#c: sparrow kingston

[lvllns]

He finds them all by accident one afternoon.

Sparrow is down at the station, which isn’t surprising considering, you know, that’s their job. Still, Mason half expects to walk into their apartment and find them sitting on the dining table playing their violin. He pauses when the door swings open even though he knows they aren’t home—

(their heartbeat is miles away and his chest aches)

—before he walks inside, softly shutting the door behind him.

The plastic bag in his hand crinkles, the sound loud in the quiet of the space, and he shakes himself before walking into the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink and their favorite travel mug is still on the counter which means they left in a hurry this morning. He frowns. Wracks his brain for something but whatever had them hurrying wasn’t Agency related. With a dull thump, he sets the bag near the fridge and starts pulling out food.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks, between him being gone on Agency jobs, Sparrow being stuck here. The two of them circling each other like planets, dipping close enough to touch for a moment before being pulled apart by gravity.

He’s tired.

He misses them.

He…spots a soft, pale blue photo album sitting on the coffee table.

Curious, he abandons the box of cereal in the kitchen and wanders over. It’s unsuspecting, a totally normal, average, everyday photo album. Mason sits down on the sofa and pulls the album into his lap. Something tugs at him, a little whisper at the back of his mind tells him to open it.

So he does.

And his hands immediately start to tremble.

It’s…full of him. Pictures of him.

It isn’t like he doesn’t know they take pictures of him, they’re always doing it. They’ve got more cameras than they know what to do with at this point. But he didn’t think…didn’t know they were printing them out, developing the film. Creating and storing images of him.

Mason swallows, tongue thick in his mouth.

The first few pages are innocuous. Him standing in the library. Him sitting on his bed in the warehouse. Him smiling. Him laughing. Him pushing his hair from his face.

Him, him, him.

Nothing staged, nothing notable, but it is a revelation seeing himself through their eyes.

He flips through slowly. Takes his time, lets his eyes wander and soak up each picture. Some are more professional looking than other, he can tell which ones they took the time to snap with one of their cameras versus the ones they grabbed quickly with their phone. Halfway through, he decides he rather likes the film photos. The ones developed rather than printed from a memory card, and he wonders if maybe he’s showing his age a little bit.

Scoffing, he flips the page and a thick envelope tumbles to the floor. Frowning, he sets the album back on the table and scoops the envelope up, peeking inside.

His mouth goes dry.

These…these are pictures that Sparrow clearly doesn’t mean for anyone but them to see.

There’s a polaroid of Mason splayed out on their bed, hair a dark halo around his head, completely bare. There’s a selfie, or half of a selfie, the left side of Sparrow’s head angled in a way that catches his bare chest and peaceful face. He can tell they’re smiling, the dimple visible. Gingerly, he traces a finger along their jaw before shuffling to the next picture. It’s his back, bare and freckled, sheets low on his waist and a look being thrown over his shoulder.

The picture is a little shaky and he snorts when he remembers how they had tossed their phone onto the nightstand before tumbling back into bed with him.

None of them are terribly provocative, sure he’s naked in a handful, but he mostly looks…content. Happy. A little fucked out of his mind, but still.

Mason thinks about how he has so few pictures of them and a breath hitches in his chest. He doesn’t think he could ever forget their face, how they smell. The shape of their ribs beneath his fingers. The small cluster of freckles down near their left hip that he swears looks like a giraffe, and that Sparrow insists is a whale.

But, but, he doesn’t have pictures.

His lungs burn and his eyes itch.

He doesn’t want to think about the idea of forgetting them. Of the potential that a day comes where he can’t remember how their accent wraps around his name. When he can’t close his eyes and see dark hazel looking back at him.

With a shaky exhale, he sets the envelope full of pictures back into the middle of the album and closes it gently. He stares at it. Maybe he’ll—

“Oh.” Mason looks up to find Sparrow standing in the living room, cheeks a little pink. “Hello, cariad. Is everything…?”

He grins, a little forced at first but it settles when he extends a hand and they take it. Letting him reel them in until they’re standing between his legs. “Everything is fine.” A kiss to their wrist. He watches as their face begins to burn, red flooding their cheeks and neck. “I just missed you, so I brought you some food and then got sidetracked when I saw that.” He nods at the photo album.

Sparrow tilts their head. “You brought me food?”

“You would focus on that and not the photo album.”

They roll their eyes, a fond smile on their face. “Well, see, I knew about the photo album so I’m not surprised it’s here.” A pause. “Where I left it.”

Mason pinches their side. They squeal, giggling as they jump away. “Mouthy.”

“You love it.” They stick their tongue out before turning to head to the kitchen. “What’d you bring me, tesoro?”

Climbing to his feet, he trails after them. Leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I do, you know.”

Sparrow looks at him over their shoulder, a knot forming between their eyebrows as they frown.

Before they can say anything, Mason says, “Love you, I mean.”

They go soft, melting a little, and they turn to wrap their arms around him, burying their face against his chest. He kisses the top of their head, pulling one hand free to run up and down their spine.

“I know you do,” they say, words muffled in his shirt. “For fucks sake, you bought me food.” Sparrow leans back, just enough to smile at him. “And you let me take an obscene amount of pictures of you.”

“And I look damn fucking good in each of them.” They roll their eyes. His heart thumps heavily in his chest. “I…shit, some of them…” Pulling a little further back, he runs a hand through his hair. “They’re good, songbird.”

Their head cocks to the side. “I’m partial to the ones where you’re smiling.”

He hums. “Me too.” Mason clicks his tongue. “The ones with my ass out, though—“

“Fucks sake,” they say with a snort.

With a soft laugh, he wraps his arms tighter around them and starts to gently sway back and forth. They don’t move, it’s not a true dance, but the rhythm of rocking to and fro is enough to knock the next few words from his mouth before he can stop them.

“Would you mind if I started taking pictures of you?”

“Of course not,” they say, their answer immediate. Their arms shift around his neck until their thumbs are able to rub the base of his skull. “Take as many as you want.”

It’s then he realizes that they know. They know exactly why he asked. Exactly what he’s terrified of. Mason swallows. Drops his head to press his face against their throat as they keep rocking together in the middle of their tiny apartment kitchen.

He inhales, a breath full of leather, cedar, and Sparrow, and thinks he doesn’t ever want to forget this.

So, freeing a hand, he reaches for his phone and swipes the camera open.

[yasbxxgie]

Reggae Britannia (BBC Four, 2/11/11)

385 Willesden High Road is tucked away behind a row of dilapidated 19th century houses, its entrance obscured by high locked gates and a walled yard. But 385 is a treasure trove of reggae history. It's called Theorem, Music Village, and it's where we're recording several artist interviews for Reggae Britannia. As we arrive, there's a band in the studio rehearsing a romantic Lovers Rock number, there's a man up a rickety ladder painting the walls and another mopping up from an all night dance in the 'functions room' with its damp lino and garish red felt walls. T-Jae, the tall soft-spoken proprietor of what was once called BBMC (the Brent Black Music Cooperative) helps us with our camera gear. He's got coffee brewing in the kitchen beside an open can of condensed milk. Before T-Jae's time this was a leisure centre filled with rattle of pinball machines and the click of snooker balls - now replaced by the drum 'n bass of reggae rhythms leaking from the studio.

We're here to interview Dave Barker, one half of the Dave and Ansell Collins vocal duo who set the teenage mods alight, back in 1971, performing a novelty number called 'Double Barrel'. Dave's a quietly spoken man with a hint of a stammer. He tells us how, when he first came to this country (and he stayed here ever after) he peered out through the window of his BOAC plane as it banked over the smoking chimneys of the snow-covered houses below and wondered 'how come they have so many bakeries in England?' On the drive from the airport he was shocked at seeing white men digging the road and taking out garbage: 'Wow man, that was strange, you didn't see those things in Jamaica'. Nor dogs wearing winter vests, nor steak and kidney pies, nor that little sparrow he spied pecking the top off a milk bottle. He can't help himself: Dave sings a refrain from Matt Munro's 'Born Free' and segues into 'Summer Holiday'.

Dave arrived in the U.K exactly ten years before Theorem opened its doors to top British and Jamaican reggae artists passing through. Today, there's the legendary Max Romeo sitting on bench in the winter sunshine, his grey locks neatly tucked into a woolly beret. In 1969, Max brought his wicked song 'Wet Dream' to Britain and its risqué lyrics - which got it banned in clubs and on the BBC - made it an anthem for skinheads in dance halls all across Britain. He sings a few lines, diffidently explaining how it caused an 'upstir' among the rebellious youth of the time. He's a little ashamed of it now because, by the mid 70s, Max had embraced the wisdom of Rastafari. That was when he wrote and recorded some of reggae's most powerful and memorable music in the Black Ark studio of Lee Scratch Perry: 'War In A Babylon' and 'Chase The Devil'. When those songs arrived here, first as pre-releases and then remixed by Island Records, they inspired our fledgling roots reggae bands and then the punks and then Bob Marley too. Max intones a few lines from 'Chase The Devil', an ironic, cautionary tale that has been covered or sampled by dozens of musicians - including Jay-Z in 'The Black Album' - and was featured in the video-game Grand Theft Auto.

'I'm gonna put on an iron shirt and chase Satan out of earth' he sings. 'I'm gonna send him to outer space to find another race'. Max explains: 'The devil is the negative within the psyche. Chasing the devil means chasing the negative out of your mind.' There are people wandering in and out while he speaks; musicians carrying drums and guitars into this studio that's cold as a morgue, or dropping off an amp or a heavyweight speaker, or they've come to pay their respects to the master, with a hug or a high-five.

T-Jae comes sauntering by with a piece of carpet under his arm to help our sound recordist dampen the 'live' acoustic of the room (yes, we still have a sound recordist on our crew) and he tells me that among the band members in the studio today is none other than Bigga Morrison. Bigga's not a front man like Max, but a keyboard virtuoso and music director of renown. Reggae royalty. The band take a another break for a smoke in the yard and Bigga, immaculate in pin-striped suit and brogues, describes growing up in this country as a second generation West Indian: 'My parents had experienced troubles and threats on the streets, back in the '50s, with the Teddy Boys and such, but they wouldn't discuss those things because they wanted to keep you free from the pressures. But as we grew up, we took our message and our fight onto the streets with the roots and culture music we played in bands like Steel Pulse and Aswad.'

Later during the interview, I asked Bigga to show us how the British reggae producers, back in the early 1970s, added violins to the Jamaican imports to make them sound 'more classical'. Unfortunately, he's lost his glasses and so can't read the score. Tee Jay's on hand to send for a replacement pair. Bigga fills in time by playing us a delightful new track by his band the Skatronics, but when the glasses arrive, they're all wrong for Bigga. He wears them anyway, and peers astigmatically at the music for 'Young Gifted And Black' which is layered in symphonic-style strings. Bigga (educated at Trinity College of Music) explains how Jamaican reggae gradually transformed into a British musical experience, first through the dub sounds and conscious lyrics of hardworking roots groups like Aswad and then by the bands that went platinum: the 2 Tone crowd, UB40 and The Police. Bigga's being called back to rehearsals now, so we break for a late lunch. It's a choice of The New Golden Duck Chinese Take Away or the Caribbean place half a mile up the road. We do the walk and settle for salt fish and akee. Or rather, the others do. I choose the goat curry on plantains and soon regret it.

Back in Theorem, Bigga's at the keyboards and a couple of pretty female vocalists are delivering more saccharine Lovers Rock. And that's where we see Big Youth, in among them, gyrating his hips to the pounding bass and chugging upbeat of the guitar. He's chaperoned by a petite Italian lady from an artists' agency called Roots Rockers. She's Trish, and she's exhausted because they've only just returned from a nightmare flight from Spain. Trish is a miracle of calm and efficiency in the maelstrom of the struggling reggae business and it's clear all the artists adore her. Trish has offered us the opportunity to interview Big Youth, the toaster who excited British reggae fans with his revolutionary, rasta-inspired lyrics in the mid '70s. He's on top form today, his wiry body twisting and swaying in the interview chair as he sings lines from 'Hit The Road Jack', telling me how the great Ray Charles called him up one Christmas-time to admit that Big Youth's version was just 'the best'. 'Big Youth stole the scene,' he concludes. Modesty isn't one of Big Youth's virtues. But I can vouch for his status, and integrity. I first met him inside Randy's Record shop in Kingston Jamaica back in '77. He was checking out the sales of his album - visiting these record stores was about the only way an artist could tell how many were selling. He was as big a name as Marley at the time, and revered both on the island and over here. We met again - by chance - in Lagos, Nigeria, when he was on the run from some unscrupulous promoter. He's older and greyer now, but with no loss of energy, showmanship or sharp humour. And the red, gold and green implants in his front teeth are still there.

The filming days at Theorem haven't only been productive for our ninety minute programme, they've also been enormous fun. Maybe it's the familiarity and affection the artists have for this building, or maybe it's what they call 'the spirits' of the house: a combination of all those sounds and experiences imbedded in the cracking plaster walls, the creaky floorboards which once the feet of hallowed artists trod, or the reverberating bass you can hear down Theorem's honeycomb of corridors.

We'll be back here later in the week to interview the fiery, bubbly Lovers Rock singer Sylvia Tella, from Manchester; and Tippa Irie who came to fame DJing for the Saxon sound system, and maybe Dennis Bovell, the multi-talented producer/song writer and bass player, who did so much to anglicise reggae music in this country. Oh, and Trish says Dennis Alcapone's coming by, the dapper, bowler-hatted vocalist who brought a whole new style of toasting to these shores with songs like 'Guns Don't Argue': 'Don't call me Scarface, my name is Capone, C-A-P-O-N-E!'

For him, we'll haul our equipment boxes down the dark corridors of Theorem (we never could find the light switches, thriftily hidden away in recesses above door frames). Because we'll place him in a room, behind the studio, which is every reggae fan's dream, an Aladdin's cave of antique tape machines and mixers, and an expansive crimson casting couch. The wood-trim Rainderk desk dates from the early '70s when Reggae first exploded onto our pop charts with songs like 'Young Gifted And Black', bringing an upbeat musical thrill not just to those of Caribbean origin and the packs of skinheads who followed them around the country, but to the whole nation. This mixing desk was donated by Pete Townshend of The Who. It has made history since, recording reggae artists like The Wailers, Gregory Isaacs, Aswad, Janet Kay, Maxi Priest ... and so many more.

The traffic's slow on Willesden High Road as we leave the studios and T- Jae waves us into the evening gridlock and shuts the gates. Back-in-the-day, Theorem would be filling up with dreadlocked musicians and their natty entourage, ready for another all night session. Sometimes it still does, but with the proliferation of cheap home studios and a music industry in crisis, it's a whole lot quieter now. No sessions tonight. Just the rattling pipes, the whispering corridors, the vacant studio and the ghosts of British reggae history.

[lvllns]

"overgrown" for anything u feel like, go wild

“It certainly needs work.”

Sparrow snorts as they look over their shoulder. Mason is leaning against the door frame, arms over his chest. They turn back to the expanse of green in front of them, and really, he isn’t wrong. It needs a lot of work. What used to be a lawn is dead and brown, tearing that out won’t be too bad, but it’s the rest of it. The way vegetation has reclaimed the space. Climbing up the fence, breaking through the concrete path, choking out smaller plants.

“What, not looking forward to getting your hands dirty?” Sparrow turns to face him, head tilting to the side.

Mason grunts. “This,” he says, gesturing to the yard, “is not the fun kind of getting my hands dirty, songbird.” He hops down the stairs until he can bump his hip against them. “It’s big.”

They hum. Lean against him and wrap an arm around his waist, sliding their hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “Definitely more than one weekend's worth of work.”

“With all of us?” he asks, looking down at them as he quirks a brow. “Ava alone would have this all turned upside down in four hours.”

“She is scarily efficient,” they murmur. “But…” biting their lip, they trail off.

There’s an elbow in their side and they wheeze, glaring up at him. Mason grins. “But what, sweetheart?”

They can feel their cheeks heat up, flushing, and they look back out over the foliage. “I want the backyard to be our project.” Sparrow exhales slowly. “As much as I wouldn’t mind their help, this feels…it’s different, I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I get it,” he says, voice soft. Mason leans down. Presses a kiss to the top of their head. Lingers there, nose to their skull. “As much as I do love taking my time with you, I can be efficient, when it matters.”

Sparrow shivers. Presses closer to his side, and tries to ignore the shit-eating grin they can feel against their temple. “I want to tear the lawn out first.”

He groans. “Darling, I am trying—”

“Then probably the trees, they look dead.”

Mason kisses their neck. “Are you really going to do this?”

“A few in the back look—” They break off with a soft gasp when he nips at their jaw. Swallowing, they continue. “Look okay, they might stand for a couple more years.”

“Your hand is grabbing my ass,” he mutters against their cheek.

They wrinkle their nose. “Those bushes though, they’ve got to go. They’re—” Mason bites down hard, teeth sinking into their throat. Not enough to break the skin, but damn fucking close. “Fuck.”

He pulls away, eyes blown black, and kisses them, nipping at their lips until they gasp. Sparrow wraps their arms around his neck, fingers winding through his hair. Mason kisses them until they have to push on his shoulder, ease him back so they can try to catch their breath.

“Are you,” he says between kisses to their neck and shoulder, “done yet or do I need to keep—”

“Fuck off, you win,” Sparrow growls as they grab him by the back of his head and pull him around so they can kiss him. Hard, bruising. He moans, deep, from the bottom of his chest. “Inside, now.”

Mason breaks away. Dips down to grab them by the thighs and lift them up, groaning when they wrap their legs around him. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

[lvllns]

Doing all this necessary research would be so much easier if what happened nearly three days ago wasn’t still floating around Sparrow’s mind like a balloon.

They’ve been distracted, obviously distracted. Enough that Nat has been accompanying them to the library to help with all the reading for this current case. Felix asked them about it the day after they got back, but they brushed him off. Assured him it was nothing bad or terrible or life ending, it was just...something. That they needed to wrap their head around.

Unfortunately, they still haven’t accomplished that.

The worst part, they think as they absently thumb at the cover of the book they’re supposed to be looking through, is that Mason and Ava were sent out on another recon mission yesterday, and it was painfully clear he didn’t want to leave. Not after spending the night together in the city for some ridiculous fucking gala put on by the Mayor at some incredibly fancy hotel. Staying in the city for any length of time is something Sparrow detests and avoids, but one night would be fine. Nothing would happen.

And nothing did happen.

Well, except…

Mason introduced himself, quietly and repeatedly, to people as Mason Kingston.

The first time Sparrow heard him say that, they almost dropped their water. Scrambling, blushing like mad, they snatched the bottle out of the air before it could hit the floor. Their pulse slammed against their ribs, their throat, their wrist. Loud, louder. Strong enough that he had looked at them, eyebrows knitted together in concern, but they had smiled and blown it off as nerves. There’s no way he didn’t know they were lying, he always knows, but blessedly he let it go.

“Bird?” Nat’s voice is soft as she speaks but that doesn’t stop Sparrow from jerking in their chair. “Are you okay?”

They rub their collarbone and shrug. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

“You haven’t turned a page in ten minutes.” Nat quirks a brow. “And I swapped out your book with another one an hour ago. You didn’t notice.”

Fuck.

“Ah, fuck.” Sparrow tilts their head back. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Distracted?”

“Yeah,” they say sheepishly, looking to the left in an attempt to conceal their quickly reddening cheeks.

“Did something happen?” Nat clears her throat before continuing. “At the gala? With Mason?”

There’s a slight edge to Nat’s voice, one that shows up when she thinks Mason’s gone and done something absolutely moronic like the bakery incident again. They find themself hard pressed to be annoyed about the protective older sister role Nat seems to have filled over the last few years. Luckily, for Mason more than anyone else, Nat’s only taken this tone a handful of times now. 

Sparrow covers their mouth with their hand and shakes their head. “Nothing bad, I promise.” They pause, licking their lips before turning to look at Nat, closing the book gently. “He just...he kept introducing himself with...with my last name and I don’t…” A long, loud groan escapes them as they fall back against the sofa, tossing an arm over their eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The room goes quiet for a moment. And then Nat says, “In...in a good way?”

“Yes,” Sparrow says. They blow out a breath. Drop their arm so they can look at Nat once more. “I had been so content to just be alone and then all of you blew in, and Mason came in like a fucking storm.” Leaning forward, they rest their elbows on their knees. “I’m happy, Nat, happier than I’ve ever been but hearing him say that…” A small shrug.

Nat’s eyes go soft and she steps around the messy coffee table to sit next to Sparrow. She slings an arm around their shoulder. Tugs them closer until they’re leaning against her, and fuck, Sparrow always forgets how solid she is until they’re hugging. “He comes back tomorrow, doesn’t he?”

Sparrow swallows. “Yeah, and I...I need to either decide to let it go or talk to him about it and I…” A sharp laugh, biting and a little caustic. “I can’t just ask him to marry me.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not something we’ve ever talked about,” they say. “I’ve never cared, never wanted it, but fuck if I don’t want it now.”

“So talk to him about it then.”

They frown. “Can you just let me wallow?” Sparrow looks up at her. Finds Nat grinning, eyes glittering, and they shove her shoulder playfully. “Nat,” they whine, “stop being responsible and making sense, let me whine and complain in peace.”

Nat laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest, and Sparrow drops their head onto her shoulder. They feel her move, lifting a hand to pat the top of their head before settling for playing with their hair. The library is warm, far enough from the rest of the warehouse that it’s quiet, and Sparrow feels themself start to drift when Nat turns her head to look at the door. There isn’t enough time to ask what she’s looking at before they hear the heavy footsteps that they know so well.

“Your heart,” Nat says with a snort, “just went haywire.”

Sparrow opens their mouth to snark back but the door swings open, knocking into the wall with a bang that makes Nat sigh.

Mason’s eyes dart around until they land on Sparrow, and he smiles. Honest, wide, joyful. His eyes light up, storm grey going silver, and he all but bounds across the room. Sparrow hops to their feet after untangling from Nat. Warm hands find their hips, palms scraping against their skin as Mason scoops them up, pulling them into a tight hug. They wrap their arms around his neck, thighs bracketing his waist as they cling to him.

“You’re back early,” they say, speaking the words against his throat. Against the place that always smells like sandalwood and smoke.

A kiss to their temple before he rests his cheek against their head. “We finished up early and I convinced Ava to let me drive back tonight.” He moves, hands slipping up over their ribs, and Sparrow drops back down to the ground with a huff. Mason rolls his eyes, still smiling, and turns to Nat. “Ava’ll be back tomorrow.”

Nat looks between the two of them and nods. “Good to know.” She turns to Sparrow, lifting a brow. “I think we’re done for the day, considering what we talked about.”

Sparrow sees Mason’s head tilt out of the corner of their eye and they try to beat back the blush they can feel flooding their cheeks. Nat leaves, shutting the door with a wince when she sees the crack in the frame, and Mason shrugs.

“Buy a better fucking door,” he mumbles.

Sparrow snorts. Wraps their arms around his waist and drops their head to his chest with a soft sigh. “I missed you.”

They feel him tense a little before his palms slide under their shirt to rest on their hips. “You’re not usually this clingy,” he says, thumbs drawing small circles on their skin. “Something wrong?”

It only takes a second for them to hesitate, to pull their bottom lip into their mouth, but he catches it. Of course he does, they’d be shocked if he didn’t notice. Mason pushes them away, just a couple steps, until he can reach out and take their chin in hand to tip their face up.

“Bird?”

And oh, he sounds worried.

“Shit, sorry, no, nothing is wrong, I promise,” they say, tilting their head into his touch. “It’s...I…” His hand moves to cup their face, thumb sweeping over their cheek, and he still looks so concerned that Sparrow breaks. “At the gala, you...you kept introducing yourself as Mason Kingston.”

His eyes go wide and he steps back. Far enough that they’re no longer touching, the air between them turning cold.

“I—Shit, fuck, sorry I should have—”

“Mase, sunshine,” they say, cutting him off before he can spiral any further. He looks at them, shoulders tense and hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans like he does when his desire to touch them overwhelms. “It’s fine, I didn’t mind. Don’t mind.” Sparrow takes a deep breath and makes themself look at him. “It got me thinking, is all.”

He still looks wary, nervous, but he slips one hand from a pocket and reaches for them. They tangle their fingers with his, squeezing gently. Mason looks down at their hands, and then back up to meet their gaze. Wheels turn in his head and they can see the moment it begins to click into place, his mouth falling open for a split second before he snaps it shut.

“You—Songbird, Sparrow,” he says, voice low and rough, “do me a favor and just, spell it out. So I know exactly—”

“You wanna get married, cariad?”

They watch him blink. Blink again. His grip goes almost painfully tight before he drops their hand to rake his fingers through his hair and laugh. A true, honest laugh, and Sparrow catches every single emotion that plays over his face before he’s grabbing their face in his hands and kissing them. Fangs scrape their bottom lip but they hardly notice as he swipes his tongue to soothe the sting. Mason’s hands drop to their thighs as he bends down a little. Sparrow hops as he stands, and he holds them against him once more, their chests pressed together. They thread their fingers through his hair, using the new angle to take control of the kiss until they have to break away, panting.

“Is that a yes?” they ask, breath washing over his throat.

Mason chuckles. “It is, yeah.”

Sparrow buries their face against his neck. Presses as close as they can, arms tight around his shoulders and legs squeezing his waist.

“Are you, sweetheart, are you crying?”

His grip shifts and they whine. “Do not put me down Mason.” They can feel how hard he rolls his eyes but his hands move back to their thighs with a soft squeeze.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“...Maybe.”

A kiss to the side of their head and then, “I have something for you.”

That’s enough for them to pry themself away just enough to look at him. Mason’s eyes go soft, one hand reaching up to swipe tears off their cheek. They smile, watery as it is, and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Can I put you down now?”

Sparrow sighs. “Fine.”

He drops them abruptly. They squawk as they hit the sofa, mouth falling open. Mason snorts. Darts away as they hop to their feet and make to grab his arm.

“Do you want your present or not, songbird?” He quirks a brow. Sparrow stills, head tilting and eyes narrowing. “Behave,” Mason says, voice dropping.

They swallow hard enough their throat clicks.

He grins wide enough to flash his fangs. “There we go.”

“This feels less like you got me a present and more like you want something.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you get engaged? Immediately go fuck?”

“We’re not fucking in the library.”

Mason chuckles. “Not after last time.”

“Mason,” Sparrow chides even as they try to stop smiling.

His eyes are bright as he reaches into his jacket. It takes a second, a second where he fumbles around for a pocket, and then he pauses. Waits a moment to hold his closed fist against his chest right over his heart, expression going painfully soft.

“I’ve had this for about a week,” he says, voice low, as if speaking any louder will shatter the moment. “The gala was...me trying to figure something out, and I was going to bring up maybe taking this further before giving this to you but, well,” Mason laughs quietly, “you kind of beat me to it.”

They open their mouth to say something, anything after that, but he lowers his hand. Reveals a small, black box that fits neatly in his palm. Sparrow reaches for it, getting halfway before they stop, a little unsure about if they should take it or not. They glance up at him, and he nods.

“It’s yours, songbird, take it.”

“Fucks sake,” they murmur.

They gingerly take the box from his hand as he smirks impishly at them. A deep breath, a second one, and then they flip the top open.

“Oh,” they say quietly. “Oh, Mason.”

It’s a simple rose gold band, plain with no stones. Smooth and simple and perfect. Sparrow knows they’re crying again but they don’t care, not now. Shaky hands take the ring from the box, and they laugh wetly when they catch a glimpse of the engraving on the inside. There’s a tiny heart next to a tiny sun. They look up, eyes wide, and find Mason looking the most nervous and bashful they’ve ever seen him.

“You impossible, wonderful person,” they whisper. “It’s perfect.”

Mason lets out a breath, a rush of air, and all his muscles relax, the tension leaving his body. “Felix insisted it was too plain.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna buy you a big ass fucking diamond.” Sparrow snorts. Mason startles. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t but you’re not, you know, that’s not you.”

“I got it, sunshine.” They turn the ring over in their hand. “No, you did perfect. This is perfect.”

Gently, he takes the ring from them. They hold their left hand out and he’s so careful when he slides the ring onto their finger. It settles beneath the second knuckle, snug at the base of their finger, and neither of them move. Or speak. Or do anything for what feels like hours. His thumb runs over the metal a few times.

“Is it rose gold because vampires can’t touch si—”

“I will take this back,” he says, tapping the ring.

Sparrow laughs, high and bright and happy, before swaying forward. They wrap their arms around his neck. Rock up onto their toes to kiss him properly.

“You think anyone will care if we take the weekend off?” they ask, lips brushing his.

Mason hums, hands stroking up and down their spine. “I doubt it.” He cocks his head for a moment. “We can go sign all the papers tomorrow, if you want.”

“Wait, that fast?” Sparrow blinks. “It’d take a couple days even for a courthouse here.”

“It’s Agency paperwork and bullshit.” He shrugs. “Vampire spouse, songbird, the rules are a little different.”

They roll their eyes, shoving his shoulder. He catches their hand, their left hand, and presses a kiss to their palm.

“Fuck it,” they say, breathless and wanting. “Yeah, let’s fuckin’ do it.”

Mason smiles.

[lvllns]

Flinders + mason & sparrow for the microprompts? 🥺💖

“You sure this is a good idea?”

Sparrow looks over their shoulder at Mason. Watches him frown and spin the bat around in his grip. They shrug. “It’ll be cathartic, I think.”

He snorts, eyes flicking from the mirror back to them. “For you or me?”

“Both of us,” they say.

They’re in the training room at the warehouse, the space having been cleared out with the help of the others. Tarps line the ground, way too many tarps but Felix insisted on being extra careful and he just kept spreading them out.

Standing in the middle, weight pinning the plastic to the ground, are two mirrors. One is from Sparrow’s apartment, the one Falk walked through what feels like ages ago. The other is just a random mirror they found at an antique store about a week ago. It’s old, the edges worn and the reflective surface dull with age. They had ignored it, pushed it from their mind, but then they thought, well, maybe it could be of use.

Mason shifts next to them. “Do we have to bust yours though? Right after we fucked in front of it.”

“I’ll buy another one.” They grin up at him.

“Therapists exist, you know.”

“Mhm, I have two. This is more fun though.”

He scoots closer. Inching over until his arm brushes their own. The fingers of his free hand thread through theirs, and he squeezes.

As much as he tries to play it off, they’ve seen him flinch when he walks by full length mirrors. Eyes shutting for a second, shoulders going tense and back straightening. They’ve watched him move quicker, steps covering the ground as fast as he can to avoid being near a mirror for any longer than necessary. It’s not something that happens often, and it’s not something they noticed until they set their own mirror back up in their bedroom and he froze the first time he stepped inside with it there.

Nothing but a millisecond, a fraction of time where his hands flexed and his foot paused in midair, but it was enough for them to realize that maybe certain things had stuck with them both for longer than they thought. Sparrow knows they’ve had issues with mirrors since everything with the carnival. They kept that mirror covered and locked in a closet for almost two years before pulling it out. It had been in their room for one entire day before Mason saw it again. Before they had sex in front of it. Before they thought that maybe they could get over it.

Six months and three instances of hiding it away again later, Sparrow realized that something needed to give.

They squeeze his hand back. “This isn’t, I’m not expecting this to fix everything,” they say softly. “I just think it might help.”

Mason hums. “It’ll be fun, at least.” He smirks down at them, a fang peeking out from behind his lip. “You ready, songbird?”

Sparrow swallows. Adjusts their hold on the bat in their hand before pulling their safety goggles on, and nods. “Fuck yeah.”

A blur of dark leather, a trail of smoke, and Mason is gone from their side. He laughs, high and clear. It echoes off the walls of the almost empty space, bouncing and surrounding them both. Sparrow whoops, hollers, and chases after him.

He waits for them. Waits until they’re with him, close enough to hit their mirror. “One…” Sparrow adjusts their stance. “Two…” Mason pulls his arm back, resting the bat on his shoulder. “Three!”

They both swing.

Hard.

The mirrors shatter.

Mason’s bursts into a million pieces. Glass spraying, scattering over the ground. Shards landing on their boots, the tarps. Sparrow realizes that maybe Felix’s idea to cover the entire floor was well thought out considering how far some of the pieces fly. The wood frame splinters with a deafening crack, snapping in half and hanging to the side.

Sparrow’s fractures, a few chunks of glass dropping to the ground. The frame bends, metal twisting with the impact of the bat. They watch as fractures race through the glass. Spider webs and lighting strikes. Blowing out from the middle, cracking and breaking.

They swing again. Catch the same exact spot and watch as the mirror breaks into two pieces. The top drops, hitting the ground hard and exploding on impact.

Laughing, they turn and watch as Mason stomps on a large, unbroken piece before smashing his bat through what remains standing of the bottom part of his mirror. He drops his bat. Grabs a chunk of wood and hurls it across the training room with a yell that comes from somewhere deep. Somewhere he keeps tucked away despite everything.

It devolves from there. They kick, step on, smash, throw, and break every single fucking piece they can get their hands on. If Sparrow can’t break it, they hand it to Mason, who gets it just to the point of falling apart before giving it back.

By the time they’re done, the floor is entirely covered. Sunlight catches on the glass chunks. Spinning rainbows and colors across the walls, their skin. They’re both breathing hard, a little sweaty, voices hoarse from screaming and laughing. Mason glitters, colors scattering across his face and neck.

“Feel better?” they ask, arms wrapping around his waist in a loose hug.

There’s no hesitation when he circles his own arms around them, pulling them closer and holding them tight. His nose presses against the top of their head, and he takes a deep, unnecessary breath before, “I do, actually.” A quick kiss to the crown of their skull. “And you?”

“I feel great.” Sparrow tilts their head back to kiss the underside of his jaw, delighting in the way his eyes flutter shut. “Thanks.”

“For what?” He peers down at them, one eyebrow lifting.

“Indulging me, really.”

“Breaking shit with a baseball bat isn’t a hardship, songbird.” He drags the back of his knuckles over their cheek before brushing his thumb over their bottom lip. “But you’re welcome, all the same.”

They rock up on their toes as he bends down, kissing him gently.

“Now,” they whisper against his lips, “you ready to clean up?”

“I have a thing I need to do.”

They lean back, hands on his cheeks. “A thing?”

He grins, eyes bright with mirth. “A very important thing. It’s time sensitive.”

“Oh, well, by all means,” they say, trying and failing to stop the giggles from bubbling up. “I would hate to hold you up from your very important, time sensitive thing you need to do.”

“Great,” Mason says.

And then he leans down to grab their hips, lifting them up until his hands are on their ass and their thighs are wrapped around his waist.

“Mase!”

He laughs against their throat. “Come on thing, let’s go.”

[lvllns]

banging pots and pans. it’s them!

—

“Good,” Mason says as he ducks. “Again.”

Sparrow blows out a breath. Shakes their hands out, and squares back up, fists raised in front of their face. Exhaling, they throw a punch. Mason catches their hand in his, a grin crawling across his face, and when they swing with their right hand, he hops back to avoid the blow. They blink and he’s right in front of them again, the flat of his left hand heading towards their shoulder.

Yelping, they throw their right arm up, catching the blow, and then they’re pushing forward. Into his space. He quirks a brow, fangs flashing as he smiles, and he laughs when they block his other punch. Sparrow snorts, and catches his right leg with their left, hooking their calves together, and pulling while pushing his chest.

He stumbles, but doesn’t go down. Instead, he twists free, backing away a few steps before rushing them. Warm hands grab their waist, the pads of his fingers scraping against their freckled skin, and they react without thinking. A knee to his gut, elbow to his throat, and when he drops a little, wheezing, they sling their arm around his neck, holding him tight against their ribs.

[lvllns]

sparrow absolutely turns, but i am thinking about. they’re very into photography, they have old cameras of rooks, and i’m thinking about. photo albums left behind for mason. ones he had no idea about. enough that he finds them for a couple years after they’re gone.

[lvllns]

comfort food for the micro prompts!

Sparrow is lounging on the sofa, book in hand, when the door to their apartment opens.

They look up, loukoumades hanging from their mouth, and smile as best they can at Mason, who slowly shuts the door behind him. He turns around, not before they catch the tiny smle hooking at the corner of his mouth, and hang his jacket up before pulling his boots off.

“You’re here early,” Sparrow says after they swallow. “Everything good?”

He stretches, hands lifting above his head until his back cracks, before nodding and making his way over to the sofa.

“Nat convinced Ava to cut the meeting short.” Mason’s voice is low as he speaks, the sound soothing. He picks their legs up by the calves. Sits down and then drops their legs into his lap, one hand resting on a knee while the other arm stretches along the back of the sofa. “It fucking reeks of oil in here.”

They snort. Snap their book shut and reach over to drop it on the coffee table, right next to a small plate covered in the snack they’ve been munching on for the last ten minutes.

“I made loukoumades,” Sparrow says, nudging the plate with their finger. “You have to fry them, you know.”

“How much fucking oil did you use?” Mason squints, eyeing the small pile of honey soaked confections dubiously.

They kick at him with their foot. He grunts dramatically, catching their ankle with his hand. “I used an appropriate amount of oil for frying, fuck you.”

He snorts before crooking a finger in their direction. “Come here?”

A grin splits their face as they sit up, plopping themself right in his lap. His arms instinctively wrap around their waist, fingers playing with the hem of their shirt. Or, well, his shirt. One they “borrowed” from him and only give back when his scent wears off.

Pursing their lips, they lean forward. “Still reek of oil?” they ask, breath washing over his lips.

Mason tips his chin up and kisses them. It’s chaste, more of a greeting than anything, and he pulls back before they can deepen it, resting his forehead against theirs. “Nah, tastes like honey now.” Fingers trail up and down their spine. “Where’d you learn to make this anyway?”

“I spent a year studying abroad,” Sparrow says, tucking their nose against his throat. “I ran into the kindest old woman my first week in Greece. I was so fucking lost, Athens is huge compared to Camarthen, and she insisted I come back to her house and stay the night because it was dark.” They chuckle. “She made me a giant plate of loukoumades in the morning, and we met up frequently while I was there, never without loukoumades.” A soft sigh escapes them as they turn their head to rest it on his shoulder. “I sobbed when I had to leave,” they murmur. “She was so kind, I…Rebecca…anyway, she wrote the recipe down for me. It’s been years but I still have the original, laminated obviously. We lost touch after I moved back.”

They swallow, hands curling in the fabric of Mason’s shirt. He makes a quiet sound, something considering, and it vibrates through his chest.

“You ever think about finding her?”

“Constantly,” Sparrow says with a sigh. “But I don’t even know her name, I just called her yaya, that’s what she told me to call her.”

“Damn,” Mason mutters.

“It’s been years, she might not even be alive at this point.”

He blinks once. Twice. And then barks out a laugh. “You—That’s a little dark, songbird.”

They swat at his shoulder, playfully shoving him as they roll their eyes. “It’s true though!”

His fingers curl around their wrist, and he brings their hand to his mouth. Kisses their palm, their wrist. “Go back to your book,” he says, hiding a smirk against the skin of their forearm, “and your horrible fried donut holes.”

Sparrow places a loud, smacking kiss against his cheek, before climbing off his lap to lay back down across the sofa, legs draped over his thighs. They sink into the cushions, into their book, and into the sensation of his thumb drawing aimless circles on their shin.

[lvllns]

my everything is you

the wayhaven chronicles. mason x sparrow kingston (nb detective). 800+ words of soft mason, enjoy.

ao3 link

Flopping back onto the couch in the library at the warehouse, Sparrow sighs and closes their eyes for a moment.

They’d been gone for a week with Tina and Verda, a conference in the city that they couldn’t weasel their way out of. It had been hectic. A whirlwind of trying to keep their focus evenly split between seemingly a hundred different things. The only form of respite had been Mason’s texts and the late night phone calls.

Sparrow wiggles their body. Moves around until their legs are stretched out in front of them, back propped up against the arm of the sofa. The book in their hand is something they’ve read before but they’re not looking for a distraction. All they need is to pass the time, however much of it is left, until Mason is back from his own patrol with Ava.

Simple enough, to crack open the nearly ancient edition of The Prince in their hand and fall into it.

So simple, in fact, that they miss the heavy footsteps coming down the hall. They miss the way they slow to a halt right outside the library door. How Mason waits for a minute before he steps inside. They don’t notice he’s in the room until he’s close enough that they smell him, sandalwood and leather and cigarette smoke.

The book falls to their chest, and they watch as he carefully peels his jacket off. Tosses it on the back of a nearby chair. And then he nudges one of their legs out of the way. Settles a broad palm on their thigh and dramatically falls down right between their legs.

“Hello to you too, amore mio,” Sparrow says softly. “How was your patrol?”

Mason doesn’t speak. He presses his nose to their belly, the fabric of their shirt bunching up under his face. His left arm winds around, slips under their lower back until his fingers are curling around their opposite hip. Sparrow moves their leg. Pushes it underneath his right arm so their heel rests along his spine. Mason slides his right hand under their shirt. Splays it against their ribs. Drags his thumb over the bones and muscle, over the freckles he can’t see.

“That bad, huh?” They try again as they carefully set the book on the nearby table. Their hand drops to his scalp and they push their fingers into his hair. He grumbles. Squeezes the hand on their hip. “Was Felix terrible company while I was gone?”

He tenses between their thighs. Grunts and moves so his chin is resting along the waistband of their jeans. “He’s so loud, songbird.”

Sparrow snorts. Scratches at his scalp as they run their fingers through his hair. Mason pushes up into the touch with a soft sigh, grey eyes fluttering shut. “Tina is the same,” they murmur. He drops his cheek to their stomach. They press their thumb into the back of his neck. Mason shivers. Scoots closer, as close as he can, while he tightens his hold on them. “I missed this.” He hums, something low and rough that they can feel against their thighs as it rumbles through his chest. “Did you sleep at all while I was gone?”

A shrug. It jostles them a little bit, so wound together with him, and they chuckle. Tension bleeds from him, his shoulders drooping as he melts against them. Sparrow draws circles behind his ear before dragging their blunt nails along his scalp again.

“Going to guess that’s a no.”

“Bird,” he says, voice rough and thick. Mason pulls back to look at them, eyes half-lidded. “Missed you.” He blinks. Watches their face go soft and then he ducks his head. Noses their shirt out of the way enough to press a kiss to their hip. Chaste, affectionate. And then he’s moving up their body, draping himself over them and sliding his arms around so his hands are between their shoulder blades. Mason rests his head on their chest with a soft sigh. “You’re comfortable.”

Sparrow laughs, their hand dragging along his shoulders. “And you’re heavy.”

“Don’t be fucking rude.”

“Don’t call me a fucking pillow, you bastard.”

His body shakes as he laughs, face rolling so he can look up at them, and the smile that breaks across his face is brighter than any sunrise. “Fuck you too, sweetheart.”

They pinch his ear, grinning, before sweeping their touch up and down his spine. “Get some sleep,” Sparrow whispers, fingers moving back to play with his hair.

They start to move, to reach for their book, but he grumbles and frees a hand to pluck it off the table for them. A kiss to the top of his head, and then another. One that lingers, one that’s full of promises. Mason presses his lips to the middle of their chest, right over their heart, before closing his eyes and settling down with a long, soft exhale.

He’s asleep before they finish opening the book.

[lvllns]

your honor i have missed them something awful

—

Sparrow buries their face against his neck. Presses as close as they can, arms tight around his shoulders and legs squeezing his waist.

“Are you, sweetheart, are you crying?”

His grip shifts and they whine. “Do not put me down Mason.” They can feel how hard he rolls his eyes but his hands move back to their thighs with a soft squeeze.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“...Maybe.”

A kiss to the side of their head and then, “I have something for you.”

That’s enough for them to pry themself away just enough to look at him. Mason’s eyes go soft, one hand reaching up to swipe tears off their cheek. They smile, watery as it is, and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Can I put you down now?”

Sparrow sighs. “Fine.”

He drops them abruptly. They squawk as they hit the sofa, mouth falling open. Mason snorts. Darts away as they hop to their feet and make to grab his arm.

“Do you want your present or not, songbird?” He quirks a brow. Sparrow stills, head tilting and eyes narrowing. “Behave,” Mason says, voice dropping.

They swallow hard enough their throat clicks.

He grins wide enough to flash his fangs. “There we go.”

“This feels less like you got me a present and more like you want something.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Immediately go fuck?”

“We’re not fucking in the library.”

Mason chuckles. “Not after last time.”

“Mason,” Sparrow chides even as they try to stop smiling.

[lvllns]

okay y’all, i got tagged by @denerims, @impossible-rat-babies, @trvelyans, and @rosebarsoap to make some ocs in this maker so here we are! i am pretty sure....everyone has been tagged or done this already but if u haven’t, i’ve tagged you now uwu

naturally, bc i have Favorites, we have a sparrow and a kincaid. babies.

[lvllns]

“but i love the very blood of you. it keeps its heat in spite of you.” [templates]

[lvllns]

Mason feels it in the way their thighs tense up, fingers stilling against his scalp, and he knows whatever they say next isn’t going to be great.

“Do you ever think about dying?” Sparrow’s voice is soft, their accent slipping over the words and threatening to put him on the edge of sleep again.

He rubs both hands over his face roughly, pressing the meat of his palms into his eyes before he rolls his head in their lap so he can look up at them. They are, not surprisingly, staring at the television that’s playing some documentary that they’ve been bitching about for the last hour. Really, why do they even have it on at this point?

Their body is unmoving beneath him. He sits up. That makes them stiffen up even worse until he leans back in, shoulder bumping theirs. “Why are you asking this?” Mason cocks his head. “What happened?”

Sparrow twitches, fingers flexing in a way that Mason knows is them wishing they had their phone to flip in their hand. He reaches over. Threads his fingers through theirs and pulls their hand into his lap with a gentle squeeze. That seems to knock them out of their head, and they blink a few times.

“Nothing happened, not really,” they whisper. They still won’t look at him and now he’s getting anxious.

“Bird, if something is bothering you—”

“It’s just Ava is nine hundred years old and Nat is three hundred years old,” they blurt out, their grip on his hand going knuckle white. His eyebrows knit together. “And you’re, fuck, you’re one hundred or something like that and I’m just…” Sparrow trails off, eyes darting around their living room before settling on their joined hands. “I’m not—”

“No,” Mason snaps.

Both of them jump at how hard his voice is, the whip crack of it splitting the moment and breaking it like glass. Sparrow looks at him, gentle hazel eyes wide and mouth hanging open a little bit. They snap it shut. Mason looks away and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“We can’t just ignore it forever.”

“We sure as fuck can,” he growls. He exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Their thumb runs over his knuckles as they wait for him to sort his thoughts out. To put them in some kind of order. “I don’t think about dying, Sparrow, but I—” Mason rolls his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. “—I think about...losing you, and I don’t want. Fuck.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “I am aware of what I am and what you are and what that means. Can we please, please, leave it there?”

The couch dips as they move closer, pulling their hand from his to wrap around his waist. Sparrow tucks their face under his chin, against his neck, and he automatically tilts his head to rest against theirs. “It’s unpleasant, I know but...”

“It’s something that we have to...talk about,” Mason grits out as he finishes their sentence. There is dirt in his mouth. He swallows. “Ava has been on my case about it from day fucking one so.” He shrugs, jostling them as they snort and press ever closer.

“You know I love you, right?” They whisper into the skin of his throat.

He shivers. “I do.”

They hum. “Good.”

[lvllns]

21. holding hands while one is balancing on a small wall for mason and sparrow? :O

okay omg this was really cute owen thank u

21. holding hands while one is balancing on a small wall

—

“The fuck are you doing?”

Sparrow pauses, hands resting on the low stone wall, and looks over their shoulder at Mason. “I feel like being tall.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose but can’t stop the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

They’re out walking, spending the last day in Scotland wandering aimlessly around the countryside. Sparrow had called it a vacation, even as Ava reminded them constantly they were here for a case. Which they dealt with quick enough to give them three days full of nothing before having to go back to Wayhaven. Mason is grateful for the break. Even more grateful for a flood of days in an isolated cottage surrounded by fields full of sheep penned in by low stone walls.

One of which Sparrow is in the middle of scaling despite it being over half their height.

“If you fall and break something, Ava’s never gonna let us go anywhere alone ever again.”

They scoff. Push with their arms and gracefully hop onto the rough stone. “It’s like three feet tall, Mase, I’ll be fine. Besides,” they say as they stand, crooked grin on their face, “you’ll catch me, right?”

“Always.”

And maybe he says it a little too quick, a little too sincerely, but he can’t be mad at the way the truth slips off his tongue when it makes them melt. Eyes softening, a tiny smile, every muscle going lax.

Sparrow runs their fingers through his hair before turning to keep walking. Mason falls into step next to them. Lifts his hand and catches theirs, threads their fingers together with a gentle squeeze.

“This has been nice.” They look down at him and it’s odd, seeing them so much taller than usual. “Not the case, but the after.”

He hums. Shoves his free hand into the pocket of his jeans and tries to keep an eye on their steps as casually as he can. “Quiet at least.” Far off, a sheep bleats. Mason’s nose wrinkles. “Could do without the smell of sheep shit.”

Sparrow snorts. “I’ll agree with that.”

“‘Course, ‘cause I’m right.”

Their thumb brushes over the knuckle of his index finger. “Aside from the smell, did you enjoy these last few days?”

Mason stops walking. Pulls them to a halt. They turn to look at him, curious, and he steps closer. Keeps their hand in his but slips his other from his jeans to rest on their thigh. A deep breath, steadying and even, before, “I always enjoy myself whenever I’m with you.” Sparrow blinks. Looks away from him for a second before their attention is drawn back when he tightens his grip on their leg. “This was nice, songbird. Really nice.”

“Good,” they whisper, voice hoarse. Fingers card through his hair, pausing when their palm cups the back of his skull. “Same, for the record.”

Mason scoffs, not able to suppress the grin. “I get all sweet on you, and you come back with same?”

Sparrow laughs. Bright, bubbly. Something carefree and intoxicating and Mason wants more. “I could write you a poem, if you’d like?” They’re smirking down at him now, hazel eyes alight with mischief.

He hums. Leans forward to press a kiss to their hip before he starts walking again, still holding their hand as they keep pace on the wall.

“Better be a fuckin’ good poem, sweetheart.”

“I’ll get started as soon as possible, sunshine.”

[lvllns]

sparrow, confused: so what does this mean for us?

mason, also confused: us? what?

sparrow, more confused than before: did. i thought you didn’t mean what you said. what.

mason, has moved beyond simple confusion: this is just fun, no-sex flirting even if it’s weird, right?

sparrow, approaching mason levels on confusion: ??????

[lvllns]

oh boy, i got tagged by @solasan, @technoirz, @trvelyans, and @dreamfall to make some ocs in this picrew, so here we are!

i’m like 99% sure everyone has been tagged to do this by now, so i won’t tag anyone but if you wanna do this and haven’t, boop ur tagged!

we got: sparrow (twc), kincaid (twc), brooks (body count), and arden (speaker).