#darn it I forgot the eye tattoo

[nekrophoria]

When you hit your 30s and you start looking like a twink version of Rob Zombie in the Dragula vid.

I know man, it's rough.

[samuelsdean]

If you won't do it, I will.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: you were so engrossed with images of you kissing Reid and him kissing you back that you forgot one detail—the man could wake up at any moment without you noticing. and he did wake up. You just failed to notice, too busy ogling his pink lips.

genre: fluff & angst

word count: 3.7k

author's notes: another tooth-rotting spencer reid fluff because i said so! you can listen to watch you sleep by girl in red & out of my league by fitz and the tantrums while reading this because those were the songs i listened to while writing this and i think they fit really well with this fic.

THAT DARN SUNLIGHT, YOU SHOULD GET YOUR BLINDS FIXED WHEN YOU’RE FREE—THEN IT HITS YOU. You just got it fixed about two weeks ago. You are definitely not in your room.

Scrambling to get up, you were about to jump off whichever bed you ended up in last night when you felt a warm, lithe arm tucked underneath yours, clasping you in a soft embrace like a lover. Now that you think about it, you could feel this person’s hair tickling your chin and their warm breath against your neck.

This is seriously freaking you out. You have no idea who you are cuddling with. Jesus Christ, how many shots did you drink last night? Why would the team let you go home drunk with some guy? 

Gently, you removed the arm wrapped around your waist and slowly pushed away the brunette positioned snugly between your head and shoulder. No way.

The person you are cuddling with is none other than your genius coworker.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

Like any other normal person would do—no person in their right mind would sleep with their coworkers, literally and figuratively—you checked yourself for any presence of clothing. Thank God, you did not completely lose your mind last night and slept with Reid. But it still doesn’t explain why you were wearing his faded Star Trek shirt and one of his pajama pants.

Fucking hell, did he change your clothes for you? You were ready to catch the next plane and disappear at this point.

You were about to start berating yourself for getting into this mess when you noticed how the sunlight made the man beside you look more angelic than usual.

The sun seemed to caress every freckle on his face, the slight pink tinge from the cold morning air, and his hair—although unruly from the tossing and turning during the night—could pass for that of a shampoo model. Pretty.

And his lips.

They looked even more inviting right now, pink and full and parted slightly, as he breathed in and out small puffs of air, finally sleeping soundly following a week of sleepless nights tracking down an unsub. You roamed your eyes once more on his face, starting from his hair and down to where his upper body was covered by an old shirt and the blanket you shared—forgetting your initial dilemma as to how you ended up in bed with your coworker (whom you have a big crush on).

Thank goodness you did not have sex with the one guy you were practically in love with for years. It would be nice to remember every detail of that rendezvous—if that ever happens. You groaned inwardly. This is not the time to fantasize about your coworker, Y/N! You need to get out of bed and out of his house.

But a part of you longs to keep pretending that this is real. That sleeping next to—cuddling, let us be honest—Reid is a usual occurrence. Pursing your lips, you closed your eyes and willed yourself to go back to sleep. Let the future version of you worry about how you will handle waking next to your coworker. Except you could not.

You wished you could tattoo what Reid looked like in the early morning light when he was asleep and without that crease between his brows that seemed to be etched permanently from all the stress of chasing unsubs around the country.

You gotta admit, some days, you yearned for Reid’s eidetic memory. You wished you could have memories of him engraved in your brain that no matter what you do, you could not help it. He would be there. A persistent thought. But then again, you were in too deep with your feelings for the man that you think, even without an eidetic memory, you could definitely recount all your favorite memories with him in a heartbeat.

So, you chose to stay awake.

This is not looking good for you. How else would you explain to someone—your coworker, of all people—who just woke up why you were staring at them while they slept. God, you are down horrendously.

He looked so peaceful like this. Pink cheeks, freckles, and messy hair. He looked so adorable you wished you could pepper his face with kisses and bury your face in his chest. And he is snoring lightly. He is endearing.

You are never getting another chance like this. This will not hurt anyone, right?

Hence, you took in every tiny detail, every freckle, every mole, and every scar you could see. You committed to memory every inch of skin your eyes could reach before the man beside you woke up. You tried to learn by heart what this man looks like when he is untroubled and at peace—what he looks like in the eyes of his future lover when they wake up next to him because that would never be you.

It would never be you.

And that could happen any day now. Reid was bound to find someone who would love him. He was the easiest person to love. He was not a prince charming nor the male lead of a romance novel kind of guy, But he has this boyish charm.

Let us be real. Reid was probably the most uncoordinated guy alive and the most socially awkward person ever. But you were taken by him. The moment he started spewing facts and statistics about anything and everything under the sun, you were done for.

He could talk to you about why worms were called worms and the probability of people dying on their birthdays. And you would listen to him willingly. You were that taken by him. Not to mention, it does not help your case that Reid was probably the prettiest person alive. Well, not literally, but he was that close to being the prettiest person—in your opinion of course.

He had messy, brown curls that looked like they barely experienced the touch of a comb, but you knew they were soft. You knew because every time Reid did something endearing—everything he did was endearing, for you—you always ruffled his hair. This would make him grumble about how he had to fix it again and to which you would reply with a cheeky, You know what a comb is? And Reid would roll his eyes at you.

He had hazel eyes that reminded you of a puppy dog. They were mostly brown with a tinge of green. Most days, it reminded you of being cozy, drinking hot chocolate by the fire. They looked like you were coming home. They always looked like they were pleading for you to stare at them. And you admit you have lost count of the many times Reid had to flick his fingers in front of you with a matching Earth to Y/N and a mini history lesson starting with a Did you know that the history behind that phrase comes from science fiction movies showing people on earth sending messages to people in space?

And Reid always wore the fluffiest cardigans and sweater vests, reminding you of your teddy bear collection at your childhood home. It was crazy how if you saw anyone else in the law enforcement track having the same fashion sense as Reid, you would probably think of them as ridiculous. He wore a pair of black converse sneakers, among other things. For heaven’s sake! Come on! You have to go after seasoned criminals—you at least have to look the part. Right? You have to look imposing and menacing to intimidate them in interrogation rooms. However, the teddy bear look—as you’d like to call it—works so well for Reid. 

What is more, is that Reid fits your ideal type. He is probably the poster boy for it. Ever since you were never into the macho guys and their big muscles. No offense to them because those are their bodies. They look good, but you like your men a little scrawny. You liked lean and really tall men. And Reid is definitely that. He may have failed his fitness test a gazillion times, but the man was in no way, shape, or form, unhealthy. He had the right muscles at the right places and besides, he literally goes after serial killers. He is fit alright.

Lost in your thoughts, you were damn near ogling the man beside you and ended up looking fixedly at his lips. You always thought he had kissable lips, minus the fact that it is probably because you were practically in love with the guy.

You wanted to kiss him so bad it is killing you right now. But in your good conscience, you couldn’t and you wouldn’t. You were completely aware of Reid being a germaphobe, and he has mentioned countless times, kissing is more hygienic than shaking another person’s hand, kissing a sleeping person was out of the books for you. One, the person couldn’t consent because they were unconscious. Two, you were not his lover. Kissing him while he was asleep would be a violation to him. Not to mention, unwelcomed and creepy as hell. Imagine waking up and someone has their lips slobbering your face. Icky!

You were so engrossed with images of you kissing Reid and him kissing you back that you forgot one detail—the man could wake up at any moment without you noticing.

And he did wake up. You just failed to notice, too busy ogling his pink lips.

“If you won’t do it, I will.”

You froze in place.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, you rushed to leap out of Reid’s bed—almost toppling over on the floor in an unladylike fashion. You probably would look worse than Reid when he was huffing and puffing during his last fitness test mandated by the bureau.

But before you could jump out and run away from the man beside you, Reid had all but effortlessly pulled you towards him. You ended up burying yourself into his chest face first as you clutched his shirt to break the fall. It is not even 8 am in the morning yet, and you have managed to embarrass yourself enough for your parents to cut off all ties with you. You would rather dig yourself a hole to die in than be here.

Knowing you have nowhere else to escape, you believe it was time to lie on the bed you made. Sluggishly, you pulled your face away from the lean chest you descended on and peeped up at the angelic face you’d been staring at for the past hour with a sheepish smile.

“H-hi, Reid!”

This is just pure torture. Reid probably knew why you looked like an actual tomato with how red you are, at this moment. He is smiling at you like a cat who ate the canary as he suppressed a laugh.

“I didn’t know you had a clumsy side to you, Y/L/N,” Reid snickered.

What?

“What?” You frowned, which made Reid chuckle some more, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” you scrunch your brows as you tilt your head in confusion, “You just seem so formidable on the field and interrogation room. I’d hate to be the one you’re tracking down,” Reid responded.

“Oh, um,” you grinned as you thought of the perfect rib for the man in front of you, “Just because I’m an FBI agent doesn’t mean I can’t be uncoordinated every now and then. I mean, I know plenty of agents who are quite the klutz on the daily,” you peered at him while he gawps in protest.

“Hey!” He argued, scowling at you.

God, he’s endearing.

“I didn’t mention any names,” you chortled, raising your hand in defense, which made him roll his eyes.

You cracked up at his juvenile actions. In turn, Reid smiled in amusement.

God, you can’t believe that you’re laying on a bed beside Reid. With Reid—like it’s an everyday thing. The smiles. The banter. The laughter. This is crazy. You could get used to this. Sleeping next to him and not just next to him—like the ones you have during your cases where you get to be roommates. No, sleeping on one bed, next to each other. Waking up next to each other. Hearing his gruff morning voice.

You could get used to this.

You can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Reid is your friend. A coworker. You shouldn’t be fantasizing about sleeping and waking up next to him, that is unprofessional. Not to mention, you would be breaking one of the golden rules of the bureau. Never fraternize with a fellow agent on the same unit. 

Seemingly lost in thought, you retreated from the man beside you, as you grimaced.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Reid,” you smiled glumly, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” you patted his cheek gently.

“Is this about you waking up in my bed? I swear no—”

“I know, Reid,” you sighed, “You would never hurt me. I was drunk last night. I’m sure you brought me here because you were too tired to take me home. We just got back from a case and I shouldn’t have drank a lot of shots after all the sleepless nights,” you were slowly sitting up now, “But thank you, Reid. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Always, Y/N.”

This made you smile.

Trust Reid to always make your heart flutter at the tiniest gestures. He’s probably the most genuine and compassionate person you know. It breaks your heart every time you remember that his actions might make you feel butterflies in your stomach, but he does them not because he sees you romantically—he just does them because that is just how he is—caring.

“I’m gonna get up now,” you muttered.

“So, that’s it?”

This made you pause.

“What do you mean?” You looked at him, to which he scoffed.

“You know what I mean, Y/N.”

“No, I really don’t, Reid,” you scowled, growing irritated at this whole situation, his riddles, and him, for being so perfect, “So, you better tell me because you scoffing at me is slowly infuriating me.”

“You spent an hour, eighteen minutes, and thirty-eight seconds watching me sleep,” Reid shared as matter-of-factly, as if to say "You aren’t slick, Y/N, " which made you sputter in indignation. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if Reid would be considered by the Guinness World Records as the first omniscient person on earth with his brilliant mind. The man has an IQ of 187 for Pete’s sake!

“If that doesn’t tell you anything, then I don’t know what will,” he finished.

“First of all,” you started, “I did not watch you sleep.”

This made the man raise one brow at you. Liar.

“Second of all, if I did watch you sleep and you felt it,” you continued pointedly as if to tell Reid you weren’t watching him sleep. “Shouldn’t you have called me out on it? Why did you let me be then?” 

“I don’t know. Okay?”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” You pushed, crossing your arms.

“I woke up just a few minutes after I felt your stare,” Reid began rambling, “Did you know the reason why we feel someone is looking directly at us is that we have this system called the gaze detection system? I woke up a few minutes after I felt you staring.”

You smiled fondly at the man prattling facts from the back of his brain. This was your favorite version of Reid. The one who knows anything and everything under the sun and can probably talk about them if you asked him to. But right now, you have had enough of that. You won’t allow him to distract his adorable babbling from knowing why he let you stare at him.

Maybe he shares the same feelings with you.

“Reid,” you exhaled, “that still doesn’t explain why you let me watch you sleep.”

This made the man’s cheeks start dusting with pink. You were aware of the fact that it should have been the questioning done the other way around. You literally breached his privacy in his own home but you couldn’t help it. You wanted to know if he feels the same way as you. You wanted to know everything now rather than later. You know you’d probably get rejected but you wanted to get it over with.

“I wanted you to kiss me.”

This made you gasp, eyes widening—you think they were about to come out of their sockets. Reid blushed some more with your shocked expression. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” he continued explaining, “so I pretended to be asleep but I wanted you to kiss me. I thought that you would kiss me but you didn’t. So, I waited.” He looked down at his lap and bit his lip.

With your initial shock wearing off, you practically looked like a wild animal pouncing on the bed. Reid yelped at how quick you moved from where you originally stayed put. Without further ado, you reached for him. Thumbs caressing his rosy cheeks, you stared at his hazel irises.

“Are you sure about this?” You asked gently, wanting to be sure that he wants this just as much as you do. Before you could say anything else, Reid pressed his lips against yours.

As soon as you felt his lips against yours, your eyes closed. His lips were warm and soft—a little chapped but you didn’t mind. It feels perfect against yours. You didn’t want this to end but you want to see him—feel more of him. So, you did. You buried one of your hands in his curls as you caressed his chiseled jaw. Warmth blossomed in your chest as you realized you were kissing the guy you’d been pining for years and he is kissing you back.

You could taste your shared breath and feel the flutter of his long lashes against your cheeks. He tilted his head slightly in the opposite direction and nudged his nose against yours as your lips parted slightly, allowing him to slip his tongue inside.

You wanted to open your eyes. You wanted to see the faint constellations on his face, admire the slight scrunch of his brows when he’s focused—you had a feeling after this kiss is over, being with him won’t be as easy as it was before. You would be ruined knowing what it was like to kiss him. But you were so tired of longing for him. And his mouth was the softest mouth you have ever kissed. And nobody has ever kissed you like this before—loving and warm.

You didn’t stop kissing Reid until you felt like you were running out of air from running. So, you held his shoulders and distanced your face from his. He tried chasing your lips but you dodged him. Instead, you looked down at your lap. You felt your tears and willed them to not fall. Not here, not now, not in front of him. You wouldn’t want him to pity you.

“Hey, Y/N,” Reid placed his warm hand against yours, “What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?” His thumb caressed your hand soothingly.

“That’s the thing, Reid,” you explained, looking up at him right now as he flinched, noting the tears glistening in your eyes, “Nothing’s wrong. The kiss was perfect. You’re perfect.” You could see his shoulders sagging in relief after what you said. “And because of that, I can’t just pretend that what happened was normal because it isn’t. I know it won’t happen again so I can’t get used to it. And you know I’m not the type to kiss someone unless they mean that much to me.”

You were about to explain some more when you felt Reid pull you. You gulped when you felt the tickle of his breath in the junction of your neck and shoulder. “I really like you, Y/N. If it isn’t obvious,” Reid muttered shyly, “I’ve liked you for quite some time now.”

“Oh.”

If this was difficult for you, it was difficult for Reid as well—if not more—to be vulnerable about his feelings. You knew about how difficult it was for him growing up, being the only twelve-year-old prodigy in a public high school. He’s been through so much with his dad leaving and having to take care of his mom. He’s never had a proper experience with just about everything from making friends, being a normal kid, and in this case, harboring romantic feelings for someone—you.

So, you did what you thought could convey that the feeling was mutual. You gently wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled your face into his brown locks. He smelled of crisp pages of a book with a hint of pine. If you thought your favorite version of Reid was him rambling about facts and statistics, you’re probably going to give that version a run for his money. Because this version of Spencer Reid right here—the one who chose to be vulnerable, the one who chose to open up to you not knowing if the feeling was mutual—is probably your new favorite version of him.

“If it isn’t obvious to you, Dr. Reid,” you began, “I’ve liked you for quite some time now too.”

With that, you pulled him away from being tucked into your neck and kissed him again. You felt him grin widely, as you showered his pretty face with pecks, and you could not be happier. Before you could shower him with more kisses, Reid started spouting statistics about office romances.

“One in ten heterosexual couples in the United States meet at work.”

“Lucky for us,” you said as you tried to bury your nose in Reid’s neck, which made him giggle. "We are that one couple in the BAU. Now, shut up, so I can kiss you some more.”

This made Reid guffaw.

You couldn’t be happier waking up next to your coworker.

[luimagines]

Coul I request the chain reacting to meeting the reader who is Wild's sibling? (If background is needed shrieks science and them whatever purchase did so the reader is just sorta- 15-28 )

Masterlist

I don't understand the second sentence but I think I can infer what you're trying to say. And even then, I came up with a backstory that more less fixes it regardless so yay!

Wild is everyone's favorite chaotic creative sibling!

And I went for older sibling because reasons and just assume that sibling! Reader is in their early twenties.

Content under the cut!

You woke up one day in Hateno village, quietly aware of the silence that echoed through your house.

You miss your brother.

Not that he was here often with his Goddess given assignment nor did he even know who you were for the first half of it.

What a day that was.

Your little brother back from the dead, scars and all and then some... but he had no idea who you were.

It hurt to say the least. But you were told it would happen once the news reached you. He would wake up one day to finish his duty but he would not remember anything regarding his past life.

Even when he found you again, after he somehow remembered you, you didn’t know where to begin.

You just knew that you were so happy to be together again after so long that you hugged him as tight as you could and told him that your door was always open.

To say you both cried is the understatement of the century. It was wet and ugly and messy and neither of you really talk about it but it felt good that day.

And while you both knew he couldn’t stay for long with his adventure being no where near complete. He did come home for the night after he set that travel medallion of his by the front door.

But that was then- before the Calamity was defeated.

Now that it’s gone- so is your brother. Again.

On a different quest this time, it seems.

You don’t understand why your baby brother of all people has to be the one to do it and you would like nothing more than to wrap him up in a blanket and shield him from anything else that comes to hurt him- but he never let you do that as a child- let alone now.

You begin the day like any other and try to get as many mundane chores done as you can before you finally try and get the stable in the back fixed up.

You noticed Link had an affinity to horses and had checked in with the nearest stable to see that he had some lodged under his name.

There’s a place at the house, darn it. Lodge them here. It just needs to be fixed.

With your goal in mind, you lose yourself to the work and the time passes effortlessly.

It’s around noon by the time you hear it.

The familiar sound of activation that gets your heart pounding in relief and unbridled joy.

You drop your hammer and run to the front of the house with the largest grin on your face. “You’re back, you Rug Rat! Come here!”

You single him out instantly amongst the group and tackle him in a hug.

He’s long stopped trying to fight on you on this and has also returned your crushing hug with one of his own. “I’m back.”

“You brought friends too.” You grin and give the group a two fingered salute. “And here I was afraid that this loner child would end up dead in a ditch somewhere and I would be none the wiser. Thank you for looking after my little brother. I’m aware he’s a handful.”

“Ok thanks.” He says.

“Little brother?” Someone from the group asks. They’re lost amongst the sea of head but you nod regardless.

“Yup. I remember the day he was born like it was yesterday.” You grin and put your hands on your hips, introducing yourself right after. “Any friend of Link’s is a friend of the family. Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home. It’s not much but it’s ours. Been in the family since before the calamity struck. Let me wash up a bit and then we can get some food going, yeah?”

“I’ll start up the stove.” Link says and you’re about to disagree. After all, he just got home and should rest while he can but he ahs the most unburdened smile on his face that you can’t bring yourself to deny him.

 “Alright.” You sigh and head to the back where the shower is. It’s always been small and a bit cramped and the door stopped fitting correctly about ten years ago but now that’s it’s not just you anymore, you can go around into the giving the house the TLC it deserves.

But you’re starting with the stable in the back.

When you’re finished and you’ve dried yourself off, you get into the house to find it in a delightful array of colors and chaos.

Each of the boys seemed to have made themselves completely at home in the time you were gone and you leaned against the door frame, watching them all interreact.

Your brother didn’t waste any time with getting the stove up and running. You can smell the beginning of lunch getting cooked and it appears that Link has wrangled two of the boys to be his helpers. One appears to be the youngest with bright wide eyes and a similar blue tunic to that of Links and the other looks to be  slightly more timid in the process. He’s around the same height as Link but darker hair and a long white cape still clasped around his shoulders. 

You recognize the Master Sword strapped to his back.

Making a note of that you look around the room again. Three of them have made themselves comfortable at the table. One is easily the biggest guy of the group, red and blue tattoos on his face and scar over his eye as he watches the others go about the admittedly small house. The other two look to be the same size and you’re sure you can look them in the eye if you needed to. They’re talking to both each other and the group that’s cooking. One has a wolf pelt on his shoulder with more tattoos on his face and other is a knight if you’ve ever seen one with a bright blue scarf around his neck.

You’re not one to judge your brother’s friends but you make a mental note to watch him in case he tries anything.

Two of the boys- one with pink hair and the other have the most solid brown mane of the whole group have made themselves spares and are talking quietly to each other and not making a fuss.

The final one looks to be the smallest but he’s got an older glint to his eye that recognize well. He’s wearing arguably the most color tunic of the group with those four patches sewn together. He’s tucked himself away into a corner with a book out, not interacting with either of them outright but he has been looking up and adding his two cents to the older’s conversation at the table.

They don’t notice you’re back which is a testament to how tired they all must be.

They’re an interesting bunch.

But Link did always surround himself with interesting people.

So you’re not really surprised.

“Sooo...” Pinky starts off, calling your bother’s attention. “You have an older sibling?”

“Yup!” He answers, not looking up from the pot. “They were waiting for me the whole time, and even manage to keep the house. Up keep still needs to be done but we’ve been working on it together.”

“But they’re older.”

“Yes. We’ve established this.”

You have to hold back your snort.

“You were asleep for one hundred years.” Four Patches speaks up, closing his book silently. ”Shouldn’t they... ummm...”

“Be dead?”

“Or at least really old?” Mr. Brunette hops in, trying to lessen the blow of the sentence.

“You’re like one hundred and seven teen right? Wouldn’t that put them at being one hundred and twenty something?” Wolf boy offers.

“I guess so. Yeah. They were old at some point.” Link stops stirring and you can see him try to run the numbers in his head. “I know that much. The village talks about them being really old sometimes, but I guess that was years ago because it’s only from the older folk that live here.”

“But they lived through those one hundred years, didn’t they?” Blue Baby Face speaks this time.

“That’s what they told me.”

“So....” The knight tilts his head and tries to put his hands out as if that would help answer the question. “They’re like the Old Man then? Old in their head but young on the outside.”

“You can say that, yeah.” You say and take extreme satisfaction at the way most of the jump at your voice. “Unlike Link, I was alive the whole time he was asleep. I’ve got grandkids in Lurelin and they visit from time to time but someone had to at least keep the house up and running, might as well have been me.”

“I...” Link starts as he takes the food off the burner. “I never asked you how you stayed young, did I?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” He looks away and deflates a little. Link looks a little disappointed with himself and that won’t stand in this house.

“I didn’t realize it was that important. And I’m going to assume you’ve explained most of the situation Rug Rat.” You laugh a little with a raised eyebrow. “You can blame Purah. You know she wanted to find a way to keep the old from aging, right? It’s why she’s in the body of a little kid again. But when she tried the second formula she realized that if she tried it on herself that it might as well but poof her back into a baby and she wanted to contact Robbie but he’s too far and too old to make that trip. I volunteered.”

“Really?”

“It still didn’t really work, I was transformed into a teenager instead of a child- a horrible time to exist really. But I suppose it was a blessing in disguise. By the time this one-” You step into the house fully and ruffle Link’s hair. “-came back, it left us with the same age gap as before. So in the end I can’t complain.”

“Why’d you volunteer?” Cape guy leans on the wall. “There’s only so many times you can test it, right? Who’s to say it wouldn’t have been worse?”

“Yeah, what if it did transform you into a baby again and you forgot everything?” Four Patches stands up and comes to stand by the table, putting his book on top of it. 

“I wanted to take the risk.” you shrug and pull your brother into a hug. “Is it a crime to want to see my baby brother again not matter the cost?”

“Get off.” He whines.

You laugh but do as he asks. “It was never said when he’d be back. Only that he would. I was willing to buy as much time as needed to be there for him.”

“I didn’t remember you...” He mutters to himself.

“You now, don’t you?” You punch him gently. “We’ve talked about this. It’s ok. I knew it was going to happen. It wasn’t going to stop me. Ganon himself couldn’t properly get rid of me. I’m not leaving your side anytime soon.”

He smiles and turns to hug you.

“Now where’s your wolf friend?” You ask. “Are you still traveling together? There’s something I wanted to give him.”

Wolf Pelt shimmies in his seat for a second but you don’t think much of it.

Link shakes his head. “Not right now but he has been coming by every now and then.”

“Well it’s good he’s still around to look after you then in my stead.”

“We have a horse though.” Link tilts his head up to grin at you. “It’s not the same but her name is Epona.”

Familiarity stabs you in the heart and you know it’s something that Link even remember even if he lives another one hundred years.

He was too little when she passed.

“...Like dad’s old horse. Can I see her?” You say with a light constriction in your throat. “How crazy would it be if they looked alike?”

“Dad had a horse?”

“You wouldn’t remember her, you were too little. I barely remember her as it is but yes, he did.” You take a step back and motion back towards the door. “Maybe after lunch you show me. We can bring her to the back and measure up how the stable is. I’ve been fixing it up.”

“Really!?” Link blinks, an excited glint appearing in his eyes.

“Yes. That’s what I was doing when you first came in. But let’s eat first.” You put your hand to the small of his back and push him gently in the direction of the table. “And then you can tell me about your friends and this new adventure of yours.”

[platypanthewriter]

The Prince and the Pauper (Who Drives an Uber) Ch. 4

(Prince Steve flees his wedding, and asks his Uber driver to take him bowling...and on a date.  WIP)  Part One | Two | Three | Four

“I could just…” Billy whispered against Steve’s jaw, “—unbutton your slacks...get your cock in my hand—” he laughed as Steve’s hips jerked up under him.  “Jack you off,” he mumbled, and Steve laughed.

“Just remembered your dick tattoo,” he whispered.

“Oh no,” Billy whispered back, freezing in place.

“I didn’t get to see it,” Steve said, giggling, “—in the bathroom, it was kinda dark—” and Billy tried to glower down at the prince underneath him, but felt himself smiling instead.  

His face was hot with embarrassment, but not...dread, he realized.  “It’s dumb as hell,” he mumbled, laughing.  

“I want to see,” Steve whispered against his mouth, and Billy laughed harder, groaning.  

“You’re gonna lose like fifty points of IQ,” he warned, starting to rise to hands and knees, but Steve grabbed his ass and pulled until Billy settled, snickering, with his legs on either side of Steve’s chest, and his dick, bobbing and leaking, inches from his prince’s chin.

Steve blinked wide, mischievous eyes up at him, and Billy covered his eyes with one hand, prodding his cock to the side with the other, and then felt Steve burst out laughing.

“Does that,” he gasped, his hands warm on Billy’s thighs, “—does that say ‘darn’?”

Billy shook with laughter, his eyes tearing up, for once, with glee.  “It was supposed to be Daryn,” he cackled, and Steve laughed harder.  

“Your dick says darn,” he wheezed.  “Darn!  It-it’s Billy’s dick!”

“It’s worshipful,” Billy told him, leaning into the calloused thumbs stroking his thighs, and scooting down to rest his elbows on either side of Steve’s head, to put himself in kissing distance again.

“Gosh darn,” Steve whispered, giggling breathlessly.  “Wow.  Jeez.  Darn it.”

“Yeah, there you go,” Billy snickered, wiping his eyes, and reaching down between them to undo Steve’s slacks.  “Jesus, you’re hot.”

“You’re pretty darn pretty,” Steve wheezed, squeezing him so hard Billy oofed.  “How much did you like Daryn?” he asked, running his knuckles up and down Billy’s ribs, even as Billy shifted around, finally freeing Steve’s dick from his slacks.  

Billy bit his lips, glancing up at Steve’s face, then crawled backwards to tug Steve’s slacks down and off.  “...s’it matter?” he asked.

“Just want to, um, y’know, know the team to beat,” Steve mumbled, frowning up, and Billy leaned to kiss the inside of his thigh, on the way to kiss his finally-freed cock.  

“He wanted my name on his cock,” Billy shrugged, biting his lip.  “I dunno, I was drunk as fuck, nobody ever wanted me tattooed on them before.  We got in this huge fight like two days later.”

Steve sighed, and Billy swallowed, wondering, as always, how trashy he could get before it was a step too far.  “I mean,” Steve sighed, pulling him closer, “I did figure there’d be other interested parties.  I just have to— mmpf,” he squeaked, as Billy dropped on top of him, kissing his face.

“Are we fucking or not,” Billy whispered, sliding his fingers along Steve’s neck, and tugging on his tie.  “Darn it.”

“Hi,” Steve breathed, beaming up at him.  “We—we darn well are,” he returned, in a fervent voice that made Billy’s cheeks flush, until Steve mumbled, “Darn it,” again, shaking against him, and then dissolved into giggles again.  Billy sighed, groaning against Steve’s chest, but Steve yanked him close and kissed anywhere he could reach, cackling and squeezing him tight.

“Take your time,” Billy muttered, letting himself laugh too.  

“Didn’t think I could be this happy today,” Steve sighed at the ceiling, and Billy could hear the smile in his voice.  “Thought I’d be doing some photo shoots,” he said softly, “—or on a plane home, maybe.”

Billy bit his lips at the ever-present reminder that Prince Steven Harrington wasn’t his.

“Thanks for staying,” Steve whispered into Billy’s hair, and Billy laughed sharply.  

“Uh,” he cleared his throat.  “Yeah, about that,” he said, lifting his head to frown down at Steve’s face, and sliding his hand down to feel over Steve’s cock.  Steve jerked under him, wide-eyed.  “What happens now,” Billy asked, sliding his thumb over the tip, and Steve groaned, letting his head loll back with a slow smile.  

“Whatever you want,” Steve told him, licking his lips slowly, and Billy snorted a laugh.

“No, I mean,” he told his prince-for-now, scooting to the side to slide his hand under Steve’s thighs, “—what now.  They gonna make you marry somebody else?”  

“Oh,” Steve blinked, his smile dropping even as he squirmed against Billy’s hand under the swell of his ass.

“Better make good use of the time, huh,” Billy whispered, feeling the muscles of Steve’s thighs, and lifting one over his head to lean between, as Steve laughed, wide-eyed underneath him.  “If I’m a one-night stand,” Billy said, then cocked his head.

Steve pulled him down so  Billy’s weight was on Steve’s thighs, and Billy’s own free arm.   Steve’s torso shook under him with laughter, and Billy corrected, “—one or two night stand,” frowning, while Steve laughed harder.  “—I better make it worth your while—” he said, grinning, letting their cocks brush.

“Shut up, come here,” Steve said, wrapping his legs around Billy’s waist.  “They’re not.  M’not gonna just—marry anyone.”  He grunted as Billy grabbed their cocks together.  “Jesus,” he whispered.  “Uh.  Darn.  You—you’re not just anything, Billy.”

“...just a poor boy,” Billy sang softly, but Steve yanked him into a kiss, wet and hot, and his dick rubbed against Billy’s with agonizing heat and friction.  Billy moaned, losing his ability to words.  He writhed against his prince, panting, and Steve held him tighter, whispering a language Billy didn’t know in his ear.

Billy finally got his hand between them, and around both their cocks, and Steve’s whole body arched, his legs tightening around Billy’s waist.  “You can fuck me, go on,” he panted, and Billy came, right there over their stomachs.  “...damn it,” he whispered, and realized Steve was laughing at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gulped, choking on his own giggles as Billy glared down at his face.  “Darn.  Maybe I’m good at this,” he suggested, then squawked as Billy growled, crawling backwards, and sank his mouth over the royal dick.  “Oh shit, Billy.  Billy, jesus—”

He rambled on, his hips doing tight little jerks as he gasped with Billy’s every breath, his fingers tight in Billy’s hair, and Billy knew he’d won when Steve subsided entirely into another language.  It sounded like he was begging.

 Even after Billy’d sucked all knowledge of English out Steve’s dick, he was a prince, and he managed to make it clear—patting Billy’s face—that he was about to come.  Billy swallowed him down, feeling him shudder and strain, then licked him clean, and crawled up to lie alongside him.  Steve rolled to throw a limp arm around him, and groan contentedly into his neck.  

“M’not,” he mumbled.

“What?” Billy asked, leaning his head on his elbow.  He wrapped his other arm around Steve’s head, and kissed his sweaty hair.

“M’not gettin’ married,” Steve told him, squeezing Billy around the waist, and rubbing his face against Billy’s chest with a sleepy hum. 

Billy’s heart thumped, and he told it to shut up, because it wasn’t like that meant anything to Billy, really.  It was hard not to relax into pointless affection, though, with the royalty in his bed rubbing a chiseled jaw over his pecs like an approving cat.  “What are you doing,” Billy asked, finally, when he couldn’t hold back his snickering.

“You feel good,” Steve sighed, kicking his feet as he squirmed up higher in the bed, and slid his other arm under Billy’s neck to pull him closer.  “They weren’t making me get married,” he sighed.  “It was just this...old-fashioned...politics...thing.  When Nancy agreed, she wasn’t, you know.  In love with someone else.”

“I’m honored to be your boy toy,” Billy told him, and Steve snorted a laugh, choking.  He pulled away and sat up, coughing around what sounded like both his lungs.  

“Billy,” he finally said, wiping his eyes.  “You gonna miss me?”

There was an unnecessarily obvious answer to that, Billy felt, and he shrugged.  “What you want me to say to that?” he asked, letting his mouth quirk into a grin.  

“‘Yes’,” Steve said quickly, laughing.  “‘Yes, absolutely’.”

“...yeah, I’ll miss you,” Billy admitted softly.

“‘So darn much’, right,” Steve supplied, snickering, and Billy groaned.  “Come on, admit it, you know it’s true—”

“I’ll miss you so darn much,” Billy said, trying to sound sarcastic, but it came out way too raw, and Steve stilled in his arms, watching his face.  Billy opened his mouth to try and save the situation—before the actual royalty he’d just sucked off called the police on him for sounding like some kind of clingy obsessive stalker—but Steve leaned in and kissed him,  slow, open-mouthed, and warm.

“Good,” he whispered, smiling against Billy’s lips.  “S’ not fair if only I’m doing the missing.”

“Fuck you,” Billy whispered.  “Like you would—” and then he didn’t say anything else, because Steve climbed on top of him, lying fully along his body so Billy could barely breathe with the sensations of hot, sticky skin.  He held Billy’s head firmly and kissed him and kissed him, while Billy raised his hands, startled, forgot about them in midair, and then remembered them abruptly as Steve lifted his head away.  Billy grabbed Steve’s head and pulled him back in, feeling him laugh.  

  Afterwards, they were stuck together and generally disgusting, and as much as Billy privately relished the idea of being glued to his prince forevermore, he poked Steve in the side.  “Hey,” he whispered, and Steve squeezed him, sighing contentedly.  “Come on,” Billy whispered.

“...where,” Steve asked, suspiciously, and Billy couldn’t help a snicker.

“Shower, come on,” he whispered against the royal ear.

“No, I live here,” Steve mumbled, and Billy laughed.  “Stay,” Steve whispered, sliding his hand around Billy’s thigh.  

Billy felt his skin warming—it was one thing, apparently, to suck a man’s cock, and another to have the same man cuddle him, dropping clumsy kisses all over his face.  Steve tossed a leg over him, and Billy OOFed, laughing and squirming as their sweaty skin stuck together.

“...how long you want me to stay,” Billy asked, grinning, and Steve stopped placing soft, open-mouthed kisses all down his cheek and under his jaw.  

“Mmmm,” Steve said, squeezing his fingers harder in Billy’s thigh, so Billy laughed, his dick twitching.  “You can’t stay here forever, because you have to come with me,” he whispered, leaning in so their noses brushed.  “So I can...keep you,” he breathed, and Billy laughed, startled, and lifted his head to press their lips together.

“Mmnh,” he said, then sighed, squeezing his prince closer.  “Let me scrub you down in that glass shower you paid for.”

Steve snickered, but sighed, slumping over him.  “Why would you want to move?”

“...y’know those fake tattoos you got out of the machine at the theater,” Billy whispered, and Steve snorted a laugh, kissing along Billy’s hand and wrist like he was seducing a princess.

“...the ones for your sister,” Steve whispered over Billy’s damp skin, and Billy shivered.

“She doesn’t want that shit.  Look,” Billy whispered, overconfident in his prince’s arms, “—I’ll put ‘em all over you.  Lemme up.”

Steve burst out laughing, his whole body shaking as he scooted up, kicking his legs, and hugged Billy’s whole head.  “Okay, if you’re into that,” he whispered.

“I’m not into that, you fucking weirdo,” Billy hissed, his face probably steaming.  

“I never would have suspected,” Prince Steve whispered in his ear, and Billy growled.  

 He did finally let Billy get up, though, and then he let Billy scrub him all over in the shower, squeezing suds over the planes of the royal back.  “I feel like the point of a glass shower is to look in,” he mumbled against the glass, as Billy ran his fingers over smooth, slippery skin.

“I can see just fine,” Billy told him, relaxing under the hot water, and trying to keep his prince from just curling up on the floor and drowning with his face against the drain.  Steve turned and slid his arms around Billy’s neck, and they swayed under the water as he hummed.  

It was hard not to picture him as a Disney Princess, singing softly and sleepily against Billy’s shoulder, and Billy wished, half-awake himself, that the princesses had flings for him to aspire to, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t Prince Charming, and thus had only the villainous trajectory in Frozen in his future.  “Come on, rinse,” he cajoled, but Steve insisted on staying in to wash Billy’s hair, his hands wandering everywhere, even finding the ticklish spots just above Billy’s ass, and around his sides.  

“Fuck,” Billy giggled, curling against him, “—stop, you—shit— fuck—” 

“I’m trying not to tickle you,” Steve laughed, squeezing him closer.  “You keep squirming!  I won’t, ssh, hold still—” he promised, finally grabbing Billy’s hand and linking their pinkies.  “I won’t.  I won’t tickle you.”

“...you better keep your promises,” Billy told him, letting his voice get a little harsh, because the prince of a European country had promised he’d miss him, and if Billy never heard another word after letting his imagination run wild it’d be...his own stupid fault, of course, but also shitty.  

“...I won’t tickle you unless it’s justified,” Steve corrected, and Billy staggered back, his eyebrows raised, but he couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh ho, the truth emerges,” he said, reaching over to turn the water off.

“I’ll run it by your sister, maybe,” Steve said, consideringly, and wiped his face, miming holding up a phone.  “Max, your brother thinks he doesn’t deserve nice things,” he said.  “Oh—oh, really?  What else should I—I have free rein, you say?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy told him, sliding an arm around his idiot prince to haul him out of the shower.  Steve staggered against him, but Billy didn’t let him fall.  

 Steve sat on the toilet, lid closed, laughing his ass off while Billy ordered him around, covering him in tattoos.  Billy decided the prince of a country definitely needed a unicorn on his ass, and a love anchor on his right pectoral.  The weird flaming cat that looked like it might have construction equipment for a body—a backhoe, Steve opined, laughing—went above his belly button, though Billy was careful not to get any hair under it, dabbing carefully with wet paper towels at the paper as Steve tried hard not to laugh.  

Billy watched the water trail over his abs and down into his pubes, wanting to follow it with his tongue, but Steve looked tired, despite his smiling.  “Why would you think Max would want this shit, they’re so ugly,” Billy asked, grimacing at an eagle trying to eat a flag.  

“Sorry,” Steve said, wide-eyed, “—nothing can be quite as lovely as your darn dick, can it—”

“Sure can’t,” Billy said, stoutly, and Steve started snickering again, watching Billy’s hands.  “This might say ‘Fook nos EVIL,’” Billy said, holding up what looked like a crystal ball, on fire, surrounded by a snake.  “Then again, it might not?”

“Ahhh, I love vending machines,” Steve cackled, wiping his eyes, and held very still while Billy held the tattoo to the back of his hand.

“...I know I can’t put it there,” Billy told him, after waiting for him to yank his hand away.  

“You can do whatever you want,” Steve told him, grinning down.  “Put it on my face.  I fled a wedding, they might as well get good pictures of my ruin.”

“Covered in fake tattoos the next day,” Billy shook his head, sighing.  “Maybe clutch at a bottle of root beer.  Then they’ll know you’ve got nothing left to lose.  A broken man.”

“Oh my god,” Steve wheezed, then leaned to kiss him, and Billy made a weird HRNK noise in surprise, before leaning into Steve’s warm hands cradling his face.  

Steve leaned around amiably as Billy pressed fake tattoos all over him—he’d bought several sheets, which was just too many, as far as Billy was concerned, and he needed to understand the error of his ways.  It meant long moments of Billy kneeling next to him, waiting for the water to soak the plastic off the paper, stroking a washcloth over and over down Steve’s thigh, or up on one knee, leaning in to press Mary Magdalene along Steve’s ribs.  

He kept taking the opportunity to kiss Billy, who leaned into it every time—like Pavlov’s dog, he thought, realizing his brain was just switching off every time Steve touched his face at this point.  Steve’s grin was wide and silly.  He sat on the counter so Billy could put terrible, blurry skulls on both the tops of his feet, and then leaned over it so Billy could press the unicorn to his ass—which tickled, apparently.  Billy got some of his own back, slowly stroking the wet cloth over Steve’s squeezable ass while Steve laughed helplessly, smacking the counter and mumbling what were probably swears in Greek.

“I look ridiculous,” Steve told him, his eyes surveying the Chinese dragon on his neck, the flaming, ribboned hearts on his bicep, and the flaming cherries just under his collarbone.  He looked proud.  “Why is everything on fire?”

“You’re hot,” Billy shrugged, snickering as he found a seductively cartoony-eyed dolphin with what looked like gold edges, and placed it squarely between Steve’s shoulder blades.  He bent to wet the washcloth again, and wiped the water over it while water dripped down Steve’s back, and their eyes met in the mirror.  

“Is that dolphin on fire,” Steve asked, in the tone of someone about to ask to see the manager.

“So’s this spider, and this dagger thing.  In a skull,” Billy said with satisfaction, beginning a trail of flowers, hearts, and butterflies up Steve’s spine.  

“But a dolphin,” Steve said, trying to turn and see, and Billy kissed it, and they got thoroughly distracted.  Billy even let Steve put some on him, watching his prince kneel down, his tongue out in concentration.  

“Don’t forget tattoo care,” Billy told him, smiling down at his prince’s bent head.  “If you can’t reach them all, you’ll need somebody to rub them with lotion.”

“Oh,” Steve nodded, his mouth quirking as he placed a truly stupid-looking row of skulls across Billy’s chest.  “That sounds important.  You know anybody up for the job?”

“...I can’t even think of any jokes to make with how dumb you look right now,” Billy told him, honestly, and Steve snorted a laugh, raising his eyebrows at Billy’s skull-covered chest.  One of the skulls, for some reason, was also the Italian flag.

“Maybe we should turn the lights off,” Steve suggested, narrowing his eyes, but his mouth was twitching with amusement.

“No, I’m taking a hundred photos.  I’m going to send it in as a scoop and pay for my college classes,” Billy told him, and Steve blinked.

“Oh,” he said, cocking his head, and then he shrugged.  “Okay.”

“What?!  I would not actually do that,” Billy laughed, but Steve grabbed him and drug him out, and flopped over the bed, sprawled.  He pursed his lips, waggling his eyebrows.  “I’m not selling it, but I do want photos,” Billy told him, staring.  “I think I’m hallucinating.  You look like a confusing stock photo.”

“I’m just that hot,” Steve said, rolling onto his stomach, and grabbing an armload of blankets to groan contentedly into.  

Billy did snap a couple of shots, watching Steve, but he stayed relaxed, and Billy gave in and took more.  “...this is gonna be a whole new spank bank folder,” he said, grimacing, and Steve shrugged.  The dolphin burning to death on his shoulder blade flexed.  

“See how you react next time you see bad fake tattoos,” he mumbled sleepily, and Billy paused, cringing, imagining himself staring heart-eyed at blurry snake-and-flaming-skull art on a vending machine.  

“Horrifying thought,” he muttered, getting a picture of the way Steve’s hair fell over his folded arms, and the way his eyelashes laid across his cheeks.

 They fucked again, sleepily, when Billy woke up to pee at 4am, and crawled back in to a sleepily mumbling Steve who’d forgotten his English again.  Billy tried to lie still, listening with a grin, but Steve rolled over—nearly breaking Billy’s nose with his elbow—and threw an arm around Billy’s waist, yanking him closer.  His stubble scraped a little at Billy’s jaw and neck, but Billy liked it—the sandpaperiness was grounding, in the strange pink light of dawn.  

Steve muttered in whatever language he was speaking—Billy told himself he’d look up where was prince of the next morning, and set up Duolingo—and Billy grunted, startled, as Steve’s mouth fastened where his shoulder met his neck.  Steve’s hand slid warm down Billy’s side, and he shivered, taking a shuddery breath and parting his legs as Steve’s nails scraped gently through the hair around his dick.  Billy’s hips jerked, and Steve laughed, his breath hot against the wet skin of Billy’s collarbones.  

Steve slid his hand around Billy’s cock, and stroked him slowly, and Billy made an effort to remember manners, and fumbled to reciprocate.  It was slow, and warm under the blankets—the air conditioning had had Billy shivering in the bathroom—and he let his eyes slide closed, leaning into his prince’s arms.  With the hand not busy on his dick, Steve hugged him close.  

 When Billy woke again—disoriented, since the hotel bed was in the middle of the room like it was for vampires— Steve was sprawled on top of the blankets and Billy, one foot kicked up in the air, snoring softly into an armful of comforter.  He had pillow marks on his cheek.

Billy watched him sleep—the curve of his back, the awful tattoos and moles along his side, the swell of his unicorn-adorned ass—and sighed.  The foot Steve had in the air twitched, and the muscles of his thigh and butt flexed.  Billy imagined him in their tiny apartment, waking up during hours meant only for professional bakers if he wanted to shower with any hot water.  He tried to envision a prince eating Hot Pockets with Billy and Max, and eating on the floor rather than sit on the rock-hard futon they’d found next to the dumpster.  Sitting around cross legged, inventing increasingly ridiculous explanations for the reddish/brownish stain in the carpeted doorway to the hall, and laughing over Max’s vivid descriptions of the triple homicide she was sure had also broken the edge off the bathroom mirror.  He imagined Steve next to them, studying the tap in the sink and analyzing the residue and smell, wondering whether it was safe to drink.  

Just to feel the internal ache deepen, he let himself picture a different apartment, one where Steve could have his own...office, with a desk, or something, and make important calls around the world, that opened out on a nice kitchen with no peeling seams in the linoleum, and Billy having the time and money to cook food.  Once he had a degree, and he could work somewhere that paid better.  Max sleeping a room that the window closed all the way, so she didn’t have to stuff it with pillows, and closet doors that didn’t fall off every time she tried to slide them.

Evenings off, to gripe about the endless dumb natural disaster movies she wanted to show him.  Billy groaned, imagining it, and Steve grunted, his eyes blinking open to squint over.  

“Eunh,” he mumbled, rubbing the drool off his chin with the back of his wrist.  “...Beelly?”  

Steve Harrington had an accent, Billy realized, feeling like he’d been punched in the solar plexus, and his lungs had forgotten his brain needed air.  Steve’s hair was smushed flat by the pillow, sticking out in all different directions, and the dim light of morning lit him like an old black and white movie, shadowing around his muscles, down the curves of his spine, and deepening the dimples above his ass.  “...you’re beautiful,” Billy whispered, unintentionally, and Steve snorted, dropping his face back in the blankets.  

“Morning face,” he groaned, making ‘face’ into two quick syllables, ‘fay-eece’.  He cleared his throat, grimacing, and said “—face,” with the American accent he’d used every other time he’d talked to Billy.  

“You have an accent,” Billy said, again unintentionally, and his prince glared over before scrambling under the blankets, his feet kicking.  

“Nobody’s perfect,” he mumbled, muffled by the pillow, which was so far from the truth Billy yanked the covers back off him, ignoring his probably-profane exclamations in a language Billy didn’t know.  

He smacked a loud kiss on the back of Steve’s neck, next to the dragon, and got a snorted laugh.  “I liked it,” Billy said, uncertainly, into Steve’s shoulder.  “Like...getting to know you, y’know.  I like seeing you like this—” —in my bed, in the morning, he thought.   Every morning.

“Sexy drool,” Steve said, snorting.

“No, just...asleep next to me, all—you were comfy, so…” Billy trailed off helplessly, wondering incredulously whether Steve had grown up believing singing birds and rodents were supposed to wake up every goddamn morning and fix his hair.  “You fishing for compliments here, or what?  Sorry?” he tried.  “I’m—I’ll stop if you seriously want me to, I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to see you when you’re not...magazine ready,” he said, laughing a as he watched the shadows on Steve’s exposed side as he breathed, and feeling a little like a creepy stranger, staring through a peephole to look at something he hadn’t been allowed to see.  “Um,” he said, into the stiff muscles of Steve’s shoulder, and let go, scooting away.  “Shit, d’you want me to leave, fuck, sorry—”

“Why are you buttering me up when I’m half-awake,” Steve asked, rolling over, and sitting up with a groan.  

“...I don’t know, Americans are dumb,” Billy told him, trying to salvage the situation, “—I’m sorry, I just—we get weird about accents, we think they’re sexy—look, lemme blow you, let me try this again, reset, come on.”

“Wait,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his face.  “You think it’s hot when I say your name wrong?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Billy told him, truthfully, his face burning.  “I mean, it’s not wrong, it’s just how you say it—” he tried to explain, and Steve squinted over, blinking, and then crawled over to slump against Billy’s side, sliding his arms around Billy’s waist.  Billy blew through his cheeks, relieved..

“Mmn,” Steve mumbled into Billy’s neck, sighing contentedly.  “Mmmkay, fine, s’ry.  ...you wake up so pretty,” he groaned.  “...look like I...came out’ve the dryer.”

“Me,” Billy snorted, his whole body heating as Prince Steve settled in his arms, heavy and warm from the blanket, curled around him and half-coherent with sleep.  His shoulder blades brushed the inside of Billy’s arm, and his stubble scraped against Billy’s shoulder.  “Look, okay, best option,” Billy offered, squeezing him closer.  “—you don’t wanna let me see your sleep-face, you just stay right there forever.  My leg’s’ll go to sleep and then fall off, but it’s not like I’ll need’em—”

Steve snorted, curling tighter, and leaning in with a thunk against Billy’s shoulder, so Billy overbalanced back onto one elbow.  Steve snickered, climbing on top of him.  Billy stared up at the sleep-ruffled royalty above him.  “So you’re saying you’re not busy,” Steve whispered.  “Today.”

“...I think I can make some room in my schedule,” Billy said, his voice cracking as Steve clambered backwards, and licked his lips.  In true Disney fashion, as Steve lowered his mouth to Billy’s suddenly painfully-hard dick, Billy felt the urge to burst into song.

 Billy came home with two bags of takeout—according to His Highness Steven Harringrove, it was fun to pick things out for your date’s little sister—and a floaty feeling.  “Think I’m in a fucking musical,” he told Max, who snorted.  

“He give you a pile of cash again?” she asked, leaning in to give him a good set of sniffs.

“...the fuck are you doing?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.  

“...you don’t smell drunk or high,” she said, narrowing her eyes.  “What’s going on?”

“I’m not always drunk or high,” he told her, stung, but she rolled her eyes, grabbing the takeout when he tried to turn around and take it back down the stairs.  

“You walked in with a dopey grin on your face and said you were in a musical,” she told him, rooting through the containers, and then crossing her arms.  “The hell’s going on?  Seriously.”

“I just went on a date,” he growled, leaving out that Steve was a fare, a prince, a character in a Disney movie, and a wedding escapee, besides living on another continent and probably already forgetting Billy’s name.

“...yeah huh,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.  “Food this time?  Your ass getting cheaper?”

“He is not paying me for sex,” Billy hissed, dropping into a chair.  “Fuck you, I can date.”

“Yeah, huh,” she said again, slurping the room-temperature noodles.  “That what it’s called now?”

“We went to a movie,” he growled, proud.  “And it—it wasn’t his mom’s couch, either, we went to a theater.”

“You’re fo fad,” she said with her mouth full of noodles, and her eyes full of pity.  

“It’s not sad!” Billy threw one of the washed Starburst candies at her.  “Last night we went bowling!”

“...he’s a fare?!” she pointed her disposable chopsticks at him.   “Billy!”

“It’s not weird!” he told the table, slumping to drop his forehead against it.  “I mean.  It is, it’s super fucking weird—” he stopped at Max’s annoyed grunt, then sighed.  “He’s really—he’s so goddamn nice, Max.  He’s really nice.”

“...huh,” she said, clambering up to sit on the table, and kicking his knee.  “...shit sounds hinky.”

“It does, right,” Billy groaned.  “Fucking ...sweet to me, nobody’s—I’m not—”

“...just because you meet shitty people,” she said, kicking him again.  “Fine if he’s nice, okay, but you tell me if he’s not.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Billy asked, rolling his head on the table to grin up at her.

“I’ll put Ex-Lax in his food, so help me god,” she said, narrowing her eyes.  “He’ll shit his organs out, okay—”

“Whoa,” Billy snorted against the table, laughing.

“He makes you this happy, okay,” she said, waving her fork at him, with a baby corn on it.  “If he fucks you over after this?!  He’s—he’s even worse than usual.”

“Okay,” he sighed, wishing he wasn’t so obvious.  The cool table felt good against his hot face.

 That night, Max stared as he remembered the plastic orbs from the quarter machines at the theater, and pulled them out of his pockets and his backpack.  She took one, and stared at the little Minecraft figure, and the little rubber bouncy balls.  

“...what the fuck,” she said, taking one from the pile, as they rolled off the coffee table and around the floor.

“He’s a pinata,” Billy told her.  “I fuck him and toys fall out his—”

“Oh my god,” she yelled, smacking him with a pillow in each hand.  “AUUUGH.”  Billy snapped pictures of her fury through his cracked bedroom door, and texted them to his prince.

 The next day, Billy checked to see whether he needed to pick up another fare, and then clicked back to the ringing alert, where “unknown number” flashed.  He bit his lip, considering, then answered.  “Hargrove,” he said.

“Hey,” came a quiet voice, and he almost threw his coffee in the air and over his entire self.  “I, uh.  I’m not in America anymore.”

Billy shut his eyes, feeling his stomach fall like the world had stopped spinning, and remembering he was an idiot.  He actually felt nauseous, he realized, and laughed silently into his hand.

“Billy?” came Steve’s voice, cutting out a little.

“Yeah,” Billy said quickly.  “Okay.  Sorry I—sorry if I made you feel like you had to call.”

“No, no, I don’t—I didn’t mean—I want to see you again,” said his prince, and Billy took a deep startled breath, holding the phone with both hands like it was going to get away.  

“What—you—you want to video chat?  With me?”  Billy’s heart pounded.   You could watch me strip off my clothes, he didn’t say, but he felt his dick twitch, imagining Steve telling him to strip faster, or lean closer to the camera.   You could tell me how fast to jack myself.  You could tell me to do...lots of things.  “You c-could, uh.  You could show me around your place.”  

Steve laughed, startled.  “Wha—no!  No, I mean, yes, yeah, I can show you my—my hotel here, if you want?  Nancy’s getting married, I’m Man of Honor—but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.  I have—I have family there, that’s why I was in town.  And I want to see you.”

“You’re coming back,” Billy breathed, letting his head thud back against the headrest.  “H-how—um, how long for?  Do you—do you think—”  He held back ‘Can you tell me when,’ and ‘I could get a few days off’, thinking Like I could afford that, and ‘You could stay with me’, because Max would murder him if he brought some stranger home, and also the ruler of a country didn’t want to sleep on Billy’s saggy couch, with Max and Billy packing lunches and watching bad daytime soaps over his head.  

The idea made Billy’s internal organs lean towards it somehow, longingly, and he shook off the thought of getting up to piss in the middle of the night, finding Steve’s long legs hanging over the edge of the couch in expensive pajamas, and pressing a kiss to his bony exposed ankle before tucking him back in.   I’ll be lucky if I get another night, he told himself.  “I—I could drive you around.  If you don’t, uh, if you don’t already—you probably have a driver—”

Steve’s voice sounded like he was smiling.  “We can see how it works out.  I think there are some rules for, y’know, security.  But yeah.  Think about what you want to do.  I can probably come up with some more bad ideas about ditching them—”

“We’re not doing that,” Billy said flatly.  “I’m not gonna be in some famous assassination video on Youtube because I drove you around and your head got blown off,” he hissed, and Steve laughed.

“Okay, maybe just some bad ideas for dates then.  You can fall asleep on my shoulder again.”

“You asking me out on a shitty date, your highness?” Billy asked, and Steve snorted a self-directed laugh.  “Hey,” Billy said.  “I’ll say yes.”

“God,” Steve whispered.  “You sure?”

“Yeah.  Yeah,” Billy curled around his phone, grinning at his own knees.  “‘Course.”

 Billy stayed in the next Friday night, ignoring Max’s curious glances.  “You gaming tonight?” he finally asked, and her lips thinned.  

“Why.”

“Thought I might not go out,” Billy said, raising his eyebrows, “—but if you want me out of your hair—”

“No!” she bit out, glaring, the way she did when something caught her wrong-footed.  “No, that’s—that’s fine.  You...you gonna fall asleep, or…?”

“You wanna do something?” he asked, and she shrugged, watching his face closely.

He was watching her try to finish off a boss with some glowing hammer thing, her fingers clicking across the controller as she leaned back and forth, glowering at the screen, when his phone rang.  “Yellow,” he said, his voice a little slurred.

“...you drunk, babe?” Steve asked, and Billy laughed, curling up around his phone.  

He glanced at the empty cans on the table.  “A little,” he said.  “That okay?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said softly, but he sounded amused.  “Are you safe?  Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Billy told him, sighing fondly.  “M’good.  Miss you.”

“Oh my god,” Max growled.  “Shut up, you’re disgusting.”

“Is that Max?” Steve asked, his voice still unusually warm, like he was smiling.  

“Yeah,” Billy nodded, then remembered Steve couldn’t see him.  “She’s showing me a video game.”

“Ahhh,” Steve laughed.  “Did she drive you to drink?”

“It’s not a school night,” Billy rattled off, watching Max try to kill the monster-thing for the sixth time.  She was growling under her breath.  “I can drink on Friday nights, ‘long as it’s after work, and I’m not, y’know, driving.”  Max’s shoulder thumped against Billy as she leaned, waving the controller, her eyes narrowed, and he laughed.  “An’ if it’s not too much, y’know.”

“Oh,” Steve said.  “That’s why you had to tell her I was buying root beers.  At the bowling alley.”

“Yeah,” Billy sighed.  “I’m contract—contra—I contracted obligations.”

“Oh dear,” Steve laughed.  “Darn.”

“Don’ call the name of my dick in vain,” Billy told him, and Max choked, swore, and the screen filled with the words ‘RELOAD GAME?’

“You bastard,” she whispered, glaring over.

“I want to kiss you,” Steve said conversationally, and Billy buried his face in the couch, moaning as his prince talked.  “You sound happy.”

“My prince called,” Billy mumbled, and Max yelled incoherently at the ceiling, and stomped off to the kitchen.  He could hear her slamming the cupboards around, and crumpling something plastic.  “You wan’ me to strip?”

“...do you want to?” Steve asked, and Billy nodded.

“...I nodded,” he said.

“Want to show me your room?” Steve asked, softly, and Billy sighed.

“Goin’ in my room, Max,” he called, and she shouted back “THANK CHRIST.”

My other Harringrove stuff

[chyrstis]

WIP Sunday!

After the number the start to the week tried to pull, I’m glad to have a few moments to kick back and relax a bit, b/c things are only about to get even busier! For now, though, I’m just glad to be able to sneak in more writing, b/c these ideas just aren’t going to get done otherwise. :’)

Tagged by: @fadedjacket @cobb-vanthss @faithchel @raisinghellinotherworlds @painterofhorizons @geronimo-11 and @proudspires! You’re all wonderful, thank you! <3

Tagging: @writerofblocks @amistrio @tommymillers @softmillers @foofygoldfish @ma-sulevin @shellibisshe @unlikelynick @redroci @teamhawkeye @scarlettkat86 @guileandgall @risenlucifer @tomexraider @nightwingshero @strafethesesinners @baeogorath @lilwritingraven @weekend-writer @sneaky-apostate @nightingore @aceghosts, along with anyone else that has any WIPs being kicked around! 

First up, more of the Trap fic, b/c the more I write, the closer I can get to posting it, and I really, really want to start putting chapters up, darn it.

---

The handle started turning, and Hana nearly fell ass over end trying to get away from it.

She’d expected force of some kind. For it to swing open and startle her, but the man holding onto the doorknob let it slip out of his hand as he entered the room, giving her a good look at him.

It wasn’t John. That alone was a relief, but he was covered in tattoos like him. Wore heavy boots, had no shirt to speak of, and carried himself differently than the people she’d fought off before.

What had they been called over the radio? Cult VIPs? She’d only seen a few of them from a distance before, but if anyone was going to fit the bill, it’d be him.

The words and phrases running up his arms and over his torso reminded her exactly of the kind covering Joseph. Words of dedication tattooed next to those carved into him directly, and as he crouched down next to her Hana had no choice but get a closer look.

“You’re awake,” he stated. “Can you move?”

She spat on the floor.

The man didn’t frown, or get mad. But when he reached for her, she launched herself away from the wall only for him to hook her arm and bring her crashing down into the ground.

“Don’t! I’m not here to hurt you.”

She angled her head up to look at him, and waited for the hit to knock her back out again, but he didn’t raise a hand or a weapon. In fact, he hadn’t brought one in or gone for one at all, and that only ratcheted her nerves up further.

“What’s your game then, huh?” she hissed, feeling his grip on her loosen. “Just going to keep me here ‘til your boss drops by?”

The man frowned, though it was hard to tell just how much under the full beard he wore. “If he were, you wouldn’t be here to begin with.”

---

Then the No-Cult AU, b/c I’m weak for it, and this idea’s not getting any shorter in the slightest.

---

Another woman bounded up to them, giving Selena a hug while the rest of his response fizzled out completely.

“The first blooms have started opening! I thought it would be another few days, or that it would happen closer to morning, but they’re here and they’re beautiful.”

Selena gasped. “The flowers from the field?”

“Yes,” the other woman said, almost bouncing in place as she reached for Selena’s hands. “The others have already seen them, but not you! Please come see. Unless you’re needed here?”

Sharky hadn’t been sure at first, but the two were almost identical, from their modest dresses down to the way their hair was styled. One was blonde and blue-eyed, and the other with green eyes and darker hair, but having both turn to smile at him didn’t help clear his head at all.

No, he was almost floating in place as a dazed smile settled onto his face and he only snapped out of it when Selena spoke to him again directly.

“Mr. Boshaw?”

Oh, fuck no. That sobered him up fast. “Call me Sharky. Don’t gotta worry about being all formal and shit.”

“Well, Sharky” - and actually hearing that might’ve made his heart skip a little - “they need me over at the greenhouse. I’d stay longer, but this moment can’t be missed.”

“I mean, if you gotta go, don’t let me hold you back,” he said with a chuckle, his voice pitching funny. “Guess I’ll just have to come back and ask you later? …‘Bout getting food, showing you cool shit, um. Both, just both of those things.”

She smiled, and gave his shoulder a gentle pat before bounding off. It left the spot tingling as he stood there, holding his breath as the two faded from sight.

---

And maybe a little more of the Accidental Kiss idea, maybe?

----

“Yep.”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, and it took way too long to realize she was mirroring him perfectly.

“…Sorry.” Hana blew out a breath and ruffled her bangs. “For being weird, and making this weird, because that was a huge mistake to make. I shouldn’t have-I’m sorry for doing that.”

Sharky’s small smile fell. Turned more awkward than anything else when he tried to bring it back, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, didn’t wanna go and spill shit all over you either, but I went right for you.”

“No, you were-it was sweet of you to get that for me, and you dropped that on your foot, hon. That hurts.”

“It’s cool. It didn’t hurt, or leave me with a burn or nothing. Just-“ He shrugged, and his mouth twisted. “Didn’t want you to miss out. Forgot how quick that shit goes when you’ve got both the Resizzy and the po-po doing laps around it, and it was starting to look low.”

“And you probably didn’t want to hear me complain all over again, huh?”

This time he didn’t meet her eyes when she smiled at him, shuffling in place as he shoved his hands in his pockets. It was the most uncomfortable she’d ever seen him, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth as she looked him over.

Stepping closer, she lightly touched his arm. “Hey, Shark-“

“Rook?”

The door at the end of the hall opened, and the minute she caught the sheriff stepping out, she aimed a concerned look his way.  

[calumcest]

dancing with the demons (holy spirit, holy spirit)

[ao3]

yes its 1am yes i just finished this fic yes i am exhausted yes i currently have an exam i should be doing looks like Helen’s Deadline Season Coping Mechanism is back in full swing 

i have to give my everlasting thanks to @ashesonthefloor and @clumsyclifford for their chaotic minds providing me excellent ideas and for always being so supportive of the things i write and motivating me to keep writing and also especially to ainslee for patiently listening to me talk about this for like the past three weeks before i could actually write it 

also this VERY very loosely based on christianity but as you will see: VERY. VERY. loosely 

-

“You’re kind of a shitty demon,” he tells Calum, who scowls.

“Fuck you,” he says. “You’re kind of a shitty angel.”

“Oh, dude, I know,” Michael agrees.

-

Humans, Michael thinks sourly, wouldn’t be nearly as interested in getting to Heaven if they knew Ashton were in there. 

He means well, Michael knows that, and he’s just doing his job, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating when Michael gets Summoned twice a week to answer for whatever petty crime he’s committed this time. So sue him, he forgot witchcraft was sacrilege, and forgot that astrology falls under that umbrella, and he’d been amused when he’d seen a lady claiming to be able to tell him what was in store for him next year, and he’d had ten dollars on him. He’s thousands of years old, how the fuck is he supposed to remember every tiny rule? Plus, he thinks, cocking his head, she’d told him that a colleague would present difficulties for him, and the way Ashton’s ranting right now is just vindicating the poor woman.

“...set an example, Michael,” Ashton’s saying, when Michael tunes back in. “You were an archangel. You have to be better.” Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Ashton, I swear to God-” Ashton slaps his hand down on the table. 

“That’s exactly your fucking problem!” he says furiously, and then tenses as he realises what he’s said. Michael can feel the repentance washing over Ashton, the genuine purity of it, and it makes him wince a little bit. Ashton clears his throat, and tries again. “You can’t be blaspheming like that. You’re an angel, Michael. You have free will, and you know what a double-edged sword that is.” Michael folds his arms, wings ruffling defensively. Ashton’s always so fucking hot on how dangerous free will is, like he’s had some kind of bad experience with it, and Michael doesn’t get it. Ashton’s never stepped more than a centimetre out of line in his entire life. 

“I’m loyal to Him,” he says firmly. “He knows that.” Are you questioning Him? remains unspoken, but rings loud in the air between them.  

“I know,” Ashton says wearily. “But He did demote you. Again.” 

“I mean, I did give the Son an onion disguised as an apple,” Michael points out. Ashton glares at him. 

“Are you trying to make this worse for yourself?” he demands, and Michael holds his hands up in defence. 

“Not my fault Jesus doesn’t have a sense of humour,” he mutters, under his breath so Ashton can pretend not to have heard it. He still thinks it was hilarious, made even more so by the connotation of original sin. Maybe the fact he hasn’t repented is why He keeps letting Michael get reamed out by Ashton for the smallest fucking things. 

“You’re lucky He didn’t count that as a rebellion” Ashton tells him. Michael rolls his eyes. 

“What the fuck do you want me to say, Ash?” he says, spreading his hands, ignoring the way Ashton flinches at the curse word. “I’m sorry? I repent? Forgive me Ashton, for I have sinned?” Ashton sighs, but chooses not to comment on the sarcasm. 

“I’m assigning you another case,” he says instead, “and you’d better not mess this one up.” Michael groans, and Ashton gives him a sharp look. “You’re always free to leave, Michael. You know that.” Michael tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and lets his eyes flutter shut, shaking his head. 

“What is it?” he mumbles. He hears paper sliding across Ashton’s desk, and pinches the bridge of his nose for a minute, inhaling deeply, before forcing his head back forwards to see the file Ashton’s pushed at him. 

“A demon,” Ashton says. 

“Oh, for fu- for Go- uh, for goodness’ sake,” Michael says hurriedly, when he sees the look Ashton sends his way. “Seriously, Ash? A demon?” Ashton shrugs. 

“You want to act like a kid, you get treated like a kid,” he says. Michael exhales heavily, and picks up the file, flicking it open to the first page. 

“Calum?” he says sceptically. “What kind of a name for a demon is that?” 

“You’d do well to remember who named him,” Ashton reminds him, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“He doesn’t look very threatening,” he remarks, flicking through Calum’s file. “What, a couple of possessions, a few cases of muteness...c’mon, Ash, this is well below my pay grade.” 

“Firstly,” Ashton says, in that tone that says I don’t like what you just said at all but I’m going to be the bigger angel here, “you don’t have a pay grade, and secondly, you’ll take what you’re given.” 

“I know, but c’mon, this?” Michael says, waving the file in Ashton’s face. “You could deal with this in two minutes, Ashton, why send me after him?” Ashton presses his lips together and looks away, and Michael cocks his head, realisation dawning on him. “Oh, shit. He’s sending me after him.” 

“You know I can’t comment on that,” Ashton says, but his wings twitch uncomfortably and he doesn’t even tell Michael off for cursing, so Michael knows he’s right. 

“What does He want me to do this for?” Michael asks curiously. 

“The Lord moves in a mysterious way,” Ashton says primly, which is his go-to response when he knows the answer but doesn’t want to say it. Michael sits back in his seat heavily, grinning. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Yeah. I’ll take the case.” Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“You’ll do as He darn well says,” he tells Michael, who grins. 

“I’ll do as I damn well please,” he says, and Ashton just sighs in defeat. 

 -------

 The first time Michael finds Calum, he’s loosening lug nuts on car wheels in the dead of night. 

He’s knelt on the floor, spanner in his hand, humming something to himself as he works. Michael leans against a car behind him, folding his arms, and watches him for a while, watches the way he bobs his head to the song in his head, taps his fingers on the spanner, grins to himself when the lug nut loosens enough for him to move onto the next one.  

“Man, what kind of demon uses a spanner?” Michael comments after a few minutes. Calum spins around, on his feet at the speed of light, eyes black, teeth bared. Michael just gives him a bored look. 

“Who are you?” Calum hisses. Michael cocks an eyebrow. 

“Don’t recognise me?” he says, and Calum just growls at him. “Damn, how long were you in Heaven? Two minutes?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” Calum spits. Michael sighs, pretending he’s not enjoying this as much as he is, and lets his wings unfold, big and pure white behind him. Calum’s eyes widen, still all-black but with an edge of fear, and he takes a step back. Michael tries his best not to smirk.

“You’re not an angel,” Calum says, sounding like he’s trying to reassure himself. 

“Aren’t I?” Michael says coolly, tucking his wings back in. They feel a little cramped, but he’s made his point, and it’s cold. 

“You said damn,” Calum says, still a little afraid, but also a little confused. Michael shrugs. 

“I have free will,” he says. “Perks of being an angel.” Calum stares at him, and his eyes flash back to looking human again. Michael can’t see too well in the poor light, but they’re still dark, maybe a deep brown, and there’s some sort of a spark in them that makes Michael’s stomach flip. 

He can see Calum a little better now as his eyes adjust to the dark, can see the black jeans and black leather jacket and thin black t-shirt hugging his muscular physique, can see what looks like tattoos on his hands and collarbones and can’t help but wonder whether there are more to be found. 

And yeah, that’s a dangerous train of thought, so he stops himself firmly, allowing himself a sigh. Of course He’s saddled Michael with the hottest demon to walk the realms. 

“Whose car is that?” Michael asks, nodding at the car Calum’s been working on. Calum’s eyes linger on him for a moment, like he doesn’t trust that Michael’s not going to attack him the minute he blinks, and then looks over at the wheels. 

“Don’t know,” he says. 

“You’re trying to fuck with someone you don’t even know?” Calum shrugs, eyes flicking back to Michael. 

“Why not?” he says. Michael narrows his eyes.

“You know fucking with humans is, like, bad, right?” he says. 

“For you,” Calum says, and there’s a glimmer of wicked amusement behind his dark eyes. Michael swallows. “Don’t know if you’ve heard, but my boss isn’t so hot on all of those kinds of rules.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says darkly, because if there’s anyone from Hell Michael’s well-acquainted with, it’s the Devil. Calum, who seems to have now decided that Michael’s had his chance to kill him and hasn’t, casts him one final glance before picking up the spanner, twirling it in his hands (Michael chants a prayer to keep the thoughts about Calum’s fingers at bay), and kneeling at the next wheel. 

“Who are you?” Calum asks again. 

“Michael,” Michael says, as Calum starts twisting the lug nuts the wrong way, tightening them instead of loosening them. “That’s the wrong way, man.” 

“Fuck,” Calum mutters, and starts twisting the other way. Michael cocks his head. 

“You’re kind of a shitty demon,” he tells Calum, who scowls.

“Fuck you,” he says. “You’re kind of a shitty angel.”

“Oh, dude, I know,” Michael agrees. 

“Aren’t you a fucking archangel? Michael?” 

“Used to be,” Michael says. “Got demoted.” Calum snorts. 

“Demoted?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, with a sigh. “Big man doesn’t like it when you play practical jokes on the Son.” Calum laughs. 

“Yeah, you’re a really shitty angel,” he tells Michael, who bristles slightly. 

“Well, I did defeat Satan,” Michael says defensively. Calum grins, all wicked and sharp teeth. 

“Yeah, he’s mentioned,” he says, and then leans back from the wheel with a sigh. “Man, would you give me a hand?” Michael cocks his head. 

“I’m meant to be stopping you, dude,” he says. Calum rolls his eyes. 

“You’re not doing a very good job,” he says. Michael thinks he would do a much better job if Calum weren’t so fucking pretty. That’s kind of unfair, he thinks. It gives Calum an automatic advantage. 

“Stop it,” Michael says, and Calum laughs, tilting his head back, and Jesus Christ, Michael wants to mark up his neck. He sends a quick apology prayer to whoever might have heard that thought, and clears his throat. “Seriously, Calum. Stop.” 

“Or what?” Calum says, eyes glittering mischievously. “You’ll scowl at me?” Michael cocks his head, and the grin slips off Calum’s face as he starts to choke. He clutches at his throat, looking somewhere between confused and shocked. Michael lets it go on for a few more seconds, relishing the way Calum’s gasping for air, before he lets Calum go. Calum falls back on his heels heavily, a pained expression on his face.

“Stop it,” Michael says simply, and he hears the power in his own voice. Calum winces, head jerking down in a forced bow, and right, yeah, Michael forgot that holy power has that effect on demons. 

“Damn,” Calum says, looking up through inky lashes when Michael lets him go, voice hoarse, but eyes twinkling. “Didn’t take you for the kinky sort.” Ashton is going to string Michael up by his wings for the thoughts that follow that sentence. 

“Fuck you,” Michael says, scowling, as he sends up yet another apology prayer. Calum cocks an eyebrow, grinning. 

“If you’re offering,” he says, rubbing at his throat. Michael sighs to hide the please that’s probably written all over his face. 

“Don’t let me catch you again,” he says instead. 

“What, you’re not going to kill me?” Calum says, and he sounds a little surprised. Michael frowns at him. 

“You want me to?” 

“Just thought you would,” Calum says, shrugging. Michael hesitates.

“You’re not really that threatening, dude,” he says eventually. And you’re far too pretty to kill. “I think the world can handle you.” Calum scowls at him, and flips him off with his left hand, picking up the spanner again with his right. Michael wordlessly tightens all the lug nuts again with a surreptitious flick of his wrist. 

“See you next time, angel,” Calum says, slotting the spanner onto another lug nut. 

“Not if you know what’s good for you, demon,” Michael says, turning away and tipping his head back up to Heaven. He hears a grunt behind him as Calum tugs on the lug nut, and grins to himself. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?” Calum cries, and it’s the last thing Michael hears before everything turns white. 

 -------

 The second time Ashton sends Michael after Calum, he finds him in a Starbucks. His leather jacket is hung across the chair behind him, and he’s staring at a guy a few metres away from him with a look of pure concentration on his face. Michael takes a moment to drink it in, because he looks really fucking cute and his biceps are, like, right there - and yeah, Michael was right about there being more tattoos - before sliding into the seat opposite Calum. Calum jumps, tearing his eyes away from the guy to Michael, scowling when he realises who it is. 

“Hey,” Michael says nonchalantly, reaching for Calum’s coffee and taking a sip. It’s, like, pure fucking caffeine, and he pulls a face, pushing it back to Calum. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Calum hisses. 

“According to my superior, you’re up to no good,” Michael says. “I’m here to stop you.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“You’re no fucking fun,” he says. Michael shrugs, and reaches for Calum’s chocolate muffin. He’s always regretted not planting the idea of chocolate in the minds of humans earlier. 

“What were you trying to do?” he says, through a mouthful of muffin. 

“Why would I fucking tell you?” Calum says, folding his arms. “You’ll just undo it.” Michael raises an eyebrow, and swallows. 

“The guy’s tattoo,” he says. Calum scowls again. “What’d you do to it?” 

“It said Lisa,” Calum says sullenly. “Changed it to ‘Lice’.” Michael looks over at the guy’s tattoo again - and yeah, he does actually now have a heart with Lice in it proudly displayed on his arm. Michael can’t help the snort that escapes him. God, would Ashton kill him if he left that one as it is? The answer is almost a hundred percent, but he thinks it might still be worth it. 

“That is fucking funny,” Michael agrees. 

“Man, how the fuck are you still an angel?” Calum says, and Michael huffs out a laugh, taking another bite out of the muffin. Calum snatches the rest of it out of Michael’s hands. 

“This is my fucking muffin,” he says, waving the remnants of it in Michael’s face. Michael shrugs. 

“Steal yourself another one,” he says. 

“You steal yourself one,” Calum mutters. 

“I’m an angel, dude,” Michael says. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” Michael rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers as Calum raises the last bit of the muffin to his mouth. The muffin disappears and Calum bites down on thin air, looking confused for a split second before glowering at Michael. 

“What the fuck?” he demands. “Why’d you do that? That was a good fucking muffin.” Michael shrugs, grinning.

“For the hell of it,” he says, snapping his fingers again, and the muffin re-materialises in his hand. He throws it in the air, catching it in his mouth, and winks at Calum as he chews. Calum watches him, half in intrigue, half in outrage, mouth slightly open. He’s got such full lips, Michael thinks, and then hastily swallows both the muffin and that train of thought. 

“You’re the worst angel I’ve ever met,” Calum says decisively, sinking back in his seat. 

“You met many?” Michael asks casually. 

“No, but I’m pretty sure you’re the worst they’ve got,” Calum tells him. “I’m going to write a letter of recommendation to get you kicked out of He-” he winces. “Up there.” Michael cocks his head. 

“What’d you do to get kicked out?” he asks. 

“What do any of us do?” Calum says grumpily. “Exercise our free will.” 

“I exercise my free will,” Michael points out. 

“Yeah, to fucking swear,” Calum says. “You’re like that kid at school who gets an adrenaline rush from telling someone to shut up.” Michael scowls. 

“Fuck you,” he says, and Calum grins wickedly. 

“You kiss your Father with that mouth?” he says. Michael flips him off. 

“Right, well, this has been fun,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin as he gets to his feet, “but I’ve got to get going. Stop fucking with humans.” 

“Man, you’d be way more fun if you weren’t an angel,” Calum says mournfully. 

“I dunno,” Michael says, mock-thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t get to do this then, would I?” He snaps his fingers, just for dramatic effect, and the Lice tattoo on the man’s arm rearranges itself to say Lisa again, and an identical heart with Lice appears on Calum’s bicep. Calum twists his arm around with a look of absolute horror.

“You absolute fucking bastard,” Calum shouts, making at least five people in the Starbucks turn around and give him a sharp look (not that he’ll fucking care). 

“Be a good boy, demon,” Michael says, throwing him a grin before heading out into the warm October air. 

 -------

 The first thing Michael’s going to do when He gets over Himself and reinstates Michael as an archangel is have a word with Him about ever giving Ashton Summoning powers. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Michael mutters, using his right wing to rub his head where he’d banged it on impact. 

“Are you serious?” Ashton says, hands on his hips. “You come straight into my office and blaspheme?” 

“Don’t fucking Summon me with no warning, then,” Michael says, shaking his wings out. Ashton throws him a glare, probably for cursing, possibly for having the gall to respond at all. 

“You’re an angel, Michael, you’ll come when you’re called,” he says reprovingly. Michael rolls his eyes, but throws himself down on the chair on the other side of Ashton’s desk heavily. 

“What?” he says, with a long-suffering sigh. 

“It’s Calum,” Ashton says. 

“Again?” Ashton throws him a look. 

“You could’ve killed him,” he says pointedly. Michael shrugs, a little uncomfortably. He knows he should have, but something about Calum just draws Michael in, makes it impossible for him to say no. 

“He was fucking with tattoos and unscrewing lug nuts, Ash,” he says, a little too defensive. “Not exactly crimes of the millennium.” Ashton scrutinises him for a moment, and then purses his lips. 

“Well,” he says primly, “apparently he’s turned up in LA.” Michael can’t help but smile at that, because yeah, LA sounds like exactly the kind of place a demon like Calum would show up. Ashton sees it, and frowns. “Michael, this is a case, you hear me? Calum’s still a demon, no matter how much you want to copulate with him.” Michael scowls. Fucking Ashton, always listening to his prayers. 

“No one says fucking copulate anymore,” he snipes, because he can’t exactly deny it. “You’d know if you ever got down off your high horse and visited Earth.” Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“I’m pretty busy up here,” he says, gesturing to all the paperwork piled high on his desk. 

“I’m telling you, station Pahaliah with Peter at the gates,” Michael says. “You’d cut all this in half.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Ashton says. “Pahaliah’s had his work cut out for him since the Enlightenment.” Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, Barachiel, then,” he suggests. “He’s a fucking pain in the arse. Might do him some good to do something mundane for a few centuries.” 

“I think He has bigger plans for His archangels than guarding the gates,” Ashton says. Michael raises an eyebrow, and Ashton rolls his eyes. “You’re not an archangel anymore, Michael.” 

“I am in all but name,” Michael says with a shrug, because He always relents where Michael’s concerned. “This is my, what, twelfth demotion? Thirteenth?” 

“This one might stick,” Ashton says warningly, which is what he says every time it happens. His concern is kind of cute, Michael thinks, if unwarranted. Ashton’s never understood Him like Michael does. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says dismissively, because he’s not about to have this discussion with Ashton again. “Can I go now?” Ashton frowns at him, which Michael takes as a yes. He lifts himself up from the chair, stretching his wings and arms out, and turns to leave.  

“Do not copulate with the demon, Michael,” Ashton says. 

“I won’t,” Michael promises, heading for the door. “Might fuck him, though.” 

(The force with which Ashton slams him into the wall makes the whole building shake, but it’s absolutely worth it.) 

 -------

 LA is cold in November, which Michael had forgotten. It’s also busy, which means he can’t draw his wings around himself for extra warmth, nor simply teleport himself to the studio Calum’s apparently in. Instead, he has to huddle into himself and elbow his way through the Hollywood crowds, meaning he’s in a pretty bad mood by the time he actually gets to where he needs to be. 

Michael distracts the security guard momentarily with a quick wave of his hand, enough for him to slip inside unnoticed. It’s a small studio, only a handful of live rooms, and Michael only has to peek into two before he finds the one Calum’s in. 

Calum, clad in his usual all-black get-up, is leaning against the wall of the studio, grinning as he watches the sound engineer frowning, fiddling with a bunch of his controls. Michael can see the shimmer of the glamour he’s cast, and wordlessly casts one of his own as he clicks the door shut behind him. The sound engineer doesn’t even look up, so preoccupied with trying to fix whatever’s going wrong, but Calum hears the sound and whips around, scowling when he sees Michael. 

“Do you just, like, have a sixth sense for when there’s some fun occurring that could be stopped?” he asks, and Michael grins at him. 

“Just got a sixth sense for shitty demons,” he says, and Calum’s scowl deepens. 

“Fuck you,” he says. Michael raises an eyebrow, then casts a look over at the live room on the other side of the glass. There’s a band in there, two girls on guitar, one on bass and one on drums, all frowning at their instruments and fiddling with tuning pegs or tension rods. 

“You’re un-tuning their instruments?” he says. “That’s pretty bad, even for you.” Calum makes a noise of outrage. 

“What do you mean, even for me?” he says, sounding scandalised. “That tattoo was fucking hilarious, you said so yourself.” Michael’s eyes flick down to Calum’s bicep, even though it’s covered by his leather jacket. Calum notices, and folds his arms. “Yeah, fuck you for that. Do you have any idea the number of favours I had to call in to get rid of it?” Michael snorts. 

“Who the fuck owes you favours?” he asks, and Calum grins, eyes gleaming. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he says. 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m asking,” Michael points out. Calum rolls his eyes, and turns back to the sound engineer, who looks like he’s ready to cry. 

“I asked around about you,” Calum comments casually, as they both watch the sound engineer fiddle with yet more knobs. 

“Oh?” Michael hums, interest piqued. “You know, the Devil and I had a good understanding.” 

“Yeah, until you waged a war against him,” Calum says. 

“On the Lord’s orders,” Michael says, a little defensively. 

“Well, he found it pretty funny that you got demoted,” Calum says. Michael rolls his eyes. Of course he did. 

“He would,” Michael says. “Did he tell you about the time the Lord made him wash the Son’s feet in front of the whole host?” Calum gapes at him. 

“No,” he says, sounding flabbergasted. Michael grins, feeling oddly satisfied.  

“Yeah, I bet he didn’t,” he says. “Didn’t realise he concerned himself with petty demons like you, anyway.” Calum scowls. 

“I’m not a petty demon,” he says, a shade petulantly. 

“You un-tune people’s guitars, dude,” Michael says. “Pretty sure demons are meant to be out committing homicide, and stuff.” 

“There are plenty of demons who do the whole murder thing,” Calum says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m striking out.” Michael can’t help but grin at that. 

“I’ll put that in your file,” he tells Calum. “‘Not Like Other Demons’. Got it.” 

“I’ve got a file?” 

“What, you think we just let demons run around unchecked?” Calum blinks at him.

“You know Galadriel’s in the US president’s cabinet right now?” he says slowly. 

“Of course we know,” Michael says.  

“And you’re leaving him be?” Michael shrugs. 

“Not my department,” he says. Calum stares at him for a moment, and then a grin breaks out on his face, and he shakes his head. 

“Man, things have definitely changed since I was up there,” he says. 

“When was that?” Michael asks. Calum shrugs. 

“I dunno, I’m not great with time,” he says. “One, two thousand years ago?” Michael hums thoughtfully. 

“You remember Raphael?” he says. Calum rolls his eyes, and now that, that is a sentiment Michael can really get behind. 

“Unfortunately,” he mutters. “He still so fucking holier-than-thou?” 

“You thought he was holier-than-thou then?” Michael says, raising his eyebrows. “You should see him since my latest demotion.” He pitches his voice up a few octaves, and mimics: “Oh, Michael, if you just repented, you could have your seat at His side again. We’re all rooting for you. You’re just letting yourself down.” Calum grins. 

“You get demoted often?” It’s Michael’s turn to shrug. 

“Every couple of centuries,” he says. Calum laughs, all straight white teeth and sparkling eyes, and Michael’s stomach flips. God, he’s far too fucking pretty for Michael to handle. Is that why He sent Michael after him? Is this His idea of revenge? 

“I have no idea how you’re still an angel,” Calum says, shaking his head, still smiling. 

“Pure heart,” Michael says solemnly. “That’s why I keep defending these poor, helpless humans from your shitty little tricks.” 

“They’re not shitty,” Calum protests, as Michael throws a glance over to the girls in the live room, tightening their tuning pegs and tension rods wordlessly. Calum sighs dramatically, eyes following Michael’s gaze. “Man, you’re so fucking boring, you know that?” 

“Whatever you say,” Michael says with a grin, stepping back. “Behave yourself, demon.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Calum says, eyes twinkling. Michael smirks, and drops Calum’s glamour with a snap of his fingers. The sound engineer whirls around immediately, eyes widening when he sees Calum in the corner of the room, and scrambles to his feet, grabbing a nearby guitar and brandishing it like a weapon. 

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy shouts. “How the fuck did you get in here?” Calum shoots Michael a glare. 

“I fucking hate you, angel,” is the last thing Michael hears before everything goes white. 

 -------

 The next time Ashton sends Michael after Calum, he finds him with another demon who looks decidedly undemonic, blonde hair framing baby-blue eyes. Calum’s head whips around when Michael clears his throat, eyes black, poised to pounce, but he relaxes when he sees who it is. Michael’s not sure what to make of that. The other demon, though, bares his teeth, eyes flashing to black, tensing at Michael’s presence.

“Evening,” Calum says casually as his eyes flicker back to looking human, like they’re friends, and like Michael doesn’t have the power to kill him with a snap of his fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Michael asks, cocking his head. There’s glue and there’s coins, and he doesn’t understand how the two of them combine. 

“Gluing coins to the footpath,” Calum says, stepping back to let Michael see. In the dim light of the streetlight a few metres away, Michael can see a few coins shining back at him. 

“Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “Who’s your friend?”

“Luke,” the other demon says, eyes narrowed and black, posture defensive. He’s oddly familiar, Michael thinks, a bitter taste rising in his throat when they lock eyes. Michael’s dealt with a lot of demons in his time, but he doesn’t remember any called Luke. “Who the fuck is this, Cal?” 

“This?” Calum says, far too nonchalantly, kicking at one of the coins to make sure it’s properly stuck. “Michael. You know, the archangel?” 

“C’mon, dude,” Michael protests. “That’s a sensitive topic.” Luke looks at him, and there’s an edge of a glint to his eyes that Michael doesn’t like the look of. 

“An archangel?” he asks Calum, eyes still on Michael. 

“Well, no,” Calum says cheerfully, dropping to his knees again and sending Michael a pointed look, eyes glittering with humour. “He got demoted. Just a regular angel now.” Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” he says. “Who are you, the Raphael of Hell?” Calum snorts, and Luke looks from Calum to Michael and back again. 

“Are you going to kill us?” he says. 

“That depends,” Michael says. “Are you going to piss me off enough to make me?” 

“Don’t worry about him,” Calum tells Luke, reaching for another coin and some glue. “He’s the worst angel they’ve got.” Michael sighs, an I didn’t want to have to do this but you’ve twisted my arm kind of sigh, and raises his hand. Calum jerks into the air, feet dangling beneath him, and his wings instinctively shoot out, beating wildly to try and escape Michael’s chokehold. They’re kind of gorgeous, actually - sleek, black feathers, a little unkempt. 

“Huh,” Michael says thoughtfully, as Calum struggles against his hold, wheezing and spluttering, and Luke stares at him, looking only mildly interested. “Nice wings, dude.” He lets Calum go, who drops to the ground with a loud crack, splitting the footpath on impact. Calum winces, rubbing at his throat, and folds his wings back in. 

“Thanks,” he says, coughing. “Always thought black suited me better.” Michael hums in agreement. He can’t really see the pure, brilliant white he has on his own back working with Calum’s aesthetic. 

“Hey, d’you have a halo?” Calum says to Michael, voice still a little hoarse. 

“‘Course,” Michael says. “Do you have horns?” Calum snorts, getting to his feet. 

“I can if you want me to,” he says, throwing Michael a wink. Luke stares at him. 

“Wait, are you two fucking?” he asks, a note of trepidation in his voice. Calum’s eyes flick to Michael, dark and hungry.

“Not yet,” he says, not taking his eyes off Michael. Michael swallows, and apologises to Ashton, who he just knows is listening, for the string of thoughts that just went through his mind. 

“I’m just doing my job,” Michael says to Luke, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Calum’s. 

“Isn’t your job to kill us?” 

“No,” Michael says. “Just to stop you. And, I’ve got to be honest, stopping Calum isn’t exactly hard. He’s kind of a shitty demon.” 

“Fuck you,” Calum says, scowling, and Michael grins. 

“If you’re lucky,” he says, winking at Calum before turning to Luke. “You don’t seem like a very intimidating demon either, dude, not gonna lie.” 

“Oh, you should see him when he’s pissed,” Calum says, and Luke huffs, looking a little embarrassed. “Remember that transport minister in Berlin that fell in front of a train a few months ago?” Michael gapes at him. 

“That was you?” he says, rounding on Luke. 

“Yep,” Calum says gleefully, on Luke’s behalf. 

“What, he stood on my foot on the underground and didn’t apologise,” Luke says defensively. Michael stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. 

“You’re a way better demon than Calum,” he says, and the cheerful grin slips off Calum’s face, replaced with an indignant scowl. 

“What the fuck, dude?” he demands. Michael shrugs. 

“Find yourself a better sidekick, Luke,” he recommends, taking a step back. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Calum says. Michael grins, flicking his wrist, and all the coins start rolling down the footpath towards the gutter. 

“What did I tell you about behaving?” he mock-chides, as Calum makes a noise of outrage, trying to stop a few of the coins with his feet. 

“Fuck you, angel,” Calum grumbles, and Michael blows him a kiss as he transports himself back home. 

 -------

 Michael’s in the middle of a debate with Peter about whether or not Julius Caesar should really have been let into Heaven when Ashton Summons him. 

“-just shouldn’t have crossed the Rubicon, if you ask me,” Michael finishes his sentence addressing the wall in Ashton’s office. He spins around, annoyed. “What the fuck, Ash? I was having a conversation.” Ashton holds up a picture of Luke and Calum that Michael had put in Calum’s file, tapping on Luke. 

“Who’s the friend?” he says. 

“Luke,” Michael says. “Can I go now?” 

“No,” Ashton says, motioning for Michael to sit. Michael sighs dramatically, but throws himself down into the chair. Ashton sits down opposite him, wings poised, and steeples his fingers against his chin. 

“You know Luke?” he asks carefully. Michael shrugs. 

“Met him once,” he says. “They were gluing coins to a footpath.” Ashton nods thoughtfully. “Oh, and he killed that transport minister in Berlin a few months ago.” 

“I think he’s killed a lot more than just the transport minister,” Ashton says, tapping on a thick, unmarked file on his right. Michael shrugs. 

“Humans have to die of something,” he says. Ashton gives him a look. 

“We’re meant to protect humanity,” he says reprovingly. 

“C’mon, Ash, they live about as long as it takes me to blink,” Michael says. Ashton purses his lips, but he knows Michael’s right. 

“I’m going after him,” he says eventually. Michael does a literal, honest-to-God double take. 

“You’re doing what?” he says, astounded. “You’re going down?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Ashton says, a little snappily. “Gabriel’ll take over for me when I’m gone.” Michael groans. 

“C’mon, Ash, can’t you pick, like, Uriel, or Selaphiel, or something?” he asks desperately, because he’d rather die than answer to Gabriel, but Ashton shakes his head firmly. 

“Gabriel’s the only one qualified,” he says, eyes back on the picture of Luke and Calum. 

“What’s so interesting about Luke?” Michael asks, seeing the way Ashton’s eyes linger on him. “Why can’t you send someone else after him?” Ashton hesitates, then looks at Michael with a serious expression. 

“There’s never been a demon called Luke.” 

 -------

 Michael next sees Calum in a shopping centre food court. 

Calum spots him before he manages to get to him, and beckons him over, grinning excitedly. Michael tries to suppress a grin and ignore the way his stomach flips at that, pushing through the crowd to get to the booth Calum’s sat in and sliding in opposite him. 

“Watch this,” Calum says gleefully, nodding at the woman to their right. She takes a bite of her margherita pizza, nodding at whatever her friend is saying, and then stops, frowning, hand flying to her throat. 

“What did you do?” Michael asks, as the woman starts to cough. 

“Made her allergic to salt,” Calum says nonchalantly, and Michael snorts. The woman looks like she’s starting to struggle to breathe, so Michael waves his hand, and she relaxes, coughing a few more times, looking extremely confused and concerned. 

“So you’ve progressed to actually killing people now?” Michael asks, mildly intrigued. Calum shakes his head. 

“Knew you’d turn up,” he says, flashing Michael a grin. Michael rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t know that,” he says. “I’m a busy angel.” Calum snorts. 

“Right, that’s why they’ve sent you after me,” he says sarcastically, dipping a chip in some ketchup and popping it in his mouth. “Sure.” Michael shrugs. 

“He wanted me to go after you,” he says. Calum stops chewing, and frowns. 

“He?” he says, swallowing. “As in, Him?” Michael nods. “What the fuck? I’m on G-” he winces. “I’m on His radar?” 

“Apparently so,” Michael says, reaching for one of Calum’s chips and looking around for the mayonnaise. “Hey, where’s the mayo?” Calum stares at him. 

“You eat mayo, and I’m the demon?” he says in disbelief. Michael scowls at him, and conjures some mayonnaise. 

“It’s the best condiment,” he tells Calum, through a mouthful of chip. Calum shakes his head at him, looking genuinely disappointed. 

“What does He want with me, then?” he asks. Michael shrugs. 

“Do I look like God?” he says. Calum shrugs. 

“Never met Him,” he says. Michael raises his eyebrows. 

“Well, who kicked you out?” he asks. 

“Raphael.” 

“Bet he enjoyed that.” Calum huffs out a laugh, sticking his finger in the ketchup and then in his mouth. Michael’s not sure whether he should be grossed out by the fact Calum’s eating pure ketchup, or turned on by the way Calum’s got his lips wrapped around his fingers, looking up at Michael through thick, black lashes. 

“You’re disgusting,” he settles for, but it comes out weak, and a grin’s flashing across Calum’s face in a second. 

“Only for you,” he says, with a wink. Michael rolls his eyes, and hopes the pink on his cheeks isn’t too obvious. He reaches for another one of Calum’s chips, and Calum’s eyes follow him. He looks like he’s weighing up whether or not he wants to say something. 

“What’s He like?” he asks eventually, curiously. 

“God?” Michael asks, and Calum nods. Michael swallows his mouthful of chips, and clears his throat. “He’s cool. Pretty laid-back guy. It’s the Son you want to watch out for.” Calum cocks an eyebrow in intrigue, and Michael nods. “Yeah, the Son’s got a proper stick up his ass. Never met anyone so uptight in my life.” 

“Might be a side effect of crucifixion,” Calum suggests, and Michael snorts. 

“Well, you know, there’s the whole Trinity thing,” Michael continues, “so He’s pretty strict when it comes to the Son. God, the Son’s so spoilt. You think Raphael’s bad, wait until you meet Jesus.” Calum snorts. 

“Don’t think I’ll be meeting the Son anytime soon,” he says, and there’s something hard in his eyes and bitter in his tone. Michael frowns, but it’s gone as soon as Michael opens his mouth to ask. 

“What about Hell?” he asks instead. 

“What about it?” 

“Well, what’s Satan up to nowadays?” A look of amusement flashes across Calum’s face. 

“Oh, y’know,” he says. “Same old.” 

“Being the proudest motherfucker around?” Calum laughs, eyes twinkling, and Michael has the feeling he’s said something much funnier than he intended to. 

“You could say that,” Calum says. 

“He still funny?” Michael asks. “Heaven’s way more boring without him. He was the only one with a fucking sense of humour.” Calum’s eyes glitter with mirth. 

“I’d say so,” he says, grinning. 

“Well,” Michael says, a little awkwardly, because Calum’s finding this way funnier than it should be. “Give him my best.” Calum bursts out laughing. 

“Will do, angel,” he says. 

 -------

 God is nothing like humans think. 

Okay, He’s a little like humans think - He’s got the beard - but that’s about it. 

“Hey, Mikey,” God says, grinning at him when he knocks at the door. “How’s my favourite angel?” Michael rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him. 

“You’re not supposed to have favourites,” he tells God. 

“I don’t,” God says, eyes twinkling. “But Raphael was listening.” Michael snorts, shaking his head, and God gestures at the seat opposite His desk, capping His pen as Michael sits down. 

“You reinstating me as archangel?” Michael asks cheerfully. God sighs, giving him a serious look, and the smile slips off Michael’s face. 

“You know, Jesus is still mad about the onion,” He says gravely. “You made Him look bad, which means you made me look bad.” 

“You know I didn’t mean to do that,” Michael says, because He can see Michael’s intentions laid out in front of him, clear as day. “And you know I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” God says. “So I am reinstating you. But don’t play around with the Son again.” Michael nods meekly, wings sagging a little. 

“Thank you, Father,” he says. God waves His hand dismissively, grinning. 

“You knew I was going to reinstate you,” He says. 

“Ashton’s going to be pissed,” Michael says, and God chuckles. 

“He knew too,” He says. “He thinks you get special treatment.” That fucker. And, yeah, whoops, Michael’s in the presence of the Lord, and isn’t censoring his thoughts. Whoops. Sorry. “Apology accepted,” He says, grinning. 

Michael hesitates, then, because it reminds him of some things Calum’s said - you exercise your free will to swear, and the many different iterations of you’re the worst angel up there. God raises an eyebrow, motioning for Michael to ask. 

“Why don’t you kick me out?” Michael blurts. God leans back in His seat. 

“You want me to kick you out?” He asks. Michael shakes his head. 

“But I- y’know,” Michael says, shrugging a little uncomfortably in the heat of His gaze. There’s nothing quite like the scrutiny of the Lord. “I swear. I blaspheme. I- uh.” He flushes, and God smirks as images of just what exactly Michael would like to do to Calum flash through his mind. Michael clears his throat. “I’m not exactly a model angel.” God looks at him, calculating, and Michael tries to resist the urge to fall to his knees. 

“You use your free will exactly as I intended it to be used,” He says. “You do as you please with a pure heart, unwaveringly loyal to me. You never have your own interests above mine.” 

“Even when I blaspheme?” God looks at him for a moment, and then smiles. 

“Even when you blaspheme,” He says gently. “You’d do well to remember my omniscience, Michael. Raphael may think obsequiousness is the way into my good books, but that was the reason I gave you free will. I knew some would use it for wrong, I knew some of you would use it to serve me blindly, but you’re the only one who’s ever used their free will as I intended, and the only one I’d ever want at my right-hand side.” Michael has to drop his gaze, can’t meet the holy power shining from His eyes. 

“Thank you, Father,” he says again, and he hears the awe in his own voice. Jesus Christ, he sounds like a human. God snorts at that. 

“Yeah, you do,” He says. “Now, go and tell Raphael you’ve been reinstated. I’ve seen how it plays out, and you’re going to love it.” 

“Can I tell him I’m your right-hand angel?” Michael says hopefully, and God laughs. 

“The fuck you can,” He says, eyes twinkling, and laughs again as Michael gawps at Him. “Oh, you think you’re the only one who can swear in here?” 

Yeah, Michael should have seen that one coming. 

 -------

 The next time Michael sees Calum, he’s with Luke again. It’s the middle of the night, and they’ve both cast glamours, whispering to each other in a dormitory in a hostel in Prague. Luke’s pointing at something across the room, and Michael silently casts his own glamour, sauntering over to them nonchalantly in the hopes of picking up what they’re talking about. 

“...the right side of the room, you take the left,” Luke says, gesturing to the other side of the room. 

“For what?” Michael asks, and both Calum and Luke jump, eyes instinctively turning black and baring their teeth. They both relax when they see who it is, though. 

“Can you let us have one night of fun?” Calum says, sighing. 

“Depends,” Michael says. “Does ‘fun’ involve fucking with the humans?” He indicates the ten people sleeping soundly in the room, and both Luke and Calum hesitate. 

“Well, yes, but-” Luke begins.

“No can do,” Michael says smoothly, and Calum scowls at him. 

“You ever get tired of being a boring cunt?” he asks, and Michael can’t help but laugh. 

“What are you up to?” he asks. 

“Unplugging people’s phone chargers,” Luke answers, eyes gleaming. “They’re all going to wake up with thirty percent charge. Some of them might even miss their alarms.” He sounds so fucking pleased with himself. Michael rolls his eyes. 

“What are you, three hundred?” he says, and he opens his mouth to make another  scathing remark, but is interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He whips around in surprise, because who the fuck can see through his glamour, to find Ashton standing there, looking equally surprised to see him. 

“Oh,” Michael says, turning back to Calum, who looks bewildered, and Luke, who looks shocked. “This is my superior. Although, actually, that’s not true anymore, is it?” 

“You get demoted too?” Calum asks Ashton sympathetically. Ashton sends Michael a glare, and shakes his head tightly. Calum looks back at Michael, who’s grinning widely. 

“No way,” he says incredulously. “You got reinstated?”

“He always gets reinstated,” Ashton mutters. 

“Jealousy’s not a good look you, Ash,” Michael tells him sweetly, and Ashton scowls at him. 

“Ashton,” Luke says suddenly. Ashton’s eyes slide over to him, something unreadable in his expression. 

“Yes,” he says, a little tightly. Michael frowns. What the fuck is Ashton’s deal with Luke? He’s just a harmless fucking demon. He’s about to start unplugging people’s phones, for God’s sake. Not exactly the kind of criminal mastermind Ashton usually descends for; the last time Ashton had come down had been for Attila the Hun. 

“Huh,” Luke says, a little smile unfolding on his lips. “You’re still fucking hot.” Michael’s eyes widen, and Calum chokes on his next breath, disguising it badly as a cough. 

“You know him?” Michael asks in disbelief. Luke grins, eyes glittering, and waves his hand. Michael watches as all the phone chargers in the room simultaneously unplug themselves and fall to the floor, and his jaw drops. No demon should be able to do that. Calum wouldn’t even be able to unplug two chargers at the same time. 

“Cal didn’t tell you?” Luke says sweetly. “Luke’s short for Lucifer.” 

 -------

 For want of a better phrase, all hell had broken loose as soon as the words had left Luke’s lips. 

Ashton and Michael’s wings had flown out, in warrior mode without a second’s hesitation, and Calum and Luke had responded in kind, growling, eyes black, teeth bared. 

“I knew it,” Ashton had hissed, holy light rolling off him so brightly it even almost hurt Michael’s eyes. Calum had shrunk back, but Luke had been unperturbed. “The minute I saw that picture, I knew it was you.” Luke had grinned, all sharp teeth and gleaming black eyes. 

“You think about me that often?” he’d said. 

“Of course I fucking think about you,” Ashton had spat, and Michael had stopped short, stared at him. 

“Did you just fucking swear?” he’d asked. 

“Not really the point, Michael,” Ashton had said through gritted teeth.

“Man, you’re not the only angel to swear?” Calum had said to Michael. 

“He never swears,” Michael had told him, bewildered. 

“These are special fucking circumstances,” Ashton had snapped, and the power in his voice had made Calum stumble back a few steps. 

“Look,” he’d said carefully, when he’d regained his footing. “Michael’s an archangel, you’re...whatever the fuck you are, and Luke’s the Devil. All I’m seeing here is I’m going to come out bottom if this comes down to a fight. Why don’t we take this somewhere else?” They’d all hesitated, tense and poised, none of them willing to be the first to give in, until Calum’s gaze had flickered to Michael, a pleading note in his brown eyes. 

And really, who’s Michael, archangel of the Lord, to say no to petty demon Calum? 

“Fine,” Michael had said, folding his wings, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ashton had followed suit. Luke had taken a moment longer, until Calum had nudged him pointedly, and then he’d folded his sleek black wings in too. 

That’s how they’ve ended up here, in a McDonald’s that’s open all night. They’re huddled in a booth, too close for comfort, Calum and Luke on one side, Michael and Ashton on another. 

“So,” Michael says awkwardly, cutting into the uncomfortable silence, because someone has to be the first to speak. “Sorry about, y’know. The war, and all that.” Luke snorts. 

“Water under the bridge,” he says, waving a hand dismissively, but his eyes don’t stray from Ashton. “You were always my favourite angel.” Ashton flinches at that. 

“What’s the fucking deal here?” Calum demands, and Michael’s silently grateful that he’s not the one who had to ask the question and risk getting publicly reamed out by Ashton. “How do you two know each other?” Luke grins, still gazing at Ashton. 

“You wanna tell them, or should I?” he says, and Ashton stiffens. “I guess I should, huh? It is my story, after all.” 

“Fucking spit it out already, Luke,” Calum says. Luke raises his eyebrows at Ashton, and then finally tears his gaze away. 

“Ashton’s the reason I fell,” Luke says. Michael feels his jaw drop.

“What?” he says, at the exact same time as Calum. 

“How?” Michael demands. 

“What the fuck?” Calum says. 

“What happened?” 

“What did he do?” 

“Hang on, I thought you fell because of pride,” Michael interrupts, jabbing a finger at Luke. Luke shakes his head. 

“I fell because I loved someone more than I loved Him,” he says, and then nods at Ashton. Michael blinks. 

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “Not sure I’m getting this.” 

“Yeah,” Calum chimes in. “Sounds like you’re saying you and Ashton were, like...a thing?” 

“That’s what he’s saying,” Ashton says. 

“You- hang on,” Michael says, holding his hands up. “You, Ashton, angel who tells me off for even thinking about blaspheming, dated the Devil?” Ashton nods curtly. 

“Nah,” Calum says, shaking his head, “sorry, not having it.” Michael has to agree with that. No way did Ashton date Satan. 

“Wait,” he says suddenly. “No, this doesn’t make any sense. Why do you look different?” Luke shrugs. 

“Changed it up,” he says. “You get a much more exciting range of powers when you’re not confined by His morals.” He grins, and looks back at Ashton. “Ashton still recognised me, though, didn’t he?” Michael stares at Ashton. 

“You dated Satan?” he asks, and Ashton nods. “You never thought to fucking tell me?” 

“What was I supposed to say, Mike?” Ashton says. 

“Oh, I don’t know, hey, Michael, sorry about all those times I slammed you against a wall for swearing, turns out I dated the fucking Devil?” Michael suggests, slightly hysterical. None of this makes any fucking sense. 

“You slam him against walls?” Calum asks, sounding intrigued. “Huh. Shame. I won’t get to be the first.” Michael scowls at him. 

“Are you serious?” he demands. “I find out Ashton dated the literal Devil, and you want to make innuendos? What are you, an incubus?” Calum grins at him. 

“Might be,” he says. 

“Could make you one, if you wanted to be,” Luke offers. 

“If you’re Satan, why the fuck are you messing around with people’s phone chargers and gluing coins to footpaths?” Michael says. Luke shrugs. 

“Being annoying is way more fun than being evil,” he says. Michael stares at him, because yeah, that does actually sound like something Lucifer would say. But Lucifer also didn’t fucking date Ashton. 

“You two didn’t date,” Michael says, shaking his head. “That’s just- that’s just not true.” 

“I can’t lie, Michael,” Ashton reminds him, and Michael bites his lip, because it’s true, he can’t, but he also didn’t fucking date the Devil.

“So,” Luke continues, like this whole interlude hadn’t even happened, spreading his hands. “Turns out I loved Ashton more than he loved me. I get cast out, he doesn’t follow, cue thousands of years of warfare.” And actually, that’s a point. 

“You let me fight that war,” Michael says tightly, rounding on Ashton. “You let me lead that. You let me lead angels, your brothers, into battle to die, and you could have stopped it all along.” Ashton puts his head in his hands. 

“I couldn’t,” he says miserably. “I couldn’t force myself to love Lucifer more than I love Him.”

“Man, this is like a fucking soap opera,” Calum puts in, leaning back in the booth with a grin on his face. 

“I’m glad someone’s fucking enjoying themselves,” Michael snaps, and Calum holds his hands up in defence. 

“I’m a demon, dude,” he says. “I kind of get off on chaos.” He pauses, and then adds: “So do you, actually, don’t fucking lie. You said the tattoo was funny.” 

“That’s exactly why I’m so worried about you, Michael,” Ashton says. “You abuse your free will. I don’t want you to fall, too.” Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Ash, if I were going to fall, it’d would’ve happened a long fucking time ago,” he says. Ashton shoots him a look. 

“You’ve never been as close as you are now,” he says bluntly, eyes flicking to Calum. 

“Oh, c’mon, I want to fuck a demon, so what?” Michael says. “You actually fucked the Devil, and you’re still up there.” 

“You want to fuck me?” Calum interrupts, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Dude, of course I want to fuck you,” he says. Calum looks at him for a moment, and then his face splits into a self-satisfied grin. 

“Don’t blame you,” he says. “I am pretty fucking sexy.” 

“Not the moment, Calum,” Michael says warningly, and it’s Calum’s turn to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t retort. 

“He’s not going to fall, Ash,” Luke says, and there’s something gentle and reassuring in his tone that doesn’t really sit well with Michael’s idea of Satan. “Trust me. He’ll never love anyone more than he loves Him.” Calum’s grin drops at that, and Michael tries to ignore the unpleasant flip in his stomach. 

“You don’t know that,” Ashton says. “You haven’t seen how he uses his free will.” Michael hesitates. 

“I spoke to God about it,” he says, after a moment of dithering. “I- look, I can’t tell you what He said, but we’re on the same page.” Ashton throws him a sceptical look. “Come on, Ash, am I going to lie to you about what He said in front of Him?” Ashton hesitates, and then deflates.

“No,” he says reluctantly. “But-” 

“No, I’m not taking any more fucking criticism from you,” Michael interrupts, pointing a finger at him, “ever. You dated the Devil. I’m going to swear to fucking God-” he relishes the way Ashton flinches at that “-and I’m going to fuck Calum, and there’s absolutely fucking nothing you’re going to say about it.” Ashton opens his mouth, and then closes it again, and Michael gets a rush of satisfaction almost as strong as when he’d told Raphael he’d been reinstated as archangel, again. 

“Fine,” Ashton mutters. Luke shoots him a look somewhere between concern and amusement, and Michael tries not to think about the fact that Satan seems to at least somewhat care about Ashton, instead lapsing into an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes until Calum clears his throat. 

“So, Michael,” he says hopefully, breaking the tension. “We were gonna fuck?” 

 -------

 Just because Michael and Calum are fucking now doesn’t relieve Michael from his duties, as God kindly but firmly reminds him when he goes to ask about whether this is, like, even permitted. 

(“You know where I stand,” God had said. “Love no one more than me.”

“For you are a jealous God,” Michael had muttered, and God had grinned. 

“Exactly.”) 

He’s begged Calum to stop fucking around, but Calum seems to think it’s even funnier now that they’re whatever the fuck they are, uses it as a fucking booty call. His ideas are getting more and more ludicrous - he’d gone to someone’s house and put tiny holes in all of their socks, for God’s sake - just to call Michael down for a quick fuck. 

So when Michael hears that Calum’s caused a ten-car pileup on a motorway in England, he’s a little concerned. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Calum says, aiming for light-hearted and missing, not even looking up when Michael sits down next to him on the overbridge. 

“That’s all in your hands,” Michael says, looking out at the (pretty impressive) traffic jam Calum’s caused. “Damn, dude. Bad day?” Calum huffs out a laugh, but it’s humourless. 

“Yeah, guess so,” he says moodily. Michael hesitates. On the one hand, Calum’s a demon, and even though they’re physically intimate, Michael’s not supposed to emotionally care about him. On the other hand, Michael’s an angel, so caring is kind of in his nature, and something about Calum just draws Michael in. 

“Wanna talk about it?” he says eventually, gently. Calum shrugs. 

“Nothing you can do about it,” he says. 

“I can listen,” Michael says. “Angel, remember? I do a lot of listening.” Calum snorts. 

“What are you angel of?” he asks. 

“Healing,” Michael says. 

“You heal broken hearts?” And, oh. Okay. Michael swallows. He shouldn’t care about that as much as he does. It shouldn’t matter to him that someone that isn’t Michael has broken Calum’s heart. 

“I can try,” he says, aiming for jovial, but it falls flat. Calum sighs. 

“Remember that dude who wrote that play about the people who couldn’t be together?” he says, kicking his legs out. Michael frowns. “You know, the one set in Italy? Couple of centuries ago?” Michael frowns, and Calum rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man, you know who I’m talking about. Ro- Roleo? No, wait, Romeo? Romeo and Juliet, that’s the one.” 

“...Shakespeare?” Michael says. 

“Yeah, him,” Calum says in relief. 

“What about him?” 

“Didn’t he write the whole star-crossed lovers thing?” Michael raises his eyebrows. 

“You remember that, but not Shakespeare’s name?” he says. Calum scowls, but it’s half-hearted. 

“My point is,” he says, and then he stops, and kicks his feet out again. 

“Your point is?” Michael prompts. Calum sighs, and stares down at the cars. 

“You ever feel like that?” he says gloomily. Michael follows his gaze. 

“Like a traffic jam?” he asks slowly. Calum rolls his eyes. 

“Like we’re star-crossed lovers,” he says, and oh. 

Oh. 

Oh, fucking hell. 

“Calum,” Michael says carefully, and Calum sighs again. 

“I know,” he says, before Michael can continue. “You don’t fucking care about me, whatever. It just fucking sucks.” He laughs humourlessly, and then adds: “You think He’d ever let me back in?” Michael dithers on that for a moment, before deciding to go for the truth. 

“I don’t think so, Cal,” he says gently. “You wouldn’t be able to love Him more than anyone else.” 

“Is that such a fucking crime?” Calum says bitterly. “That I have the capacity to love with thought, with intention, not just blindly?” 

“No,” Michael says kindly. “It just means you’d make a shitty angel.” 

“You’re a shitty angel,” Calum says. 

“I am,” Michael agrees. “But I’ll also never love anyone more than Him.” Calum deflates, and shit, are those tears? Can demons even cry? 

“What the fuck are we even doing then, Michael?” Calum asks flatly. Michael sighs. 

“I do care about you, Cal,” he says. “A lot. I should have killed you the first time I met you, but I couldn’t. There’s something about you, I just…” he trails off. “Look, it’s complicated. I do care about you. I’ll just never love you more than I love the Lord.” Calum stares at the traffic below them. 

“But you could love me?” he says to the cars. Michael nods. 

“Easily,” he says. Calum bites his lip. 

“I could be second best?” 

“You already are second best.” Calum’s brow creases, like he’s trying to make some kind of decision.

“Okay,” he says eventually. Michael frowns. 

“Okay?” Calum shrugs, and the wicked gleam is back in his eyes, just like that.  

“You know what they say,” he says, grinning. “First the worst, second the best.” Michael rolls his eyes, hard. 

“You really gonna have a breakdown and end it like that?” he says sceptically. 

“Demon, dude,” Calum reminds him. “Not really keen on serious.” 

“You sure you’re not, like, a poltergeist?” Michael says, and Calum shoves him off the overbridge. Michael squawks, wings unfolding so fast he thinks he might have sprained something, and he hits Calum upside the head with his left wing as he sets himself back down next to him. “You’re a fucking arsehole, you know that?” 

“And proud,” Calum tells him, and then sobers again. 

“What?” Michael prods. Calum sighs, and holds his hand out, fingers spread, for Michael to hold.  

“I don’t want you to fall for my sake,” he says. 

But, as Michael laces his fingers through Calum’s and stares at the cars under their feet, he thinks: would that be such a bad thing? 

[imnotwolverine]

Ready, set, …

Henry Cavill x OC Lisa - multi-chapter fic

Author’s note: Set life has its quirks and challenges. A fluffy, smutty Henry fanfiction to get you through the week. Bedroom fun found at the end. Ps. I should start thinking of a name for this series, any good suggestions?

Word count: 5.832

Disclaimer: smut and fluff

---

This is part 3 of the Tea for Two story. 

Find the masterlist here.

---

< Back to part 2

An early alarm clock went. 5 am. I heard Henry groan as he rubbed his eyes. ‘Fuck.’ He moped softly, pushing himself off the bed and silencing the alarm. I looked at his naked, muscular, slightly hairy form, grasping for clothes. Kal got up yawning and stretching in turn. The morning ritual. I looked at Henry sleepily. ‘Early shoot?’ I whispered. He rumbled. ‘They changed lines. I forgot that meant an early day.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, wiping some hair from my face. ‘Hello princess.’ He said softly. ‘Well, you go do your Witchy things then. I’ll see you soon.’ I rumbled. He smiled, bending over to kiss me. ‘And we might need some new condoms at your place…just in case.’ He nodded at the dusty pack of condoms that lay discarded on the night stand. I chuckled as he kissed me more deeply. Tongues fighting. He moved on top of me, his weight pressing me down. ‘Mmpff.’ He huffed in frustration. ‘Alright.’ He sighed and nodded while unwillingly getting up. ‘Time to go. Come on Kal. See you dear.’ He blew a kiss and left. Moments later I heard the door closing behind him softly.

The first few days flew by. It was less erratic at work. Much more hectic personally. Somehow press really got air of something happening. We saw tele lenses sticking out of bushes, the odd journalist jumping us when we were drinking tea outside of the warehouses in a short break. ’Mr. Cavill. Who’s this? Are you dating?’ The loud shrieky voice sounded in my neck. I had difficulty not showing utter disgust when a camera was pushed in our faces. ‘Good sir,’ Henry said, getting up, placing his hand on the journalists chest. ‘This is private property. I must ask you to leave and request permission to shoot at the Chamber of MM Media.’ ‘But are you dating?! Mr Cavill?!’ The journalist continued, while one of the security men came strolling in, grasping the man by his shirt and pulling him away. ‘How do you stay so calm?’ I grinned, taking my last sip of tea, watching Henry sitting back down. People around us didn’t even seem very impressed, already having continued with their activities. ‘It gets easier.’ He gave me a sweet smile, which truly was creepy when he was in full costume. ‘What’s the planning for the rest of your week?’ He asked, fetching his phone from his pocket. It was Wednesday. ‘Free Friday afternoon, shopping materials for Poland on Saturday, which we’ll probably discuss on Sunday, then free again on Monday.’ He scrolled through his agenda. I took the hint and grabbed my phone as well, moving it around on the table so he could see my schedule. He grinned, looking up at me. ‘Let me get to the wardrobe department and see if we can get you off the hook on Sunday. I want to take you out for a trip.’ I raised my eyebrow. “CAST CALL, RUN THROUGH IN 5, HALL 2.4..” He looked up, then quickly returned my phone. ‘Would you like that?’ ‘Yea. Sure.’ I said, not quite sure what trip meant in this case. I shrugged as he gave me a quick peck on the lips and rushed off to hall 2.

It sure was magical, how quickly he could fix such things. Within the hour, my manager dropped by to tell me I could take the Sunday off - which usually was out of the question. I looked at her in surprise. She shrugged. ‘Orders from above.’ I squinted my eyes in disbelief. Above? But there we go. It soon was Saturday and I was in the minivan with the department, getting back from a successful shopping trip. Everyone made sure to quickly move all materials to the shipping boxes, ready to go to Poland, snipping off little bits to use for the mood-boards. After that I walked to the hall where they were shooting the last few scenes. I sat down in a director’s chair and sipped on some green tea, looking at the hustle and bustle.

Anya plopped down in the chair next to me. ‘His kisses are different now.’ She said abruptly. I looked up, raising my eyebrows. She smiled an endearing smile, then studied me for a bit. ‘Had a good shoot day?’ I asked. She shrugged. ’Twas okey. Yours?’ ‘Got some pretty materials for your future dresses actually’ ‘Mmm! Cool. Hey, but about those kisses. I think he really, really likes you. He seems different..’ He cocked her pretty head, pouting in thought. ‘Really…’ I smiled, then looked at my cup of tea. ‘So are you joining him to the premiere?’ She asked in girlish curiosity. ‘The premiere? Oh, no. I’ll let you have the honours. Don’t want to have fans going wild over some casual girl on his arm.’ She squinted at me. ‘They first thought I was the worst choice EVER for Yennefer. Now they make fan porn of me. Fans are so weird.’ She shrugged giddily. ‘I’ll let them have the illusion of Hollywood for a moment longer.’ I winked. She laid her hand over mine. ‘He accidentally grunted your name when we shot a make out scene.’ We both snickered. ‘This conversation is so weird.’ I said, laughing at her. She shrugged. ‘Actors life.’

Not much later the last scene was cut and a flurry of set members once again flew out. Anya plopped out her chair, wrapping her arms around a tall man with full sleeve arm tattoos. She kissed him with childish excitement. Without looking back they walked out together, in full conversation. ‘Ready?’ I shot up in shock from his voice. He had sneaked up behind me and was standing there with his coat flung over his shoulder. He had already changed into his regular attire. ‘Ooph.’ I laughed. ‘You are quiet as a mouse.’ I wiggled out of the chair and smiled at him. He pecked me on the lips before holding out his arm, inviting me to take it. We walked out to his car as it was just getting dark. 8.30 pm. ‘Now for our trip. I’m invited by my horse riding trainer to a farm, just squeezing in a few hours in the saddle before Poland. I figured it’d be a nice outing.’ I looked at him. ‘Horse riding?’ ‘Like all fair knights do!’ He grinned. ‘Alright. Fair prince.’ I slithered. ‘Let’s fetch stuff at our houses, walk Kal, then drive there.’ ‘This evening still?’ ‘Yep, might as well get the drive over with. Can you drive?’ ‘Yea, want to switch?’ ‘No no. Just. Curious. Shift?’ ‘Of course. European remember?’ He snickered. ‘Americans ARE lazy.’

We had some quick food, fetched our things, walked Kal, then jumped into the car to drive north. It was deep in the night when we arrived. About 1-ish. And there was nothing around except for this romantically lit farm house with some barns. We jumped out and walked up to the house, some dogs greeting us with loud barks, tails wagging. A man came out in his night shift. ‘Ey ey. Easy boys…. Mr Cavill!’ A gruff, smoke-heavy voice sounded. ‘Mr. Games!’ The men greeted with loud pats on each others backs. ‘And ye brought a sweet thing with you.’ Henry moved aside, smiling at me. ‘Lisa. And careful. She can be feisty.’ Mr Games rumbled a loud laugh and hugged me tight. ’Welcome dear. Ai that wonderful smell about you. Honeysuckle?’ I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Actually yes. I don’t like perfume’s sold on the market so I wear..honeysuckle.’ ‘Such fine smell.’ He folded his arm around my back and guided us to the main house. ‘I got ye a nice little bed made. And ye know where everythin’ is. Make yourself at home. Me wife already hit the hay, so I’ll  join ‘er if ye don’t mind.’ He chuckled with insinuating tone. ‘Of course.’ Henry said, winking. Mr Games prodded him playfully. ‘HA HA HA.’ He laughed a little too loudly, then nodded at me, before holding the door open for me. We walked inside. It was dimly lit. A wooden structured house with heavy beams, the smell of hay and horses protruding from its very core. The furniture was old english style. ‘Yer room is upstairs, hallway, far left. Bathroom right across. Sleep tight good folk.’ He whistled and his dogs eagerly followed him up the stairs, his short stubby legs making the stair steps creak heavily.

Henry yawned. ’Night cap?’ I looked at him. ‘Sure, why not. We’re off for 2 days, gods be blessed!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you religious by the way? I’ve never asked.’ ‘Nope. You?’ ‘No, raised Christian, but not following.’ He pulled open some cabinets in the kitchen and pulled out two small brandy glasses and a bottle of strong liquor. ‘He makes his own, so, fair warning: it is strong.’ He put the filled glasses on the table. ‘Do you believe in a God?’ I asked. He sat down opposite of me, looking out at the dark fields outside. ‘I think it would be practical if there were a God. But never have I seen or heard him. So no, not a believer.’ We clinked our glasses. ‘And when did you learn to ride horses?’ ‘At my parents actually. We grew up on the Jersey Islands and our neighbours kept two ponies. Darling horses, but also so darn stubborn.’ He grinned. ‘Could you tell me about your sweetest memory of your youth, living there?’ I asked. He rolled around the drink in his glass, thinking. And so we talked for another hour or so. Eventually so tired, all we wanted to do was sleep.

It was around 10 when we woke up. And made love, as morning Henry so enjoys doing. I felt my innards burning from his pounding, laying on my back heaving heavily. ‘Goodness me.’ I laughed as he rolled over and supported his head, letting a finger travel over my body. He was panting slightly. I finally opened my eyes, seeing he was looking a bit pained. I reached out to him. ‘Hi.’ I said. ‘Hey.’ He returned, his eyes twitching between loving and regretful. I looked down at his glorious body, noticing something… missing. ‘C…ondom?’ His face broke in agony, his gaze looking at something on the bed table. ‘It broke.’ ‘Wow..you..’ I got up in shock, looking at rubber, then at him. ‘Do we need to get you a morning after pill?’ He said meekly. ‘Hopefully not, I am pretty steadfast with the pill.’ I looked at him in disbelief. He sighed, ashamed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I let out a breath I was holding. ‘Oh I’m so glad I use the pill. Please tell me next time. Oh my..this could have gone wrong.’ He sat up, looking apologetically at me. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘It’s okey. I just..didn’t notice.’ I sighed, then looked at him lovingly. ‘It should be alright.’ I continued, cupping his cheek. He smiled weakly, then pulled me close. ‘Ohhh. I’m such a fool!’ He said melodramatically. I snickered as I pulled his heavy body on top of me, hugging intently.  

The day was filled with horses. Saddling horses, walking with horses, riding horses, combing horses, haying horses, moving horses from field to field. Henry clearly got the knack for it, gently and without force leading the horses around. ‘It’s all in the hips and eye contact.’ He said, leading a mare ahead, with a few horses following. It was just the two of us, as Mr. Games was drying off some horses at the stables. The day was running late and food smells were flowing out of the kitchen. ‘Mares love good hips huh?’ I joked, earning a cocky smile from him. ‘Well all joking aside, my hips are …sore.’ I said, somewhat surprised by that. He laughed at me sweetly. ‘Then let us rest.’ He said. ‘I thought you’d never say it.’ I grinned with a mocking tone. He raised an eyebrow at me, smirking.

The days flew by and before we knew it we were driving back to the Hollywood Hills. The return of bright lights, stressed out honking cars and general mess that was the city, I couldn’t help but sigh. I loved my work, my friends, the closeness of everything you need, but there sure were downsides to living in the city. He squeezed my leg while he drove south to drop me off at home. Our goodbye was sweet and relaxed. It had been good to be with each other for longer then just a few minutes. The eraticness was gone and had made place for trust and comfort. We kissed a long while in front of my door, Kal waiting impatiently to go in like he usually would. But this time we really said goodbye at the door. I stood and watched while Henry made his way down the stairs, Kal following with wagging tail. Down the stairs he turned around to look up, waving at me one last time before disappearing. We were getting better at it, I smiled, walking inside of my dark apartment. I didn’t even bother turning on lights, just dropping my stuff, brushing my teeth and heading for bed. It would be another busy week. And, the last week here in the US, which made shooting all the more crazy.

—

I was exhausted by the time it was Saturday. I could sleep anywhere, anytime. And yet I had to pack my stuff for my flight tomorrow evening. It was only now I really started to miss Bib. Usually it would be a whole hustle to get my way too old cat in the plane, having to do all these health checks, her being completely paranoid for the rest of the day. No more of that. I plopped on my bed. It was 11.30pm. I opened my Whatsapp to check on any messages. No message from him yet. I sent him a kissing emoji, followed by a sleeping emoji. ‘Flying tomorrow. When do you get to Poland?’ I fell asleep and only woke up again when the alarm clock buzzed 8 hours later. I groaned. He had responded. ‘Sleep well dear. Probably arrive there on Wednesday evening if all goes well. Wish I could travel with you :) Safe travels and contact me when you arrived!’ Followed by a picture of all his stuff being packed. All the picture frames, dog toys, some workout gear, put into boxes. I snickered. I didn’t bring quite as much with me. Just clothes and a few books. I owned this home and kept all my valuables in a locked closet, then rented out the apartment to colleagues who worked here off and on as well. I had to miss my stuff for these months, but oh well.

We were flying. I was completely dazed, barely striking up conversation with colleagues flying with me. I was too darn tired and all I wanted was that day off after landing. If anything I realised full well I wouldn’t be able to keep up this lifestyle forever. It made good money, which I invested wisely just so in a few years I could settle down and pick a more quiet hobby-that-made-some-money and live off the earnings of my investments. Always better than what most colleagues were doing; blowing through the money like there was no tomorrow. Expensive cars, clothes, going out for dinner every single night and then complaining they couldn’t go to the dry cleaners multiple times a week. Silly folk. I watched a simple romcom, listened to some music, tried to sleep in the rather uncomfortable seat I was situated in (squeezed in between two sizeable ladies who were talking extremely loud and were sweating like whales). I couldn’t describe the happiness when the captain announced we were starting to land.

*Lapalice caste*

It was morning in Poland, the sky and buildings as grey as last we were here. The communist building style really didn’t do any good for this culture. Nevertheless, it was a relief when the crew’s bus arrived and we were transported to the countryside. We were starting the set build at a castle, an artistic 20th century interpretation, absolutely lovely. A small encampment had already been made with running water, hot showers and a large food area. This would do for the next month. Our manager immediately started with nudging us to come up with ideas for the brainstorming session tomorrow, but I, like everyone else, simply ignored her. ‘Tomorrow Lazz. Don’t want to have more of us burned out.’ One of the men said, tapping her on the shoulder. We were escorted to our quarters. Shamefully..it were small bunk beds. I rolled my eyes. Well, no privacy then. Trying to stay awake for a little while longer I walked around a bit and sent a selfie with the set in the background to Henry. ‘Smells medieval to me!’ I added. ‘Gonna switch to European SIM. Add my number: 316123456789.’ Also, being back in Europe, and having switched sim cards, I took the opportunity to give my mother a call. She answered after some waiting. Always a busy woman.

‘Dear! How are you? Oh such things I’ve heard! Are you sleeping well?’ She rattled in dutch. ‘Hi mom. I’m pretty good. Kind of jet-lagging. Just arrived in Poland. So, mostly trying to stay awake now haha. How are you guys?’ ‘So good! Oh, exciting news. We got permission to start rebuilding the back of the house. It’s gonna be so pretty. I’ll send you the drawings.’ ‘Cool! With the wooden porch?’ ‘Yes. Oh it’s going to be lovely. Hey but what did I hear..or read. Are you pregnant?’ ‘What? No mom. Who told you that?’ ‘Oh my sister, you know she loves following your work. She told me you were seen with this actor and he was touching your belly and all.’ ‘If I would be pregnant I’d surely not forget to tell you mom. No. No babies coming. But I am dating, yes.’ ‘Is he good to you? Or is it a she? That’s fine too.’ ‘It’s a guy. Actor yes. And he’s a darling.’ ‘Oh so maybe babies at some point then?’ ‘Mommm.’ ‘What?! I had babies by your age.’ ‘You’re insufferable at times mom. So how are grandma and pa?’ I diverted the conversation. ‘Not great, you should call them. They have moved to a senior house and they absolutely detest it. Poor folk.’ ‘Ay…’ We chatted for a while longer. It was good to speak to her again, her voice rattling happily through the phone. At times it’s hard to remember how important family is, until you reconnect.

I ended the call and saw some more messages coming in from Henry (seen as an unknown number, since I switched SIM card). A whole selfie diary of what he had been doing that day. Working out, walking the dog, some more firewood with a shrugging emoticon (definitely hinting at jerking off) and finally a selfie of him having lunch with some of the cast. I snickered. ‘Busy man! And miss you a lot :) Especially seeing the tiny, tiny bunkbeds they got us xD Goodbye privacy..’ I typed. He responded. ‘We’ll make up for that on Wednesday then.’ Wink. I smiled, then wondered if they had installed the trailers yet for the lead actors. I started strolling around the area, and sure enough the shiny aluminium trailers appeared at the far edge of the campsite.

The next few days was mostly just scouting the area for good shoot locations, collecting material and starting the build of the set for the first week. It was decidedly more relaxed then the previous weeks. To which I was glad. It also did wonders for the team spirit. Many nights we were huddled around campfires, drinking hot wine and making music. It sure felt like a small holiday. And I got to know my colleagues a whole lot better. We worked in a team of 15 for set design. 2 Of them were apparently going to get married in a month’s time, right after our crew was let off, 5 of them had gone to the same college, and most of them were utterly curious about my relationship with Henry. I kept it a bit under the wraps, but spoke honestly about how much fun we had. And how normal it felt. And yes, we were all official. ‘You are..so lucky. Urgh.. Why not me?’ One of my gay colleagues blurted out. We all snickered. ‘It’s the vagina I’d say..otherwise you surely would have had a shot.’ I winked. He warped his mouth in oo-ing shape. ‘Oh Hell! I’d let myself be rebuilt if that means I’d have a shot.’ We all belted out a loud laugh.

Wednesday came. The sun was starting to break through the grey clouds for the first time these days. How suitable, I thought, sipping my morning tea while looking over the hunting grounds that were being prepped for a scouting scene. More bushes, white biodegradable dye after which fake snow would be added. We were sitting around a large wooden board on two scaffolds, serving as huge meeting table. Materials for clothes were splayed out. I wasn’t really paying attention, since this part of the production would be running when I was already off-duty. ‘Hey, whatcha think, light or darker blue for him?’ One of the ladies woke me from my day dreaming. I stood up and looked at the scraps of fabric. ‘Darker. Besides the bias works better on this fabric.’ The lady smiled contently. ‘I told you.’ She said, looking at the other dressmaker who shrugged in slight annoyance. ‘Like she knows anything about cloth making.’ She shot me a dirty look. I shrugged in return, smiling. ‘Who knows!’ Which annoyed her even more. ‘It is indeed a better fabric to cut on bias though.’ The other woman retorted, nodding at me to acknowledge me. After they wrapped up their little meeting, the woman came up to me. ‘You sew?’ I looked up in confusion. ‘A bit. Made some costumes for fun before I got this job actually.’ ‘Good. And you helped buy they fabrics too right?’ ‘I was more a dumb force dragging along fabric rolls, if that counts as helping.’ She smirked. ‘Well silly questions maybe. But..Any chance we can borrow you for a few hours tomorrow and stand in for some fittings. Much better then that Polish girl they found. Can’t speak english, doesn’t understand fit..Urgh. And can’t have Ciri look like a mess.’ I raised my eyebrow, surprised by the request. ‘Uhmm..I’ll have to check my schedule. We’re doing a run-through around 12. And..and I’m not sure we share the same..build…Freya and I’ ‘That’ll be fine. Both small figure. We’ll do a further fit when she arrives - she got delayed…actresses…’ I shrugged, looking at my phone to check my schedule. ‘Alright.’

Not much later the main crew arrived in a large black bus. The first one getting out was Kal, who sprinted out like he hadn’t seen daylight in days. He sniffed and peed everywhere and greeted people with great excitement. The crew gladly petted him and started helping unpacking. Henry and Anya were in conversation when they got off the bus, joking around. Freya indeed wasn’t there. Hmm.. Then Henry noticed me and smiled an even broader smile. He walked up to me, carrying some of his luggage which he dropped to the muddy grass to give me a deep kiss. ‘Hi princess.’ ‘Hey you.’ I said with cheeky smile. He looked up to see what Kal was doing, now playing with one of the camera guys. He sniffled. ‘Good to be here. How are you?’ ‘Good actually. It’s been some lovely relaxed days, just building up, having campfires and the weather’s getting better too. How was your trip?’ ‘Decent. Some turbulence which got the ladies screaming.’ He rolled his eyes with amusement. I snickered. ‘But all went well…’ He fell quiet for a bit and looked at me. And I just returned his quiet stare, smiling. ‘Already found my trailer?’ ‘In the back, far right. A trailer with a view of the lake.’ I winked. ‘Best view in town.’ He smiled in return, folding an arm around me. The very weight making me have to shift my feet in the slippery grass. He stared out over the fields around him, looking at the crew walking around with set pieces, smiling proudly. I just took the moment to wrap my arm around his lower back, leaning into him.

‘Yea let’s get my stuff to the trailer and find something to eat. I’m starving.’ He said, his stomach rumbling. I snickered, diving away from underneath his arm and walking to the bus to grab some of the stuff I knew to be his. We walked up to his trailer, his PA already waiting there to hand him his key and schedule for the first week. ‘Argh..and back to dehydration nightmare again.’ He said, glancing over the schedule. We moved his stuff in, unpacked all his picture frames and put them on top of the floating kitchen cupboards and set up some dog food and water for Kal. He walked back to the door, pulling it closed. I could see his eyes darken with lust while he pinned me against the kitchen block. ‘No bunk bed here.’ He growled. ‘Mmm I have to do a run-through in 10. Later.’ I whispered in between his shower of kisses. ‘Mmpff.’ He cupped my jaw in his large hands. ‘I can’t wait.’ ‘I know.’ I snickered, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before moving to get back outside. He stopped me with one arm, grabbing me around the waist. He bit my neck playfully. ‘Rrr.’ He growled into my ear. I giggled, squirming in his arm. ‘Let me go!’ I puffed, pushing down his arm. He turned me around with great ease and looked at me, this time more sweetly, then smiled sheepishly. ‘Come look for me when you’re done.’ He said. I nodded, then pried myself out of his iron grip and made way for the set.

The camp fires were lit again and dinner was served. With the crew slowly growing in size it became more rowdy. I joined Henry and some stunt men around a fire, huddled against him while forking around in a plate of Chinese food. It was rather bland shamefully. The men were enthusiastically talking through some of the stunt work that had been planned. Burning building jumps, fighting with dogs, monster fights, the whole shebang. Henry was joining in with great excitement. He loved doing as much stunt work on his own as he could. A little boy’s dream of his. His arms flexed while he talked, his eyes gleaming. After dinner however, he soon lost out to his jet lag. He poked me out of my dreaming stare into the fire and whispered. ‘Join me?’ I nodded and smiled a tired smile. Without further ado we excused ourselves, I brushed my teeth and went to his trailer, Kal already sleeping on the floor, only his ears twirling up in curiosity.

Just moments after he turned the lock on the door I could feel his hands roam over my body. He pulled me flush against his chest, my back towards him as he sniffed my hair. ‘I missed this smell of you.’ He rumbled, lust trailing his voice. I sniffled, turning my head slightly so I could kiss him. ‘I’ve missed YOU.’ I whispered against his lips, a smile on my lips. His arms folded around me, squeezing me even closer as his head dipped down, his lips blazing a trail on my neck. ‘Very funny..Now..I would like to be patient, but…’ He swirled me around with a force I had not experienced of him yet. I barely had time to register what was happening when he swooped me up in his arms, needing just a few long strides to lay me on the bed at the back of the trailer. He quickly stripped off his clothes as I stared at him, my dazed head needing a good moment to take in what was happening while my gaze fell on his rushed striptease. I didn’t even think about undressing myself. He took my breath away as he had done a dozen times by now. That hair tumbling in unruly curls around his face, his flexing muscles, the slight smirk on his lips and that godly chest hair. By the time he looped his thumbs around the waistband of his boxers, he raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Undress.’ He simply commanded, his voice dark. I obliged gingerly, quickly wriggling myself out of my comfy outfit as I laughed at his impatience.

I was just about to unclasp my bra when he pushed me down on the bed, crawling on top of me. I gasped as one of his hands slipped around my throat (even though he was careful) and I immediately halted any further attempts to remove my underwear as his heavy body pushed me down, his lips meeting mine. Eager hands slipped down my panties, feeling how wet I already was for him. He rumbled a low chuckle as he reached his arm out towards a small drawer next to the bed, his eyes not leaving mine. I raised an eyebrow as he rumaged around in the drawer, finding what he was looking for: a condom. He kept his eyes trained on me as he ripped the packaging with his teeth, not looking away once. I felt myself get wetter by the second as I looked in his lust-laced eyes, hearing  his ragged breath. He pumped his erection a few times before putting the condom on, his eyes finally trailing away. He looked down at his erection, now eagerly pressing against my hip. And he sure liked what he saw, because when he looked back up there was that all-familiar question in his eyes. I took a shallow breath, which was apparently enough of an answer as he pressed his lips against me more feverishly.

He was..impatient..to say the least. His lips bruised mine deliciously, making me moan and groan in response while his right hand moved aside my panties. He guided his erection to my folds, rubbing it generously against my core - earning another longing moan from me. Then he got up a bit, making eye contact once more. DO IT - I thought, but he waited, just tilting his head slightly. And so I wrapped my legs around his hip, pulling him inside of me. We both gasped, savouring the feeling of becoming one. He slumped forward a bit, leaning heavily on his arms as his head dunked down to bite the soft skin of my neck. Without breaking contact, he slowly pumped out, before pushing all the way back in. I groaned. He was so big. And hard. I scratched at his back as he started to slowly up his pace. ‘That smell.’ He rumbled, lowering it to a tone that sounded more like Geralt then Henry. I groaned and moaned as he started a frantic speed. ‘Oh gods.’ I moaned as his lips attacked my neck, jawline, cheek, forehead, eyelids. He did not leave one bit of skin untouched.

I felt he was getting closer to his release and tried to pry one of my hands in between us, to stimulate myself. He groaned, realising he had neglected my needs. I opened my eyes, seeing he gave me a pleading look before he pulled my arm away, pushing me over on my belly before pulling my hip up. My head still pressed to the mattress and my butt in the air, I felt a bit vulnerable. I tried to turn my head to see him, but he pushed my shoulder down. ‘Like that.’ He said darkly, and before I could protest he pushed back inside of me again. I groaned. He could reach even deeper in this position, hitting my cervix in a way I wasn’t sure I was enjoying fully. I wanted to sit up, change the position, but his strong arm kept pushing me down. He started to push into me again, something I wasn’t so very much enjoying. ‘Babe..’ I gasped, my voice laced with pain. He folded over me, pausing his thrusting as he finally touched my bud. I could feel his lips on the skin of my naked back. ‘That better?’ He asked, a touch concerned. I immediately felt that all familiar electricity coil up inside. I gasped again. He bent over further, involuntarily moving inside of me. I squealed it out as he hit an unfamiliar place inside of me, an orgasm bursting through me making my whole body shake. Was that my g-spot? I thought after some seconds. I had even forgotten about Henry’s heavy body pushing into me, only realising he was asking me if I was okay when the haze lifted. ‘Baby? Hey?’ He was holding himself still, his lips next to me ear. I finally managed to turn my head towards his face, a smile on my lips. ‘That was..’ I started..but couldn’t finish. I burst out into laughter. He nuzzled my cheek, finally understanding. A husky laugh rumbled through his chest. ‘Are you okay?’ He finally asked, his face more serious now. I nodded, closing my eyes and wiggling my hips, immediately feeling his erection hard inside me.

Staying folded over me like he was shielding me from the world, he started pulling and pushing into me. Again and again..and again. And boy. Did it feel good this time. His hand once more circled my nub while he played around with the angles of his thrusts. The higher he moved up my body, the more frantic were my shivers. I wasn’t even sure if it was just one very long second orgasm bursting through, or several. Not that I could even care anymore. I groaned, moaned and shivered while he pushed into me, his orgasm finally taking him over the edge as well. He groaned as his seed spilled inside of me, releasing the hand from my nub to steady himself. He took a few deep breaths, stilling himself, before gently pulling out. I flopped down on my belly, still shivering, while he rolled on his side. Our eyes met, a smirk on his lips. ‘I’ll remember that.’ He finally said as his hand travelled over my slightly shivering body. I sniffled, moving closer to kiss him. ‘Hi.’ I smiled, still dazed from my orgasms. ‘Hi.’ He responded, smiling a broad smile, pulling me even closer, folding his arms protectively around me. He nuzzled me, taking a calm breath. ‘How I missed you.’ I nodded in agreement, too spent to talk and instead just enjoying laying there in his arms until sleep overtook me. I had missed this indeed.

---

Part 4 >

[mooifyourecows]

I got ryker! Tell me about the himbo

Ohhh Ryker. My baby. My angel.

Ryker is by far my least problematic son. The worst thing about him are his parents and cruel older brother. (There’s some brief mentions of mental/emotional abuse in this description, so be forewarned!)

Ryker is the main character from my story called Brink. (tentative title, will eventually change but i’m lazy and titles are hard so it’s Brink for now) (oh btw I forgot to mention it with Seth but these stories have playlists if you want to listen to them. Here’s Brink’s)

So as you know, Ryker is a sweet himbo baby boy who owns my entire heart. He loves sports! He loves food! He loves his friends! He even likes school! He’s bad at studying and gets mediocre grades on good days, but school is where he gets to see the people he likes the most so he looks forward to going every morning. He makes friends easily because he’s just so darn friendly and sweet. He’s genuinely interested in others and the things they like. God he’s cute. 

Ryker is that type of guy who could have someone spill an entire bowl of steaming hot soup on him while he’s sitting there minding his own business and he will be the one to apologize first. He’s that type of guy who has no idea what you’re talking about most of the time but you sound so gosh darn excited about it so he’s gonna sit there and happily listen to you anyway. He’s that guy who can lift you over his head with one arm but also french braid your hair for you. He’s that guy whose empathy will be the death of him, the guy that cries because YOU are crying and he doesn’t want you to cry, please don’t be sad!

He’s just so lovable and sweet, a big ol’ puppy dog.

And he IS big. Someone find out what they fed this kid because he’s 6 foot 5 and makes up for his lack of brains with an abundance of muscles. There’s no way he’s just eighteen, right?

But he is just eighteen. In fact... when the story begins, Ryker is just one day into his eighteenth year.

And his parents have just kicked him out of the house.

It’s been a long time coming and he knows that. He’s never done anything right in their eyes, after all. He’s always felt like they were only tolerating his existence since he was born. His older brother has overshadowed him every step of the way. Garrett is smart. Garrett is the beloved first child who gets good grades and who says the right things and echoes their parents’ values to a T. He’s intellectual and charming and studious where Ryker is oblivious and dumb and a disappointment.

Even Ryker’s incredible accomplishments, excelling at every sport he joins (football, basketball, and baseball), breaking his high school’s weight lifting records, being a sweet angel that every adult sings the praises of... none of it impresses his parents. They’re not the right type of accomplishments. He can’t beat Garrett.

So on Ryker’s eighteenth birthday, he’s woken up and told to get out. They gave him a chance. He failed. He’s on his own now.

From the beginning, Ryker’s parents have made him terrified of being a burden. When he’s kicked out, he doesn’t go to any of his friends for help, too scared that if he starts to depend on them, they’ll grow just as sick of him as his parents. And he can’t afford to lose them too. 

Not knowing what to do, he wanders around the city. 

Until he’s seen by Link.

One minute he’s freezing his ass off in a thin t-shirt on the street with nowhere to go, and the next he’s being manhandled into a new coat by some random guy covered in tattoos and piercings and dragged off to an apartment over a tattoo shop. He’s fed spaghetti and carrot cake (and he cries over them both) and given a warm place to sleep. Ryker knows he can’t do anything to repay Link’s kindness but Link insists that the exchange of the labor of building a desk and maybe some chairs for new clothes/school supplies/food/a safe place to live is completely equal and fair, of course, without a question, he’s not taking criticism at the moment thanks.

After some intense interrogation from Ryker’s wacky group of best friends (and honestly i love the side characters in this story, i could make a whole personality quiz about them alone tbh), Link is accepted as Not a Serial Killer and they allow this virtual stranger to take care of their favorite himbo. For now...

Cue slow burn where Ryker has to learn how to accept help from others and also learn how to stand on his own two feet, all the while falling like a brick in love with his enigmatic and handsome new roommate.

Basically the main appeal of the story is writing cute as sin Ryker being aggressively cared for by this guy who looks like he’d mug you without a second thought. Just... happy, excited Golden Retriever Ryker waving from second base in the middle of a baseball game to the scary dude sitting in the stands among all the white collar suburban parents I mean c’MON.

And of course there’s eventual drama with a reappearance of The Parents and Cruel Older Brother that may or may not end in Link threatening to gouge someone’s eye out with a tattoo gun I guess maybe sorta........... but that’s besides the point.

UuhhhHHHHHhhhhh... i feel like this description is very weak and lame but uhmmm yeah! That’s Ryker in a nutshell! Lots of angst, honestly. Because when I have a sweet, pure, kind character, all I want to do is make them suffer. Call me a sadist, I dunno

okay bye

[inactiive-shit]

2 And 3 With Moxiety?

Thank you so much for the prompt! (I meant to write this yesterday but then I fell down a rabbit hole, trying to teach myself how to crochet, and I spent four hours doing that and not even vaguely aware how much time had passed! Sorry!)

2: It’s okay, it’s just me3: There’s nothing to be afraid of

This one’s hurt/comfort, and just so you know, Virgil’s pronouns in this are xe/xir. I don’t see enough neo-pronouns in use, so Imma just go ahead and it myself.

Title: Ice Cream And Staying Up

Words: 1,230

Patton gets off work half an hour later than he usually does. There was a mess, and while usually one of the waiter staff would have had to clean it, the person working had a particularly week stomach and almost puked when they saw it (fettuccine alfredo that had been dropped on the floor and was covered with something that looked suspiciously like puke.) Patton had felt so bad that he sent Remy back to the kitchen and cleaned it up himself. So he’s running late now, and all he wants to do is get home but then he remembers-they don’t have any eggs. He’d been thinking about making omelettes for breakfast tomorrow, something nice to start their day-off with. He goes to text Virgil, get xir opinion on food, but his phone is dead so he heads to the store without any of xir input. He knows what Virgil likes, so he’s not too worried about getting something Virgil won’t eat.

Patton spends another half hour or so gathering up a few other things they need (milk, soda, ice cream, orange tic tacs) and then finally, blessedly, he’s on his way home. Maybe he and Virgil can watch some of the show they’ve been binging or maybe he can watch Virgil work on xir current project (a painting in neon, with gravestones and vultures).

He’s humming when he unlocks the door, bags hanging off his arms. He sets the bags in the entryway so he can take off his shoes and not track mud all over the place, and when he turns around he sees Virgil sitting on the couch, xir shoulders hunched in.

“Hey, Veevee,” he calls, bending to get the bags, happy as ever to see his favoritest QPP in the whole world. But then Virgil whimpers and the milk and eggs and ice cream, which all need to be cold, are forgotten about as Patton practically teleports across the room. He kneels in front of the couch, where he can see that there are tear tracks on Virgil’s face and xir eyes are squeezed shut.

“Hey, honey,” Patton says and he puts a hand on Virgil’s arm. Xe flinches back, eyes opening, wide and terrified. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just me.” He holds one hand out, a system he and Virgil had worked out to let him know when it was okay to touch, and Virgil just stares for a second, eyes roving over every inch of Patton’s face, his chest, his arms. Once xe sees his hand, Virgil throws xirself forward into Patton. Xe is shaking, trembling so badly it feels like an earthquake is wracking xir body. Patton runs a hand through xir hair, holding xir tight. He rocks them both, just back and forth, soothing platitudes falling from his lips.

Eventually, about ten minutes later, Virgil has stopped shaking so intensely. Xe usually shakes a little, a side effect of xir anxiety being so overwhelming, so it’s normal that it hasn’t stopped completely. What isn’t normal, and if Patton has anything to say about it, will never, ever be xir normal, is that Virgil is still crying. Xir body jolts with the sobs that get caught in xir chest, and Virgil is trying to not make any noise.

Patton hates that even when xe’s in pain, xe doesn’t want to draw attention.

“What’s wrong?” Patton asks quietly. Virgil presses xir face more into Patton’s shoulder, shaking xir head. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about it. Do you want me to talk?” Virgil nods, so Patton launches into a tale about his day, the cute little girl who told him that she wanted to have blue hair just like his because it looked like cotton candy, and the teenager who told him that he would look intimidating (Patton snorts. Him, intimidating? He’s never felt like someone was so wrong about him.) if he got a nose piercing and a tattoo. “What that teenager didn’t know,” Patton adds slyly, just for him and Virgil, “is that I have more ear piercings than years he’s been alive.”

Virgil laughs softly, and Patton counts it as a win.

He keeps going, talking about how disgusted Remy was and how Patton feared he’d be saddled with cleaning up the wasted food and whatever Remy had recently eaten. Virgil laughs again at that, and then slowly leans back from Patton’s chest. Patton gently wipes away some of xir tears, and Virgil smiles a little bit up at him.

“Sorry,” Virgil says, xir voice a croak. Patton shakes his head, unwilling to let that stand.

“You don’t have a thing in the world to be sorry for.” He kisses Virgil’s head. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” xe says. “It’s just, when you-when you didn’t get here when you were supposed to, I thought something bad might have happened, and I know that that’s not very likely, but I wasn’t sure so I texted you but then you didn’t respond and I didn’t-I didn’t know-”

Patton’s heart twists up in his chest, but he can see Virgil spiralling toward another panic attack. “I’m fine. It’s fine. There’s nothing to be afraid of, honey.” Virgil nods hurriedly and presses xir hands into xir eyes. “I am so sorry.” Virgil’s head snaps up at the words, staring at Patton. “I forgot to charge my phone last night,” he admits sheepishly. “I was watching Steven Universe and fell asleep part way through an episode. My phone died while I was at work.”

“Pat, you shouldn’t be staying up that late,” Virgil says, the barest hint of a fond smile around xir lips. “It’s not good for you.”

“But Steven!” Patton says, and he almost gets sidetracked to talk about the adventure and all the growing the characters do. But this is a serious conversation, so he uses all of his willpower to pull himself back. “I’ll do better about plugging my phone in before I fall asleep so that you can text me. I never wanna miss anything my cute little Veevee has to say!” Virgil blushes, xir tan skin getting brighter, and Patton giggles.

“And I will try to reign in my left-field thoughts,” Virgil says. Patton grabs xir hand, squeezing it gently. "So, uh, now that we can pretend that never happened,” Virgil swipes at xir eyes one last time, erasing all traces of tears, “what do you want to?”

“I was thinking The Umbrella Academy?” Patton suggests.

“Absolutely,” Virgil agrees.

“Ooh! And I bought ice cream! Let me go get it!” He rushes away and quickly puts their groceries in their proper places before grabbing two spoons and carton and dropping back onto the couch, nearly on top of Virgil.

“Cotton candy,” Virgil says when xe sees it. “My favorite.”

“I know.” Patton smirks. “I know all about my little Veevee.” Virgil scowls, and they both pretend that they believe xe really is annoyed until the show starts. They snuggle together, watching as the Hargreeves kick ass, and Patton feels pretty darn happy about the whole thing.

(They stay up way later than they should to finish the season—and to appreciate everything about Klaus and his aesthetic, and they both pass out on the couch. But not before Virgil reminds Patton to plug his phone in and Patton gives xir another kiss on the head, just for good measure.)

[dyketionary]

Femme lesbian ask: 1, 2, 11, 12, 14, 19, 21, 22, 29, 32, 41, 47

1. Do you like wearing tights or stockings? Tights cuz they show off my tattoos since most of them are on my legs 2. If you wear lipstick what is your favourite one called? Heh I love some good red ones from Nyx but they’re in my bedroom and I’m too tired to leave the sofa  11.Have you ever asked a butch on a date? Answered this one previously! And the answer is yeees I have 12.Which do you prefer, fixing a butch's tie and collar or fixing their rolled sleeves? Answered this one too, short answer I prefer fixing my butches collar 14.How would you describe your sense of style? Do you think it reflects your personality? Hmm... very excentric, vibrant, often red and black... Either very classic OFOS butch-femme, in tartan or short-short dresses or skirts. I collect vintage dresses and lingerie. Recently I have been painting on my leather jackets, which have become my statement pieces. Oh, almost forgot the most important! I dress very lesbian and femme coded!💋

19. I you have someone, what is an item of clothing which belongs to your butch but you like wearing? Well a whole lot of their clothes especially one of their flannels and I’m hoping they’re leaving one specific wolf cut off tshirt behind now when they leave............ 👀👀👀

21.Would you like to be proposed to or do the proposal? I’m extremely romantic and have cried for hours to youtube clips of proposals, so to answer the question it would be my dream to be proposed to (I would bawl my eyes out) 😭 22. If you have a butch, gush about them! I dooooooo and very happily in love with them. I’ve been missing them like crazy now during corona but luckily have been able to have them staying with my for a little over a week. Falling in love with my Nemo more and more each day...❤️ 29. Tag any femmes you're friends with so we can find each other! @highfemheartstrings 32.  If you could make any fictional character be a lesbian, who would you choose and Why? AUDREY HORNE from Twin Peaks since she is my all time fave femme icon! She awoke my femme aestethics  41.  Talk about butches and why you love them! Butches are my home, my family and my counterpart 47. We're having a big femme picnic! What do you bring? Darn I wish we could actually have one... I love cooking and baking so I would probably bring my special passionfruit-lemon-menthe cheesecake and then convince my butch to make us the pastasalad they made on our picknic 

[frekydeki]

Much Like Lightning

Summary: You were once someone who would laugh at the one bozo in seven hundred thousand that got struck by lightning... Except now, you are that bozo. Add to that the fact that you get thrown back into time where the comfy dungeon you're stuck in is visited by a certain earl and his butler, and the Queen of England decides they're the only ones fit to babysit you, makes your bad luck like a nice little sundae on a good ole rainy Sunday. You happen to fall in love with the sinfully beautiful butler and accidentally earn the affections of others along the way; hey, just think of it as the cherry on top of your very unlucky sundae.

Pairing: (Reader x Various) (Sebastian x Reader, more specifically)

| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4: Upcoming

The boy across the way has been drilling his gaze into your cheek the entire drive back to his estate. You, being the stubborn and nervous shit you are, keep your narrow sight on the passing fields with an irritated blush running over your cheeks. If you don't acknowledge their eyes on you, you won't have to answer any questions you don't know the answer to and the ride will be all that much more comfortable for you. Though, you do have a white knuckled grip on your knee while your other hand rests gently on your chin. Foot tapping relentlessly with your back slouched slightly in relaxation. Eyes intensely concentrating on whatever is outside of that window, but somehow very far off in thought; you're a freaking walking contradiction. 

"Do you consider yourself a hard working woman, (Y/N)?" Ciel questions across from you. You lift your chin from the palm of your hand and blink the daze from your sight. You sniff lightly and shrug, taking hold of a wrinkle in your light blue skirt and pinching it between your fingers. "I do what needs to be done." You answer curtly. You don't like going above and beyond much; it only leads to disappointment, falling a little short, never being good enough. You meet his eyes evenly, wondering just what he's thinking, looking at you with such an unreadable poker face. "Good." He says with a content nod before rolling his head to look out the window. "It will be needed now that you're a servant of the Phantomhive household." You stare at him... Being included in that phrase almost sends chills down your spine. What a legendary fucking group. When you would read about those servants or see them in the anime - the utter belief and trust he has in his servants abilities - you would always think that they could take down Sparta. An extraordinary group like them... And you're now a part of it. It's scary, almost. You're just a normal person with no special fighting talent or anything else at that. Eyes cast down at your hands, you nod slowly. "I guess I'll have to be hard working if I'm going to be cleaning up after those three." "You know them, then?" "Very well." "How?" The boy snaps. You draw back as your eyes almost fuse together your brow is pinched so tightly in irritation; just because he's Ciel Phantomhive with a demon butler that doesn't mean you're okay with him being a dick to you! You look him up and down, watching his hands wring at his walking stick, or his eyes search you for any sort of scam. Ironing out your face, you realize that if someone waltzed into your life claiming to know everything about you and even more that even you don't know, you'd be pretty irked too. A soft smile pulls on the corner of your lips; how arrogant it is of you. "I've seen them before." You answer in a soft tone. He doesn't respond, so you quickly jump on the opportunity to restart with Ciel; maybe he'll stop being such a brat if you both reach even grounds. "Master Phantomhive," You begin, drawing your heavy eyes to his, "I won't pretend to know you. While I might know everything that has happened to you, everything that will happen to you, the people who surround you, and even a few of your fears, I will never pretend to understand your emotions and thoughts." His wide eye shakes as he watches you with parted lips and stuttering breaths. "Please understand that I don't mean to offend you." "Very well." Ciel answers in a calmed tone. He flicks his chin at you, hand splayed over his jaw as he rest his elbow on the window ledge and jaw on the palm of his hand. "How do you know them?" You watch him, considering how to tell him that you watched them in cartoons and read them in books. You laugh while pressing your hand to the base of your head, looking out the window; squinting as if it's going to clear up the passing scenery and reveal the answer. "Pictures?" You question quietly, to which you shake your head and tap your fingers to your knee. "Visions?" "Clairvoyance?" Sebastian suggests to you. Your eyes turn to his quickly. Is that a super power? A lame super power, but it is one... One that's going to save your life. You nod and offer them a shut eyed smile. "Sure is! Clairvoyance is the word I was looking for. Thanks!" "You speak in a very unformal manner." Ciel grumbles. "Well we can't all grow up in a manor." You quip. Sapphire eyes jolt to yours, but you turn away as if to be oblivious to the irritation on his face. Damn, this is going to be really hard. Living through serving Ciel without being the snappy person you are, trying to stay on his good side, is going to be a trip... "Tell me... What are their names?" "Mey-Rin, Tanaka, Baldroy, and Finnian." "And do you know," He begins to shift in his seat, pulling part of his cloak from under him, "Why they are employed with me." Folding your hands in front of you, you prepare the speech you've given thousands of times over these three. "Where do I even start?" You laugh happily. "Mey-Rin has amazing visual acuity. So with a gun in her hand," You point finger guns at the two mindlessly, "She doesn't miss. You utilize her sight and skill in sniping, you line your roofs with rifles - no scope because she doesn't like them much - and she does a very good job protecting you and your estate... Though, you gave her a pair of thick glasses that impairs her sight... She treasures them, but they do make her pretty darn clumsy." The boys mouth opens and snaps shut as if he's an angry fish. He clears his throat and looks out the window. "Very good. And Finny?" "Ah! Finny! I love Finny! He's such a sweet guy!" You squeak under your breath. You stop and eye the two, who gawk at you in return. You clear your throat and continue on your way, "He's your gardener. He's very strong, uses anything nearby to hurdle at intruders... The straw hat you gave him, Master Phantomhive, covers his tattoo. The one he received while imprisoned at a facility. There... Terrible things were done to him and since you are well aware of it all I prefer not to go much further into it." You curtly end. "Baldroy is your chef... Not much of one since Sebastian does a majority of the cooking; rightly so since Baldroy doesn't understand a flame thrower isn't something you use in the kitchen. He's an American soldier... So he tends to like to rush things; get them done as fast as possible, hence the flamethrowers and such... He tends to give orders when the master isn't home, since he's a pretty good leader, like when the first- tiers from the cir-" You slap your hand tightly over your lips. A squeaky wheeze comes from you as your eyes - the size of the moon - shifts between the two men waiting for you to finish speaking. "Like what?" You push your chin out to Ciel's question, pretending to not understand him. "Like when the first-tiers... Etcetera etcetera." The boy rolls his wrist for you to continue. You suck your lips between your teeth and push your back against your seat. "Uh oh!" You chime, offering your hands up in a mischievous shrug, "I forgot what I was going to say." Ciel wants to have your head. You can tell, looking at the way his eyes are burning yours to a crisp with that glare. The shadows crossing his face are pretty severe, but you really can't say anything else too soon... Messing up that timeline is a no no. "I told you Sebastian would kill you." "Yes, but," You hold your hands out in front of you as if you're calming a frantic horse, "Sebastian," You look to him, "understands how detrimental it is for me to not tell you too much of the future..." The demon is silent. "Because some things should be left for the young master to come to understand when the time comes." Silence; holy crap who knew Sebastian would be so damn dense. That or he's playing stupid to make your time ten times more difficult. What a dick. But, he is a demon... You shouldn't be surprised but you are; you're so used to reading fanfictions where Sebastian is madly in love with you - the character - so he's so soft and mushy to you... Right now you feel like you're trying to work with a stone. You sigh heavily and push your eyes to Ciel's; you can't really depend on that man. "Young master, I will not tell you about the event I am referring to until after it happens, should I enjoy your company that long. I decide this because you will make your own decisions and learn from them; of yourself and of others. Should I tell you it all, it wouldn't be all that fun, would it?" "In the situation you were describing, what does Baldroy do?" "Your estate is under attack, and Baldroy tells Finny and Mey-Rin what do to eliminate the threat. And he does very well giving them orders." He smiles and returns his gaze outside, a small smirk on his lips. You move your strong gaze to Sebastian, allowing him to see the disappointment fresh on your expression. Those red eyes widen just a fraction. You snap your eyes away, trying to understand how a man as competent as Sebastian could be so incompetent when it comes to helping another person out... Then again, his only worry is Ciel. Your eyes, now taken over by a sad look, with eyebrows slack and mouth pressed lightly together, trail to examine the demon, who hasn't torn his eyes from you. An intense moment passes between the two of you; you're not quite sure what's going on in that demons head, but yours is filled to the brim with confusions between the Sebastian you thought you knew and with the one you know now. "Ah... Here we are." Sebastian announces as the carriage jumps to a halt, and the box darkens in the shadow of the large manor. The door swings open by Sebastian's hand, your cheeks being chilled by the hard breeze flowing in. Ciel exits first, you notice the worried pinch in his furrowed brow and the way his lip is settled into his cheek; must be worried about his servants. You take in a harsh breath as the demon's gloved hand appears in your vision. What does he want? Eying his hand, you raise a brow. So he can offer help over something so stupid as getting out of a carriage but not for something as detrimental as getting Ciel to shut up. Your hand latches onto his... His hand fits perfectly in his, so perfectly it should almost stay like this for eternity. You tighten your grip and then loosen it; just get out of the damn carriage and ignore the man is what you're thinking as you step from him with a hot blush on your cheeks... "Your face is red. You feel well?" Sebastian purrs in your ear. You harshly suck in a breath through your teeth and calmly turn to snap a severe look at him; remember, you're a terrible human and have no problem shutting men's advances down faster than memes spread. "Must be the cold wind." You dryly say, noticing that your face is getting hotter as you stare - no, glare - at Sebastian. A smirk lights his lips as he holds his hand out toward the opening door. "Then, let's get out of it!" His hand presses to your lower back and guides you inside, "Right this way, Madam." A slight growl fumbles from your lips and you march inside trying to remember if Sebastian was ever this touchy with guests or any women in the manga. "Meet the staff, (Y/N)." Ciel sneers at you. Eyes meeting in an electric battle, your lips pull down in a frustrated frown; why does this kid hate you so much. You bet he's going to spend every waking minute of his days with you trying to drive you insane. Your frown soon cracks into a pleasant smile as the four servants skid to a stop in front of you. "You four, meet (Y/N). She will be a new worker here at the estate. Please, treat her well and show her how it works around here." Sebastian states to the servants. "You'll be working with me, yes?" Mey-Rin's rough voice screeches to you, her red cheeks shining bright under her thick glasses. The same smile stays plastered on your lips, eyes shut in annoyance; you love Mey-Rin but some part of you assumes that you won't catch much silence with her clanking around you. "Yes. It will be a pleasure," The red haired girl opens her mouth to give her name, but you march through, mindlessly saying it, "Mey-Rin." "You know my name?" Your eyes snap open before you quickly cover it with a smile and motioning towards Sebastian, "Of course! Sebastian enlightened me to who I would be working with on the ride here!" You snatch her hands up, finding them surprisingly soft, "Let's be great friends, Mey-Rin!" Her blush deepens as her head begins to bob quickly. "Then you must know me, then!" Finny beams from your right. "Of course!" You smile gently down to him, "I hope you won't mind me coming out to help you every now and then... I love roses... I hear you keep them beautifully." "I do my best." "Very good, then." "Will you be joining me in the kitchen then? To help me mince the mushrooms?" Baldroy questions with a raise in his brow. Smiling, you nod and assure him that you would help to mince as many mushrooms as you can. Looking at the smile Sebastian is giving Baldroy, you can't help but remember the scene where he appears behind the chef to give him a good knuckle sandwich to the side of the face... You shutter and put your attention back to the blond man. "Though I should mention I prefer baking." The chef gives you a cheesy smile and scratches his neck. "If your baking makes deserts as sweet as you, I'm sure they'll taste better than Sebastian's." Swallowing, you do your best to ignore the cold air you feel moving hauntingly around you. Giggling, you turn your attention to the old man reaching to encase your hand in his. Shuffling through your introduction to Tanaka gracefully, the group breaks up with Finny running your small trunk - a gift from the queen who's taken an extreme liking to you - to your shared room with Mey-Rin, and Tanaka giving you a tour of the place. It's interesting for you to finally see how the manor is laid out, rather than only seeing a few rooms like you would in the manga or anime. The estate is grand. Fancier than the most expensive hotel you've stayed at, even; and that's saying a lot because you've been to Daytona and those hotel's sure weren't playing around. "What has Sebastian chosen you as a servant here for?" Tanaka questions as you stop outside of your room. You look to him; no point in hiding it from any of the staff to be honest. They know pretty well that being hand picked by the butler isn't just a random choice. "Clairvoyance." You curtly explain. "Ho?" The old man laughs. "That will be very handy to us! It will surely be a pleasure, Miss (Y/N). Goodnight." You smile shortly to him, watching as he slowly walks down the hall. You slouch heavily as you're finally left in peace, and you can now acknowledge how terribly your back and head is throbbing. "Your back hurts?" "Jesus!" You screech as you fling yourself away from Sebastian appearing behind you from seemingly no where. You point your finger at the tall man, "Listen here man! Just because I know the future doesn't mean I'm immune to jump scares." He chuckles in a very pleased manner as he bows; his hair glistens beautifully in the candlelight, and it lines his face perfectly when he looks down at you like this. But that doesn't matter. "I should change your bandages before you go to bed, (Y/N). You're wounds are severe, after all." You open your door, accepting that it's best you take really good care of your wounds, even if that means suffering the same embarrassment you did this morning. "I do, also, have some things to discuss with you in privacy." "Mhmm." You hum to him that you're listening as you unfasten your dress with frustrated huffs. His hands catch yours and place them at your side. "May I provide assistance?" With lidded eyes and slouched posture, you say, "Sure." "Since you're already aware, I will confirm that I am what you say." Your body runs cold; you did not expect to hear that so easily and casually. "But no other humans, other than young master, are aware. I beg you to have it remain so." "Don't worry. I don't really plan on sharing much of anything with anyone, let alone that." "You seem an honest enough woman." He smiles as your blue dress fumbles to the ground. He offers his hand out to a chair in front of a simple wooden table. "Now, since you're a servant of the estate I expect you to assist us in the maintenance of the building and the welfare of our master. Tomorrow Mey-Rin will help you with the duties, and I will keep a close eye on you." "I'm flattered." You mumble. "Young master would also like to speak with you further on your abilities in the evening tomorrow, after our guest leaves." "He does understand that I won't be telling him much of anything, right?" "My master is quite dense." "I'd call it more stubborn, independent, maybe even narrow-sighted." "Your tongue is slightly venomous." The demon chuckles as he removes your bandages. "If it weren't then I'd be lying." Silence falls between the two of you comfortably; you fantasize about a good nights rest as he dabs gently over your damaged skin. "Tomorrow, the guest you have visiting... Damian." The butler's hands stop what they're doing. "Listen to him closely. And..." You turn to look up at him, "Don't let Mey-Rin carry out the wine to pour." He raises an eyebrow at you, to which you smile sweetly, "Just a fair warning." "Yes." The suspicion in his voice is heavy as you turn away and allow him to finish up his quick work. "I've left your uniform in the chest. Mey-Rin will help you dress, I've explained to her that your wounds prevent you from doing so." With his materials gathered in his arms, he positions himself in your doorway, smiling to you with dark ruby eyes. You stare back with unreadable eyes. "Good night, (Y/N). "Goodnight, Sebastian." Seconds after the latch of the door, your buried in the blankets of your bed... Your sense of dread has somehow piqued your interests. While you're well aware you're in pretty deep shit, you're curious to see how it turns out. You roll on your side, wishing the exhausted Mey-Rin, who's just flopped into her bed, goodnight. You guess this kind of beats going to class and crying over textbooks. The only thing? You can't get black fur and blue wings, or ruby eyes out of your mind.

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

Requested by @pen-in-hand, all the even numbers of this ask game. The rest is under the cut!

02. What is one of your character’s biggest insecurities? Are they able to hide it easily or can others easily exploit this weakness?

Warren struggles with his self-worth in general. He often feels like he has no place in the universe, that he doesn’t belong, and he’s pretty good at hiding it from people who don’t know him really well (or, you know...those who can read his feelings just by touching his skin UWU lol)

04. What are their favorite traits about their lover? (one psychological and one physical)

It goes without saying that Warren is enamored with almost every part of Thrive mentally and physically, but his favorite physical trait would probably be his eyes (that’s something I include in a lot of my writing...I have a thing for characters with things for eyes lmao. mostly green and blue, too....huh). He loves their color and the fact that he can read him pretty darn well despite the fact that Thrive is very good at masking his true mental state.

I know it said one of each but I’d say he loves Thrive’s hands as much as he favors his eyes. He’s quite fond of their shape and bone structure, as well as the fact that when they’re not completely upending the laws of physics they’re twitching or flexing as if he’s not sure what to do with them at any given time.

Psychologically, the biggest thing that attracts Warren to Thrive is his intelligence. Over eight thousand years of knowledge exists within him and he’s extremely adept at putting that knowledge and wisdom to good use, and that’s a big turn-on for Warren lmao.

06. Do they have any hobbies that their lover finds unusual, odd, or otherwise annoying?

Hmm...Warren’s only real hobbies are coding/programming and dancing, and I think because Thrive comes from a planet and culture that never discovered the impact of dance, he finds it a bit unusual. More intriguing than annoying, I believe. He’ll humor Warren with a slow dance sometimes (twice in the books so far, once during a pretty emotionally heavy scene in...Eternal? maybe? maybe Aurora. I dunno yet. and once leading into their first big love scene in Rebirth).

08. What is, perhaps, their biggest flaw? Are they aware of this or oblivious to it?

Warren’s biggest flaw may be a little bit subjective but in my opinion, it’s the fact that he’s so willing to throw himself into the fire for good causes. His jumping headfirst into being on Thrive’s side before they even met, running headlong into the Milky Way war, going against Thrive’s explicit wishes (orders. they were orders.) and ███████ ███ ██ █████████, that kinda thing.

10. Is your character more feminine or masculine?

He’s more masculine in the “traditional” sense, but he’s not ashamed of his more “feminine” qualities. He’s been brought to tears on a few occasions and it’s important to him to maintain a good channel of open communication and honesty when it comes to emotions within any kind of relationship.

Except, you know...with Brayden when it comes to Thrive lmao WHOOPSIE

12. Is there some particular talent, skill, or attribute that they simply could not give up?

His gift with computers and tech has always kinda been expendable to him, he loves doing it but if he woke up one day and forgot how to do any of it he wouldn’t be as torn up as, say, one day he woke up and forgot how to dance. He got through his teenage years (though he almost didn’t) because of dance, and he could never in a million years willingly give that up.

14. Do they live alone or with family? How do they feel about their family/roommates?

If you were to get smartass-y, for like 99% of the first two books he lives with the entire universe since he technically is homeless. The once-uninhabited Tournaltis becomes his home in book 3, and while he doesn’t spend much time there over the course of the next books, it’s always an option in the background.

He ends up with seventy-one roommates and while I can’t say...well, anything about them (other than Thrive obvs), I can and will say that he isn’t sure what to make of them, in the most affectionate way possible lol.

16. Is your character the athletic type or more of a couch potato? What are some sports/games that they like?

Warren isn’t much of a sports guy, but he’s also not really a couch potato. He loves the outdoors and doesn’t like being cooped up in one place for too long, which is why being put up in the Destiny is especially hard on him. He doesn’t mind spaceships so much since they’re always moving from point A to point B.

18. What kind of home would they want to live in? Where would they place this abode?

To be true, his dream home is his grandparents’ cabin in Alaska. Off the grid for the most part, deep in the forest, right by the lake...’kay maybe not the lake so much, but he’s a loner at heart and always will be.

20. Does your character like animals? What are some of their favorite animals? Would they want pets? What about mythological creatures?

Warren doesn’t mind animals, but he’s not a big pet person. Interestingly, I think his favorite animal is the desert lights that come out at night over the beach on Tournaltis. They’re phosphorescent orange glowing insect-like creatures that float in the air over the shore, stretching from the water all the way back to the cliff face. He thinks they’re so interesting and they create a beautiful landscape, especially when the sky is clear and the Milky Way makes an appearance.

22. What kind of tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, freckles, and other such unique physical features do they have?

He’s still got a hole in his right ear (I think, yikes) from when he was fourteen and got it pierced, though he hasn’t worn an earring since, and he wouldn’t mind a tattoo if he ever came across a memorable or one with enough meaning. He’s got various freckles on different parts of his body, but no birthmarks.

24. In their own words, how would your character describe what their lover is like?

“Full of love and passion, unbelievable wisdom and an overwhelming sense of spiritual righteousness that only doesn’t come off as arrogance because he himself does not seem to be able to cope with the fact that he can’t save everyone in the universe.”

26. What is their lover like sexually? How do they feel about their lover’s quirks, needs, etc?

Thrive is not a sexual being normally. In fact, he’s only interested in the act when he’s physically interacting with someone who’s feelin’ some type of way, but he gets enjoyment out of Warren’s satisfaction and his unique emotional signature, so truthfully he only does things for him as they both equally benefit.

Warren feels a little guilty about this since he’s hardwired to believe that it’s important to make sure all parties are left feeling taken care of during intimacy...it takes a bit for him to get used to the fact that Thrive gets his kicks from him getting his kicks, lmao

28. If your character became a celebrity, what would they be famous for?

Well...he kinda is a celebrity? At least in the year 2272. I mean...he helped save the galaxy for cryin’ out loud. Truthfully not as well-known at Thrive, but the textbooks all mention Warren at some point.

30. When it comes to the arts (music, film, theater, etc), what does your character like?

He likes mostly indie stuff and some hip-hop and rock, both residual from his middle- and high-school years. He surprisingly doesn’t watch a lot of movies. He can appreciate art and actually dabbled a bit in painting when he was a kid, but he ultimately decided it was better left to those with a talent for it.

32. If your character’s lover offered to take them out on a dream date, what would they want to do?

Warren is pretty classically romantic in the sense that just some time under the moon(s) and stars is perfectly fine with him.

I’ve been thinking of including a scene in like, Eternal or something that likens to Mass Effect 3′s Citadel DLC...I kinda wanna put Warren and Thrive on a dinner-and-activity sort of date on the Node and play with how uncomfortable or surprisingly comfortable they may and/or may not be in that situation. Also kinda for a purpose as they’d be discussing the goings-on and their next plan or whatever.

34. Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)

Warren likes all food at all times. Really, that’s truly it lmao

36. Does your character have any medical conditions? Are they serious or minor? Do they affect their day to day life?

He doesn’t have any medical conditions that I can think of off the top of my head...well, I mean...there may or may not be some stuff after Rebirth....

38. What kind of weather does your character like? Cloudy skies, rainy days, sunshine, etc?

He’s particularly fond of cloudy, snowy or rainy weather where you just wanna curl up under a blanket and sleep.

40. Does your OC have any guilty pleasures they enjoy? Hobbies, past times, music, etc that they wouldn’t want known by others?

Not really. Warren feels (like I do) that anything you enjoy should be done without shame, within reason.

42. Is there anything in your character’s past that they regret, haunts them, or they wish they could change?

He does regret how he could’ve left his grandparents. He regrets putting them through the horror of almost losing him, especially not that long after losing their son and their daughter-in-law to illnesses.

Not saying goodbye to the rest of his family, or anyone really, before the end of Destiny is a big one. Everything that happened on the Destiny, definitely.

44. Is there a particular event that would emotionally devastate your character?

WELP. I can’t quite...HUH. I can’t exactly...well, I can’t talk about it lol

Maybe losing Thrive somehow????????? and I cannot confirm nor deny that this happens. lmao

46. What is some random affectionate thing that your character always does to their lover?

He calls him “babe” a lot, which like...always makes my knees weak ngl lol

Also, he likes to try to get ahead of Thrive’s needs, waiting in their room to give him neck rubs after a stressful day on Tournaltis, for example. Or letting Thrive reach into his mind to be reassured or comforted or whatever it is he’s looking for at the time.

He also loves to flirt with him because his reactions are amusing lmao

48. Is there anything in particular that would ignite your character’s jealousy? Or does your character not get envious?

Warren is the most jealous before he’s officially in a relationship with Thrive. After that threshold’s crossed, not so much. His feelings toward Sussa in regards to Thrive before fully understanding the nature of their situation is uhh not great.

I mean sure, if he saw Thrive mackin’ on someone else right in front of his face he’d have QUESTIONS....

But he trusts him and knows that they could talk through anything if feelings shifted or began leaning a certain way.

50. If your character confessed love to their crush, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc, what would they say?

Warren would say, “I’m crazy about you. Insanely, tragically in love with you.”

And Thrive would say nothing. Cuz that’s canon lmao

[platypanthewriter]

The Prince and the Pauper (who drives an Uber) Ch.4

“I could just…” Billy whispered against Steve’s jaw, “—unbutton your slacks...get your cock in my hand—” he laughed as Steve’s hips jerked up under him. “Jack you off,” he mumbled, and Steve laughed.

“Just remembered your dick tattoo,” he whispered.

“Oh no,” Billy whispered back, freezing in place.

“I didn’t get to see it,” Steve said, giggling, “—in the bathroom, it was kinda dark—” and Billy tried to glower down at the prince underneath him, but felt himself smiling instead.

His face was hot with embarrassment, but not...dread, he realized. “It’s dumb as hell,” he mumbled, laughing.

“I want to see,” Steve whispered against his mouth, and Billy laughed harder, groaning.

“You’re gonna lose like fifty points of IQ,” he warned, starting to rise to hands and knees, but Steve grabbed his ass and pulled until Billy settled, snickering, with his legs on either side of Steve’s chest, and his dick, bobbing and leaking, inches from his prince’s chin.

Steve blinked wide, mischievous eyes up at him, and Billy covered his eyes with one hand, prodding his cock to the side with the other, and then felt Steve burst out laughing.

“Does that,” he gasped, his hands warm on Billy’s thighs, “—does that say ‘darn’?”

Billy shook with laughter, his eyes tearing up, for once, with glee. “It was supposed to be Daryn,” he cackled, and Steve laughed harder.

“Your dick says darn,” he wheezed. “Darn! It-it’s Billy’s dick!”

“It’s worshipful,” Billy told him, leaning into the calloused thumbs stroking his thighs, and scooting down to rest his elbows on either side of Steve’s head, to put himself in kissing distance again.

“Gosh darn,” Steve whispered, giggling breathlessly. “Wow. Jeez. Darn it.”

“Yeah, there you go,” Billy snickered, wiping his eyes, and reaching down between them to undo Steve’s slacks. “Jesus, you’re hot.”

“You’re pretty darn pretty,” Steve wheezed, squeezing him so hard Billy oofed. “How much did you like Daryn?” he asked, running his knuckles up and down Billy’s ribs, even as Billy shifted around, finally freeing Steve’s dick from his slacks.

Billy bit his lips, glancing up at Steve’s face, then crawled backwards to tug Steve’s slacks down and off. “...s’it matter?” he asked.

“Just want to, um, y’know, know the team to beat,” Steve mumbled, frowning up, and Billy leaned to kiss the inside of his thigh, on the way to kiss his finally-freed cock.

“He wanted my name on his cock,” Billy shrugged, biting his lip. “I dunno, I was drunk as fuck, nobody ever wanted me tattooed on them before. We got in this huge fight like two days later.”

Steve sighed, and Billy swallowed, wondering, as always, how trashy he could get before it was a step too far. “I mean,” Steve sighed, pulling him closer, “I did figure there’d be other interested parties. I just have to— mmpf,” he squeaked, as Billy dropped on top of him, kissing his face.

“Are we fucking or not,” Billy whispered, sliding his fingers along Steve’s neck, and tugging on his tie. “Darn it.”

“Hi,” Steve breathed, beaming up at him. “We—we darn well are,” he returned, in a fervent voice that made Billy’s cheeks flush, until Steve mumbled, “Darn it,” again, shaking against him, and then dissolved into giggles again. Billy sighed, groaning against Steve’s chest, but Steve yanked him close and kissed anywhere he could reach, cackling and squeezing him tight.

“Take your time,” Billy muttered, letting himself laugh too.

“Didn’t think I could be this happy today,” Steve sighed at the ceiling, and Billy could hear the smile in his voice. “Thought I’d be doing some photo shoots,” he said softly, “—or on a plane home, maybe.”

Billy bit his lips at the ever-present reminder that Prince Steven Harrington wasn’t his.

“Thanks for staying,” Steve whispered into Billy’s hair, and Billy laughed sharply.

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that,” he said, lifting his head to frown down at Steve’s face, and sliding his hand down to feel over Steve’s cock. Steve jerked under him, wide-eyed. “What happens now,” Billy asked, sliding his thumb over the tip, and Steve groaned, letting his head loll back with a slow smile.

“Whatever you want,” Steve told him, licking his lips slowly, and Billy snorted a laugh.

“No, I mean,” he told his prince-for-now, scooting to the side to slide his hand under Steve’s thighs, “—what now. They gonna make you marry somebody else?”

“Oh,” Steve blinked, his smile dropping even as he squirmed against Billy’s hand under the swell of his ass.

“Better make good use of the time, huh,” Billy whispered, feeling the muscles of Steve’s thighs, and lifting one over his head to lean between, as Steve laughed, wide-eyed underneath him. “If I’m a one-night stand,” Billy said, then cocked his head.

Steve pulled him down so Billy’s weight was on Steve’s thighs, and Billy’s own free arm. Steve’s torso shook under him with laughter, and Billy corrected, “—one or two night stand,” frowning, while Steve laughed harder. “—I better make it worth your while—” he said, grinning, letting their cocks brush.

“Shut up, come here,” Steve said, wrapping his legs around Billy’s waist. “They’re not. M’not gonna just—marry anyone.” He grunted as Billy grabbed their cocks together. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Uh. Darn. You—you’re not just anything, Billy.”

“...just a poor boy,” Billy sang softly, but Steve yanked him into a kiss, wet and hot, and his dick rubbed against Billy’s with agonizing heat and friction. Billy moaned, losing his ability to words. He writhed against his prince, panting, and Steve held him tighter, whispering a language Billy didn’t know in his ear.

Billy finally got his hand between them, and around both their cocks, and Steve’s whole body arched, his legs tightening around Billy’s waist. “You can fuck me, go on,” he panted, and Billy came, right there over their stomachs. “...damn it,” he whispered, and realized Steve was laughing at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gulped, choking on his own giggles as Billy glared down at his face. “Darn. Maybe I’m good at this,” he suggested, then squawked as Billy growled, crawling backwards, and sank his mouth over the royal dick. “Oh shit, Billy. Billy, jesus—”

He rambled on, his hips doing tight little jerks as he gasped with Billy’s every breath, his fingers tight in Billy’s hair, and Billy knew he’d won when Steve subsided entirely into another language. It sounded like he was begging.

Even after Billy’d sucked all knowledge of English out Steve’s dick, he was a prince, and he managed to make it clear—patting Billy’s face—that he was about to come. Billy swallowed him down, feeling him shudder and strain, then licked him clean, and crawled up to lie alongside him. Steve rolled to throw a limp arm around him, and groan contentedly into his neck.

“M’not,” he mumbled.

“What?” Billy asked, leaning his head on his elbow. He wrapped his other arm around Steve’s head, and kissed his sweaty hair.

“M’not gettin’ married,” Steve told him, squeezing Billy around the waist, and rubbing his face against Billy’s chest with a sleepy hum.

Billy’s heart thumped, and he told it to shut up, because it wasn’t like that meant anything to Billy, really. It was hard not to relax into pointless affection, though, with the royalty in his bed rubbing a chiseled jaw over his pecs like an approving cat. “What are you doing,” Billy asked, finally, when he couldn’t hold back his snickering.

“You feel good,” Steve sighed, kicking his feet as he squirmed up higher in the bed, and slid his other arm under Billy’s neck to pull him closer. “They weren’t making me get married,” he sighed. “It was just this...old-fashioned...politics...thing. When Nancy agreed, she wasn’t, you know. In love with someone else.”

“I’m honored to be your boy toy,” Billy told him, and Steve snorted a laugh, choking. He pulled away and sat up, coughing around what sounded like both his lungs.

“Billy,” he finally said, wiping his eyes. “You gonna miss me?”

There was an unnecessarily obvious answer to that, Billy felt, and he shrugged. “What you want me to say to that?” he asked, letting his mouth quirk into a grin.

“‘Yes’,” Steve said quickly, laughing. “‘Yes, absolutely’.”

“...yeah, I’ll miss you,” Billy admitted softly.

“‘So darn much’, right,” Steve supplied, snickering, and Billy groaned. “Come on, admit it, you know it’s true—”

“I’ll miss you so darn much,” Billy said, trying to sound sarcastic, but it came out way too raw, and Steve stilled in his arms, watching his face. Billy opened his mouth to try and save the situation—before the actual royalty he’d just sucked off called the police on him for sounding like some kind of clingy obsessive stalker—but Steve leaned in and kissed him, slow, open-mouthed, and warm.

“Good,” he whispered, smiling against Billy’s lips. “S’ not fair if only I’m doing the missing.”

“Fuck you,” Billy whispered. “Like you would—” and then he didn’t say anything else, because Steve climbed on top of him, lying fully along his body so Billy could barely breathe with the sensations of hot, sticky skin. He held Billy’s head firmly and kissed him and kissed him, while Billy raised his hands, startled, forgot about them in midair, and then remembered them abruptly as Steve lifted his head away. Billy grabbed Steve’s head and pulled him back in, feeling him laugh.

Afterwards, they were stuck together and generally disgusting, and as much as Billy privately relished the idea of being glued to his prince forevermore, he poked Steve in the side. “Hey,” he whispered, and Steve squeezed him, sighing contentedly. “Come on,” Billy whispered.

“...where,” Steve asked, suspiciously, and Billy couldn’t help a snicker.

“Shower, come on,” he whispered against the royal ear.

“No, I live here,” Steve mumbled, and Billy laughed. “Stay,” Steve whispered, sliding his hand around Billy’s thigh.

Billy felt his skin warming—it was one thing, apparently, to suck a man’s cock, and another to have the same man cuddle him, dropping clumsy kisses all over his face. Steve tossed a leg over him, and Billy OOFed, laughing and squirming as their sweaty skin stuck together.

“...how long you want me to stay,” Billy asked, grinning, and Steve stopped placing soft, open-mouthed kisses all down his cheek and under his jaw.

“Mmmm,” Steve said, squeezing his fingers harder in Billy’s thigh, so Billy laughed, his dick twitching. “You can’t stay here forever, because you have to come with me,” he whispered, leaning in so their noses brushed. “So I can...keep you,” he breathed, and Billy laughed, startled, and lifted his head to press their lips together.

“Mmnh,” he said, then sighed, squeezing his prince closer. “Let me scrub you down in that glass shower you paid for.”

Steve snickered, but sighed, slumping over him. “Why would you want to move?”

“...y’know those fake tattoos you got out of the machine at the theater,” Billy whispered, and Steve snorted a laugh, kissing along Billy’s hand and wrist like he was seducing a princess.

“...the ones for your sister,” Steve whispered over Billy’s damp skin, and Billy shivered.

“She doesn’t want that shit. Look,” Billy whispered, overconfident in his prince’s arms, “—I’ll put ‘em all over you. Lemme up.”

Steve burst out laughing, his whole body shaking as he scooted up, kicking his legs, and hugged Billy’s whole head. “Okay, if you’re into that,” he whispered.

“I’m not into that, you fucking weirdo,” Billy hissed, his face probably steaming.

“I never would have suspected,” Prince Steve whispered in his ear, and Billy growled.

He did finally let Billy get up, though, and then he let Billy scrub him all over in the shower, squeezing suds over the planes of the royal back. “I feel like the point of a glass shower is to look in,” he mumbled against the glass, as Billy ran his fingers over smooth, slippery skin.

“I can see just fine,” Billy told him, relaxing under the hot water, and trying to keep his prince from just curling up on the floor and drowning with his face against the drain. Steve turned and slid his arms around Billy’s neck, and they swayed under the water as he hummed.

It was hard not to picture him as a Disney Princess, singing softly and sleepily against Billy’s shoulder, and Billy wished, half-awake himself, that the princesses had flings for him to aspire to, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t Prince Charming, and thus had only the villainous trajectory in Frozen in his future. “Come on, rinse,” he cajoled, but Steve insisted on staying in to wash Billy’s hair, his hands wandering everywhere, even finding the ticklish spots just above Billy’s ass, and around his sides.

“Fuck,” Billy giggled, curling against him, “—stop, you—shit— fuck—”

“I’m trying not to tickle you,” Steve laughed, squeezing him closer. “You keep squirming! I won’t, ssh, hold still—” he promised, finally grabbing Billy’s hand and linking their pinkies. “I won’t. I won’t tickle you.”

“...you better keep your promises,” Billy told him, letting his voice get a little harsh, because the prince of a European country had promised he’d miss him, and if Billy never heard another word after letting his imagination run wild it’d be...his own stupid fault, of course, but also shitty.

“...I won’t tickle you unless it’s justified,” Steve corrected, and Billy staggered back, his eyebrows raised, but he couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh ho, the truth emerges,” he said, reaching over to turn the water off.

“I’ll run it by your sister, maybe,” Steve said, consideringly, and wiped his face, miming holding up a phone. “Max, your brother thinks he doesn’t deserve nice things,” he said. “Oh—oh, really? What else should I—I have free rein, you say?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy told him, sliding an arm around his idiot prince to haul him out of the shower. Steve staggered against him, but Billy didn’t let him fall.

Steve sat on the toilet, lid closed, laughing his ass off while Billy ordered him around, covering him in tattoos. Billy decided the prince of a country definitely needed a unicorn on his ass, and a love anchor on his right pectoral. The weird flaming cat that looked like it might have construction equipment for a body—a backhoe, Steve opined, laughing—went above his belly button, though Billy was careful not to get any hair under it, dabbing carefully with wet paper towels at the paper as Steve tried hard not to laugh.

Billy watched the water trail over his abs and down into his pubes, wanting to follow it with his tongue, but Steve looked tired, despite his smiling. “Why would you think Max would want this shit, they’re so ugly,” Billy asked, grimacing at an eagle trying to eat a flag.

“Sorry,” Steve said, wide-eyed, “—nothing can be quite as lovely as your darn dick, can it—”

“Sure can’t,” Billy said, stoutly, and Steve started snickering again, watching Billy’s hands. “This might say ‘Fook nos EVIL,’” Billy said, holding up what looked like a crystal ball, on fire, surrounded by a snake. “Then again, it might not?”

“Ahhh, I love vending machines,” Steve cackled, wiping his eyes, and held very still while Billy held the tattoo to the back of his hand.

“...I know I can’t put it there,” Billy told him, after waiting for him to yank his hand away.

“You can do whatever you want,” Steve told him, grinning down. “Put it on my face. I fled a wedding, they might as well get good pictures of my ruin.”

“Covered in fake tattoos the next day,” Billy shook his head, sighing. “Maybe clutch at a bottle of root beer. Then they’ll know you’ve got nothing left to lose. A broken man.”

“Oh my god,” Steve wheezed, then leaned to kiss him, and Billy made a weird HRNK noise in surprise, before leaning into Steve’s warm hands cradling his face.

Steve leaned around amiably as Billy pressed fake tattoos all over him—he’d bought several sheets, which was just too many, as far as Billy was concerned, and he needed to understand the error of his ways. It meant long moments of Billy kneeling next to him, waiting for the water to soak the plastic off the paper, stroking a washcloth over and over down Steve’s thigh, or up on one knee, leaning in to press Mary Magdalene along Steve’s ribs.

He kept taking the opportunity to kiss Billy, who leaned into it every time—like Pavlov’s dog, he thought, realizing his brain was just switching off every time Steve touched his face at this point. Steve’s grin was wide and silly. He sat on the counter so Billy could put terrible, blurry skulls on both the tops of his feet, and then leaned over it so Billy could press the unicorn to his ass—which tickled, apparently. Billy got some of his own back, slowly stroking the wet cloth over Steve’s squeezable ass while Steve laughed helplessly, smacking the counter and mumbling what were probably swears in Greek.

“I look ridiculous,” Steve told him, his eyes surveying the Chinese dragon on his neck, the flaming, ribboned hearts on his bicep, and the flaming cherries just under his collarbone. He looked proud. “Why is everything on fire?”

“You’re hot,” Billy shrugged, snickering as he found a seductively cartoony-eyed dolphin with what looked like gold edges, and placed it squarely between Steve’s shoulder blades. He bent to wet the washcloth again, and wiped the water over it while water dripped down Steve’s back, and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Is that dolphin on fire,” Steve asked, in the tone of someone about to ask to see the manager.

“So’s this spider, and this dagger thing. In a skull,” Billy said with satisfaction, beginning a trail of flowers, hearts, and butterflies up Steve’s spine.

“But a dolphin,” Steve said, trying to turn and see, and Billy kissed it, and they got thoroughly distracted. Billy even let Steve put some on him, watching his prince kneel down, his tongue out in concentration.

“Don’t forget tattoo care,” Billy told him, smiling down at his prince’s bent head. “If you can’t reach them all, you’ll need somebody to rub them with lotion.”

“Oh,” Steve nodded, his mouth quirking as he placed a truly stupid-looking row of skulls across Billy’s chest. “That sounds important. You know anybody up for the job?”

“...I can’t even think of any jokes to make with how dumb you look right now,” Billy told him, honestly, and Steve snorted a laugh, raising his eyebrows at Billy’s skull-covered chest. One of the skulls, for some reason, was also the Italian flag.

“Maybe we should turn the lights off,” Steve suggested, narrowing his eyes, but his mouth was twitching with amusement.

“No, I’m taking a hundred photos. I’m going to send it in as a scoop and pay for my college classes,” Billy told him, and Steve blinked.

“Oh,” he said, cocking his head, and then he shrugged. “Okay.”

“What?! I would not actually do that,” Billy laughed, but Steve grabbed him and drug him out, and flopped over the bed, sprawled. He pursed his lips, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m not selling it, but I do want photos,” Billy told him, staring. “I think I’m hallucinating. You look like a confusing stock photo.”

“I’m just that hot,” Steve said, rolling onto his stomach, and grabbing an armload of blankets to groan contentedly into.

Billy did snap a couple of shots, watching Steve, but he stayed relaxed, and Billy gave in and took more. “...this is gonna be a whole new spank bank folder,” he said, grimacing, and Steve shrugged. The dolphin burning to death on his shoulder blade flexed.

“See how you react next time you see bad fake tattoos,” he mumbled sleepily, and Billy paused, cringing, imagining himself staring heart-eyed at blurry snake-and-flaming-skull art on a vending machine.

“Horrifying thought,” he muttered, getting a picture of the way Steve’s hair fell over his folded arms, and the way his eyelashes laid across his cheeks.

They fucked again, sleepily, when Billy woke up to pee at 4am, and crawled back in to a sleepily mumbling Steve who’d forgotten his English again. Billy tried to lie still, listening with a grin, but Steve rolled over—nearly breaking Billy’s nose with his elbow—and threw an arm around Billy’s waist, yanking him closer. His stubble scraped a little at Billy’s jaw and neck, but Billy liked it—the sandpaperiness was grounding, in the strange pink light of dawn.

Steve muttered in whatever language he was speaking—Billy told himself he’d look up where was prince of the next morning, and set up Duolingo—and Billy grunted, startled, as Steve’s mouth fastened where his shoulder met his neck. Steve’s hand slid warm down Billy’s side, and he shivered, taking a shuddery breath and parting his legs as Steve’s nails scraped gently through the hair around his dick. Billy’s hips jerked, and Steve laughed, his breath hot against the wet skin of Billy’s collarbones.

Steve slid his hand around Billy’s cock, and stroked him slowly, and Billy made an effort to remember manners, and fumbled to reciprocate. It was slow, and warm under the blankets—the air conditioning had had Billy shivering in the bathroom—and he let his eyes slide closed, leaning into his prince’s arms. With the hand not busy on his dick, Steve hugged him close.

When Billy woke again—disoriented, since the hotel bed was in the middle of the room like it was for vampires— Steve was sprawled on top of the blankets and Billy, one foot kicked up in the air, snoring softly into an armful of comforter. He had pillow marks on his cheek.

Billy watched him sleep—the curve of his back, the awful tattoos and moles along his side, the swell of his unicorn-adorned ass—and sighed. The foot Steve had in the air twitched, and the muscles of his thigh and butt flexed. Billy imagined him in their tiny apartment, waking up during hours meant only for professional bakers if he wanted to shower with any hot water. He tried to envision a prince eating Hot Pockets with Billy and Max, and eating on the floor rather than sit on the rock-hard futon they’d found next to the dumpster. Sitting around cross legged, inventing increasingly ridiculous explanations for the reddish/brownish stain in the carpeted doorway to the hall, and laughing over Max’s vivid descriptions of the triple homicide she was sure had also broken the edge off the bathroom mirror. He imagined Steve next to them, studying the tap in the sink and analyzing the residue and smell, wondering whether it was safe to drink.

Just to feel the internal ache deepen, he let himself picture a different apartment, one where Steve could have his own...office, with a desk, or something, and make important calls around the world, that opened out on a nice kitchen with no peeling seams in the linoleum, and Billy having the time and money to cook food. Once he had a degree, and he could work somewhere that paid better. Max sleeping a room that the window closed all the way, so she didn’t have to stuff it with pillows, and closet doors that didn’t fall off every time she tried to slide them.

Evenings off, to gripe about the endless dumb natural disaster movies she wanted to show him. Billy groaned, imagining it, and Steve grunted, his eyes blinking open to squint over.

“Eunh,” he mumbled, rubbing the drool off his chin with the back of his wrist. “...Beelly?”

Steve Harrington had an accent, Billy realized, feeling like he’d been punched in the solar plexus, and his lungs had forgotten his brain needed air. Steve’s hair was smushed flat by the pillow, sticking out in all different directions, and the dim light of morning lit him like an old black and white movie, shadowing around his muscles, down the curves of his spine, and deepening the dimples above his ass. “...you’re beautiful,” Billy whispered, unintentionally, and Steve snorted, dropping his face back in the blankets.

“Morning face,” he groaned, making ‘face’ into two quick syllables, ‘fay-eece’. He cleared his throat, grimacing, and said “—face,” with the American accent he’d used every other time he’d talked to Billy.

“You have an accent,” Billy said, again unintentionally, and his prince glared over before scrambling under the blankets, his feet kicking.

“Nobody’s perfect,” he mumbled, muffled by the pillow, which was so far from the truth Billy yanked the covers back off him, ignoring his probably-profane exclamations in a language Billy didn’t know.

He smacked a loud kiss on the back of Steve’s neck, next to the dragon, and got a snorted laugh. “I liked it,” Billy said, uncertainly, into Steve’s shoulder. “Like...getting to know you, y’know. I like seeing you like this—” —in my bed, in the morning, he thought. Every morning.

“Sexy drool,” Steve said, snorting.

“No, just...asleep next to me, all—you were comfy, so…” Billy trailed off helplessly, wondering incredulously whether Steve had grown up believing singing birds and rodents were supposed to wake up every goddamn morning and fix his hair. “You fishing for compliments here, or what? Sorry?” he tried. “I’m—I’ll stop if you seriously want me to, I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to see you when you’re not...magazine ready,” he said, laughing a as he watched the shadows on Steve’s exposed side as he breathed, and feeling a little like a creepy stranger, staring through a peephole to look at something he hadn’t been allowed to see. “Um,” he said, into the stiff muscles of Steve’s shoulder, and let go, scooting away. “Shit, d’you want me to leave, fuck, sorry—”

“Why are you buttering me up when I’m half-awake,” Steve asked, rolling over, and sitting up with a groan.

“...I don’t know, Americans are dumb,” Billy told him, trying to salvage the situation, “—I’m sorry, I just—we get weird about accents, we think they’re sexy—look, lemme blow you, let me try this again, reset, come on.”

“Wait,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his face. “You think it’s hot when I say your name wrong?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Billy told him, truthfully, his face burning. “I mean, it’s not wrong, it’s just how you say it—” he tried to explain, and Steve squinted over, blinking, and then crawled over to slump against Billy’s side, sliding his arms around Billy’s waist. Billy blew through his cheeks, relieved..

“Mmn,” Steve mumbled into Billy’s neck, sighing contentedly. “Mmmkay, fine, s’ry. ...you wake up so pretty,” he groaned. “...look like I...came out’ve the dryer.”

“Me,” Billy snorted, his whole body heating as Prince Steve settled in his arms, heavy and warm from the blanket, curled around him and half-coherent with sleep. His shoulder blades brushed the inside of Billy’s arm, and his stubble scraped against Billy’s shoulder. “Look, okay, best option,” Billy offered, squeezing him closer. “—you don’t wanna let me see your sleep-face, you just stay right there forever. My leg’s’ll go to sleep and then fall off, but it’s not like I’ll need’em—”

Steve snorted, curling tighter, and leaning in with a thunk against Billy’s shoulder, so Billy overbalanced back onto one elbow. Steve snickered, climbing on top of him. Billy stared up at the sleep-ruffled royalty above him. “So you’re saying you’re not busy,” Steve whispered. “Today.”

“...I think I can make some room in my schedule,” Billy said, his voice cracking as Steve clambered backwards, and licked his lips. In true Disney fashion, as Steve lowered his mouth to Billy’s suddenly painfully-hard dick, Billy felt the urge to burst into song.

Billy came home with two bags of takeout—according to His Highness Steven Harringrove, it was fun to pick things out for your date’s little sister—and a floaty feeling. “Think I’m in a fucking musical,” he told Max, who snorted.

“He give you a pile of cash again?” she asked, leaning in to give him a good set of sniffs.

“...the fuck are you doing?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“...you don’t smell drunk or high,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not always drunk or high,” he told her, stung, but she rolled her eyes, grabbing the takeout when he tried to turn around and take it back down the stairs.

“You walked in with a dopey grin on your face and said you were in a musical,” she told him, rooting through the containers, and then crossing her arms. “The hell’s going on? Seriously.”

“I just went on a date,” he growled, leaving out that Steve was a fare, a prince, a character in a Disney movie, and a wedding escapee, besides living on another continent and probably already forgetting Billy’s name.

“...yeah huh,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Food this time? Your ass getting cheaper?”

“He is not paying me for sex,” Billy hissed, dropping into a chair. “Fuck you, I can date.”

“Yeah, huh,” she said again, slurping the room-temperature noodles. “That what it’s called now?”

“We went to a movie,” he growled, proud. “And it—it wasn’t his mom’s couch, either, we went to a theater.”

“You’re fo fad,” she said with her mouth full of noodles, and her eyes full of pity.

“It’s not sad!” Billy threw one of the washed Starburst candies at her. “Last night we went bowling!”

“...he’s a fare?!” she pointed her disposable chopsticks at him. “Billy!”

“It’s not weird!” he told the table, slumping to drop his forehead against it. “I mean. It is, it’s super fucking weird—” he stopped at Max’s annoyed grunt, then sighed. “He’s really—he’s so goddamn nice, Max. He’s really nice.”

“...huh,” she said, clambering up to sit on the table, and kicking his knee. “...shit sounds hinky.”

“It does, right,” Billy groaned. “Fucking ...sweet to me, nobody’s—I’m not—”

“...just because you meet shitty people,” she said, kicking him again. “Fine if he’s nice, okay, but you tell me if he’s not.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Billy asked, rolling his head on the table to grin up at her.

“I’ll put Ex-Lax in his food, so help me god,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “He’ll shit his organs out, okay—”

“Whoa,” Billy snorted against the table, laughing.

“He makes you this happy, okay,” she said, waving her fork at him, with a baby corn on it. “If he fucks you over after this?! He’s—he’s even worse than usual.”

“Okay,” he sighed, wishing he wasn’t so obvious. The cool table felt good against his hot face.

That night, Max stared as he remembered the plastic orbs from the quarter machines at the theater, and pulled them out of his pockets and his backpack. She took one, and stared at the little Minecraft figure, and the little rubber bouncy balls.

“...what the fuck,” she said, taking one from the pile, as they rolled off the coffee table and around the floor.

“He’s a pinata,” Billy told her. “I fuck him and toys fall out his—”

“Oh my god,” she yelled, smacking him with a pillow in each hand. “AUUUGH.” Billy snapped pictures of her fury through his bedroom door, and texted them to his prince.

The next day, Billy checked to see whether he needed to pick up another fare, and then clicked back to the ringing alert, where “unknown number” flashed. He bit his lip, considering, then answered. “Hargrove,” he said.

“Hey,” came a quiet voice, and he almost threw his coffee in the air and over his entire self. “I, uh. I’m not in America anymore.”

Billy shut his eyes, feeling his stomach fall like the world had stopped spinning, and remembering he was an idiot. He actually felt nauseous, he realized, and laughed silently into his hand.

“Billy?” came Steve’s voice, cutting out a little.

“Yeah,” Billy said quickly. “Okay. Sorry I—sorry if I made you feel like you had to call.”

“No, no, I don’t—I didn’t mean—I want to see you again,” said his prince, and Billy took a deep startled breath, holding the phone with both hands like it was going to get away.

“What—you—you want to video chat? With me?” Billy’s heart pounded. You could watch me strip off my clothes, he didn’t say, but he felt his dick twitch, imagining Steve telling him to strip faster, or lean closer to the camera. You could tell me how fast to jack myself. You could tell me to do...lots of things. “You c-could, uh. You could show me around your place.”

Steve laughed, startled. “Wha—no! No, I mean, yes, yeah, I can show you my—my hotel here, if you want? Nancy’s getting married, I’m Man of Honor—but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I have—I have family there, that’s why I was in town. And I want to see you.”

“You’re coming back,” Billy breathed, letting his head thud back against the headrest. “H-how—um, how long for? Do you—do you think—” He held back ‘Can you tell me when,’ and ‘I could get a few days off’, thinking Like I could afford that, and ‘You could stay with me’, because Max would murder him if he brought some stranger home, and also the ruler of a country didn’t want to sleep on Billy’s saggy couch, with Max and Billy packing lunches and watching bad daytime soaps over his head.

The idea made Billy’s internal organs lean towards it somehow, longingly, and he shook off the thought of getting up to piss in the middle of the night, finding Steve’s long legs hanging over the edge of the couch in expensive pajamas, and pressing a kiss to his bony exposed ankle before tucking him back in. I’ll be lucky if I get another night, he told himself. “I—I could drive you around. If you don’t, uh, if you don’t already—you probably have a driver—”

Steve’s voice sounded like he was smiling. “We can see how it works out. I think there are some rules for, y’know, security. But yeah. Think about what you want to do. I can probably come up with some more bad ideas about ditching them—”

“We’re not doing that,” Billy said flatly. “I’m not gonna be in some famous assassination video on Youtube because I drove you around and your head got blown off,” he hissed, and Steve laughed.

“Okay, maybe just some bad ideas for dates then. You can fall asleep on my shoulder again.”

“You asking me out on a shitty date, your highness?” Billy asked, and Steve snorted a self-directed laugh. “Hey,” Billy said. “I’ll say yes.”

“God,” Steve whispered. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Billy curled around his phone, grinning at his own knees. “‘Course.”

Billy stayed in the next Friday night, ignoring Max’s curious glances. “You gaming tonight?” he finally asked, and her lips thinned.

“Why.”

“Thought I might not go out,” Billy said, raising his eyebrows, “—but if you want me out of your hair—”

“No!” she bit out, glaring, the way she did when something caught her wrong-footed. “No, that’s—that’s fine. You...you gonna fall asleep, or…?”

“You wanna do something?” he asked, and she shrugged, watching his face closely.

He was watching her try to finish off a boss with some glowing hammer thing, her fingers clicking across the controller as she leaned back and forth, glowering at the screen, when his phone rang. “Yellow,” he said, his voice a little slurred.

“...you drunk, babe?” Steve asked, and Billy laughed, curling up around his phone.

He glanced at the empty cans on the table. “A little,” he said. “That okay?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said softly, but he sounded amused. “Are you safe? Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Billy told him, sighing fondly. “M’good. Miss you.”

“Oh my god,” Max growled. “Shut up, you’re disgusting.”

“Is that Max?” Steve asked, his voice still unusually warm, like he was smiling.

“Yeah,” Billy nodded, then remembered Steve couldn’t see him. “She’s showing me a video game.”

“Ahhh,” Steve laughed. “Did she drive you to drink?”

“It’s not a school night,” Billy rattled off, watching Max try to kill the monster-thing for the sixth time. She was growling under her breath. “I can drink on Friday nights, ‘long as it’s after work, and I’m not, y’know, driving.” Max’s shoulder thumped against Billy as she leaned, waving the controller, her eyes narrowed, and he laughed. “An’ if it’s not too much, y’know.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “That’s why you had to tell her I was buying root beers. At the bowling alley.”

“Yeah,” Billy sighed. “I’m contract—contra—I contracted obligations.”

“Oh dear,” Steve laughed. “Darn.”

“Don’ call the name of my dick in vain,” Billy told him, and Max choked, swore, and the screen filled with the words ‘RELOAD GAME?’

“You bastard,” she whispered, glaring over.

“I want to kiss you,” Steve said conversationally, and Billy buried his face in the couch, moaning as his prince talked. “You sound happy.”

“My prince called,” Billy mumbled, and Max yelled incoherently at the ceiling, and stomped off to the kitchen. He could hear her slamming the cupboards around, and crumpling something plastic. “You wan’ me to strip?”

“...do you want to?” Steve asked, and Billy nodded.

“...I nodded,” he said.

“Want to show me your room?” Steve asked, softly, and Billy sighed.

“Goin’ in my room, Max,” he called, and she shouted back “THANK CHRIST.”

[j2madhatters]

Why Padalecki marriage annoys me - non Tinhat perspective

I can safely say that never before has a marriage annoyed me as much as the Padalecki marriage.  Even the Ackles’ behavior is reasonable.  They don’t kiss and make out public because Jensen is not an exhibitionist sort.  I have never respect PDAs.  In my opinion, it is inappropriate.  But remember, I am not a tinhat so you can draw your own conclusions about why the Ackles don’t “display” their love in public.  There is nothing wrong with theorizing. 

Genevieve, and Jared [when he is in husband mode] just irritate me.  They oversell it.  In the beginning, I thought she was so lucky to have a husband like him.  He is so beautiful.  He’s so sensitive.  He earns well.  He is respected in his field.  Plus he cried on their wedding day.  How beautiful is that?  For years afterwards, he would gush over her during his panels.  At first, I smirked, then I became poker faced, then I became mildly annoyed and then one day [I even remember the panel] it just got too noticeably exhibitionist.  It was the last question.  Timothy Omundson was called on stage, pretending to be the last question.  And he comically fangirled uncontrollably before perching himself on the designated chair.  His question was “who is your favourite guest star, and why is it Timothy Omundsom?’‘  It was a funny question, and Jensen went with it, saying that he was a fan of Omundson’s beard, which caused Robbie to throw a faux hissy fit because he had a beard too, darn it.  But Jensen pointed out that his beard was pathetic because it was short and he couldn’t braid it.  After the laugh fest, Jared gave his answer:  ’'My favorite guest star is Gen, because she’s my wife and the mother of my children”. 

For some reason, that is pissed me right off.  It was a funny question.  It didn’t warrant a serious, gushy husband reply.  Some witless creature made a mistake of pointing this out, in the comment section.  The entire page converged on her.  Even people who had initially agreed with her, backtracked.  I felt angry at this fandom's self-censoring.  I realized she was over loved, not because of any personal merit, but because she married Jared.  They were calling her a queen.  Seriously?  A queen.  For what?  So I went on the internet to see if I was the only weird person who couldn’t detect her monarchical merits. 

That was last year-ish.  How do you think I stumbled onto tinhats.  I like most hats because it seems they don't conform to the politically correct norm of ’'treat the wives like gold’’.  And they don’t ask tinhat questions during panels.  Unlike the leeches who love destiel and Misha Collins.  Jared was becoming too extra when it came to Genevieve.  And I noticed he inserted an obligatory Gen mention at least once, in every single panel.  Even after seven years, he was far too “in love”.  And eventually, instead of being happy for their happiness, I started feel like they were rubbing their domestic bliss in everyone’s face.  “look at what we’ve got, nyah nyah nyah.’'  My polite and genuine [but not over the top] respect for their marriage dissipated.

You know who he reminded me off.  He reminded me of Tom Cruise when he was a guest on Oprah and was over pushing the epic love he had for Katie Holmes, jumping on the couch and fist pumping the air.  That incident, I found humorous and embarrassing.  This was plain irritating.  I noticed he’s slowed down now.  The unnecessary wife mentions sometimes don’t even make an appearance, for which I am thankful.  I wonder why though.  Unless he is telling a story that she is a part of, like the Highway story, he doesn’t mention her anymore.  My non tinhat guess is that he was aware that fans were getting pissed off, especially since, he had mentioned something about her in a panel recently [I don’t remember which one], and someone in the front row said:  We know! 

Another thing I don’t like about this relationship is Genevieve intruding on fan space.  If people are paying bucket loads to see their favorite actor, unless they specifically ask for a guest appearance by the actor’s wife, don’t intrude.  Once, Genevieve appeared on stage, during a J2 panel, to contribute something unnecessary to the story they were recounting.  I think it was the highway story.  Then she made sure she kissed him before leaving, while the crowd watched.  Why?  She added nothing fresh to the story, and couldn’t she wait to leave the stage, to kiss her husband.  She isn’t paying to see her husband.  The fans are.  Don’t take that precious time away from them. 

And I noticed, she usually sits at the side of the stage, overseeing the whole exchange.  As far as I know, Danneel hasn’t done that yet.  Why the need to loom over the proceedings?  Does she love to hear him talk?  That reminds me of the livestream they did, where he was talking and she mouthed ’'blah blah blah’' while making a mocking hand gesture, because apparently he was talking too much.  So obviously Jared’s yammering doesn’t entertain her.  

Then at Jib, she got to join the panel.  I didn’t fault her for attending because apparently the previous year, he had gotten sick and didn’t make the con.  I assumed she was there for moral support.  I am a non hatter so that is my analysis.  You cant of course, explain your perspective.  But that doesn’t mean she needs to be on stage.  For what?  Its not like she did something spectacular whilst there.  Rob, Rich and Jared had to take over the discussion because she was so dull.  Eventually even Jensen joined in, revved the crowd up even further, and left.  One of her fan girls complained that the boys ’'didn’t even let her speak”.  Thank goodness they didn’t.  

She is inserting herself between Jared and the fan, and now people are forced to be enthusiastic about her.  Its so unfair.  It almost seems like Genevieve wants shared custody of the fans.  That is not how fame works.  You earn it.  You don’t inherit it.  I started to get more and more annoyed with being forced, [by all of fandom, I thought] to go crazy over some woman, I could care less for.  She wasn’t impressive as fake Ruby.  And I was not the only one who thought so.  Cassidy was a bland actor, in my humble opinion.  Genevieve was worse. 

The only reason she didn’t fade into oblivion, like all the other female actors, is because she married Jared.  There was a blog called anti-Genevieve on Tumblr, that received a lawyers letter to cease and desist, because of defamation of character.  Its her right to safeguard her reputation, so no problem there, especially if the blog is over malicious without proof or facts.  I did visit the site.  But I don’t remember seeing anything horrible other than her being called a beard.  But it has been a while so maybe I just forgot.  

However,  there is another blog called Supernatural Snark.  Almost the entire blog bashes Jared for everything that comes out of his mouth.  One day, an ask about Jensen’s weird behavior at Jibcon, illicited an odd response from the blogger.  The asker said that Jensen’s breakdown was Misha, Jared and the destiheller’s fault because Misha queerbaits his fans, Jared teases destiel and the fans abused Jensen on Twitter after Jaxcon.  She said Jensen was trying to pacify the fans.  The blogger said that it didn’t make sense for Jensen to wait six months to pacify the fans.  Then she disabled the comment so the asker couldn’t respond.  Of course, even I know he waited six months, because he shares no other panel with Misha.  That’s when I realized that Supernatural Snark is a heller blog. 

How come Genevieve doesn’t send a cease and desist lawyer’s letter to this witch.  I think I know why.  She only looked for anti stuff about herself on the net and that’s how she found this page.  If she was looking for anti Jared blogs, she would have found Supernatural Snark.  The Minute Maid commercial and her words in it were a little incentive.  She said she was making so many sacrifices.  Well missy, bundle up your babies and buzz off to Vancouver.  You husband is not gone off to war.  You are sacrificing nothing. 

She doesn’t seem to care for him.  She doesn’t care about his campaign.  She never tags AFK for anything.  She tags Random Acts, though.  The thing that makes my blood boil, on a personal level, is that she claims that she also suffers from depression.  As a bipolar sufferer myself, the one trend I noticed is that when people are impatient with me, and I point out that I have bipolar disorder, they quickly say that they also suffer from depression, so they don’t look bad.  Since when does she have depression.  Because if she did, she wouldn’t ignore her husband’s campaign that is supposed to help people like her.  Is she sharing in her husband’s sympathy the same way she is sharing his fame? 

She has diehard fans on Instagram.  One of them is Ivana.  Ivana gushily asked Genevieve to sign her name so that Ivana could have it tattooed.  I was surprised.  When did Gen become a rockstar?  Then I realized that Ivana has her own SM page where she says she is ITK and best buds with Genevieve.  So she knows that Jared abuses his wife and neglects his children.  Ivana is a heller.  Her best friend Lua James [@Poptivist on Twitter], led a smear campaign against J2 for the Nolacon joke.  Her followers are the ones that made this problem reach MSM.  And J2 had to apologize, publicly, for nothing.  That is ok, because what Lua and gang were initially hoping for was for separates for the boys' panels, so that Jared wouldn’t be near Jensen.  Genevieve is making herself the whip with which hellers can beat Jared.

And both Ivana and Lua cornered Danneel at one con to tell her how everyone hated her, except them.  That was their snide contribution to tinhat hate.  Danneel signed Poptivist’s SPN magazine, with the caption:  “He is mine, bitches”… something inappropriate like that.  Danneel was wrong for writing that.  I noticed she fights with Jensen’s fans a lot.  Ungracious.  Lua is so toxic that she needs a guard at the cons, supplied by Creation to keep an eye on her.  WTF!!!  I always wondered why she wasn’t just excluded, but I think it’s because she is friends with a Creation staff member who also happens to be Misha’s relative.  And because she is a Misha fan girl, she gets to stay. 

That’s why Misha’s face appears on the main posters with J2, despite him not being a lead.  Because he is related to staff.    The wives have no fans, but I think Genevieve’s ego is in denial.  Her intellect isn’t, which is why Jared’s appears in her vlogs.  He is the deal sealer for her.  One day this pompousness is going to backfire on Gen.  I hope she figures that out one day. 

APOLOGIES FOR ANOTHER LONG POST.  I HOPE YOU DONT MIND.

Thank you for your submission, I’ve always wondered what non-hats make of the OTT parade and the wife stanning.

[floggingink]

Riverdale, “Chapter Thirty-Eight: As Above, So Below”

Day At Least Seven Solitary Coif: struggling

Alice’s thigh: stunning

Sexy, aesthetic Southside: FP’s jellybean tattoo: incredibly, tenderly sad

Certified pedigree: “I’m glad the Farm opened you up to the possibility of us”: either Alice thought about this to herself, or she (absolutely) asked the rest of her cult what they thought. what they THOUGHT about her sleeping with FP again. “What d’you think, girls?” Alice wine clubbed FP Jones’s dick!

who has more game, FP or Jughead? FP a) is a grown man, b) is oftentimes gainfully employed (I’ve forgotten if he’s employed right now), c) is strong enough to carry a high school boy out of the woods, d) was VERY smooth with his seemingly instinctual “Then don’t. Tell him,” e) did that thing where he took the gum out of his mouth when Alice came to his trailer, and f) looked pretty good in his crisp Pop’s uniform when he was employed at Pop’s. however FP also a) tends to drink when not employed and b) is fucking obsessed with Toledo, a town I will burn to the ground if I ever set foot in it. meanwhile, Jughead a) climbed up a fucking ladder to Betty’s bedroom, b) ABSOLUTELY KILLED IT when he and Betty almost fucked each other in the kitchen, c) KILLED IT AND BURIED IT in the moments before fucking her on the couch when he was all, “Or you could stay,” and fucking touched her dress like she was an angel of the Lord and he was just a humble shepherd boy whose eyes were not worthy to gaze upon her countenance, d) only strategically removes his hat, and e) rides a motorcycle. the hat is not a con, necessarily, and being a writer in high school is a cross some of us simply have to bear, but he is like, kind of a pain sometimes and a little squirrelly, but w/r/t the love of his life, he has tailored himself to her every need almost perfectly

OH AND I FORGOT WHEN HE KISSED HER SCABBY BLOOD KNUCKLES! OH SHIT!

Veronica has the most game on the entire show

I like when they have Jughead use words like “modicum”

“Ben’s death haunts me, Jug. He didn’t scream. Why not, I wonder?”: writing credits this episode go to Daphne de Maurier

YYEEEAAAAAHHH THE BLUE & GOLD CRIME BOARD BABY

I would almost expect something more from the warden’s tie, except that I know plain clothing is, in and of itself, a warning sign

anything that gets Veronica in her reading glasses is okay by me, and this includes Pop’s hemorrhaging money

Jughead can wear just a T-shirt sans jacket or flannel any old time he wants, I’m just putting that vibe out there

“Of course we’re calling it a speakeasy.”

Jug’s suspender game is strong, so really Betty should know she has nothing to worry about

his stupid dumb round face looking at her when she pulls him aside is pretty. remember when he kissed her hands? fucking Jughead sometimes, dude

“Evelyn...creeps me out.”

I like Betty’s overalls and Evelyn’s romper thing

what I expected when Kevin dialed the phone was for the whole booth to sink into the basement like a surprise elevator

Kander and Ebb wrote the music to, among much else, Cabaret and Chicago, those being some of their most gay

I LOVE VERONICA’S WHITE SHIRT. IT’S JUST A FUCKING PLAIN WHITE SHIRT, SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL

Every triangle has three corners, every triangle has three sides: is there some heat between Veronica and Reggie? am I crazy?

the foursome of Reg, Ronnie, Josie, and Kev is basically just as strong as the cour four strictly in terms of hair

I don’t know that I like Penny’s sleeveless Ghoulies vest more than her leather Serpents jacket but I do know I like it at least the same amount (oodles)

Fwoopy hair is the best hair: Day One Lifted Bag Off Head Hair: GREAT

OH MY GOD, JOAQUIN!!!! WHEN WILL JOAQUIN REST. DOES EVERY TERRIBLE THING HAVE TO HAPPEN TO JOAQUIN BEFORE IT HAPPENS TO SOMEONE ELSE. IS JOAQUIN IN THE FARM

does Archie have a scar on his head? is it KJ’s? have I lost track of something?

Gay?!: BABY TEETH is an absolute twink and he was tapped to save his life

I’m suspicious of Peter because his name is, simply, “Peter”

Gay.: Cheryl and Toni are just like lounging in a single chair together and that’s the bisexual agenda

Veronica was rich: Veronica’s heavy card stock IS very nice

Ethel’s cute yellow cardigan is back, which matches her thermos and lunchbox

I enjoyed when Betty sits down and you think she’s going to apologize for being there at Ben’s death but instead she just fucking grills Ethel some more

“...G&G.”

OOOOOOHHHHHHH JUGHEAD’S TURNING IT ON WITH THAT PRINCESS SHIT

Please protect Betty: Betty’s entire expression at being told she’s “not worthy,” God bless her

The female gaze: I don’t know why Reggie’s shirt is off. probably Reggie doesn’t even know

Reggie’s panicked JJ face is one of the top five panicked faces of all time. he’s tied at least with the girl in Jurassic Park when she sees the raptor shadow and her hand holding that green Jell-O starts shaking

Minetta doesn’t even pretend he’s looking for something other than whatever was in those boxes. cold, Minetta

REGGIE’S SALUTE

Reg simply being aware that Minetta and the Ghoulies work for Hiram almost brings me to tears. not only is he a walking sculpture with a pair of lips that would make Sarah Steller throw herself off the Hoover Dam, but he is also a genius

VERONICA IS SO BEAUTIFUL. “Not until I’m properly armed.” just look at her!

Ethel didn’t even come to the first meeting of the Farm Club? cold, Ethel

Evelyn offering Betty a pizza slice comes off as her genuinely wanting Betty to have a piece of pizza if she wants, which is the first non-creepy thing she’s done (Jughead would take the pizza)

she of course follows this up with “that darn medication”

Archie looks like a corpse in the blue light

tell me “wakey, wakey” is a Kill Bill reference. TELL ME IT IS

the guy they have fighting Archie looks just enough like Khabib Nurmagomedov that I was like, is this an unconscious wish on someone’s part to do a rematch of red-haired McGregor vs. Khabib except it’s on Riverdale so it’s in something called “the Pit” which is a drained swimming pool and they’re in juvie? (it’d have to be a fantasy in that Conor McGregor would get his ass beaten by Khabib Nurmagomedov in any rematch in any universe, in the universe)

dude does his best but, as Sweet Pea and Vintage Reggie can tell you, you cannot let Archie land a) a right hook or b) an uppercut or he will end this fight

who’re the rando white women watching? their fucking wives? goddammit, white women

I think Baby Teeth could take Reggie jawline-to-jawline

Veronica’s kittenish heels sinking into the dirt as opposed to her striding effortlessly as Moses parting the Red Sea

Cheryl’s a chaos angel from hell: “THAT VIPER BITCH”

Antoinette Topaz is fluent in many languages, including Veronica’s

God bless jingle-jangle: the fucking cat burglar sequence set to “Jingle Jangle” just about fucking did it

Ethel’s candle game is reaching midnight mass-levels of mastery

so did Betty and Jughead get their ad hoc sex den (good band name) out of the bunker before Ethel got there? or was it there the whole time but for Ben and Ethel?

I feel I want to write down that Ben abandoned Ethel to ascend prematurely with Dilton otherwise I’ll forget and will be tricked by something later on

POLLY’S KNITTED HALTER

closed captioning capitalized the Shady Man, the second strangest Riverdale skull

Alice really just did Betty like that! maybe Betty DOES need to live in a bunker

50 Shades of Betty: “The wig. The webcaming.”

I love how Betty always gets very sarcastically OH, OKAY THEN when she decides to start laying out some truths

Alice stands up and her dress has some sort of insane asymmetrical hemline and she’s also got an ankle bracelet!!!!!!

Dilton Doiley Ethel Muggs is a canonically great dancer the DM: Ethel’s little crush on Jughead circa his birthday party has not abated. even when he was being insane about the Serpents I bet she entertained sweet fantasies of buying a pleather jacket off ModCloth and Jughead “inducting” her. so she found herself a coterie of pliable boys who were also gangly and weird and obsessed with details and pacts and she became their princess. so THERE. you fucking bet she’s gonna get a kiss out of Jughead before she fucking poisons herself

Ethel’s dungeon master voice is giving me a sort of ASMR vibe

I don’t want to veer too wildly but she is wearing a crown, her character has “a crown”

dog, was she about to kill Jughead right then and there? Ethel goes hard. Ethel might go harder than Jughead

“You’re asking me to play Russian roulette!” “I’m asking you to play Gryphons and Gargoyles.” THIS BITCH (in context it’s very smooth and bitchy)

GOD BUT JUGHEAD DID DRINK IT. VERY WELL KNOWINGLY, HE DID IT

Jughead eats: Salud is just the sort of thing I’d expect Jug to say before maybe drinking cyanide (or skol, if he had been watching Ingmar Bergman)

I don’t know if I could drink that much Kool-Aid that fast. Kool-Aid and Sunny D always made my teeth feel filmy. I could definitely down that much Capri Sun, if it were in a pouch the size of my shin

anyway Ethel’s sick move telling Jughead he has to kiss her first got an emotional reaction from me at almost the level of when Cheryl came down to Jason’s wake in that white dress

Jughead and Ethel are almost of a height, which is weirdly lovely

These students are legally children: maybe Ethel put the poison in after Jughead had chosen. I maybe doubt she would’ve just fucking assassinated Jughead

Jughead was reading next to her when she woke up, which is just a specific kind of daydream you have, sometimes

Sixth period is Intro to Film: HEISENBURG

Toni’s pictures are certainly shot with a mind to lighting, depth

is blue light the light of evil? Hiram’s study, the warden’s office?

Archie > Dawson: of course Archie imagines talking to his father and of course he imagines his father telling him to “take one.” I love Self-Sacrificial Lamb Archie (or just momentarily self-sacrificing). better than Fascist Archie!

well, Betty’s room has blue light too. fucking forget it then

although she is SURROUNDED BY EVIL at all times

Mädchen Amick, MÄDCHEN AMICK: “I trust them more than I trust you” is season one-level Alice-shade

Cheryl’s sheaths: I like very much Cheryl’s bosomy sequin thing and Toni’s back jewelry

I also like the RROTC boys in their like WWII uniforms, which may be anachronistic but still hard vintage, and the cigar girls

Jughead doubts it: there’s so much going on when Betty goes all melty and wipes some of the Fresh-Aid off Jug’s lips and Jug, who is not smiling, looks at Sweet Pea helping Veronica

Best costume bit: Veronica is in magenta, because I deserve it

I can’t wholly endorse Reggie’s non-black plaid trousers paired with a solid black blazer but I CAN endorse Reggie as a whole

Cheryl’s Hiram’s pins: I think Hiram has a fucking octopus pin! I think it is!!!!!!!!

the wallpaper behind Hiram downstairs is...interesting. it’s like a cutout from that Disney cartoon for “Winter Wonderland”

we stay on Veronica’s face for sort of an extra beat, so I can confirm a) she’s still beautiful and b) she has a sparkly thing in her hair

The 2001 Josie and the Pussycats movie was a masterpiece: Josie’s got that thing going on where you gem up the part in your hair

God I love a good Riverdale music/mayhem montage. like what were they playing when Jughead ran the gauntlet? fuck sometimes this stuff is just still so good (“Mess Around” when Reggie lunged for Jughead also counts, though not performed live somewhere else in Riverdale at the same moment)

“Anything Goes” is in fact not Kander and Ebb but Cole Porter

I’ve seen Brick like thirty times: I love a good bead of bloody spit dangling from someone’s mouth during a slow-mo fight sequence

I’m writing a scene where it’s gay.: “THAT KID…..IS A STAR.”

that fucking rum, can you believe it? the fucking shade of it all

Fifth period is AP English: OH MY GOD. THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. OH MY GOD, THE FUCKING HAMMER. THE COUNT OF MONTE MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMN YES GOD HOLY BITCH

“Damn good coffee”: the goddamn shot of FP and Alice standing together flanked by the flames of their righteous destruction of the G&G manual

Summer + Blair = Veronica: Veronica is pretty fucking brave to still be living in Hiram Lodge’s HOUSE. and of course that’s what her dressing gown looks like

oh my god, Joaquin is still alive? Joaquin’s STILL HERE?

ARCHIE’S GONNA BREAK OUT OF PRISON AND I MUST CLEANSE MYSELF OF SIN TO BE WORTHY OF ITS GLORY (I trust Riverdale a lot more again at the moment)

so wait, Jughead put the cot BACK? are these two different bunkers? is it the same effing bunker???

“It’s over”: you fucking fool

yes, it’s the same goddamn bunker. the candles are still there! I guess I thought the wicked juju from Ethel’s ~SUICIDE ATTEMPT~ would deter the two of them from FUCKING IN THE EXACT SAME BUNKER but Betty and Jughead literally do not give a single damn where they do it

Jug’s headphones!!!!!!!!!

Cheryl’s expression at reading the G&G manual is appropriately be-Blossomed

The Blossom spawn: she still has a photo of Jason in her locker and I think a sticker that says “Literally no one cares”

What damn high school in America: those manuals have a QR code on the back, so you can play on your phone! GIVE ME THE APP, RAS

who unsheathed Ethel? LORD, WHO LET HER LOOSE?

GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

NEXT WEEK: Camila Mendes wears glasses the entire time

[maraudergirls]

12 Days Of Falling In Love ( Harry x Hermione )

Merry Christmas @hermione-who ! We love you so much and we hope you enjoy this fic of ours. 

read on ao3 now? 

On the right side of the fence where Santa and His Jolly Elves are singing their carols, a majestic pine tree has been planted in a corner. Plastic reindeers circle it, stiff in their pause that suggests they are probably dancing. The one with a red nose is nudging a pile of kaleidoscopic, sparkling card boxes.

The row of heavily decorated backyards extends itself infinitely, along Puddifoot Street. Some feature three feet tall angels holding out bowls of candies -- that must undoubtedly be real --, other have a miniature, feisty city that takes half of their space. Red, green, and gold colors are everywhere, sprinkled with snow from yesterday night’s fall. There are even some Santas hanging from gutters, or half-stuck in chimneys.

A loud whistling sound calls Hermione back to her kitchen, and she is glad to tear her stare away from the scene.

If asked about herself, Hermione would say there is not much to say.

She works at an elementary school where most of the kids ignore her, except when they need to go to the bathroom and have to raise their hands to get permission. Her fellow professors, which are more experienced -- a professional way to say old as mummies -- tend to avoid her too, except when favors need to be granted.  

She has lost contact with her university friends after moving to the south, and has struggled for a time to find other mates, before abandoning the hope on behalf of her job. Getting up at six and leaving your workplace at seven in the afternoon doesn’t really leave you any time to do anything.

The only reason she actually likes Durmstrang Elementary School is the Christmas break. It starts on December 13th, for no other reason than the institution’s tradition of sending everybody home for the twelve days before Yule.

A thick column of vapor rises from the beak of the kettle, and Hermione pours the boiling water in the color washed teapot with a hum of approval.

Her kitchen, like the rest of the house, is bare, empty of decorations.

She doesn’t hate Christmas.

She has some amazing memories of eggnog evenings with her father, or of opening the Advent Calendar with her mother. Winter was her favorite time, as a child.

She mechanically walks toward her desk, in an angle of the living room, and puts her steaming cup down. Rolling her sleeves up her wrists, she tucks her tongue out, looking for the bookmark she set yesterday. And ends up irritating herself.

With her bad habit of falling asleep on her documents, she never remembers what her bookmark looks like, let along in what book she puts it.

“I know you're here somewhere,” she whispers, turning her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual in her hands.

Outside, the wind flirts with the naked branches, swooping over the fresh snow to carry its coolness under the doors and in the little cavities of the houses. The road is quiet, respectful of the concentration that the woman needs to-

Wait.

The road is not quiet.

A light laughter spreads itself over the fences that delimit the perfectly aligned gardens, and reaches Hermione's ears. So used to live in total silence during Christmas break, she's taken aback by the simple sound of it.

Except for the Lupin family, which owns the house right next to hers, nobody has children at home at this time of the year. And, every Christmas break, the Lupins send their Teddy -- who’s enrolled in the same school where Hermione works -- to Center London, to spend the first part of the holidays with his godfather.

Hermione stretches her ear, but the laughter has vanished. Maybe she just daydreamed about it. After all, her last class was only yesterday.

She gets back at fighting with her pile of books.

Studying is her way to get out of reality, to forget the world around. It used to be reading, before. She loved when Aunt Marjorie took the time, at the end of her day, to go through a couple of fairytale chapters with her. She would do se when her parents were too busy to come home before she went to bed. She used to love those moments, those stories.  

But she has grown up. Tales of princes on their white horses and fighter princesses are over for her. Getting her Psychology degree is her main goal at the moment.

She has always dreamed of opening her own studio, to help kids who struggle with familiar issues. She has seen so many. Has been one herself.  

The few people with whom she still has some interactions have told her countless times that, unless she becomes a mother, it will be impossible for her to understand the intricate reasonings of families.

That’s bullshit.

Women do not have to have children to be useful.  

Plus, her classroom has become her field of observation, and she has gotten used to pre-teen mindsets.

Still, one point on which she agrees with those uninvited opinions is that she won’t be very skilled to treat couple problems, even after passing the exam. She absolutely has no experience on the matter.

“About darn time,” she mutters, finally getting a grip on the plastic wrapping that she stuck in the chapter 7 of Psychology of Women .

The title of page 164 reads: The Early Stages of Falling In Love .

A groan escapes her throat.  

Not the topic she wanted to work on today.

She grabs her cup of tea, resigning herself to today’s subject, but chokes on the liquid when a muffled thud echoes from her roof, followed by several others and loud shouting.

Definitely, Teddy hasn’t gone to Center London this year.

Ignoring the noise seems the best to do, but she has to give up after five minutes of trying.

The wooden floor, stiff because of the cool weather, creaks under her steps.

Pushing the curtains aside, she peeks at Puddifoot Street. Behind her empty flower pot, there is a coat of snow on the little alley that links her house to the next one, and some blurry people seem to get great advantage of it.

She had never witnessed Mr. Lupin playing with Teddy during winter. She had assumed that the man with scars like tattoos all over his face suffered from a rare health condition, preventing him from staying outside too long in a cold climate.

Pulling her woolen sleeve to the window, she erases the mist that gathered on the glass panel.

When the transparent surface is finally clean, she leans forward, but only has the time to catch a glimpse of a pair of glasses framing green eyes -- that most certainly don’t belong to Mr. Lupin -- before a loud crash makes her start.

The fragments of the pot that was resting on the window frame two seconds earlier are now decorating the concrete floor that borders the house, the only place not reached by the snow last night.

Shit. Aunt Marjorie’s pot.

With hurried steps, Hermione exits the warmness of her interior. The atmosphere attacks her through her light clothes, stinging her ribs with its icy claws. Wearing only slippers and a pajama under her sweater, she does not dare to kneel down, but her constatation of the disaster is still the same.

She feels a bit dizzy. Not because of the cold.

It was a horrible pot, heck yes. But her and Aunt Marjorie had had a good laugh when they had bought it. And this was what mattered.

She feels like crying, but the dryness of the air doesn’t allow her to.

Her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual would probably define her as slightly deranged because she’s mourning a flower pot.

Lost in her illogical reverie, she doesn’t hear the steps behind her, crushing the snow in a prudent cadence. She only gets out of her trance when something heavy falls on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione turns around, and the jacket that the boy had put on her back falls down. He bends to retrieve it, and shakes it before offering it again to her. “You’ll get one hell of a cold if you stay out here with barely a-”

His voice trails down, and Hermione suddenly remembers that she’s wearing pajamas bottom. She grabs the coat, and wraps herself in the hot leather, blushing madly. It’s a relief to feel the soft texture of faux-fur around on her neck.  

She looks up at the man, about to mutter a ‘thank you’, but his embarrassed expression is a reminder of why she’s outside while it’s below zero.

“You-”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He tries to scratch his neck, but his muffles make it awkward. Hermione could almost smile, but-  

“Blimey,” the boy whispers, noticing her chattering teeth. “You should get inside and have a hot chocola-”

“Yeah, I’ll do.”

He narrows his eyes a little, as if thinking that she’s not the type of girl that would make herself some hot chocolate.

“I- I was about to make some,” he adds. “And, I want to apologize for-” He gestures toward the reddish bits on the floor. “But make sure you decide quickly, because you’re about to turn into an ice cube.”

Hermione scrutinises him, his face, his green eyes that seem to send sparkles into the fizzy weather. She doesn’t know him. Where’s he from, first of all? He just materialized from thin air. The only thing she knows is that he was having a snowball fight with the Lupin child, two minutes ago.

The wind lifts some snow around them, and the tip of her nose seems to turn an awful blueish color.

Questions for later.

“Ok for the hot chocolate.”

xxx 

It’s weird, isn’t it?

Hermione, the plain-life psychology student and model teacher, drinking a hot Christmas beverage in the house of a stranger. And doing so while wearing pajamas.

“Remind me of your name?”

The guy is leaning backwards on the kitchen counter, cuping his mug with both hands. His glasses’ lenses are whitish, reflecting the cold light of the window. He observes her from behind them.

“I haven’t told you.”

He looks down. “Right.”

She doesn’t remember his, even if he told her.

He had opened the door of the house next to hers, letting her in before him.

Once inside, he had held his hand out, muttered his name and something like “we forgot to present each other properly,” but she had not paid much attention. Hurried steps had scuttled away on the floor above.

He had led her to the kitchen, and started breaking down some cocoa bars, almost suffocating in the awkward silence.

The only bit of conversation was the “here you are,” “thanks,” exchange of courtesy.

The breaking of Aunt Marjorie’s pot hit her hard, but now she forces herself to look at him with less resentful eyes.

She had already noticed his deep green eyes, but her stare trails on his fine traits, brown pigment, and messy hair. Something about his shyness makes him appear skinnier than he actually is: there is no way to ignore his broad shoulders after a second glance.

Common people would describe him as being very cute.

She sees him more as… interesting. 

“It’s Hermione.” 

Both of them look to the door. A frail, blue-haired kid is eyeing carefully from behind the frame. 

“What, buddy?” Interesting guy lays his cup on the table, and kneels down, so Teddy has to look down at him. 

“Her name,”  he points at her face. “Is Hermione.” 

Messy-hair looks up at Hermione with his intense stare. She hasn’t seen him smile yet, but she guesses that he terribly wants to. And finds herself wishing he would. 

For science’s sake, of course. 

“Your secret is revealed, I guess,” he says. 

For some reason, the kid’s presence makes her much less angry. Or is it Green-eyes’ dimple, which he’s finally showing with a wide grin? 

She shrugs, and can’t avoid to reflect his expression. “It was not a secret.” She takes a short sip of the hot drink, turning to Teddy. “So, Lupin, who’s the man who broke my pot?” 

And she nods toward Dimple-smile. 

Teddy’s mouth contracts in a grimace. After looking better at his hair, Hermione notices the purple points. She knew that the Lupins were- quite original, but she would have never guessed that… it would be at this level. 

“I broke the pot, Ms. Granger,” he admits, wrinkling his nose, as if he was gulping down something bitter. “But my godfather likes to take the blame for me.” 

Hermione’s lips part in surprise. She had always assumed that Teddy’s godfather was a 50-years-old greyish man, passionate about bridges, and with an enormous collection of old stamps and creased plaid shirts. Not somebody like Broad-shoulders. 

Not somebody as cu- interesting. 

“He takes the blame for you?” 

Teddy nods, recovering his mischievous expression. “Yeah, a lot. Especially if it’s an excuse to invite a pretty lady to dr-” 

“Do you want some cocoa, buddy?” 

Chocolate-skin, who had been silent until then, quickly rose, before his godson could finish the sentence. But the kid’s laughing eyes are enough for Hermione to get the whole meaning. 

Teddy shakes his head, and sprints out in the corridor. 

“Little pain in the neck,” the godfather whispers, before calling out, “Teddy, you forgot-” 

“Sorry, Ms. Granger!” shouts the kid, already halfway up the stairs. 

Then, he bursts in a wave of giggles, and his steps echo on the floor above.

Interesting-guy turns to Hermione, his face skin a darker shade of brown. 

Coffee, she thinks, is a beautiful shade. 

A cherub ‘awwws’ from a corner of her mind, but she shakes him away very quickly. 

“I guess your secret is uncovered now,” she teases. Her host looks very confused, as if fearing that she’d believed what his godson said. “About always covering up Teddy’s little mistakes.” 

“Oh! Er- yeah.” Relief can really be seen in histhe eyes , Hermione thinks. “Well, what’s the point of being a godfather, if not?” They smile together. “I’m- very sorry for your pot.”

For a second, she had forgotten about it. 

“Don’t worry,” she shrugs it away. “I can’t hide that I was very attached to it, but- it was just an object, right?” 

Green-eyes nods, and offers her an encouraging grin. “Do you want some more chocolate?” 

And, Hermione still wearing pajamas, and Messy-hair melting more nectar of Christmas, they resume their drinking, slowly getting deep in a conversation about anything and everything. 

 “Don’t you like the holiday?” 

Ugh. The question she dreaded. 

“It’s not-” The bottom of her cup, with its little grains of cocoa swimming in a puddle of brownish milk, suddenly seems very interesting. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” 

It’s just too hurtful. 

The man feels that the question makes her uneasy, but how can somebody not like Christmas? Maybe there is something he can do for her. “Your house is the only one empty of decorations on the street, and your sweater,” he points his spoon at the blue wool under his leather jacket, “Is obviously not Christmassy.” 

Even if she knows her old jersey by heart, Hermione still grabs the textile between two fingers, and frowns at it, “I don’t see what you can reproach to my sweater. It’s very good and warm-” 

“But it’s not Christmassy.” His spoon falls back inside his cup, sending drops of the beverage in the air like little fireworks. “Something needs to be done to fix that. And what about your front yard? I brought a lot of light garlands that we can’t use here, we’d overcharge the house. I can help you to-" 

“It’s very nice of you,” she stops him with a sigh, “But I don’t have time for mistletoes or golden ribbons in my living room. Plus, the only other organic form of life that would enjoy them is my cat, and he would throw everything to the floor anyway.” He’s about to reply, but she doesn’t let him. “Where are Teddy’s parents?” 

The green eyes twinkle with a special glint, the one that sparks up when somebody accepts a challenge. This topic’s conversation is over. But just for now. 

“They have gone to France for a few days, visiting Dora’s family. They’ll be back on the 17th.” 

It’s nice to celebrate with someone , thinks Hermione. But the thought is gone as quickly as it had manifested itself. A red light in her mind flashes: SWITCH TOPIC. 

“Is Teddy’s hair- bicolor?” 

To her hesitant question, Interesting-guy bursts in a loud laughter. 

“He just dyed it, two days ago, before his parents left.” He shrugs, lessening the importance of the action. “He wanted to look like his favorite character from this- wizarding book. And Dora’s quite young and open minded, you know. She dyed hers too, bubblegum pink.” 

It’s hard for Hermione to imagine her neighbour with a neon mane. “Did Mr. Lupin-?” 

The man has to spit his drink in the sink, coughing and laughing simultaneously. “Oh, that would the best gift I’d received in years. But unfortunately no, he hasn’t dyed his hair too.” 

Hermione would have found his behavior disgusting, in other circumstances, but she smiles. It’s true that imagining Mr. Lupin with green or red hair would let no one impassible.

A draught runs along Puddifoot Street, precipitating snow down from the roofs, shaking the windows, and moving the decorations in the backyards. The 24-carats-smile Santa is now facing the house number 34, also known as the Lupins house.

At Hermione’s home, the bookmark is still laying open on chapter 7 of Psychology of Women.

Chapter 2: Day 2

Her steaming cup of tea is patiently waiting between the pile of books and stack of revision papers, tempting her with its bitter-sweet smell. The street has been really quiet for the whole morning: not a sound, not a laughter to be heard. In other conditions, it would have been the dreamed setting for a day of study.

But Hermione is not really in the mood for sitting down. One of her fingers slides between the curtains, and pulls them apart, just enough for her eyes to fall on the outside.

Naked, sad, upsettingly grey. And empty.

She sighs.

The snow has melt down, leaving behind its characteristic muddy soil. There is not a soul to be seen, it’s still too early for --regular-- school vacations, and too impossible for-

Oh, honestly. What was she waiting for. It’s not as if this kind of distraction could happen everyday. Plus, it was just some civility between neighbours.

Still, what a c- interesting guy, that… What is his name again?

She had heard Teddy going on about his godfather for hours sometimes, at school, and now she can’t even identify him. Ugh. If she was used to complain, she would say it’s because Advanced Personality Psychology occupies too much of the available space in her mind.

She struggles to find bits of memory that could help her putting a name on the messy hair and cute dimple smile.

The dimple smile… It had captured her attention when he had said his name…

No. No. Not the smile. She was angry… And then, it was the chocolate. And she’s just very tired from her week of revisions. This is why she can’t remember his name.

Nothing else.

But when the doorbell rings, her heart jumps to her ears. It takes all her self-control to refrain from swinging the wooden panel open.

“Yes?” The chillness, so contrasting to her cosy inside, burns the point of her nose as her eyes meet a very green stare. “Oh, Harry…”

She remembers his name, actually. Minds can be quite tricky.

Her hands cling to the doorknob without her notice, her body hiding in the introvert security of her home. All she can do is lower her eyes, in a very embarrassed way.

And she can’t even explain why.

The man’s smile falters a little, his eyebrows bow slightly. “Er- Am I- Am I bothering you?”

“What?”

Boy, he could speak louder.

Well, she could be a little less distracted too.

“I-” He hesitates, taking a step back.

This is when she notices that he is hiding something from her vision. And that she has kept him waiting for a good minute in the cold weather.

“Oh, I’m really sorry! I’m such a terrible neighbour. Where do I leave my brain some days?. If I just- You should probably- Oh well, what a mess I am.” Her tone is full of clumsy apologies, which brings his side smile back. “Come inside, it’s freezing here.”

She opens the door widely, and the winter wind hits her comfortable living room meanly, causing a window shutter to slam in some place of the house.

Harry has the common sense to close the door, pushing it with his feet as he gladly steps inside, amused by her sudden awkwardness.

Meanwhile, Hermione is still releasing her little moment of embarrassment with a flow of words. “I just rarely receive visits, you know, and they are mostly from colleagues who bring more material, so I do not have any Christmas cookie in the oven. It must sound horrible to you, but I don’t even have milk to make some hot chocolate. You’ve been so nice to me yesterday, what are you going to think of me now th-”

His hand on her shoulder makes her start.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, his eyes anchored in hers. “I don’t think anything about you except that you seem very nice.”

His smile is warm like a summer breeze. On the spot where he touches her clothes, her skin seems to be melting under the soft grip.

Her muscles relax.

He doesn’t think she’s a cruel neighbor, so everything’s fine.

“And we can still fix the whole thing about the cookies,” he adds, pointing with his chin toward the kitchen’s open door.

Is he offering to cook with her? It would be a disaster, she can’t even tell a spatula from a spoon. If he let anything of it slip in front of Mrs. Lupin, the whole neighborhood would know about it.

Last thing she wants is to be reputed as an unfamous cooker.

“I- I don’t think it’s- The fact is-” She holds her breath, blushing a little. “I was actually going to study.”

That did sound rude.

Harry’s smile vanishes, his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you. I just thought- I don’t even know what I thought.”

He grins sheepishly, hoping that his delusion is not too noticeable. He takes a step back, when he remembers about the secret object behind his back. Bringing his hands forward, he reveals a pretty pottery with chirping birds and butterflies carved on its surface.

“That’s- I know it probably can’t make up for the emotional attachment,” Hermione stares at the earthy vase in amazement: there was a world between Aunt Marjorie’s horrible trinket and the gift that her neighbor was holding out to her. “But, well, we broke yours, yesterday. It only seemed fair to get you another one.”

She feels his eyes on her face, and grabs the pot, her fingers tracing the reliefs. The little bumps tickle her skin.

Harry faintly clears his throat. “I guess that I should go now. Leave you to your studies.”

The dimple on his right cheek attracts her attention. It definitely is a cute dimple, that shakes Hermione from her surprise, only to remember that she was being very disagreeable to him.

“Oh, wait!” She bites her lip. Thinks about her uselessness in a kitchen. He probably assumes that she’s quite skilled, and he’ll be very deceived when he’ll realize the contrary. “This is- This is very thoughtful. Thank you.”

Harry’s eyes recover a bit of their sparkles. “It was Teddy’s idea,” he shrugs.

Something in his fleeing stare makes Hermione smile. You can’t lie to a Psychology student. “Oh, you know, I’ve always considered Teddy an incredible boy,” she smiles. Harry grins, maybe convinced that his little lie worked out. Hermione suddenly feels a wave of sympathy rolling in her chest for the messy haired godfather of his turbulent neighbor. One of those waves that pushes you to consider stuff you’re reluctant to do. “You know, about the studying, it can wait. Cookies are crucial in Christm-”

A phone rings, cutting her sentence midway. The man drops his stare to his jacket pocket, and extracts his flashing device from it.

“Talking about the dev- angel,” he mutters, pressing the green button with a smirk. “Teddy! Did you burn the house down?”

Hermione internally laughs: she has lived too long next to the Lupins to discard this possibility. But any amusement disappears from her traits at Harry’s creased brow and doubtful humming.

“I get it, buddy. I’m coming over.” He hangs up, and she somehow dreads a bad news. “Teddy is not feeling very well. I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be able to study.”

He scratches his neck, and Hermione notices the muscles of his arms that stir his clothes. She becomes very conscious of the pot’s weight in her hands.

“Great,” she whispers, then bites her tongue. She had built up some courage for the cooking actually.

“Er- I’ll see you soon, then.”

With a few steps, he is out of the door.

The tea is now cold on the table, but Hermione doesn’t notice it. Not for a good fifteen minutes, during which she watches the ghost of his shadow on the door, and wonders when ‘soon’ will be.

Chapter 3

Hermione highlights a page of her textbook, murmuring the definition softly, hoping she’ll remember it. Memorizing has always been her strong suit, but when said mugging includs learning about a supposed theoretician who was absolutely barmy on several counts, she finds it ridiculous.

When she'll finally get a degree and have some status, she’ll make some serious changes in the psychology field.

 Huffing as her mind goes off track for the second time in a row, Hermione slaps herself. First, she had been thinking about the rare event of Harry stopping by, and now, she was thinking about her superiority over sexist researchers. Her eyes fall on the clock which announces she’s been dreaming for almost an hour.

“Focus. You’ve got this. Now, why do critics view statistical hypothesis testing as-” She’s cut off abruptly as the doorbell rings.

She can’t help it then; she groans. She severely doubts it can be Harry so it must be someone from work. Not expecting anyone, she’s tense as she walks to the door.

Peering through the whole, she lets out a breath of relief as she sees her neighbour, Harry. His eyes are cast upwards like he’s cursing the existence of Olympus, and there’s a hue of pink on his nose.

When she opens the door, it feels like deja-vu. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and stares at him expectantly.

"Hi!” He says loudly, wincing immediately. “Good morning.”

“Good morning….Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Harry shoves his shoes and trails after Hermione like a puppy. “I was wondering if you-if you liked the vase.”

It’s obvious that he wanted to ask her something else, but she eases herself on the chair across him. She tucks her feet closer to her body and lets it go. “Oh. I did. Thank you. You didn’t have to, honestly.”

“I did.” He replies immediately. “I’m glad you like it. Teddy helped pick it out. He was very sorry about the whole mess.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Hermione considers if she should offer him food or perhaps, a drink. When he coughs awkwardly, she snaps her gaze to him

“Er-” Harry begins, and then laughs breathily. “This is so uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Hermione's own surprise is mirrored on Harry’s face. “Your company is appreciated.”

“Right. Yours is too.” Harry stares at the room, face merging into shock. He does a double take, and Hermione almost laughs at the pure dread  he sports. It’s the face of a seer when the stars are aligned in a way she wished hadn’t occurred. “Please tell me there’s a Christmas tree somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t lying the other day.”

Harry smiles at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m used to being a huge fan of the season. I’m surprised other people are not. May I ask you something, though?”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t you miss celebrating the festival?” Harry asks cautiously, already regretting his question, worried that his stress on the issue might irk her.

“Not really.” Hermione shrugs. “I told you yesterday why and I don’t really have the spirit for it. Truth be told, I wish I did. My parents don’t know what a total Grinch I am.”

“It doesn’t need to be like that!” Harry pipes up. “I’ll help you get your Christmas spirit back. It’ll be my gift to you. Please?” he adds when she stills looks unconvinced.

“I don’t know.”

Hermione thinks about the statistics of the opportunity. It would be nice, she reflected, having a Christmas tree up for once. Maybe, the change of decor would help her study more efficiently. She quickly constructs a row of pros and cons in her table, but her decision is made up as she sees that damnable dimples on Harry’s face -- which, honestly, should be illegal.

“You’ll help me, right? I have a Christmas tree on the cupboard and some ornaments so we don’t need to worry about that.”

“I will.” Harry jumps from the seat and shrugs off his coat. “Oh and Hermione? Remember when decorating, we go big or we go home.”

Hermione frowns at him and pouts.

It doesn’t do her any good as Harry continues to laugh, bending over and clutching his sides in a vain attempt to tranquilize the stiches. “Oh my god. You’re just so cute and smol.”

Her height has always been a subject of discussion. Even past twenty, people still refused to believe she was anything but a teenager. Just now, she had tried reaching the top tiers of the tree but, unable to do so thanks to her height, she has resorted to glaring at the branches. And obviously, Harry finds that particularly amusing.   

“I’m 5’2!” Hermione protests fiercely. “That’s a perfectly reasonable height.”

“For a fairy, maybe.”

The man coos when Hermione pouts again and, frustrated, she stretches, trying to reach the tip of the Christmas tree. Arms wrap around her waist and there’s a tug in her stomach - a protest against gravity before she’s suspended in air.  

Letting out a squeak, she cries. “Put me down!”

He laughs and she can feel the warmth of it on her lower back. “Put the ornament up first, Hermione!”

Floundering like a fish, Hermione hastily places the star and Harry sets her down, carefully. Scrambling away from him, she places a hand on her heart and glares at him. “Harry James Potter!”

Rubbing his neck, Harry provides her a sheepish smile. It never is a good sign when a woman called you by your full name - even if they do look as threatening as Tinkerbell. "Sorry. Seemed like you needed some help.”

“It’s fine. You just startled me.” Hermione claims, knowing that she’ll be rid of the feeling of his arms. Have they always been muscled? Now, she is just getting distracted.

After passing a reindeer ornament to her, Harry steps back to marvel their hard work, and she follows his example.

It’s not exactly what she would call a fairy tale Christmas aesthetic, but they did all they could with the limited decorations. And, it does look good in its own way. There are multiple tiers of gold lights that blink every few seconds, complemented with accents of rosy baubles. Wrapped with red ribbons and holly, the tree surely can’t be called naked.

Nothing in the house can, really. A Santa Claus figure stares at them with beady eyes from his perch on the table. The cushions on the lounge got replaced by festive ones - a plump red one with a snowman in the middle articulating the words Meowy Christmas!  Banners strung with leaves and berries hang from the canopy.

A thrill of excitement shots down her spine. For the first time in years, her blood thrums with the joy of Christmas, and she revels in it.

The only hang up here, is that there is a lone stocking against the wall. Hermione mentally decides to buy it a companion. Her budding friendship with Harry implies that she would need a gift for him. Maybe, she could convince him to go shopping with her.

For now, she can imagine she is a princess in Disneyland. The string of lights above her certainly makes her feel like she is set up in a fantasy.

Funnily enough, the only decoration the house lacks, by the end of the morning, is mistletoe branches, and the both young people are careful to maintain that status.

Chapter 4

She swings the door open at exactly ten in the morning. Harry’s hand remains suspended in air, most likely preparing himself to rap the door.

He seems baffled to see her, as if her presence wasn’t expected at her house . It's Pride and Prejudice all over again, she thinks. Except she never disliked him. It was quite the opposite emotion that consumed her body. Even when he broke her pot, she still found him kind and cu- sweet .

“Good morning.”

“Hi.” Harry chimes back, stupidly and winces at the response. “Good morning. You look nice.”

Hermione laughs, a beautiful sound that reverberates through him. “I literally just got up.”

Harry gasps, sidestepping her and shoving his shoes off. “I stick to my point. And, I’m shocked, Hermione. Shocked is an understatement. Do you mean to tell me you just woke up? Eight hours after you were supposed to.”

“It was all for a good reason.” Hermione protests, adamantly. “I read an article where they instruct people to give themselves a rest day once a week. So, I woke up at seven.”

“You said you just got up.”

“From the table.” Hermione clarifies. “I was studying.”

“ Well .”  Harry remarks sarcastically as he makes them a cuppa. Instead of the tea bag that he usually inserts, he sprinks a tablespoon of cocoa powder into their mugs. “That's a first.”

“What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate, Princess.”

Hermione’s eyes grow wide. “What did you just call me?”

“Princess.” Harry repeats, unabashed by her admonishment. “It suits you well. The first time I saw you, I thought your hair looked like Princess curls so.”

Stunned into silence, the most she can do is hum. “You know tea is better than hot chocolate, right? Tea fights cancer, all the while increasing your immunity, cardiovascular health, digestion, mental activity like improved concentration and focus and prolongs longevity. Don’t you agree with me?”

Harry doesn’t seem fazed by her argument. In fact, the mask on his face is akin to smugness. “While all that may be true, hot chocolate contains more antioxidants than coffee and tea . It lowers blood pressure. The antioxidant gallic acid is used to treat internal hemorrhages, prevents kidney disease and diabetes. The flavonoids help your body process nitric oxides which improve blood flow and prevents the formation of clots. Shall I go on?”

Beyond awed at his list, Hermione could only gape. Men like Harry, by their looks, managed to inflict cardiac arrests on a woman like herself simply by a glance . To discover that said man was intelligent as well was the cherry on the cake.

“How do you know all that?” Hermione asks, grasping for something witty to say but fails at it, rather spectacularly and wants to scream for ten hours straight. The approach of her question was blunt enough that it could be considered as offensive which in no way did Hermione mean for it to sound.

Thankfully, Harry waves the comment away. “I’m skilled at my craft, Hermione. A gentleman like me has many skills and talents.”

“Indeed.”

The underlying analysis of his sentence makes her swallow, nervously and makes her hyper aware of their positions. He’s barely a few inches away. Not a very appropriate distance for just a neighbour. Retracing her steps, Hermione misses the look of undisguised dismay that washes over his face.

By the time, she looks back at him, the moment is long gone. Setting their glasses on the countertable, Harry flashes her a dimple. “Better go get changed. Today includes another outdoor activity.”

Wishing she could groan out loud because that sounds far from fun, Hermione nods sluggishly and departs, pulling on some boots. Looping a scarf adorned with gold and red, Hermione makes a half hearted attempted to straighten her hair but when her hair reverts back to its original momentum, she realizes it’s a futile attempt and shuts her door.

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.” Hermione tries to express her gratitude, hoping she hasn’t managed to leave an unimpressed reaction on her neighbour. Judging on past experiences, she wouldn’t put it past her. Conversations in the real world short circuited her speech.

Harry doesn’t reward her with a response, instead bestowing her with a smirk. “Let’s go. Teddy’s thrilled. I’m worried about making him wait for some more time.”

“Teddy’s coming?” Hermione says with excitement, shrugging on her coat. The blue haired child often light up her day with his childish glee. Seeing him, always, causes her lips to tug upwards to form a grin. Perhaps, it was the motherly side of her but children were beacons of lights even on especially heavily exhausted days.

Harry sighs dramatically like a man who opens the fridge, only to woefully discover it empty of his favorite contents. “I knew you liked Teddy more.”

“I like you both equally.” Hermione teases which is a lie if she’s being honest. While Teddy is a light in her life, Harry is soon becoming the sun to her world. Ever since she was a kid, she was the type of person who ran headfirst into relationships. She had fallen too soon and too hard. It hardly surprised her that her actions repeated with Harry but she felt a bit different with him in the room: confident, relaxed and jovial.

Harry rolls his eyes and tugs her with a hand outside where they find a cross Teddy Lupin, arms folded over his chest and a single eyebrow raised that glared at them. If looks could kill, they would still be very much alive for despite Teddy’s best efforts, he still hadn’t lost his cute and chubby cheeks. It was like a teddy bear insisting he had committed a grave crime.

Hermione coos his name, wrapping the boy in a hug and spinning around. “How’s my favorite boy?”

“Why don’t you ask Harry?” He replies impishly, showcasing his milk teeth.

She taps him on the nose. “You’re my favorite everything. Your uncle prefers the worst drinks like hot chocolate.”

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Hot Chocolate is the bestest best!”

A mock look of disappointment plasters on her face. “I highly regret befriending this family.”

“Nope!” The boy says looking unnaturally gleeful for his age. “You love us.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at the boy and when his smile is a mask of excellent innocence, she switches direction...right in time to hear the shriek of delighted laughter from the boy in her arms as a snowball whipped across her face.

Her eyes shut at the impact but once they open, they are deadly. “Harry. James. Potter. You have three seconds to get the hell away from me or else I will stab you so-”

Teddy giggles and burrows his face into her armpit. Caught off guard, Hermione sets the boy down, blocking his ears with a hand as she mouths a string of latin words to the sniggering man in front of her.

“Is that a challenge?” Harry spreads his arms wide open, ducking down to obtain a fistful of snow. “I doubt you’ll have much success.”

Hermione, for all her remarkability, has never been unable to back down from a challenge. It was her fatal flaw, some would say. Others would take it upon themselves to dare her with strange conquests.

There was only one line she daren’t cross; the education line. People had foolishly took it upon themselves to convince her to give up studying, fail and interfere with faculty . Would you believe the horror of it? Hermione certainly couldn't. It hadn’t mattered then, this quirk of accepting even the wildest and most ridiculous dares. Nothing did, really, when it interfered with studies. A firm believer in the truth that studying was prime and above all, she couldn’t let teenagers come in the way of her goal.

Yet, there were times when she was guilty of attending a party and getting drunk. It happened only once but the experience was vile enough to make A time when she had jumped in the pool from the first floor because someone had riled her up. To be fair, it wasn’t that much of a height but still enough for several jaws to drop.

And, that time when she had sworn off tea for a month . She still got nightmares over that one.

And, so when Harry stood there with an armful of snow, Hermione wasn’t merely considering participating in the fact, she stood analysing strategies and planning her victory dance.

“Teddy.” She says, hushed for this might be a top secret mission. The kite needed for triumph was dancing right in front of her...if she could just maneuver it to her advantage. With years on education that stressed on human behaviour, Hermione has enough confidence in her ability of analyzing people. She knows she can win.

“Do you want to join my team? I’ll buy you pancakes.” She adds smartly for if she knows anything, it’s that a Lupin cannot and will not refuse desserts. It goes against their morals. “I’ll buy you blueberry pancakes. With extra maple syrup.”

Based on the way his smirk decorates her face, Hermione knows she’s succeeded. Masterfully weaving her elaborate bid-pancakes for his cooperation- she’s secured a member who she knows-without a shred of uncertainty- will not betray her.

Teddy shakes her hand, growing serious like a businessman on his first day of work. Hermione exchanged a nod with him and looks at Harry who seems wary that she just had a conversation with his impish nephew.

“Hermione?” He begins, apprehensive, stepping away even though she’s empty handed and he has a weapon of snow. “Are you going to join?”

Careful, precise steps. Nephew and neighbour both descend the steps. After all, you can’t win a war on uneven terrain.

“Harry-” She states nervously, manipulating the timely case of events. He doesn’t know her the mechanism of the way her gears work in her head. She can win. She will win. She is Hermione Granger. The man looks at her captivated, waiting for her next move.

It’s not a very intelligent move for the next second, Hermione yells, “ Run !” to Teddy before she uses his flabbergasted movements to her advantage. Running like the devil’s on her heels and immediately, gasping because her lungs are weak things, she presses herself against a wall, sinking to the ground and capturing a mouthful of snow. Rolling it on her palm, she repeats the process and readies herself for battle.

Harry was so going down.

Blue lips and shaky hands were the result of playing with snow a few hours later. Despite her hands being practically immobile- She couldn’t even bend her fingers- there was nothing more satisfying than running around while screaming bloody murder.

There was a part of her that longed to return to her comforters and pull on her special winter socks - Christmas flea ones that had reindeers painted on them but it soon faded as another snowball pelted and smacked Harry’s face.

Despite his insistence, he was terrible at the game, constantly attacked by his nephew and Hermione. In fact, at the beginning, he just rested on the ground and watched the clouds in an overly dramatic manner.

After they had flung another snowball at his groaning mouth, Harry had resolved to best them-or at least, hit them once- but his efforts proved vain.

She can see his mop of hair behind a car that resembles a blanket of snow and wonders what’s next. In the same trapped position as he is, Hermione can’t risk giving away her cover.

Turmoil takes root in her, obnoxious enough that she only hears the incomer far too tardy. It’s the snapping of a branch that makes the following events appear in a sedated motion. Panic wills her up, instinct causes her to turn, and fate desires the first catalyst to be set into motion.

Harry stumbles thanks to the branch and Hermione tries to steady him which is pointless. Momentum and gravity grips them both and tugs them downwards. Harry, the precious man, tries to save her at the very least but all that he manages to do is elevate the damage. Both of them land on the ice with a sharp crash.

“Ooof.” Hermione grumbles, glaring at him but soon, softening as his eyelashes flicker at her like a giraffe. It’s spectacular that anyone could be so undeniable adorable. He had long eyelashes, she thinks dazed, hardly aware about her surroundings.

Perhaps, she should move her leg, the one that’s locking the boy against her. It’s very ridiculous, absolutely barmy and not at all like her.

“Hermione?” He breathes, a questioning look in his eye and she wonders if sleep deprivation isn’t a hoax after all for his eyes might, might have flickered to her lips for a second.

She steals the moment’s joy, wishing she could capture it and relieve it a thousand times for it feels like something she would want to remember. Her heart is beating unnaturally fast, a trait he’s yet to catch upon him and to think it’s because of him , of a man she hardly knows.

And, it’s then that the Oh settles in. The ‘Oh’ that girls dread to think about for it brings a whole bout of side effects. The Oh that she might find this man desirable .

It was insane.

Positively insane.

And yet.

Yet, she can’t look away from his eyes - emerald, a trapped image of evergreen forests and vivid leaving her breathless and reminiscent about growing pastures that blew in England. She’ never been much of a photographer or painter but the longing to sketch out the shocked expression etched on his face along with his slightly parted lips is salient.

Then, then his mouth opens and she realises what a complete and utter fool she is for this is her neighbour, her friend and she’d just been lying on top of him without his consent having been stunned into dumbness. Scrambling off him, her body rubs against the ice creating friction.

“Oh my God- shit- I wasn’t-I’m a disaster, putain .” Hermione swears, backing away like Harry’s a wild animal who accidentally provoked. “I didn’t mean to- I’m.”

“Um.” Harry states eloquently, brushing off the snow off his pants. “It’s honestly okay. I - It’s my fault.”

“You didn’t sit on me!”

Harry blushes and tucks his lips inwards embarrassed. “I would have done the same thing. God, no ,  that came out wrong. Not that I don’t want to sit on you but also, fuck. I short circuit when I panic and I’m rambling and can we just not talk about this?”

Hermione wishes she could escape the awkward silence that hangs over them like fog. “I-It’s alright. Yeah.”

They stand there for a minute or two, neither able to hold the other’s gaze, infinitely afraid to even think about how the contact might have sparked a tremor in the other. It’s times like this when Hermione has the maddening urge to flee and sink in her bed. Beginning a conversation is hard enough, sustaining it is a whole other story. It’s like looking at a mountain but then, having to climb it.

She’s delved deep in her lame excuses of social interaction when a cheerful giggle splits the air and the pair of them turn, the evolution of instincts dictating their movements and their denseness, apparently because they don’t’ have the common sense to imagine what might happen in a battlefield- a battlefield that has a ten year old kid who’s special expertise is causing havoc.

They don’t have time to run, to scream or run from the monster who’s flinging balls of snow on them at a million miles per second.

At least, Teddy didn’t betray just her. The boy, future spy and man who would write ‘How To Be A Crook’ 101’ turned on both of them.

Spoiler Alert: Harry and Hermione surrender..

Chapter 5

The first thing she does when the steady and loud pounding of her headache registers is swear. Despite the numerous books, self care books in particular that promote positivity especially in the morning, lining her shelf, she finds herself victim of not promoting the principle of a healthy lifestyle.

Her voice comes out as a rasp and she idly bounces the thought of finally singing like Chloe Kohanski and Miley Cyrus, but her throat resists the formation of a few syllables, so she disregards the fantasy.

Burrowing under the covers as tremors rack her frame, she coughs. Once, twice, thrice.

And, then swears once and only once because she doesn’t have the energy to follow it up with another colorful word, much to her dismay.

Her eyes slink shut and the lilac scent of her bedsheets lull her into a soundless lullaby. Rocking with shivers, and with a clenched jaw to ward off another coughing fit, the illusion of peace sent only by the season of winter carries Hermione to slumber.

When she awakes, a few hours later, she wonders if there’s a burglar in her house. There’s a substantially loud racket in her kitchen. The concerning matter is Hermione doesn’t care. Her head is positively swimming which is absolutely dreadful if she wasn’t, in fact, hallucinating.

Groaning as her feet pad across the floor, Hermione indulges in the fantasy of passing a stern dialogue to whoever disrupted her sleep. Perhaps, the intruder was a blessing in disguise as she now, severely, realized she needed to study. Revised, only, eight times, she lacked the self confidence required for passing the test.

“Harry?” She says, stunned, pausing at the foot of the staircase.

For it isn’t a robber nor a murderer but her neighbour, Harry who greets her with his infamous dimple cheeked smile and green eyes. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, offering a radial view of the brown glistening skin.

“Hi!” He blinks, waving a spoon in her face, an attempt to greet. When he notices her fixed look, his eyes glance down at the silverware in his hand. “I, uh, was making soup.”

Hermione stares at him. “Um.”

An immediate motherly look washes his face and with a tone of horror, Harry fusses, “You’re sick, go back to bed!”

“I’m fine. I need to revise.” Hermione argues, already walking towards the kitchen, grabbing a book on the nearby desk.

The cough that trailed her declaration helped prove her point significantly. “Look, I’m perfectly ha-happy. Why are you making soup?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s my mother’s famous soup. Always helps me when I’m on a cold. I don’t make it as well as she does but the main ingredients should make you feel slightly better, if anything.”

Hermione smiles at him, a touched smile that brightens the room. “Thank you. You’re the sweetest.”

Red blooms on Harry’s neck like roses in a greenhouse. Pride erupts in Hermione’s chest, a fiery little dragon, claiming victory for eliciting a flustered reaction.

Harry mutters his gratitude under his breath. “Get to sleep, yeah? I’ll wake you up when the soup’s done. You can study then.”

“Revise.” Hermione corrects, shuffling on her feet as she ascends the steps. “And, Harry? Thank you .”

“Mione? Fuck , you’re burning up.” Harry whispers and the volume sends another pang of pain through Hermione.

Nausea rises from the pit of her stomach and fills her mouth, drawing an empty gag. Not capable of much thought, she simply hums.

“Can you sit up for a second? The soup’s still warm. Mione?”

There’s one thing that Hermione is known for-her buck head stubbornness. It provided favorable characteristics in debates and very few managed to spar verbally with the prodigy for more than a few minutes. True to his credit, however, after much persuasion, Harry convinces her to sit up.

Blearily blinking up at him for he’s nearly a foot taller than her, she doesn’t protest when the spoonful of soup travels to her mouth, without her volition. Hermione sags against the bed frame, swallowing a few spoons. Tears flicker behind her eyelids like lamps as the heat stings her throat. Forcing herself to digest it, she’s relieved when Harry keeps the bowl on the table, at last.

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up later.”

His voice is melodious and warm and she’s tempted to listen to him but with much difficulty, she recounts his earlier promise. “Revise.”

“You can’t even open your eyes.” Harry remarks, a combination of exasperation and amusement. “How do you plan on revising ?”

In response, Hermione gestures for her book. Sighing, Harry stands up and jogs down the stairs before he returns. Firmly pushing her hand down, he scans the pages. The whole book, Advanced Educational Psychology is colored in fluorescent yellow and orange- a fact that makes him grin.

Unlike her textbooks, his pages were covered in doodles- of mythical dragons and yes , puppies- with various texts from his best friend, Ron.

“ Trait emotional intelligence or Trait emotional self efficacy refers to “a constellation or behaviour dispositions and self-perceptions regarding a-”

“You don’t-don’t have to read for me.” Hermione manages, trying to secure her hold on the book.

“S’alright.” Harry continues reading, after throwing her a charming smile. “Can’t have the star Princess exhaust herself, now, can I?”

Hermione’s glad she’s sick for a moment, solely because she can chalk up to the blush that stains her cheek on the fever.

And, Harry continues to read about emotional intelligence. Each word was submerged in that British accent Hermione’s come to love for the reaction it ignited on her skin - rows of goosebumps, adds to the challenge of focusing on the quality of the lesson.

Eventually giving up, she enjoys the way the man in front of her pronounces his r’s and l’s . It was hard to believe that men like this, indeed existed. Men who fed her soup and read her illegible notes. It appeared that some men, outside the fictional world, were pretty great too. Her last thought before she falls asleep is Harry.

Ringing blares through her lucid haze, jolting her from her nap. Hermione rubs her eyes and yawns, a mellow gold light shining and wrapping her form.

There’s another ring and Hermione picks up the phone, stifling another yawn.

“Uncle Harry! How was your first time being on TV?”

“Hello?” Hermione asks groggily, eyes growing as round as saucers when she looks at the phone. She’d assumed it was her phone but that was ridiculous because it wasn’t even her ringtone. In a lapse of judgement, she’d answered Harry’s phone.

Embarrassment and guilt flood through her blood. It soon is diffused by curiosity for Teddy’s words take meaning.

“Aunt Hermione? Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Are you and Uncle Harry finally getting married, now?”

Hermione chokes on air and coughs loudly. “What? Where did you get that idea from? Did Harry say anything? Never mind. No. The answer is no .”

“Bummer.” Teddy’s disappointed and childish voice grits through the bungled up connection.

“What do you mean bummer ?”

“Uncle Harry has a cr-”

“Mione?” Harry’s puzzled voice drowns out the rest of Teddy’s sentence which was the real bummer because Hermione was on edge. She’d half a mind to ask Harry to wait just so Teddy could finish but smiling sheepishly, Hermione hands him his phone. “It’s Teddy. Sorry, I answered. Thought it was my phone.”

Harry’s eyes widen. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was sick on the way nausea grips him. Along with his red face. “Did he say anything about me? Did he know you were speaking?”

“Yes.” Hermione replies warily. “Why?”

His face immediately collapses in utter repose which adds to her confusion. “No reason. Hang on a sec’, yeah?..... Hey, bud….. I didn’t! Your Uncle Harry’ll talk to you later, okay? Mione’s sick and she needs the doctor…..I’m an amazing doctor, you rascal….Love you too.”

Hermione stands from the bed, rubbing the weeds of the lasting headaches. Brushing her hair which is a lost cause, she ties it with a band.

“Harry?”  

“Yeah?”

Hermione wrings her hands together, staring him straight in the eye. “Did you have to go somewhere today?”

Harry winces. “Did Teddy say-”

“Can you answer the question? Where were you supposed to go?”

“I-Yes.” Harry draws a long breath and looks up at the ceiling, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “It wasn’t a major thing. Had an interview. They wanted me to cook something for them.”

“Where were you supposed to have the interview?”

“Buzzfeed?”

Hermione rubs her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you passed up Buzzfeed to take care of me?”

Harry looks outraged at any other scenario. “It’s just Buzzfeed .”

“Exactly! Buzzfeed .” Hermione throat protests the loud vocal and she visibly winces. Harry’s at her side in an instant. “You should have gone. I can’t even begin to understand. You’ll regret-”

“I won’t regret anything.” Harry holds her gaze and adds, fiercely. “You’re more important than any of those things.”

Hermione chest heaves as she exhales, shakily. Somehow, Harry had managed to claim title of best friend, crush and person who proclaimed the most romantic words ever said to her in a few days.

Opinions mattered to her which wasn’t very healthy and she’d gotten better at blocking out negative criticism on her teeth, her brains. An excellent feeling from someone she thought of greatly nearly sent her weeping.

Hermione memorizes his face for a heartbeat longer than a friend would, speechless beyond repair.

“Thank you.” She knows the words aren’t adequate enough. Nothing will be.

“S’not a problem.” Harry responds and his words are laced with gentleness as if it’s more than enough.

Perhaps, she was still dreaming. If dreams did indeed, take shape, Harry would live amongst fairytales. He was too good, too kind.   to be true. Maybe, Harry was merely an apparition or a figment of her imagination for there wasn’t a possibility in all the realms of the world that Harry would look at her with such fondness and love.

But he was.

And, fuck , if she wasn’t screwed.

Biting her lip, she takes a step back, missing the disappointment that flashes across Harry’s face for a nanosecond before he masks it away.

“Want to watch a Christmas movie?”

Hermione’s hesitance is not abundant yet present. She had studied and revised. The exams were a couple of months away, though. Surely, she ought to-

“If you want to study, then we can do that.”

It’s the use of we that spurs her choice of an answer. “How about several movies?”

“Home Alone 1 is way better than Home Alone 2.” Harry states, scrolling through his phone. Showing the list of movies on his phone, he asks Hermione, “What are we watching first?”

“The crime is way better in Home Alone 2.” Hermione mimics, weaving a carefully crafted debate. “The pranks are ridiculous, surprisingly funny and they have the best toy story. How do you not like that?”

Harry laughs. “Have I ever told you how intelligent you are? You know how to appeal to my mind but nope, you can’t change my mind. I’m adamant in the belief that Home Alone 1 is unbeatable. Now, choose. Which movie?”

Hermione squints at the screen. “I don’t know. You’re asking a bisexual to choose something. This is going to take forever. You’re better at Christmas movies. You choose.”  She admits reluctantly. It would be a lie if she confessed his reaction would not deter her.

“Well, love, you’re talking to a fellow bisexual. I want to say everything.”

Hermione grins at him. “You’re amazing, you know that, right?”

“It would help my ego if you kept saying it.”

“Did you know that the origin of ego is from Latin? It came from literally ‘I’ in the nineteenth century.”

“Mione.” Harry lets out a weak chuckle. “That’s all fascinating but which movie? ”

“Let’s watch all but in alphabetical order. So, stream A Christmas Carol first.”

“This is why we make a good team.”

Hermione hides her smile as she walks towards the kitchen, Harry following behind.

“What are we doing?”

“Popcorn?”

Harry scrunches up his face and pouts. The sentiments are reflected on Hermione’s face.

“How about tea and popcorn?”

A rush of affection for Harry consumes her. There wasn’t an honorable man who disliked tea. “Yes. We could have a sleepover or something. Build a fort, later on?”

“How about now ?”

xx

The fort was an absolute disaster . Every spare linen, including Hermione’s long Russian coats and bedsheets- were thrifted to form a structure that tethered shoddily. They inspect the fort with great pride, however. It wasn’t strong enough to take on a rival army but seemed perfect for the two of them.

Harry crawls in and Hermione looks away, blushing as his butt is shoved in her face. She was not looking . She wasn’t .

Under the canopy of fairy lights that twinkle, Harry threw a blanket of hand knitted wool over Hermione. Mug in hand, they marvel at their creation. One of Hermione’s book cabinets support the fabric, included coincidentally, of course.

They crawl towards a common sofa, wondering if this was a good idea, after all. They felt like adults concluding the observation on the way their backs grumbled. Traitorous. Undependable and painful backs.

“May I read this?” Harry asks, eyes fixed on a shiny book. After admiring the summary, he passes a smile, “Romance and princes are my thing .”

Hermione nods, excitedly like a kid drugged on candy.

“When we got the letter in the post, my mother was ecstatic. She had already decided that all our problems were solved, gone forever.” Harry’s lips twitch upwards. “The big- wish we could have this kind of luck in the real world- BIG HITCH in her brilliant plan was me. I didn’t think I was a particularly disobedient daughter, but this was where I drew the line.”

Hermione lets out a snort when Harry wiggles his eyebrows at her imitating a walrus. “Am I a disobedient daughter, Mione?”

“Read the book, will you?”

So he did. For nearly an hour, Hermione heard, with  great rapture, the inevitable love story between a prince and a commoner. The Selection was one of her favorite series. It had just the right amount of romance and suspense. It was the ninth time she wished she lived in a palace that contained a magnificent library within its walls.

His phone rang and Harry stops abruptly, in the middle of dialogue which was the greatest tragedy. He shuts the book and crawls to the TV.

“What are you doing?” Hermione crosses her arms and stares him down. “Aren’t you going to pick up your phone?”

“Nope.” Harry responds, having an internal battle with the buttons on the TV. “It was an alarm. We’re going to watch a movie now. Like we were supposed to do an hour ago.”

“Can’t we just read?” Hermione whines. “It’s much better.”

“What are we going to do with the popcorn?”

Hermione debates the issue with herself. “Fine. We’re going to read as soon as we finish the movie and that’s that..”

“Whatever you want, Princess. I recommend watching at least five movies, though.” Harry tugs his phone out of his pocket. “It’s very Christmassy.”

Hermione fixes him with a glare. “I’ll watch. As long as you admit Home Alone 2 was better.”

He throws her a wounded look and clutches his heart with a hand. “I feel so hurt . But because I want to watch the movie, I’ll say Home Alone 2….was better than certain other movies-like Home Alone 1. However, know that I will never forget how mean-”

She huffs. “Just play the movie, Mr. Dramatic.”

Swiping at the phone before he places it on the floor, Harry scoots closer to Hermione and leans his head against her shoulder.

“Happy Movie Watching.”

Hermione swallows and hopes it wasn’t as loud as she imagined it to be. “You too.”

If her voice appeared choked, Harry didn’t appear to notice. She resists the need to adjust, wary that her movement might push him away. His head tickles her a little and Hermione bites her lip. Taking a peek at his hair, she looks away, her head swimming with the conscious desire to ruffle it.

Willing herself to exercise some control, Hermione tries to focus on the melody bouncing around them.

“Why does it feel like we’re watching a horror movie instead of a Christmas one?”

“I guess it’s symbolism.” Hermione whispers back. It makes her think about times when she was a child and she’d play pass the whisper. She wonders if Harry and her could be friends as children. She’d like to think so. “At the end of the movie-”

“No spoilers.” Harry interrupts, grabbing the bowl of popcorn and passing it to her.

“Haven’t you watched this yet?”

Harry shakes his head, hair tickling her skin. “Not this film, nope.”

“How can you-” Hermione begins, pulling away from him slightly. “Never mind. You’re in for a treat.”

True to her word, Harry discovered that he was rather ridiculous and wished he had watched the movie earlier. A fond fan of magic, he was beyond delighted and fascinated as Scrooge flew. The elements of magic kindled the inner child in him.

Hermione would probably be set on fire if she said the light in his eyes wasn’t endearing.

As the credits for the third movie flashed, Hermione shut her eyes. Darkness had winnowed in, almost an hour ago but exhaustion only seemed to weigh her down now. Eyes burning, she drops her back on the floor, side eyes memorising the names of the actors.

“Want me to switch it off?” Harry asks, stretching as much as the proximity allows. After confirming the time, he tells her, “It’s almost nine.”

“Night’s young.” Hermione mumbles, face pressed onto the cold layer. “I’m watching.”

His chuckle is warm reminding her of the taste of hot chocolate drunk on a winter’s night. He drops his body next to her with a thump .

“How you’ll see?” She slurs her words together, hazy with warmth.  

“You’re short, Princess.” Harry claims which it a total lie. She’s 5’2, a perfectly admirable height. If the rest of the world comprised of giants, it wasn’t her issue.

“Am not.”  Hermione nestles into him, his warmth practically a soundless lullaby. And, into the arms of Morpheus, she crept.

The next morning she woke up to Harry’s snores and noticed her leg around his waist with his arm wound around her lower back. Psychology dictated their involuntary actions so she didn’t panic.

It was funny to notice how he seeked her warmth. The blanket was draped around her form while Harry remained bare, excluding his cotton shirt. As the blanket suspended on his body, her fingers brushed his skin, inducing electrifying shocks through bone and marrow.

Hermione carefully strived not to think about how she didn’t untangle herself from him despite being awake for minutes.

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