle was simple: as long as nobody saw him busting out, she could plead innocence, and they could both move on with their respective afternoons.

“Isn’t skipping detention just going to get you… more detention?”

At that, Keith turned to lean against the doorframe. Katie had moved to stand beside him, hands curled around the straps of her backpack.

“Trust me, I do it all the time.”

“In that case...” Katie tilted her head. “Lead the way.”  

Katie Holt had a bossy streak, apparently. Without further conversation, Keith started down the hallway.

“Do you have some sort of secret arrangement with Mrs. Finkle?” asked Katie, hot on his heels.

“No, she just doesn’t care. I got top marks on all the state evals, and I pretty much carry the class average.” Keith didn’t say it to brag; he’d overheard Mrs. Finkle use the exact same reasoning in an argument with Iverson once. “Besides, detention wastes her time just as much as it wastes ours— hey. ”

Katie had grabbed his forearm, yanking him to the right.  

“Coach Sendak always gets his coffee in the break room around this time,” she hissed. “I thought you said you did this a lot.”

“No need to be critical,” grumbled Keith.

They’d finally reached the parking lot. His red pickup truck, shabby as it was, beckoned like a jewel. Before he could head in its direction, though, he made the mistake of glancing over at Katie. She looked on the brink of asking him something, the determination on her face surprisingly imposing considering her stature.

Exhaling, Keith ran a hand through his hair. “What?”

Just as quickly, Katie’s expression transitioned to innocence.  “What?”

He leveled her with a look that read, clearly: I don't have time for this. “What are you about to ask?”

She shifted. “I need a ride home.  23rd and Walnut.”

“That’s four traffic lights past Greasy Sal’s, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, fine.” Keith gestured for her to walk with him.  At his truck, he pulled open the driver’s door, tossing his bag into the backseat. “Get in.”

o.O.o

“Dammit.” For the third time, Katie jiggled the door handle, rapping on the door. “Nobody’s home.”

“Window?” suggested Keith.

Katie shot him a flat look. “I’m not breaking into my own house.”

“Okay, then…” Keith crossed his arms. The Holts’ porch was small, painted gray while the rest of the house was white. A bristly brown welcome mat printed with a cactus laid in front of the screen door; cacti seemed to be a recurring motif, if the several growing in the yard were anything to go by.  

He took a deep breath.

“Listen, I’ve got a paper route that starts in fifteen minutes. So either you stay here, or you come with.  But I’m leaving.”

“Gee, you’re really selling the appeal of your company,” said Katie.  “I’m in.”

It took Keith a second to process, during which Katie sailed past him and back to his car.  “You’re—what?”

“I’m in.” Opening the passenger side door, she clambered inside.  “Come on—I don’t want to be blamed for you being late.”

o.O.o

As far as newspapers went, the Arus Gazette would hardly win any awards for its journalism. But much like playing in the Little League or driving to nearby Olkari Springs for Labor Day Weekend, subscription to it was time-honored tradition, a given if you’d grown up in town.

“How long does it usually take you to deliver all these?” Katie asked, pushing aside a newspaper tube that had encroached on the space between them.

“Two hours. If you’re trying to get homework done, you could probably just use the dashboard as a desk.”

Shaking her head, Katie leaned back in the seat. “Nah, I get carsick.”

“Suit yourself,” answered Keith, just as the traffic light ahead of them blinked sleepily from yellow to red. The foot he put down on the brake pedal felt like a dampener on the mood in the car; in the silence, Katie turned away from him to stare out the window, her fingers laced in her lap. It was weird. Usually, Keith cared little about forcing conversation. He hadn’t promised he’d entertain her for tagging along on his errand run. Still…

“How’d you get thrown in detention?”

Katie turned toward him, blinking in surprise. “You really want to know?”

Keith shrugged. “Might as well.”  

“Hm.” The seatbelt shifted as Katie wriggled around to face him fully. “You know Lance, right?”

“Yeah.” Former Little League rival and youngest child of the McClains, who ran the only Cuban restaurant in town. “What about him?”

“So, basically I rigged the water fountain outside Mrs. Sanda’s classroom to spray in his face, which didn’t go over so well because—” Here, she adopted a high-pitched, nasal tone, “—‘we’re in the middle of a drought!’”

Keith cracked a smile. “Was it worth it?”

“100%. So what’s your deal? Is all the delinquency just a bad case of senioritis?”

“Detention doesn’t make me a delinquent.”

“At its broadest definition, delinquency means misbehavior, and I’d say playing hooky counts.”

“You’re kind of a smartass,” Keith observed.

Katie remained unfazed.  “I’ve gotta be, if I ever want to get out of here.”

At that, Keith’s ears perked.  Very few people broke beyond Arus’s event horizon.  For most travelers, it was a pit stop, but once you settled, you stayed.  That was what had happened to his mom: she’d been passing through on her way to a motorcycling convention when her bike had broken down.  Keith’s dad arrived to save the day. Three months later, they’d married in the town courthouse, a September wedding, escorted home by a fleet of men and women in leather jackets—members of Mom’s former motorcycle club, the Blades.

“Where to?”

“East coast,” said Katie.  “Or maybe Midwest. As long as it’s somewhere cold.  I want to see snow.”

“These desert nights aren’t cold enough for you?”

“It’s not the same. What about you? Everyone knows you’re ditching for Altea.”

“Yeah. They’ve got the nearest police academy.”  

Katie’s eyes brightened. She had an uncanny way of looking at him, as if he were a gadget she wanted to figure out the innermost workings of. “You’re going to be a police officer?”

Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, Keith quirked an eyebrow. “If this is the setup for another joke about me being a delinquent…”

Katie pouted. “I’m more creative than that.”

“Good to know. Can you pass me one of the newspapers?”

Obliging, Katie handed him a tube as he rolled down the driver’s side window. With a flick of the wrist, Keith sent the bundle arcing through the air. It landed with a satisfying splat on the front porch, right up against the door. Beside him, Katie whistled.

“Twenty points if you can get it to land directly on the welcome mat,” said Keith, reaching behind him to grab another roll.  He held it out between them in challenge.

Katie’s eyes sparked.  “You’re on.”

What Keith knew about Katie Holt: she liked a good prank, she wanted out of Arus, and when she grinned, a dimple appeared high on her right cheek. And now he also knew the curve of her shoulder underneath her green flannel, a corded strength only hinted at before, when she’d grabbed him in the hallway.  Katie had a wicked strong arm for somebody so small.

“I used to pitch for my brother,” explained Katie, her slight smirk a sign that she’d caught him noticing.

Two could play ball. “In that case,” said Keith, letting their fingers touch this time as he passed her another newspaper, “Batter up.”    

o.O.o

The pink and blue of Coran’s Convenience shone invitingly against the night sky as Keith pulled into the parking lot. Wasting no time in unbuckling her seatbelt, Katie leaped out of the car, leaning against the ice machine as she waited for him to catch up.

It didn’t feel like they’d spent the last eight hours together; in fact, Keith was almost reluctant to see the end. They’d made a game of the rest of his paper route, competing to see who could throw faster or with more accuracy.  Afterwards, dinner at Flo’s Diner, where between the two of them they’d devoured a healthy serving of chili cheese fries, crispy fish sliders, and apple pie. And now, to close the night, Slurpees from Coran’s.

Coran was Arus’s resident redhead and town gossip. Like a homing beacon, his head whipped toward the entrance when the bell overhead jingled. Somewhat protectively, Keith steered Katie so that the chip aisle obscured them from view as they headed toward the back, where the white lemon, blue raspberry, and cherry ice churned in their respective containers.

Halfway through filling his cup with cherry, Keith was interrupted.

“You’re doing it wrong,” said Katie, taking over. “The trick is to layer all the flavors.”

Keith took the package of Twizzlers she thrust at him, watching Katie top off the Slurpee’s blue raspberry layer with practiced precision.

“You’re a sick little genius, but I’ll take it.”

“Watch who you’re calling little,” she warned. “Corn Pops?”

Keith made a face. “Pass.”

“All right.”

At the cash register, Coran rang up their total with a twinkle in his eye. “How’s your mom doing, Keith?”

Reaching for his wallet, Keith shrugged. “She’s fine.”

“Gonna miss you when you leave for Altea, I bet.”

“I’m not disappearing off the grid, just moving. I’ll visit.”

“Mhmm. And what about you, Little Holt?” teased Coran. “Running around with this one now that Matt’s gone—I hope he hasn’t gotten you into any trouble.”

“We met in detention, actually,” said Keith, finally done counting his change. “Here. $5.79.”

Sensing Keith was a dead end, Coran swept the bills and coins into his hand and redirected his wiles toward Katie with more vigor.

“Trade that story for a Slim Jim.”

“Two Slim Jims and a pack of Mentos,” Katie countered.

Coran laughed, running a thumb over his mustache. “Deal.”

After laying the negotiated items on the counter, Coran leaned over to let Katie whisper in his ear.  Meanwhile, Keith sipped the Slurpee, shivering slightly as the cold rushed to his head. Coran’s grin had pulled higher; Keith narrowed his eyes at Katie, wondering what she’d just said.  

Once they’d escaped Coran’s gleeful “Stay safe, kids!” he had a chance to ask.

“What’d you tell him?”

“Something much more exciting than the truth,” grinned Katie, stashing their additional haul of Slim Jims and Mentos in the cup holder. “So, where to next?”

In the eerie white-blue lights of the gas station, her lips shone. She hadn’t redone her braids since the afternoon, and the wispy tangles framed her face, giving her a wild softness. It suddenly seemed impossible that Keith had lived all this time at Arus without casting her anything more than a second glance.  

He braced a hand on the back of her headrest, getting ready to reverse. “I know a place.”

o.O.o

Keith’s boots clanged heavily as he climbed onto the bed of his truck.  Katie had already spread out the blankets; she reclined on them now, elbows jutting out on either side of her head like two bony bird wings.

The cold desert air, combined with the condensation from the Slurpee, numbed Keith’s fingers.  When he hit the lemon layer, his nose wrinkled. Wordlessly, he passed the cup to Katie, who accepted with a gleeful look that let him know this had probably been her plan all along.

“Do you do this often?” she asked.

Keith followed her gaze to where the roads out of Arus dissolved into black ribbons through the dry brush. Every so often, a car’s headlight appeared. In the distance, you could just barely make out the lights of another town, but it was mostly cactus and mountains and big desert sky.

“Yeah. My dad used to drive me out here whenever I needed to blow off steam.” He rested his chin on his knees, staring at the horizon line.  

A rustle. Katie sat up beside him.  “Was it in this car?”

Keith smiled. “Yeah.”

“That explains why the engine sounds so clunky then. You’ve had it for forever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith watched her. The starlight seemed to catch on her freckles, making them glimmer. He wanted to ask if she believed in ghosts. Not the evil, vindictive kind, but the restless sort. The type that might possess you to drive to the outskirts of town and sit in that liminal space between everything you’d known and everything you wanted to be.

“What’s your favorite constellation?” asked Katie, breaking his reverie.

“Aquila,” Keith answered readily. “I like how bright it gets in the summer. And I’ve always liked birds of prey.”

“Poetic.”

“Stars are the only thing I’ll miss about this place, probably.” Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t true; there was the belltower and the trailer park and the way the sunrise seemed to set the grass on fire, and the dark, quiet corner of Mo’s where if you pressed your ear to the wall you could feel the vibrations from the band practicing in the basement. But it was molting season: time to trade in the old feathers for new wings.

“Well, that sucks,” Katie said. “Because even though we just started hanging out… I think I’ll miss you.”

Behind her head, the moon peeked out like an angel’s halo. Messy, he thought—about Katie’s hair, about this, starting something only to leave it behind, but. I’m not disappearing off the grid, just moving.  I’ll visit.  

Gently, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Katie’s ear. This new call was softer, more fragile than the one drawing him away from Arus, but it thud in his chest all the same.

“There’s room to add other things to the list,” he said, tugging her closer, or maybe she pulled him—either way, their mouths met in the middle, Katie’s hand curling around the flannel of his shirt, both a departure and an arrival, all at once.  The glare from a passing headlight infiltrated the corner of his vision; instinctively, Keith turned away from it, nestling his face in the side of Katie’s head.  Her hair smelled like a tangle of all the places they’d been today, hamburger grease mingled with desert air and notes of coconut.

“You’re trouble, Keith Kogane,” said Katie.  She wrinkled her nose when she said it, and Keith was almost embarrassed by how fond he was of the gesture, already.  It crackled in his chest, like a radio picking up a signal after hours of silence.

“So are you.”

[moveslikebuckywrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Original Characters Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff Series: Part 4 of Ineffable Outliers Weekly Prompts Summary:

A day in the life of a certain angel and demon, a little over a year after the failed apocalypse. Featuring a visit to a coffee shop and a visit to a little Greek restaurant called the Olive Grove.

---

This is a prompt fill for the Ineffable Outlier’s Weekly Prompts!  This week’s prompt was:

It's a typical, mundane Post-End of the World day for any set of Gomens characters. How does this nice slice of life day go for them? How do the characters react to each other doing everyday trivialities such as washing dishes, gardening, shopping/running errands, etc. etc. Try to focus on the little things in life!

---

10:17AM

Crowley almost didn’t like coming back to this place.

Sure, the coffee was great (large black, two sugars, every time, without him asking), and the baristas were some of the best in London (their sarcastic attitudes being a bonus, not a drawback), but the location. Well, the location left a lot to be desired.

Because this particular coffee shop was in Broadgate Tower.  Main Earth location of the head offices of Heaven and Hell.

Not people he particularly wanted to be around these days.

Sure, they had formed a tenuous partnership with their former offices.  Turns out, nobody upstairs or down knew jack shit about how things work on Earth.  So now, they freelance.  Sometimes the old Arrangement even kicks in, and Hell will (reluctantly) hire Aziraphale for a temptation or Heaven will (reluctantly) hire Crowley for a blessing.

Kind of ironic, in that Alanis Morissette kind of way.

They’d just come from one such meeting, Heaven was hiring the both of them for some minor blessings in Wales next week.  Something to do with a charity soccer game or something, Crowley never paid much attention.  Spent too much time glaring at Gabriel to listen to him.  He’d really just wanted to get the heav-hel-WHATEVER out of there and go get his angel some lunch, but the silly featherhead wanted cocoa.

Oh, but dearest, they make the best cocoa here at the towers, Aziraphale had said, practically bouncing, they have the tiny little marshmallows I love and everything!

That’s where the ‘almost’ came in.  As anyone who knew them would gladly tell you, Crowley was powerless to resist any request from his angel.  

Hand in hand in a line full of business suits to get some much-needed warmth for this December chill.  He recognized a couple of the baristas (1); Rose had really come into her own, was one of the best of them by now.  She was working register today; Jisel was making the drinks. Couple of new faces here and there.

One would probably expect Aziraphale to know everyone by name, it came across through his sunny disposition.  Sometimes, especially mundane times like this, Crowley would be struck by just how ridiculously in love with this fussy angel he was.

Sure, they were married now.  Even their former bosses knew that had happened (2). But seeing the angel’s eyes light up over his favorite cocoa from his favorite coffee shop was almost a religious experience for the demon.  Or how he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand right now that the angel would squeeze back without hesitating and turn and give Crowley that soft little smile that was reserved just for him.

He tested that theory.  Squeeze the hand, he squeezes back, and there’s the smile I love so much.

It was all unbearably sentimental.  Made his insides feel all gooey.  Unbecoming for a demon.  Not that he gave a toss about that anymore.

“Hullo Mr. Crowley; Mr. Fell,” said Rose, now masterful at the register, “Same as always for today?”

“Yes, of course my dear,” Aziraphale said brightly, “With– ”

“Extra marshmallows, of course.” Rose smiled at them and Crowley could already feel Aziraphale blessing the rest of the baristas’ day.

Rose handed Crowley his coffee and they moved along to the end of the counter to wait for Aziraphale’s cocoa; leaning against the bar top with their shoulders touching.  It was ridiculous how something so small made Crowley want to melt into a puddle of snake on the floor and slither off someplace secluded to scream and blush in peace, dammit.

Aziraphale sighed, “You know, Darling, it might not be the best idea, but in some small way I’m glad we’re freelancing now.”

“You just wanted to keep getting your cocoa, Angel,” Crowley said, bumping his shoulder into the angel’s, “which really, you could do anywhere.”

“Oh, but it just isn’t the same, Dearest.” Always with the pet names.  It had taken Crowley quite a while to get used to them, felt like there was a new one every day and he couldn’t keep up.  Every single one was infused with so much love and devotion they nearly knocked him off his feet.

“If I’m being honest, it’s the marshmallows,” the angel said wistfully, smiling at a memory, “Remember when we went back to Paris, after the Reign was over?  And we found that quaint little candy shop and they were selling marshmallows there? I swear the marshmallows here taste exactly the same as those.”

“They’re probably just some megamart brand that you haven’t tried yet.”

“I-well, I never...A megamart, Dearest?” The angel stammered, “As though I’d ever.  The sheer thought-“

“I’m only teasing you, Love,” Crowley said before leaning over and planting a kiss on the angel’s cheek, “You do get so cute when you’re full of that self-righteous fury.”

That earned him an eye roll.  He knew what he had to do for these little reactions he so loved (3).  

Little reactions he never thought he’d have.  For the longest time, Aziraphale had been just a little too far from his reach, and just a little too in Heaven’s grasp.  The angel had held Crowley’s twisted dark heart in his hands ever since that first day on the wall of Eden.  Six thousand years of stolen glances, stolen time; lunches here, drinks there.  Always, the forefront of his mind screaming please, please, just stay a little longer, a few more minutes and maybe I’ll finally get past all this emotion that’s eating me from the inside out.

Then the apocalypse didn’t happen.  Then they were together, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

He’d still had his issues, to be sure.  Not thinking he was good enough, not thinking Aziraphale would want to stay with him once he saw what a mess Crowley could actually be when he wasn’t putting up the cool façade.  But the angel had stayed, had chosen him over everything and everyone else.  And now they were married.

He liked to tumble that word around in his head sometimes. He did now, as he gazed lovingly (gross) at his husband (husband?!) as the angel prattled on about this or that to Jisel while she made his cocoa.

A commotion broke him out of his reverie.

“What do you mean my coffee is £3.80?  It was £3.40 last week!”

“I do apologize, sir,” Rose stammered from behind the register, Crowley was already on alert, ready to intervene, “But the tower management raised the prices a couple of days ago.”

“Bullshit, don’t you know who I am?” the man shouted, Rose looked like she might faint.  Crowley was about to say something, but Aziraphale beat him to it.

The angel had stood up and walked back to the register and was now addressing the customer directly, while Jisel handed his cocoa to Crowley.

“My dear fellow, I do believe you’ve forgotten to do something very important today.”

“I have?” the man asked, confused.

“Yes, I believe you said something about an…anniversary, maybe?” Aziraphale says, with a bit of miraculous intent.

The man goes pale, “Oh no, I forgot, I don’t have anything for her!”

“Well, I’d suggest you get a bit of a wiggle-on then, hmm?” Aziraphale said, with what Crowley could only describe as a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

“Yes,” the man stammered, “Yes, I-I suppose I should. Thank you.”

The man left without getting his coffee.

Crowley caught up to his husband, “Come on then, Angel, did your good deed for the day?”

“No rest for the good,” the angel smirked at him, “As it were.”

It was about this time that the man slipped and fell on a freshly mopped floor, sign conveniently missing, but now appearing out of thin air.  His phone flew out of his hand and the screen shattered.

Aziraphale was practically giggly.

Crowley just stared at his angel, ever surprised by him to this day.  Six thousand years doing nothing to dampen that affection.

That’s my Angel, he thought to himself, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

---

1:34 PM

There weren’t many things in this world that Aziraphale loved more than a nice hole-in-the-wall family restaurant (4).

The feelings of love that emanated from them were nearly intoxicating.  As an angel, a being drawn to love, he gravitated to these establishments.  Passed down from generation to generation, some further back than others.  This one was a particular favorite, for more reasons than one.

“EAT!”

“I already told you, Yaya, I’m not hungry,” Crowley told her for the fifteenth time since they had sat down.

It was always this way here at the Olive Grove.  Yaya thought Crowley was too skinny, she wanted him to eat.  Crowley didn’t like eating, so he didn’t want to5.

All Aziraphale could do was stare from across the table and giggle.  This was his favorite part of coming here, after all.  Crowley may pretend to have a devil-may-care attitude, but the angel knew deep down that wasn’t the case.

Crowley would never admit it out loud, but he had a certain love for Yaya of his own.  One that was misplaced by a Mother many, many eons ago.  There’s a lot to be said for taking care of someone.

Not that any of that prevented Yaya from smacking Crowley’s hand with a wooden spoon as he reached for his phone instead of a fork.

“EAT!”

“Ok, alright, fine, I’m eating,” Crowley grumbled as he picked up the fork.  Satisfied with the results, Yaya gave them both a smile and returned to her own work.

“You know, love, she’s only looking out for you,” the angel said between giggles.  He couldn’t help it; it was always funny to see Crowley embarrassed.

“Doesn’t bloody need to, crazy old bat.”

Despite whatever thoughts Crowley had on crazy old people, bat or otherwise, he was digging rather quickly into the moussaka she had brought him.

Crowley was always a surprise, even after all this time. Aziraphale knew his husband had a soft heart underneath that bluster and bravado.  Demons didn’t do things like sing the (alleged) Antichrist to sleep. Or stowaway children on the ark.  Or save books of prophecy for dithering angels who might forget about them.  Or go for lunches at the Ritz and picnics in the park.

But his demon did, and oh how Aziraphale knew how lucky he was.

He’d given Crowley a million reasons to give up on him through the years.  Calling their friendship ‘fraternizing’, pushing him away when all he wanted to do was pull the demon closer.  That last day before Armageddon was the worst.  Aziraphale still had nightmares.  Of Alpha Centauri and holy water and bathtubs.

But Crowley was always there when Aziraphale would wake from these, holding him and comforting him.  Crowley has nightmares of his own, the angel knows.  Of bookshops and sulfur and bandstands.

Bandstands.  After that day, Aziraphale truly thought he’d lost Crowley for good.  How could he have said something so mean.  I don’t even like you! The furthest thing from the truth he ever could have said.  Fear can make someone do things they wouldn’t, angels are no exception.

Aziraphale props his chin on his hand and looks at Crowley, who is now loudly complaining that no little old bat in a hole-in-the-wall Greek place can tell him what to do (he’s finished the moussaka and moved on to the dolmas at this point).  All the angel can do is sigh.  

Almost a century ago, when the angel had felt their fingers brush over a leather satchel of books in the burning wreckage of a church, he knew that the thing he’d been repressing had a name.  A very familiar one at that.  He tried to keep it at bay for so long, but it all came bubbling over after lunch at the Ritz following Armageddon.  They had been walking and their hands were so very, very close.  Almost touching with every step they took.  Crowley rarely, if ever, had his hands out of his pockets and Aziraphale tended to flip back and forth between worrying his in front of him and having them behind his back.  He’d seen the chance and took it.

And on they had walked, hand in hand, fitting together like missing puzzle pieces.  They didn’t look at each other or speak, both afraid that they might ruin the moment.  

They made it three steps into the bookshop before giving up and kissing each other senseless, no time for talking then, that would come later. In hushed breaths and soft spoken I-love-you’s that had waited for far too many centuries to be spoken into the world.

He’d spent some time at the beginning absolutely terrified.  To him, Crowley was so vibrant and he always seemed to be running on all cylinders.  Aziraphale had been afraid, when it came right down to it, that one day Crowley would wake up and realize just how boring he really was.  Sure, Crowley had always teased him about his fashion and his books among other things but being together in this capacity was so different.  So new and fresh.  Aziraphale was scared he couldn’t live up to the expectations of 6000 years of want.

But here they were, on their own side.  With the rings on their fingers to prove it.  He can’t help but stare.  Crowley’s been growing his hair out long again, and it’s almost to his shoulders now.  It catches the light and is reminiscent of the copper pots that hang as decoration on the walls.  He’s gesticulating wildly to go with whatever nonsense he’s decided to complain about now, and Aziraphale traces the motion, focused on the gold ring that looks like wings on Crowley’s finger.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there staring when Crowley stops ranting and leans in to kiss him gently, breaking him from his self-imposed trance.

“See something you like, Angel?” the demon says with a twitch of that mischievous smile.  The one that he saves for Aziraphale, without the demonic intent behind it.

Which doesn’t change what that smile means for later. But Aziraphale knows how his demon’s mind works.

“Just admiring the most beautiful person in this restaurant, dearest,” and if Aziraphale is right, what comes next is–

“Ngk.”

Yes, just as he thought.  He reaches across the table and takes his husband’s hand, “You do realize you’ve almost made your way through three plates while complaining about Yaya’s concern for you.”

“Well…I…ngk…uh…” the demon stammers, trying to come up with a bad reason to eat the food that Yaya gives him, “Well…um…the thing is. The thing is..”

Aziraphale lets him work through it as he eats his spanakopita and drinks his wine.

“The thing is, Angel, if Yaya keeps giving me this food…that’s less for the paying customers…then business goes under…and then the restaurant closes!  See? Perfectly evil of me!” Crowley smiles smugly and takes a drink of his own wine.

“Except we do pay for our food here, if anything we’re helping the business, so that line is out my dearest.”

“Well…well…uhm…”

Aziraphale loves flustering Crowley this way, it’s always so easy to do and always good for a show.  

“Sometimes you can be quite nice my dear.”

“Shaddap,” Crowley says, sulking into his chair.  The demon looks over to where Yaya is taking an order and she gives him a pointed look.

“Dearest, best eat up, you know she’ll insist on you having the baklava before she lets you leave.”

“Well,” Crowley says quickly and almost inaudibly, “Be rude to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

There’s my demon, Aziraphale thought to himself, sipping his wine and smiling, just a little bit a good person, whether he admits it or not.

---

7:23 PM

In a little flat above a bookshop in Soho, and angel and a demon are watching TV.

Well, they were watching TV.  They’d started out with Crowley resting his head in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel carded his fingers through the demon’s hair.  But then Crowley had stilled the angel’s hand to kiss his wrist.  Which of course meant that Aziraphale had brought Crowley’s hand up to kiss his knuckles. Which led to the demon leaning up to kiss along the angel’s jawline, and that’s how we ended up here.

Snogging on the couch while they were intending to watch TV.

A typical Monday spent the typical ways.  The sun sets, and the calendar turns a page.  There will be more Mondays, more Decembers.  More coffee shops and little Greek restaurants. More anniversaries and holidays.  More interrupted TV shows to go with interrupted morning crossword puzzles, because what can hold a candle to love?  What else does anyone need?

Let us retreat and give them their privacy.  They deserve it after so long being watched by Heaven and Hell alike.  They don’t need to be watched by us as well.

Let us draw these curtains and slip away, and as we do, think of love.  Love everlasting and love unconditional.  Love that waits and is waited for.  A love that is patient, and a love that is kind.

---

1 - Crowley made a habit of remembering his favorite baristas.  If that happened to be most of them, you couldn’t really blame him.

2 - There wasn’t an official ceremony, as it were, they just exchanged their rings in the park while book-girl took pictures from a bush.  But as there had been witnesses (one purple-eyed intrusive spy from Heaven, and one very buzzy spy from Hell) it had been considered official and they had been given rounds of forced congratulations when they got called in for the next freelance assignment.

3 – And if one of these things was a minor miracle that ensured the shop always had those lovely little marshmallows from France when Aziraphale was there, who was anyone to judge?

4 – There were three. The Ritz (too many good memories), Books (too many good stories), and Crowley (there’s not enough space in the footnotes to get into why the demon ranks at the top.  Perhaps there’s a place with copious amounts of stories at the push of a button that could give you a few examples, hmm?)

5 – Crowley and Yaya had done this back and forth since the first visit.  Crowley knows Yaya barely speaks English, and Yaya knows that Crowley doesn’t like to be told what to do.  Neither of these things stop either of them.  They both love it.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Blaine Anderson 2.0″ (Rated PG13)

Summary: Blaine Anderson is getting a start on his brand new life with the help of Kurt, and surprisingly, Sebastian, too. (1509 words)

Notes: Takes place after 'The Emancipation of Blaine Anderson'. Warning for Blaine friendly.

Part 60 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“So, what’s the plan, Stan?” Sebastian asks, sitting down at the breakfast table with his boyfriend and his new boarder, Blaine. He watches the boy sitting primly on the opposite end of the table, tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs with a fork and knife, which offends Sebastian on principle. There’s a part of Sebastian – a small part, mind you - that still thinks he’s insane for offering the boy who is clearly in love with his boyfriend (and who also happens to be perfect for him, in Sebastian’s opinion) a room at his house. But he wouldn’t go back on his decision even if he could. For one thing, inviting Blaine to stay with him was the human thing to do, and he’s been trying to act more like a human and less like a walking turd ever since he and Kurt got together. Plus, Blaine’s not a bad guy. It kills Sebastian to admit it but, in a different universe, he could see himself crushing on Blaine.

A little.

Not all that much.

Like if Sebastian happened to have the flu with a high ass fever and he was hallucinating, and Blaine was around, then he might think Blaine was cute.

But only then.

Besides, the moony eyes Kurt makes at Sebastian are more than worth the aggravation.

Like now, when Kurt is staring at him all lovesick, serving him pancakes from the platter in the middle of the table – pancakes Kurt made special to celebrate Blaine’s first breakfast at Sebastian’s house, but which he added chocolate chips to because he knows those are Sebastian’s favorite.

Oh yeah, Sebastian thinks, leaning over for a kiss on the cheek. He could get use to this.

“Well, I wanna go get some new clothes,” Blaine says, passing over a plate of bacon after helping himself to a slice. “Something a little more me.”

“Ooo! Shopping trip!” Kurt passes the bacon to Sebastian and blows him another kiss. “I’m definitely down for that.”

“Also, I want to buy a new car.”

Sebastian’s head snaps in Blaine’s direction, more interested in this development than Kurt thinks he should be. “You’re getting rid of the Mustang?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of trading it in and buying a Prius. They’re way more environmentally friendly considering all the traveling I do. The last competition I did in Pennsylvania was a killer fuel wise. I can’t imagine the damage I’m doing to the environment every time I fill it up.”

“How much do you think you could get for it as a trade-in?”

Kurt’s eyes pop between his boyfriend and Blaine, curious as to why this matters to Sebastian so much.

“Not as much as I want, honestly. It’s a classic, completely rebuilt from the bottom up. My dad and I …” Blaine pauses, toying with his slice of bacon, tearing it slowly while he chews over the memory “… we did the work ourselves. But I don’t want to take the time selling it. Not in this economy. It’ll probably be sitting on Auto Trader forever.”

“My dad might be able to help you …” Kurt begins, sympathizing with his friend, but Sebastian leaps over him with his own offer.

“Let me take it off your hands.”

Both Blaine and Kurt shoot looks his way.

“Are you serious?” Blaine asks.

“Yeah.”

“But, didn’t your uncle just buy you that Audi?”

“Yeah, but it’s too new for someone who just got their license. I keep worrying about scratching it up and shit. Besides …” Sebastian bites his lower lip. He knows the next words out of his mouth might shut down Kurt’s moony eyes for a while, but he can’t help it. It’s too good. Plus, he’s not wrong “… Kurt likes your Mustang.”

Blaine straightens in surprise, turning to his friend who’s suddenly gone pale. “You do?” he says in a voice that makes Sebastian think that revelation may have lost him the car.

“Wh---what?” Kurt stares at them, eyes darting back and forth between the two, cheeks burning. “No. I … I didn’t say …”

“Sure you did,” Sebastian continues with a devious smirk. “You can admit it. We’re all friends here.”

“I … I may have mentioned that I admired it,” Kurt backtracks, looking at Blaine, begging him with his eyes to believe him, not his boyfriend. “You know, from a mechanic’s standpoint. It’s an exceptional piece of American craftsmanship.”

“Kurt, you said that car was so sexy that if it were a guy you would …”

“Sebastian!”

Blaine turns his head and laughs at Kurt’s indignant squeak, and even though Kurt glares Sebastian down as if he’s about to leap over the table and throttle him, cancel every scheduled make-out they have from now till next year, Sebastian has the audacity to wink at him.

“So, whaddya say, Blaine? I’ll give you whatever you think is fair. Cash.”

Blaine smiles, catching a hint of Sebastian’s smug ‘tude, only mildly disappointed about the deal he’s about to make. “I’d say you’ve bought yourself a car.”

“Great!” Sebastian digs into his delightful smelling pancakes with a shit eating grin. “And Kurt?”

Kurt stabs at his food, demolishing his pancakes until they’re unrecognizable. “Yeah?”

“You’re welcome.”

***

“Are you guys almost done in there? It’s been over two hours!” Sebastian flails in his overstuffed chair, making a scene in front of two moms waiting for their sons to come out.

“Stop your complaining!” Kurt calls. “Overhauling one’s life can be a lengthy and exhaustive process. It should not be rushed.”

“How much more lengthy!? I’m so hungry, my stomach’s about to recede!”

“You just polished off three pretzel dogs and a trough of lemonade!”

“Kurt, I am an elite athlete! I burn two thousand calories sitting and breathing. Three pretzel dogs isn’t going to satisfy me!”

“But complaining obviously does. Sit tight. He’s trying on his last outfit.”

Sebastian breathes in deep then groans unhappily into the air, unfazed by the glares aimed in his direction. This is revenge, he thinks, for what he said over breakfast. Sebastian doesn’t feel sorry for that, though. He was right. Even with daggers in his eyes, Kurt took a good long look at Blaine’s Mustang parked in Sebastian’s garage before they left, running his fingertips lightly over the hood, supremely focused on its leather back seat.

Yup.

Sebastian definitely made one hell of an investment taking that car off Blaine’s hands.

But as images of Sebastian and his half-naked boyfriend making out in that car run through his brain, another thought makes him jerk upright.

“Wait … Kurt? He’s not changing his entire look, is he?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s not trying on new chonies with you in there, is he?”

“If you don’t sit still and keep quiet, I won’t tell you,” Kurt sings.

Sebastian seethes. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either. Now hold on to your socks. I present for your consideration the new, not improved, Blaine Anderson!”

Kurt opens the door to the dressing room and hops out, gesturing dramatically inside like a ring master presenting an exciting circus act. Slowly, shyly, Blaine walks out, eyes trained on his hands as he smooths down his shirt, straightening seams that don’t need to be straightened. He looks happy, yet slightly insecure, and Sebastian, certain his boyfriend strong-armed him into this decision, shakes his head.

“Kurt! Christ! Couldn’t you let the man dress himself?”

“I did!” Kurt’s hands find his hips and lock on in a defiant pose. “I didn’t pick out a single thing except the bowtie, and that’s only because he asked me to!”

Sebastian looks Blaine over again from head to toe. Gone is the leather jacket, the white t-shirt with the dress shirt over it, the torn jeans, and the combat boots. Instead, the boy standing in front of him is wearing a pair of crisp, khaki slacks; a short sleeve button down; a sweater vest; a bowtie; boat shoes; and an off-white fedora.

Sebastian doesn’t want to say it, but he’s dressed a lot like the last picture Sebastian saw of his grandfather playing bocce ball a week before he died.

Kurt doesn’t dress this way, but he’s tried to get Sebastian to … politely suggesting during a few of their online shopping excursions that khaki slacks in this particular cut or boat shoes might suit him. And here Blaine comes, out of the blue, and dresses himself with no prompting like a page out of Kurt’s style journal.

“This” - Sebastian gestures at him in disgust - “is your style?”

“Yup. Always has been.” Blaine beams at Kurt, that nugget of insecurity evaporating inside his smile. “God! It feels good to finally wear what I want for once!”

“Oh dear God!” Sebastian covers his eyes and slinks down in his chair. Just when he thought Blaine Anderson couldn’t get any worse - as in any more perfect for Kurt - he pulls this.

Dammit!

That Mustang better be worth the money he spent!