#does he do eyebrow lamination?

[cat-brrr]

I love this little dude

[pathologicalreid]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeTkmpNy/ SPENCER MF REID 🙏🙏 can I pretty please request a one shot based on that video ITS SO CUTE

dewey decimal system | S.R.

in which spencer does the most spencer activity first thing in the morning - reorganizing your bookshelves

(tiktok link)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: i'm fairly certain there aren't any word count: 619 a/n: the beauty of this being my account is that, even though my requests are closed, i was able to exercise free will and write it anyway. because reorganizing your bookshelves unprompted is so something spencer would do.

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke up. Your desire to roll over into Spencer’s arms before getting ready for the day squashed by his absence. Aimlessly patting your bedside table for your phone, you checked your notifications.

You hadn’t received a text, there was no note left on his pillow.

Sitting up in bed, you frowned before climbing out of bed. Cringing at the cold laminate under your feet, you hugged your arms around yourself and mourned the feeling of your comforter over your skin.

To your surprise, Spencer was wide awake, standing in front of your bookshelf like he was an opponent ready to strike. Padding across the living room, you approached him from behind and wrapped your arms around his waist, depending heavily on his body heat to give you the courage not to run back to bed.

“Good morning love,” he murmured, voice gruff from lack of use. With a morning slowness, he skimmed his palms along your arms, swaying gently to the soft sounds of dawn. “Are you alright?” He asked you when you didn’t respond, too caught up in the feeling of him to speak.

Pressing your cheek to the fabric of his plain white t-shirt, you sighed, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the scent of your laundry detergent on his clothes.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He whispered, softly squeezing your arms before turning himself around while trapped in your arms.

You didn’t let up, forcing him to twist himself within the circumference of your limbs just to see your face. The maneuver was so notably ungraceful that you couldn’t hold back your smile, “Nothing’s wrong,” you mumbled, now pressing your cheek to his chest while he tenderly cupped your head. “What are you doing up?”

Spencer dropped a kiss to the crown of your head, keeping his arms casually slung around you while he nodded at your bookshelves, “I was reorganizing your bookshelves.”

Furrowing your brows, you looked at your previously unruly shelves. They had now been adroitly redone, no longer having books stacked horizontally and being put off for another day, “What do you mean you were reorganizing my bookshelves?”

“Well, initially I had planned on using the Dewey decimal system, which is how my books are organized at home, but you had such an uneven ratio of each category that I ended up doing it alphabetically,” he explained to you, lazily using a hand to gesture to your collection.

Catching a glimpse of the titles, you asked, “By title?”

He shook his head, “Author’s last name,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious to you. Spencer’s arms tightened around you as he craned his head to nestle his face in the crook of your neck, “Did you sleep well?”

You hummed contentedly at the proximity you had to him, “Right up until I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was reorganizing your books,” he emphasized, reminding you what he had spent his morning doing.

Nodding, you shut your eyes, savoring the feeling of his fingers as they now skated their way along your spine, “It looks nice, Spence.”

“Did you want to read a book together?” He asked you, continuing his ministrations on your back.

Pulling away slightly, you rested your palms on his shoulders as you looked up at him, “What?”

He jutted his chin in the direction of your shelves, “There are some books that I shelved, I think we could have a good time reading one together.”

You raised your eyebrows, “You’ll finish way before me though,” you hinted at his reading speed.

“Then I can read aloud to you,” he offered, beaming down at you.

[planetpedri]

hi! could you do one where cubarsi hurts his face and the reader gets very worried and pampers him a lot

Using the translator I hope you understand

love your writing 💕

Look after you — Pau Cubarsí.

Pairing: Pau Cubarsí x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend getting injured had put you through a lot of stress. The only way to make up for how bad you felt for him, was to take care of him as best as you could.

Word count: 1.42k+

Disclaimer/s: Blood, injury, stitches, ect.. hurt to comfort / fluff

A/N: When I catch that stupid mf that did this .... EUGHHH I HATE THIS ONE IM SORRY I SHOULD’VE REWRITTEN IT. but im lazy.

You were in a stress induced state of extreme panic. You had been watching the game from home when Pau had gotten injured. You had just barely caught a glimpse of his face, but you saw the red.

In an instant you’d reached for you phone, shot a few texts to him, then to his mother, even to Lamine, though you knew he wouldn’t be seeing it any time soon.

You had paced around your living room for the better part of an hour just waiting for your phone to ding, the game long since forgotten.

When you finally heard the notification, your heart stopped, then slowly began beating once again. He was fine.

That was all you needed to chill out. He was fine, just a little beaten up! Though, he wouldn’t send you any pictures and made you promise not to open instagram till he got back to Barcelona, which was a struggle, but you did it anyways.

He was due to arrive at your house any second now. You had long since changed into pajamas and did your night routine, finally sitting down to rest when the doorbell had you pausing mid sit down.

As you made large, nervous steps toward toward door, you nearly winced opening it. You were met with a fidgeting Pau. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you took in his face.

There was no blood, just bruises, a few cuts, and one long gash on his chin that had stitches on it. You didn’t mean to gasp, but you definitely hadn’t been expecting that.

“Holy shit…” Your voice trails off as you take a step back to allow him inside. Your eyes remained wide and watchful, never leaving his face even when he walked past you.

“Yeah, I know.” Pau says through a breathy laugh, his eyes twitching with a hint of pain that flashes across them.

Your lips pull into a deep frown. “How bad does it hurt?” You ask while closing and locking the door behind you.

The teen shrugs, leaning against one of the white walls. “They gave me some numbing stuff, so it’s not that bad.” He was trying to act tough, causing your eyes to roll.

“Right, because numbing ‘stuff’ makes up for being kicked in the face with cleats.” You take a few steps towards your boyfriend, your hand lifting to his face apprehensively.

Pau watches you carefully as you tenderly move his face to look at the wounds in a better lighting. His heart thumps in his chest at how gentle you were being. He watches your eyebrows pinch together in worry and the way your bottom lip pushed out into a pout. He adored how cute you looked when you were worried.

“I’m fine..” He whispers your name, making your eyes flicker up to his.

Letting out a long exhale, you shake your head. “Let’s go clean this and put new cream on, God only knows how much germs you’ve already collected.”

Pau winces through a grin, following you toward the bathroom where you were rummaging around for your first aid kit. “Come on, it’ll be fine! Let’s just go watch TV.”

“Sit on the damn toilet and shut up.” You huff, pointing at him warningly. “I am not letting my boyfriend’s face get infected.”

Clamping his mouth shut, the brunette boy does just as you tell him, mumbling a, “yes ma’am,” as he did so.

Once you had washed your hands thoroughly, you set the kit on the counter before taking out a few alcohol wipes. “Other than being absolutely abused on the pitch, how was the game?” You ask curiously while peeling the packet.

Pau lifts his head up to look at you despite the pain the coursed through his neck at the motion. “Good, we won.” He shrugs, offering you another small, but painful smile.

You chuckle, nodding. “That’s true. Okay, this may hurt..” That was the only warning you’d given him right before you lightly cupped his chin between your index finger and thumb to keep his head still. You proceed to (as gently as possible) disinfect the cuts across his face.

Pau tried his hardest not to wince or hiss, but he gave up within a few seconds. That’s when the complaint’s came.

“Ouch? Try to be a little more gentle, yeah?”

“Are you done yet?”

“Ay! You’re being a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Please tell me you are done.”

You’d found great amusement in it all, because you knew you were not being harsh, you were barely touching the boy.

“Baby, you’re being a little dramatic, no?” You tease, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of his head.

“Dramatic?” He clamps his mouth shut when you step back and grab steri-strips. “What’s that for?”

“Uhm, to cover your stitches?” You blink, “to keep them in tact.”

Pau groans, “they are so uncomfortable though!”

You press a finger to your lips, shushing him. “I am your girlfriend and if you love me, you’ll comply. Now, let me fix you up. Then, after that, i’ll order us takeout and we can watch a movie of your choosing. Does that sound like a deal?”

Looking up at you, Pau nods reluctantly. “I can deal with that.”

Rolling your eyes at his smugness, you continue cleaning his face. He watches you intently the whole time, his hands finding a comfortable spot on the backs of your lower thighs.

Once they were applied, you take one step away from him, examining his face. "Did they say when the swelling will go down?"

Pau nods his head, "a few days. Should be gone by Friday or Saturday."

“Okay! All done.” You grin, leaning back to examine your work. “Wow, I should go to Uni to be a doctor.”

Pau stands, walking to stand in front of the mirror to see your handy work. “Oh, you did do good.” Offense flashes across your face and his eyes widening in panic when he notices it. “No! I didn’t doubt you—“

A small laugh bubbles in your throat, “it’s fine, loser. Go to the living room, i’ll be there in a second.”

Pau complies and while he does that, you grab your phone to order takeout. Once that’s done, you find your way to the living room where your boyfriend sat back comfortably, scrolling through movie choices.

“Food will be here in twenty, do you need anything? Water, snacks, extra pillow?” You stand beside the kitchen door, awaiting his answer.

Pau couldn’t help the twitch of his lips. “Okay, nurse. I don’t need anything, come here.” He lifts his hands to motion for you to come closer.

“Alright, no need to be snarky. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” You huff, plopping down beside him and leaning onto the armrest. You pat your lap, which Pau rolls his eyes at.

“I’m not a dog.” He quips, though he lays his head down anyways. You laugh at that, running your hands through his hair.

“Wanna wait for the food to watch a movie, or we can start it now?” You hum, looping a few of his hair around your finger.

Letting out a long breath, Pau’s eyes fluttered open. “Wait. Tell me about your day?”

So you do. You go on about your day, the stress he caused you, ect. The whole time you give him tender touches, massaging his head, and running your hand through his soft hair.

When the food comes, you get up and retrieve it. For the rest of the night you spend it taking care of Pau. If he needed something, you got it for him, if he wanted a kiss, you gave it to him, everything and anything he wanted, was his. And Pau was enjoying it.

“Maybe I should get injured more often.” He suggests, which earned him a nice little flick to the top of his head. “Ouch?! Did you just flick an injured man?”

“I flicked an injured man who’s thinking about getting injured again so he can be pampered again.” You argue with an amused tone.

Pau chuckles, “can you blame me?”

“Well, yes! Actually.” You quirk an eyebrow, leaning down to meet his lips in a soft kiss. “Never get hurt again for the love of all God.”

The boy pushes himself up so his arms were resting against the armrest and he was much closer to you. “I’ll try not to, I suppose.” He grins, leaning forward for another kiss.

Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @spidybaby @iovepoem !

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Ready to roll?

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 9

Prompt: No Upside Down AU

Rated: T

CW: one mention of masturbation bc Eddie is a horny little shit

Tags: Future fic; Flirting; Record label owner!Eddie; Waiter!Steve; Steve in rollerblades

Notes: Another collab with the amazingly talented and creative @house-of-the-moving-image - check out their art!

"What?" Eddie says eloquently, tearing his eyes from the laminated menu. 

The waiter is hovering next to his booth, pen tapping against the notepad in his hand. He looks annoyed. Probably pissed at Eddie for interrupting his quiet night shift. Well, tough luck, pretty boy. 

"I said …" the waiter pauses, heaves a brief but heartfelt sigh. "Are you ready to roll?" 

Eddie blinks. 

"Listen, dude!" The waiter says flatly, but there's a blush blossoming on his neck. "I'd ask if I may take your order, but I'm, like, contractually obfuscated to say … this instead. Goes with the theme, y’know?" 

He gestures at the entirety of himself. The cheerfully colored shirt and tiny shorts. The little apron around his waist. The knee-high socks disappearing into a pair of chunky, red-and-white rollerblades, and … oh, right. 

"Well?" 

Eddie snaps his eyes back up and shit, for how long has he been staring at those legs like a creep?

The waiter is scowling at him. He really is pretty. Exactly Eddie’s type. Gold-flecked eyes, stupidly voluminous hair, pink lips twisted into a bitchy little scowl. Eddie imagines pushing him up against the wall on those stupid wheels of his, sucking and biting that scowl right off. 

"Hm," he makes instead. "The guys at the label said I'd enjoy the cake, but I'm starting to think they weren't talking about the menu." 

The scowl deepens. 

"Cheeseburger and fries," Eddie says. "And a strawberry milkshake." 

One elegant eyebrow arches. 

"... Please?" 

Waiter boy smirks at him, a brief flash of perfectly white teeth. Eddie wants to lick them. 

"Coming right up." He jots the order down, shoves pen and notepad into his apron pocket. As he does, Eddie catches a glimpse of the name tag attached to his uniform shirt. (Which has nothing to do with him ogling the way the fabric stretches over that toned chest, because he wasn't doing that, thank you.)

It says "Hi, I'm Steve. :-)"

Wait, what? 

The whirr of rollerblades on the floor tiles jerks him out of his stupor. He's glad he didn't take off his sunglasses, because holy fuck, he must be gawking like an idiot right now. 

Because he knows a guy named Steve. Or knew. 

A guy named Steve with perfect, caramel hair, tan skin littered in moles and an irritatingly pretty, aloof smile. Not that Eddie was ever at the receiving end of that smile. The closest Eddie ever got to him was back in eighty-six, when he was dealing drugs out of his van. In the driveway of that palace in Loch Nora, while the King and his court partied inside. 

Eddie watches how waiter boy comes gliding out of the kitchen, wipes down tables and refills napkin holders. 

It can't be. 

Steve Harrington is back in the hellhole that is Hawkins, Indiana - or maybe at some college halfway across the country, preparing to take over daddy's business. He's most certainly not wearing rollerblades and a pair of stupidly short shorts, waiting tables in a cheap twenty-four hour diner in Seattle. 

Then again, back in eighty-six, who would've thought that Eddie Munson would be owning his own record label one day? 

When waiter boy arrives with his order and leans in to put it down on the table, Eddie peers over his sunglasses to cast an inconspicuous look at his profile. 

There's a pair of moles on his neck, near identical in size, spaced apart like a perfect little vampire bite. 

Well, slap his ass and call him Sally. 

Eddie knows these moles, has spent entire nights jerking off to the thought of sinking his teeth into them. 

"Staring costs extra," Steve mutters at the milkshake. 

Before Eddie can say anything, the phone on the counter rings and Steve rolls over to answer it. Eddie chews on his too-salty fries and can't help the grin that tugs at his lips as he watches the boy twirl the cord around his fingers while taking the order. 

The night just officially got interesting.

Steve looks over, catches him staring and gives him the flattest, most unimpressed look Eddie has ever seen on a person who just realized they were being checked out. The blush has reached his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Eddie winks and Steve rolls his eyes before he turns his back on him. Eddie doesn’t complain. That ass does look fantastic in the shorts.

He takes his time with the meal. The burger is nothing to write home about, but the view more than makes up for it.

When he is done, he saunters over to the counter, pulling out his wallet. Steve is busy counting mayonnaise packages and muttering under his breath. He blinks in confusion when Eddie slaps down a fifty, starts digging for change in his apron. 

"Nah," Eddie says. "Just keep it." 

Steve frowns at him. "That's way too much." 

"Don't sell yourself short. I thought staring was extra?"

Steve opens his mouth. Hesitates. Closes it. Pockets the money. 

"Thanks," he murmurs, eyes trained at some point behind Eddie's shoulder. "Roll by again."

Eddie just barely manages to turn the incoming snort into a grin.  

"Sure will,” he mutters, leaning across the counter and into the boy’s space. “Maybe I'll try that cake next time." 

"Oh, please," Steve huffs. "As if you could afford me, Munson." 

Eddie feels his jaw drop. "Wait, you knew who-" 

The doorbell chimes. 

"Hi there!" Steve chirps at the guy in the door. "You called, right? I'll check if your order is ready." 

And then he's gone and Eddie is staring at the still swinging kitchen door like an idiot. 

It isn't until he's back out in the dark street that his confusion morphs into something else. His majesty wants to play coy? Well, Eddie can indulge him, can't he? 

He makes his way home with a new spring in his step. Looks like he's found his new favorite dinner spot.

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

[halfwayhearted]

Just cute Lamine yamal x girlfriend!reader fluff pls

In Your Arms — Lamine Yamal.

Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a stuffed animal he hadn’t noticed before, and the moment he spots it, playful teasing follows.

Word Count: 420+

Disclaimer/s — Fluff!

A/N: Super short, but! This makes me ill, so… thank.

Peaceful. This moment right here was peaceful.

You and your boyfriend were lying in bed. His head rested on your lap while you both watched a movie on your TV. However, you found more joy in gently tracing your fingers down his face. Starting at the bridge of his nose, moving down to his jawline, and up to his ears. Then repeating the soothing motion all over again.

Saying you were content would probably just be putting it mildly. An understatement.

It seems you’ve spoken way too soon at the sight of him shifting slightly. His eyebrows furrow in confusion when he feels something near his hip. Lifting his arm, he shuffles it under the blanket and pulls out something that quite literally makes you flush in complete and utter embarrassment.

“What’s this?” He asked, his smile melding into a smirk. “I didn’t know you had a stuffed animal.”

You tried to play it off. “Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t.” Oh, right. Right, of course. Awkward.

“Well... everyone's different,” you replied with a shrug of your shoulders. All he does is laugh in response, causing your eyes to narrow.

“Hm. Yeah, yeah, everyone is,” the boy muttered. “Let me ask you this: how old are you?”

Your eyes widen at that, and you reach forward to snatch the blue stuffed bunny out from his hands, your face flushing even more. “I think I might have to break up with you after that, not kidding.”

Lamine’s eyebrows pinch together, slowly using his elbow to prop himself up. “What? Uh, no.”

“Uh, yes,” a pause, “Jerk.”

“No—hey, I love you, and I love...” he trailed off, looking at you expectantly. You realized what it was he was wanting you to say.

“Oh! I don’t know. It changes, like, everyday.”

He nods, “Well, I love… it?”

“You’re so only saying that because you don’t want to end up single.” You giggled softly, but all he did was huff and snatch the bunny back into his grasp. Resting his head back onto your lap, he looked over at the TV, his fingers subconsciously messing with the animal’s arms and legs, the sight making your heart flutter in your chest. So, leaning down, you placed a small kiss to the edge of his eyebrow, that being the only place you could really reach. “Hey, okay, I love you, too.”

His triumph was clear, “You’re just saying that because you thought I was being serious.”

“Do you actually want to be single, let me know.”

“No!” He quickly replies, “I love you.”

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @pedrilcvr ! ౨ৎ

[courtingchaos]

Bad Man

Steve Harrington x Fem Reader

Summary: Steve is always asking you the same question. Do you think you’ll ever give him a different answer?

A/N: hm. This one got away from me. Went in too many directions and I had a hard time settling with it. Hope you guys enjoy it all the same ❤️

Warnings: Cheating (reader has a bf), Sex, Mentions of driving drunk, Two drunk people having sex, Fingering, Unprotected Sex

NSFW 18+ No Minors

Oh and I won’t ask a single question

A question about who you’re supposed to be

I already know the answer

And the answer

Is you’re right here with me - Bad Man; Fightmaster

“When are you gonna let me take you out?” He asks, leaned over the partition of his register to smile at you. He props his chin on a folded up arm and lets the other one dangle free, his watch clacking against the wood.

“Take me out? Like on a date?”

“No.” He scoffs. “Like a hitman. Of course on a date.” He rolls his eyes, warm hazel full of mirth at his own joke. “C’mon. I know this cute little place over near Marion. Cozy, dim.” He tilts his head and watches you from under his lashes. “Perfect for a date.”

You sigh. You laugh too but the sigh is the precedent you need to set. “I’m sure it is.”

“I mean I know we’re playing this whole game of hard to get, but just admit it.” A customer comes up to his register with a baby on her hip and a handful of formula. “You’ve been got.” He winks at you before turning around to turn on his customer voice. An octave higher and a bigger grin, the lascivious one he’d been giving you gone while he coos at the infant. You bite your tongue though, holding your retort back for later. You know he’s going to corner you in the break room after you both clock out, his shoulder pressed into the row of lockers to ask you again.

“When are you gonna let me take you out?”

It’s his weekly question for you always asked with a grin and short laugh like he knows the answer is going to be different than last week. You tidy up your register and flip aimlessly through your stack of laminated grocery codes and pretend to not look up at the back of his head. He’s been out in the sun recently, lighter brown streaks shot through the darker. His fingers that run through the shaggy locks have a golden hue to them, the moles that pepper his skin dark in contrast to the glow. Broad shoulders flex under his polo and that laugh, as fake as it is, makes you smile to yourself.

So no you aren’t staring and no he isn’t taking you anywhere. A glance down at your watch tells you there’s approximately 47 minutes before you’re off. 47 minutes before you have to let him down again like he doesn’t already know.

The locker door swings shut and you laugh, something from the back of your throat. His smile is bright in the corner of your vision, teeth white and straight behind pink lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I just think I’m getting my psychic visions under control finally.”

“Hm.” His brow furrows before he pushes himself off the lockers. “I’ve got a friend who’s good at that, I can give you her number.”

You can’t be mad at him but you are tired. “What do you want Steve?”

“You know what I’m gonna ask.”

“And you know what I’m gonna say.”

That smile drops off his face. Shoulders relaxed while he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and he scuffs a shoe against the linoleum floor. “Can you tell me something?” He scratches at his eyebrow and squints past you.

“What?” You wonder what else he needs to know about your uneventful life.

“What does he do for you?”

“What?” You ask again and aggressively blink at him while you clutch your bag to your hip.

“What does he do for you? Like, ever.” He asks it so plainly like it isn’t some direct invasion into your life. You want to snap at him and tell him to mind his own business but you stop. It isn’t his fault that he doesn’t think this is out of line, who else do you tell first thing every work day when your boyfriend has fucked up again?

“He…he’s my boyfriend, Steve. He does a lot for me.” You yank on your bag to finalize your lame reason. “I don’t have to tell you everything he does for me.”

“No, but I don’t think you’ve ever said one positive thing about him.”

“He has so many-” You cut yourself off because you can’t even lie about that. He doesn’t have so many positives. He might have two and it’s that he’s never raised his voice at you and he doesn’t get on to you when you forget to pay the water bill on time again. Steve looks at you expectantly but you just huff at him.

“I’m not going on a date with you.” You’ve never said it like that before, so plainly. To his credit Steve doesn’t flinch, just nods his head deeply and swings his keys around his finger while avoiding your gaze.

“Understood.”

The routine of every closing shift with Steve goes the same. He shows up five minutes before he has to clock in to find you reading your last chapter in your book. He’ll compare lunches with you and you’ll talk about your leftovers and he’ll ask.

“Oh, did you make dinner again?”

Steve won’t put any feeling into that question. A simple tilt of his head, a comment about how it sounds delicious. A joke about how you should invite him and Robin to dinner some night because neither of them can cook more than mac and cheese without fear of burning something.

You’ll both head up to the front office to find your night manager and Steve will bump elbows with you on every other step. He’ll talk about the game that was on the night before and you’ll nod along. Rich, your boyfriend, also watched the game but it wasn’t as interesting as when Steve tells you. You’ll tamp that thought down though before it grows legs and runs away with your better judgement. He’ll ask about your night and when you don’t have anything to say?

“What’d you and Rich get up to then?”

The usual. He watched TV and yelled at the Packers for loosing again and you made dinner after being on your feet all day, unlike him and his office job.

“You know,” you’ll say “he’s home a full four hours before me and still didn’t take the chicken out of the freezer.”

Steve will nod and frown while he counts his till before turning on his light for the customers.

“Every night?”

“Every night! And he didn’t wash my sweater again. I swear I’m speaking friggin’ Greek some nights.”

Steve will sigh and huff along with you. He’ll bitch about his date the previous weekend, how she wasn’t interested in hearing about his hiking trip with Robin. How it seemed that it was more a pity date than anything.

“You and Rich got any plans this weekend?”

Of course not. You can’t remember the last time he took you out on a date, much less even went with you to the grocery store. Another slip up in your tales to Steve when you derail and tell him this. Barely a date night in the past year and every time you’ve brought it up it’s met with a sigh. With a hand wave and a promise for next month, when things calm down at work. When he isn’t so tired.

“What’s he working so hard for?”

You wouldn’t know if you even cared to ask. It’s in these conversations where you realize a few things. Every day gives you a new insight and Steve more fodder for his never ending question.

You like working Saturday’s with Steve because Robin usually shows up at closing and he’ll invite you out for a drink. She’s funny and he plays off of her well and by the end of the night you’ve usually forgotten that you’re probably showing up to an empty apartment.

“I’m not leaving until I see you walk in.” Robin chirps, her seat pulled too far up into the steering wheel. She’s the soberest out of the three of you and you roll your eyes at her with a giggle. “I know Rich is there but-”

“No he’s not.” Steve cuts in from the backseat. You see him shake his head in the rear view and Robin gives you an open look.

“Oh don’t get all weird with me, he’s just out with his own friends.”

“He doesn’t invite you out too?” Steve mumbles from the dark.

“Steve.” Robin warns over her shoulder.

“No, it’s okay. They get together earlier than I get off work.” You play with the zipper of your jacket and don’t make eye contact. “I don’t really like his friends anyways.”

“He should get new friends then.”

“Steve.” Robin turns her head sharply to stare into the dark backseat where her roommate sits in the shadows. There’s a silent game of chicken happening between them, something tense and unsaid and you unlock your door to try and cut the rising emotions.

“Thanks for the ride, I appreciate it.”

“Let me walk you-”

“I’m okay, thank you though.” You smile through the headrests at Steve and his insistence, his eyes glassy in the light from the street lamps. You stumble only a little on your way out of the car and once you make it to your door, darkened window greeting you like normal, you can hear the muffled volume of Steve and Robin arguing before she drives them both home.

Steve hasn’t asked you for a date in over a month. He still keeps close to you during working hours but he doesn’t hang in the break room. On Saturday he doesn’t ask you out with him and Robin and he doesn’t ask if you have any plans that weekend.

“Is Robin picking you up?” You ask timidly from inside your locker where you have your head buried, pretending to look for your wallet.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. We’re going to a friends house for a game night.” He waits for you by the door, still intent on walking you to your car. You’re waiting for him to do the courteous thing and ask if you have plans but when he stays silent you bring them up anyways.

“I actually have plans this weekend.”

“No shit?” He sounds surprised but you think you weren’t supposed to see the eye roll.

“Yeah, Rich is taking me to that little place in Marion.” You give him a big grin. “He said he heard good things, wanted to take me somewhere nice.” Deep down you want him to be jealous. You want Steve to feel a little bad for shit talking your boyfriend, even if you agreed with him. You know you shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, none of his fuck ups or passive attitude, but maybe this could make up for it. Maybe you could show Steve you didn’t have that poor of taste.

Steve nods and bites his bottom lip. You wait for him to open his mouth to say something snippy but he lets the conversation die. He waits for you still, to walk you to your car, but when he gets you to your door he tells you to try the vodka sauce at this little restaurant and leaves you with a small wave while he hunches into the car.

Dinner is…fine.

It’s fine! Rich definitely took you to dinner and he did hold the door open for you and yeah the sauce was amazing and so what you had a brief ten minute interlude of quite between you and your boyfriend where you thought, briefly, about Steve sitting across from you and explaining the different types of pasta that his friend Eddie was learning in his culinary classes.

Then later during the quiet drive home when Rich had turned the radio over to some game he’d missed for your date you’d maybe had let your mind wander again, a wide palm that would rest on your knee and squeeze. Fingers that drift inwards with a promise for a continuation, conversation that makes you fawn and giggle and-

Steve pops up behind you while you shove your purse into your locker. “So, how was dinner?”

“It was fine!” Maybe a bit too snappy with the way he pulls his head back but you flash him a smile.

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

He leans a shoulder on the lockers beside you, a curious look on his face. “Just fine?”

You swallow when the hand that scratches at his chin brushes your arm on the way down. “Yes Steve. It was…nice.”

“Oh now it’s nice.”

Your sigh is loud and full of exasperation. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to know how your dinner went.” He’s picking on you. That easy grin tells you everything.

“No, you want to know if he messed up somehow.”

“Maybe.”

“He was fine.”

“Oh then I could definitely do it better.”

That makes you pause. Your eyes flick between his trying to decipher his angle while you try to ignore how you can feel the heat coming off of him standing this close. “Excuse me?” It comes out quieter than you meant.

“If I take you out it isn’t gonna just be ‘fine’.” He scoffs.

“If?”

“It’s just a matter of time now.” He slides forward along the locker doors, face closer to yours, enough to feel the edge of his breath he huffs through his nose. “How many more ‘just fine’ dates do you want?” There’s a shift in his demeanor. A squaring of shoulders when he crosses his arms, his gaze softer as he looks down his nose at you.

“Steve, I-” You jump when the break room door opens and he just stands up straight to tug his shirt down before he raises an eyebrow and walks around you to head to work.

“You free tonight?” He asks you during lunch, half his sandwich shoved in his mouth.

“For what?”

“Drinks.”

“You don’t have another game night?” You try to ask it playfully but it comes off a little snooty. All throughout your date you’d caught yourself drifting and wishing you were at that stupid little hole in the wall with Robin and Steve. Once you’d realized how the night was gonna go all you could think about was Steve buying you another round, another cheep beer or the nickel shot of the night. How he’d circle his arm around to place the drink in front of you, careful to wrap himself around your back for a moment.

“Nope.” He pops the word for emphasis and gives you a dopey grin. “All free for you.”

It makes you bashful but what does he do that doesn’t? When you’re finished with your food he wordlessly grabs his trash and yours, even your empty tupperware to rinse it out.

“You don’t have to do that Steve, I have hands.”

“I’m being nice.” He hands you back the dried container. “It’s just a dish.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It isn’t just a dish. His arm brushes yours on your walk back to your registers and you barely keep up with his story about the art gallery with Robin from a few days ago. Lost in the little moments of things he does for you just at work, like walking you to your car. Rinsing your dish out for you and grabbing extra stacks of bags when he’s grabbing his own. Small, minute little things that he just does without you having to ask. It’s a strange concept to you, not having to ask for the small things.

“You aren’t listening are you?” He smiles at you again without irritation or an eye roll. Another thing you haven’t had the privilege of in a long time with Rich.

“I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold you hostage later and explain what Robin told me about the Haitian art.” He hooks an arm around your shoulders to pull you in. “All it’ll cost you is a single round.”

“Deal.”

Robin is nowhere to be found after work. The parking lot holds just a handful of cars, yours included, and no maroon beemer in sight.

“Are we meeting her there?”

“Uh, no.”

You pause with your key in the driver door. Turned away from him so you don’t have to look at him when you ask. “So just us then?”

“Mhm.”

What you should do is tell him no. Give him a ride home and then head back to your place where you can make a single serving of something and then fade away in front of the TV until your boyfriend calls you from his trip entirely too late and wakes you up.

Instead, “This isn’t a date, okay?” You get in your car and unlock the passenger side for him.

“Sure.”

“I mean it Steve.”

“That’s why you’re buying the first round.” He’s all wide grins and quiet giggles that turn infectious while you navigate to the bar. He finally has your attention so he finishes his art gallery spiel and you have to ask, it’s something that’s been burning in your back pocket forever.

“So when you go on all these dates, is Robin upset or…”

“We’re not together.” Steve sighs and shakes his head. “It really isn’t like that, we’re just friends.”

“Yeah but you two get along so well.”

“It’s…complicated.” He isn’t cutting you off but it’s the answer he’s giving you right now. “Not between us though, we really are just friends.” He points out the street you’re supposed to turn on and you have to make a quick right. “You got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried.” You shoot him a glare as you park, the sudden silence when you turn off the car deafening. “First round on me, right?”

You open a tab when you get there, hellbent on paying your own way to prove to yourself that you aren’t trying to turn this into a date. It’s two friends hanging out, that’s it, and Rich wouldn’t care anyways because you’re allowed to have friends.

You buy your friend Steve a beer and he tells you about his parents retiring to Florida and you talk about your mom’s new boyfriend. Your empty barely hits the table and Steve has a cold can waiting, sliding it across the table at you.

He talks about his friends Nancy and Johnathan getting married and you vaguely mention that Rich is out of town for his brother’s bachelor party. Two shots get set down in front of you and the conversation gets louder with the music and the crowd.

You forget the lines you drew for yourself and reach a hand over to tap Steve’s leg while you’re trying to remember the next part of your story. His nose is red from the cheap whiskey but his cheeks flush when you have to use him for support when you stand, hot palm pressed into the thick of his thigh.

Steve listens to you talk about the drawing class your taking and when you think your starting to bore him he waves you off with a laugh.

“What would give you that idea?”

“I don’t know, Rich kind of drifts if it isn’t about him.” You’ve got enough liquor in your system to start bypassing your filter and you tell it like it is. “He doesn’t give a shit about my ‘stupid little class’.”

“His words or yours?” Steve asks over the rim of his beer. You just shoot him a look and take your shot with a grimace. “Well, keep going. I want to hear more about it.”

The night goes by quicker than expected and suddenly you’re drunk. You realize this while standing in the single stall bathroom while you hold yourself up over the sink to stare at your reflection.

“Get it together.” You make yourself chuckle. “Seriously, what’s going on with your mascara?” You swipe your still wet hands under your lashes to wipe away the black fallout. A moment of embarrassment when you think about Steve seeing you like that but he’d been laughing too, and the bar was dark.

“It doesn’t matter.” You point at your reflection. “He laughed at your jokes.” Your smile is florescent in this dingy bathroom for only a moment when you remember those lines you laid so carefully and then so quickly crossed. The corners of your mouth fall and you sway when you stand up too fast. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be drunk. You shouldn’t be here and drunk with only Steve.

Almost as if he’s heard your thoughts he’s knocking at the door rapid fire while a muffled voice tells him that’s the ladies room. “I know, I’m looking for my lady.” He laughs and the girl laughs and you start laughing and god you can’t keep a thought in your head now after what, 6 shots? 3 beers? You open the door and Steve greets you with a surprised face and an arm around your middle.

“See, I found her!”

“Steve,” you giggle against his shoulder while he walks you to the bar so he can pay the tab you were supposed to be picking up, “I shouldn’t drive.”

“Then I’ll drive.” He looks down his shoulder at you with hazy eyes.

“I don’t think you should drive either.” You’re slurring makes him laugh and under his right arm he reaches his left hand through to grab your fingers pulling at his coat.

“A cab then.”

“You’re so smart, you know that?” You stare at him in awe before laughing again, your fingers flexing in his grip and staying put.

Steve blushes doubly so with the alcohol and your words going to one of his heads. He whips his head to the bartender waiting for her pen back and he smiles brightly at her. “One cab please.”

You both fall into the bar top giggling while this poor bartender rolls her eyes and drops the phone in front of Steve so he can call for his own chariot.

He follows you right into the back seat and falls directly onto your side when your shoe catches on the rubber mat that lines the floorboards. The driver looks back at the two of you caught in laughter and sighs, waiting for one of you to give him an address. When you try to give Steve’s first he tuts and gives the driver yours instead, “That way I know you got back safe.” His breath tinged with cheap beer brushes your cheek, his nose almost pressing in if only you’d turn your head a little more.

“Yeah okay.” Instead you just look at him from the corner of your eye while your heart beats a hundred miles an hour. Steve adjusts as best he can, his limbs heavy with liquor so he just huffs into his corner of the bench seat, halfassed clipping his seat belt on.

“I mean it. Rich isn’t there.” Air quotes around your boyfriend’s name and a deep mocking frown accompany it.

“Steve.”

“What? You said he was gone.” He rolls his eyes but closes his mouth when he sees you getting that little notch between your brows. He drops his hand off his lap and inches it over the seat till he’s reaching out to poke your leg once. Twice when you don’t react and then hesitantly he hooks his pinky out for yours draped over your thigh.

God his hand is warm. You can feel it through your jeans where the side of it rests against you. He hooks his pinky and you don’t move a single digit on your hand for fear of turning this into something it shouldn’t be. You feel sober suddenly when it hits you where you are and with who.

“Hey.” He tugs your hand till it falls onto the seat and he can grab it. You don’t fight it, not when his voice has that gravel to it from speaking all day. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Steve starts to let your hand go but he’s taking that warmth with him and you finally latch on to him, holding his hand down against your leg. You lean over to lay your head on his shoulder and stare out the windshield. It’s foggy out, the mist collecting on the glass to starburst the streetlights and you stay pressed against him.

The cab comes to a stop in front of your building and before anyone can say anything you finally look up at Steve. A tug on his hand and a quiet question only for him. “You wanna come up?”

The stairs try to trip you but Steve is there with a balancing hand at your hip. When you fumble with your keys he holds out his palm for them and you hope he can’t see the nerves rolling off of you. Your apartment is dark just like you expected but for the first time ever it seems to hold a promise in it, something in the shadows that doesn’t feel so sad. Behind you Steve closes the door and cuts off the light streaming in from the hallway and a switch is flicked inside you.

He’s right there when you turn around to grab the front of his coat and press your lips to his. No startled noise just his hands coming up to cradle your head. You cling to the front of him and he tries to sooth you with thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones.

None of this matters in the dark and you need him, need him to understand that. You turn into a flurry of movement trying to get him out of his layers. He laughs and breaks the kiss while you push at the lapels of his coat and tear at the buttons on his polo. You’ve spent months staring at the back of him, his broad shoulders and sun kissed skin. The moles that dot his neck and the chestnut hair that he’s always futzing with.

He’s running those big hands down your neck and over your shoulders.

“We don’t have to rush.” His voice cuts through the quiet hum of the appliances and runs down your spine with its deep timber. “No one else is here.”

He dips his head to kiss you again but the fervor is gone, replaced instead by a slow build of want. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth to gently bite and you melt into his chest. Hands lay limp against him while he begins your undoing with his kisses. They trail off to your cheek and to your ear and when he’s at your jaw his jacket falls from his shoulders.

He works at your clothes methodically the same way his mouth works at your neck and when you try to tug him towards your bedroom he pauses.

“We don’t have to go in there.” He gives you a soft look, almost pitying. “The couch is just as good.” A small smile against your small frown.

“I want to.” You pull and he steps with you. “It’s my bed anyways.”

Your back hits the bed and he follows you down with laughter and roaming hands. They pull at his own clothes and yours till you finally can touch all that warm skin of his, fingertips tracing between moles on his chest inbetween sloppy kisses.

You can’t remember the last time you felt want like this. Everywhere his fingers drag feels like live wires under your skin. They dance along your collar bones and behind your knees, sensitive skin graced with featherlight touch.

“Please.” You pant while he kisses along your jaw.

“Please what?” He drags his touch up the inside of your thigh and grazes your mound, dancing around where you want him most.

“Please touch me.” Your voice wobbles with emotion, unshed tears stuck behind your lashes. The nerves of the night settle deep into your bones, deep enough you think you might shake apart with them. Long fingers split you open, a slow drag upwards till he hits that ache that you’ve been ignoring all night. Uneven circles drawn while he pants against the side of your neck, open mouthed kiss pressed into your pulse.

Deft fingers pull your pleasure forward quick, a practiced hand between your legs that rivals your own. He hasn’t come up for air since he planted his face against you, tongue and teeth working in tandem against the sensitive spot under your ear while those long fingers dip lower. You can feel his smile like a tattoo on the front of your throat when he sinks one finger in, and then two, his moan singing along with your gasp. Quickly the pads of his fingers find that spot and your knees snap together around his wrist.

“Right there?” It’s all breath in his ask, your nod vigorous. “Come on.” He grits and keeps his pace up while you spiral when he presses the heel of his palm down. “Come on baby, let go.” Teeth scrape against your neck and help to send you over the edge while you grind down on his hand firmly to chase the tails of your pleasure.

Aimless kisses help bring you back to focus along with Steve’s hands gripping you to slide you down the bed. Hooked in the bend of your hips he jerks you to him, thighs hitting his and his cock is there against you suddenly. Hot and heavy between your thighs when he leans down over you to catch your lips in a deep kiss. Short rolls of his hips make him catch on your overly sensitive clit to make your legs shake just a little more.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about this?” He says against your mouth, sloppy and desperate as he ruts against your heat. “I think about you all the time.”

“Yeah?” You sound just as desperate, rolling hips meeting his own so he can keep nudging your clit. The tip of his cock edges lower but too slow, especially now with him staring wide eyed at you and panting.

“When you went to Marion I-fuck” He looses his composure when you sneak a hand between your bodies to help guide him, fingers wrapped around the thick length. “-I thought about crashing your date.”

You choke on your ‘what?’ when he finally sinks in and the size of him makes you gasp. He pauses for a moment when his eyes slip shut and you hold him between your thighs. When he doesn’t move you shift to get his attention and those blown out eyes find yours in the dark. Hands planted beside your head to cage you in and all you want to look at is his open expression. The grin he wears so well flashed at you while he rocks himself deeper.

“I know it’s crazy.” He half laughs as he starts a deliberate pace. “You make me feel crazy.” Every thrust is a punch of pleasure against that spot he’d found earlier. Precise and slow he drags this out so he can watch your face fall slack.

“I’m sorry.” You sob when he drives in deep and makes your eyes roll.

“No, no it’s me. You’re just-“ he hisses at your nails dragging behind his neck and up into his hair to grab fistfuls, pulling him down closer.

He takes the opportunity to kiss along your collar and mumble against your chest, slurred words only for your ears. Small bites along the swell of your breast and his long fingers rolling a nipple between his knuckles to make your breath hitch. He calls you beautiful and perfect and if you weren’t heading fast into your second orgasm you might cry from the attention.

Everything is big and hot in here. Louder and quieter at the same time. Steve holds onto you while he fucks you, hands gripping and lips searching. No marks but he lets his teeth nip at bared skin before he moves on, letting his fingers press into soft fat at the backs of your thighs and chest. You haven’t felt this kind of passion in a long time, the never ending want for more. You need him deeper, you need him to cover you completely. You want him to suck marks into your skin so you can see them in the morning and know this wasn’t you letting your fantasies get out of control again.

A faltering in his movement before he speeds up, hot breath fanning over your cheek where he kisses wetly up and down and to your ear, his quiet moans making your toes curl. It’s the deep, halting groan that pours out of him when he comes that has you clenching. He grips at you to hold you in place while you shake under him and he talks you down off your precipice. Mumbled praise and reminders of your beauty while sweat begins to cool. He doesn’t let his full weight fall on you but he does lay over your chest, skin sticking and sliding as his hand searches for yours to hook fingers together.

Beside your head you can hear him taking breath, readying to say something and you have a moment of doubt suddenly. He’s told you too much and not enough and maybe your brain is staring to catch up to your actions.

“I’m not drunk enough to say something stupid, but I need you to know something.” He uses his free hand to prop himself to hover over you, his grin skewed over his flushed cheeks. “I really like you.” A stray hair gets pushed out of your rapidly narrowing vision. His look is too soft and his wandering hand too light. It makes you shed a few tears that he seems to catch in the dim light.

“Steve…don’t…” You try to bury your face in the pillows but he’s quick to turn you back to face him.

“Don’t what? Tell you?” His grip on your chin is firm but his fingers don’t press in. He holds you still while his bloodshot eyes flick back and forth over your own. “I don’t…if you want me to leave I can do that.” It’s not a threat but it makes your heart seize regardless. “I’m just not gonna come in here and pretend like this is a one off or something.”

Knees still pressed to his hips holding him close, legs locked behind his knees where he kneels, you slide your hands up his sides for more points of contact. He’s real under your palms. Breathing and hot and sweating and telling you how he feels. The two orgasms barely hold a candle to the blossoming feeling in your stomach when he stares down at you with care.

“Steve-“

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t think-“

“Yes or no.” He sits back with his arms spread wide. “I can go right now and we can pretend this didn’t happen.” He looks hurt when he says that but he holds your teary gaze. “I’ll get my shifts moved so you don’t even have to see me at work.”

You reach for him again, need him under your hands to ground you in the moment. “Don’t do that.” Face pushed into his shoulder sloppily when you rush up to meet him in the middle of your bed.

“If it makes it easier-“

“I don’t want it easier.” You hush. “I want you to stay.” A gentle tug at him to follow you back to the pillows. “Please.”

He falls easily with you, gets his arms around your shoulders to roll you into his embrace. “Okay.” Fingers over your scalp and down your neck to sooth your heavy breathing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smells like the bar and his soap and the remnants of cologne that cling to his jacket. Scruff from a full day rubs against your forehead while you get comfortable against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your bedroom is quieter than normal with his heartbeat under your ear and his breathing above you, a steady hum that calms you down. You begin drifting off when the liquor catches up to your satiated brain and your fingers loose some of their grip on his sides.

You think he’s still asleep with how quiet the room is but his voice is a deep rumble in the morning after. “Robin is going to kill me.”

You can hear the rub of his palms over his face and through his hair, that deep groan when he rolls either away or towards you, you’re not sure.

You find your own voice then, creaky and worn from yelling laughter at him all night through cheap whiskey shots. “I thought it wasn’t like that.”

“It isn’t.” His long fingers creep over your shoulder to pull gently. “She told me to leave you alone.” When you don’t unwind from yourself he uses you for leverage and rolls into your back, arm snaking around your waist. “And I told her I would.” A chaste kiss pressed to the back of your neck that makes you shiver, nothing chaste in the way it makes your chest flutter. “Obviously I lied, and she’s not fond of me lying to her.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him over your shoulder, mainly trying to prevent a wave of nausea but also to hold off the inevitable guilt hanging over you from dropping like a guillotine. In the late morning rainy light he’s even more handsome, bed-warm and rumpled. His hair sticks up on one side where it was pressed into your pillow, same pillow leaving lines on his cheek. He looks soft and out of focus and warm.

You expect that guilt to bubble up and spill out of your mouth in a wail but it doesn’t exist; there is no guillotine here.

You shuffle onto your back so you can look at him more intently, so you can stare at the green flecks in his brown eyes that roam over your face. “If anyone is gonna be in trouble, I think it’s me.” Barely a wobble to your words. He slides his hand up your stomach, fingers coming to rest in the valley between your breast. No rabbit heart under his palm. No gasping breaths to steady yourself under his gaze. You’ve made your bed and you would really like to lie in it, consequences be damned.

“It was fun.”

“It was.” You blink at him slowly. Rain patters against the glass and the clock in the kitchen ticks down the rest of your day. He tucks his other arm up under his head to look at you better before he sighs.

“I can go. If it’s easier.” Repeats himself from last night but your answer hasn’t changed. You frown lightly but don’t answer and he seems to take that as his sign to get up.

“No.” You reach out for his arm before he can set his feet on the floor. “I don’t want you to go.”

He laughs through his nose before settling in an upright position. “You don’t seem convinced.” A thumb to his nose twice while he stares at a spot at the foot of your bed.

“I’m thinking.” You sit up next to him and lean into his back facing you. Cheek resting on the back of his shoulder you stare at the moles that dot his skin and run a finger between them.

“About?”

“Breakfast.”

His laugh is louder than you expect but it’s nice to hear. “Hungover?”

A dry kiss where your cheek was resting before you scoot to your side of the bed in search of your underwear. “Something like that.”

Quiet shuffling while you two get dressed, Steve wincing at the smell of the bar stuck in his shirt that he shoves over his head. When he passes you to go look for his wallet he stops to lean down for a kiss. Unhurried and soft it leaves you with that same deep want from last night, especially when he hides a grin as he turns away. Bashful like you two weren’t just drunkenly fooling around until the early morning hours.

“There’s a place just do-“

Shrill ringing cuts you off on your way to the front door and you both stop to stare at the phone hanging in the kitchen. Steve looks suddenly adrift in your apartment, unsure while probably Rich tries to call you at too early a time. You let it go until it stops and the silence sits between you until Steve clears his throat.

“You still wanna get breakfast?” Quiet now that reality has stuck its nose back in. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other and you reach over for him, hands sliding under his jacket for a loose hug.

Your smile might be sad and the turn of his chin down at you shows the shadow of doubt on his mind but you wanted this. He did too and the aftermath of your shared night sits around you. The chair out of place from running into it, your shoes kicked in front of the tv and your bed just out of sight with its sheets melting onto the floor.

Guilt doesn’t exist here. Not when Steve told you all his secrets last night. Not now with the memory of gentle kisses and burning touch still searing your skin. You’ll face the consequences tomorrow when your normal comes back into town but for now, “Yeah, I do.”

[horoscope1078]

Pau sat in the corner of the locker room. His head hanging low as he fidgeted with his phone. His teammates Hector and Lamine were chatting animatedly nearby but Pau wasn’t really listening. His mind was somewhere else, specifically, on you. He had been crushing on you for months now but he just couldn’t work up the courage to tell you how he felt. Every time he thought about confessing his nerves got the best of him and he chickened out.

He let out a heavy sigh, catching Hector’s attention.

“Yo Pau, what’s up with you?” Hector asked tossing his towel over his shoulder as he walked over to him. “You’ve been quiet since training ended.”

Lamine who had been joking around with Hector moments ago joined them. “Yes man. You look like you’ve got something on your mind. Everything alright?”

Pau looked up at his friends, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “It’s this girl…”

Hector and Lamine exchanged a knowing look. “Ah... the girl. We’ve heard about her before” Lamine teased raising an eyebrow. “Still haven’t told her, have you?”

Pau shook his head feeling his face heat up. “No. Every time I get close.. I just.. I don’t know.. I freeze up. I want to tell her but I don’t know how to do it without making a fool of myself.”

Hector leaned against the lockers, crossing his arms with a grin. “Man.. you’re overthinking it. Just be confident and go for it. Girls love confidence.”

Lamine, however seemed to be more excited about giving Pau some advice. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright alright.. listen up. I’ve got the perfect plan for you. It’s simple. Write her a love letter.”

Pau blinked confused. “A love letter?”

“Yes man!” Lamine said nodding eagerly. “It’s old-school, romantic. Girls love that kind of stuff. You write something like ‘Dear crush, you light up my world like the stadium lights on game day. Every time I see you, my heart does a bicycle kick.’ ”

Hector snorted shaking his head. “A bicycle kick, really?”

Pau couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I’m not sure that’s the right vibe Lamine.”

Lamine crossed his arms looking proud of himself. “Hey.. I’m just saying, it’s poetic. It’ll make her swoon.”

Hector rolled his eyes as stepping in with his own idea. “Forget the love letter. You need to do something bold, something that’ll get her attention for sure.” he thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Got it! Challenge her to a penalty shootout.”

Pau stared at Hector, half-amused and half-confused. “A penalty shootout? Seriously?”

“Yes! Hear me out” Hector said clearly excited by his own idea. “You invite her to the field, you both take turns shooting penalties and if she wins, you tell her your secret, you’ve been in love with her all along. If you win, same thing. Either way, you’ve got to confess. It’s a win-win!”

Pau rubbed his face with his hands, laughing but also groaning. “Guys.. I don’t think I can confess my feelings through a football match.”

“Why not?” Lamine piped up. “Football’s your thing Pau! It’s how you communicate with the world.”

Hector nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Make it fun. Girls love a guy who can make them laugh and doesn’t take himself too seriously.”

Pau chuckled, feeling a little better despite their ridiculous ideas. “Ok.. but what if she’s not into football? What if she doesn’t want to kick penalties against me?”

Lamine waved him off. “Then we move to plan b. Serenade her.”

Hector’s eyebrows shot up. “Serenade her? With what Lamine? You’re not gonna tell Pau to sing, are you?”

Lamine grinned unbothered by the scepticism. “Why not? I bet Pau has a decent voice. All he needs is a guitar and a few romantic lines. Something like ‘Girl, you dribble through my heart like Messi in his prime.’ ”

Hector burst out laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re killing me man. Messi in his prime? Pau, please don’t do that.”

Pau leaned back, laughing so hard his sides hurt. “Yes.. I think I’ll pass on the serenading idea.”

Lamine pouted though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Fine fine. No singing. But seriously man, you’ve got to do something. The longer you wait the more you’re going to psych yourself out.”

Hector nodded clapping Pau on the shoulder. “Yes bro. Just be yourself. Talk to her like you always do but maybe.. y’know.. throw in a compliment or two. Tell her how you really feel but don’t overthink it.”

Pau sighed feeling grateful for his friends even if their ideas were totally out there. “You guys are ridiculous but thanks. I think I just need to figure out the right moment and go for it.”

Lamine leaned in with a grin. “And when you do, remember.. ‘bicycle kick of the heart.’ ”

Pau shook his head laughing again. “I’ll keep that in mind, Lamine. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

With his friends by his side, Pau felt a little more confident even if he wasn’t ready to challenge you to a penalty shootout or sing about dribbling hearts just yet.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Congrats on your unique milestone!!

Hmm how about a micro with Dieter Bravo and Library AU?

Hi lovely! Thank you for this request. This turned out to be something completely different than what I expected, but... I kind of dig the vibe 🤷🏻‍♀️ I have no good explanation for this, but I hope you find some kind of enjoyment in it!

Dieter Bravo x library AU

Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 800 words | warnings: grumpy, booklover!Dieter, librarian!Reader, I honestly don't know what else to say lol, I can't explain what I've written

Dieter Bravo tosses a dogeared paperback onto the check-out counter at the local library and fishes for his wallet somewhere in the depths of his sweatpants.

You take one look at the familiar cover, and blurt out, ‘That’s my favourite book.’

He hums, not particularly interested in your opinion as he hands you his library card, which you’d personally printed out and laminated when the request from the mayor’s office came through a week ago.

At his dismissive air, you grumble under your breath, ‘It’s way better than that dumpster fire of a book that your movie is adapted from.’

That catches his attention.

Skeptical eyebrows ascend from behind his dark sunglasses. ‘Is that right?’

Having checked out the book, you slide it across the desk to him with a faux sweet smile. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

Dieter comes into the library every Thursday, after filming hours. You want to say you don’t understand why he does, but your workplace is one of two spots that’s still open after six o’clock in your tiny little town, the other being the local diner. And you guess there’s only so much drugs you can do in one’s hotel room before that gets boring too.

The next week, he returns your favourite book and surprises you with a question. ‘Got anything else like this one?’

So back and forth you go. He never tells you if he likes the books. He barely grunts two words at you, the sunglasses always firmly on, ringed fingers tapping on the counter impatiently when you beep the bar codes on his card and the book you recommend that week.

You don’t mind. You work at the library for a reason, and it’s not for a love of talking.

The weeks wind down, and soon there are whispers that his movie will wrap soon, in a couple of weeks. You’re not exactly sad, but you’ve liked sharing your favourite books with this man, whose glitzy, high-flying life is so far removed from yours - and yet your eyes have read the same words, your fingertips have traced the same lines of text, and your hands have turned the same pages.

The penultimate Thursday, when Dieter walks up to your counter, you have a book ready for him.

It’s a departure from the established routine - you usually tell him where the book is, and he goes fetch it himself. He doesn’t question you though, and instead, waits for the blurb that you always give him by way of an introduction. When you shrug wordlessly, he arches an eyebrow at you, but he doesn’t probe.

The next Thursday, you’re down with the flu and you call in sick for the day. If you’re honest with yourself, you’re relieved that you won’t see Dieter for the last time. Filming has wrapped, and you know he’s flying out this evening (there are no secrets in a small town).

Your dinner of canned chicken soup is bubbling on the stove when there’s a knock on your door. Swinging it open, you wonder if you’re high on your flu medicine.

Dieter Bravo is standing on your tiny doorstep, which is barely wide enough to accommodate his broad shoulders. He holds the book in one big hand, his ridiculous rings catching the porch lights. Something is off, and it takes you a few more moments to realise why -

He’s not wearing his sunglasses.

Warm brown eyes hold yours as he says more than asks, ‘You wrote this, didn’t you?’

His confident statement steals the breath right out of your parted lips, and you stare back at him, dumbfounded.

Not a single soul knows. You published the book under a pseudonym with a small press on the other side of the country and made enough to cover your costs, which was more than you expected. Covertly, you ordered a copy for the library, and it’s been checked out exactly three times in the last four years. It’s been sitting in its little spot, gathering dust until you took it off the shelf last week on an impulse.

You realise that Dieter is still waiting for your answer, but the words don’t come. The car sitting on the curb honks, and he smiles ruefully before pushing the book into your limp hands, and walks away without looking back.

When the SUV rounds the corner, your gaze drops to the paperback. His eyes have read the same words that you wrote, his fingertips have traced the same lines of text that you know by heart, his hands have turned the same pages you now fan through - 

Something falls out of the book and you just manage to catch it before it flutters out of reach. 

It’s a name card with Dieter’s cell number on one side, and on the other, in precarious handwriting that can only be his -

Wanna make a movie?

[suzukiblu]

I am very interested in the wip Hereditary Behaviors and what is out of it so far reminds me of: Rule #4 - Fish in a Birdcage by fish in a bird cage

"The human DNA stabilized it successfully," the man says. "The full powerset won't come in right away, obviously–it's going to need time to charge up in the sun. A few months or years, depending. The tactile telekinesis will get stronger too." 

It doesn’t know what–

No. It does know what tactile telekinesis is. 

And it could kill everyone in this room with it. 

. . . this room. It’s in a room. A laboratory. There’s machines in it. People in it. 

And the kryptonite-eyed man is in it. 

That’s the only thing that it actually cares about, it’s pretty sure. 

“Satisfied?” the kryptonite-eyed man asks someone else without paying any more attention to it, and it decides–it’s definitely sure, actually. 

It smacks the glass–the laminated reinforced glass-clad polycarbonate–between them. It feels everyone in the room startle in unison, except for the kryptonite-eyed man. He doesn’t even turn to look at it. 

It doesn’t like that, so it smacks the laminated reinforced glass-clad polycarbonate again. Harder. The other people startle again; start looking nervous. It feels their pulses accelerate. 

The kryptonite-eyed man still doesn’t look at it. It still doesn’t like that. 

It thinks it hates that, actually. 

Yeah. It does. 

It knows a lot of things now, though, so this time, it punches the laminated reinforced glass-clad polycarbonate. 

The surface of it cracks.

Everyone but the kryptonite-eyed man starts cursing or yelling or running to the various machines. They’re shouting orders and instructions to each other, but it still doesn’t care about them or the machines or anything else. They can all do what they like, as long as . . . 

The kryptonite-eyed man finally looks back to it, and raises an eyebrow at it. 

And if the punching made him look at it, it’s not going to stop.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Along Came Fire - Avery/Blair, Pt. 2

A lot more snz and misery in this lol. Avery showing her true colors. Blair being unbearably into it. Both of them wondering about the other. Plz enjoy my hasty edit! :)

_____________________________

By the time the heaters in the stadium get the memo, the set is over and Blair has had just about enough of this frigid bullshit.  

He’d managed to fend off whatever fuckery his sinuses were concocting during the performance, but now, it’s gotten to the point where no amount of shallow breathing and nose rubbing will do the trick. His body has just had enough of him.

And the feeling is fucking mutual. 

Blair cringes against his knuckled fingers with a flash of teeth. "HhhRISSCH! –RIIHHHSSCHuh! EKTSSCH! UhhhCHHSSSH!" He pauses, breath a hitching, ragged heave. "Hhh–RIISSSCCHHiiiuuhh!"

"What, you're not going to try for an even six?”

He stops with the miserable, wet sniffling and glances over his shoulder.

It's her. Just standing there with a laminate around her neck, like she belongs there. No idea where she’d gotten the pass, but he’s not going to ask questions, especially not with the way she’s looking at him right now.  Kind of like how the Blond Wonder looked at him, but with a more curious sort of concern rather than outright, overly empathetic gawking.

Hard not to stare back at that mane of hers with all the red, orange, and yellow competing for space, a vibrant cascade of fire that has the nerve to call itself “hair.”

“Hey.”  She waves a hand in front of his face with a bit of a laugh. “Are you okay in there?”

He offers her a slow blink in tandem with the realization that he has said nothing to indicate an answer.

“I am,” he says.  “Just too damn cold.” One eyebrow arches high.  “Are you?”

She tilts her head. “Cold?” 

“Okay,” he clarifies. 

“Oh! Yeah, I’m fine.” She combs her hair away from her face with one hand and laughs. "I’m pretty sure I left puncture wounds on that idiot, so there’s that."

Probably.  He hadn't missed how aggressive she'd been. Kind of a firecracker for such a slender chick.

Hot.

"Yeah, well. Guys are assholes." He offers her a smirk.  "But I'm a bigger asshole." 

"Good quality, if you ask me." Her smile is a sly mirror of his own.

“Damn straight.”  He tugs at the knot on his bandana out of habit.  “Avery, right?” 

“Yep.” She pokes him in the chest with one finger.  “You didn’t tell me you were the bass player.”

Cue the smartass eyebrow arch. “You didn’t ask.”

“I don't usually introduce myself and then be like, ‘so, do you play the bass?’ ”

“Why not. Good conversation starter.” 

She flicks a piece of his hair with a pop of her fingers. “You're weird.”

He’ll take that.

But what he’s not going to take is any more shit from his sinuses.  Sort of.  Goddamn it.

She does the curious, cocked head thing again at his abrupt change of energy and asks the obvious question.  “Something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’ssss uuhhh-hhhheh!” He holds up a hand to politely silence furthering questioning, breath catching in his throat with a choppy attempt to draw in enough air. "Heeh-hh. . . Hh'RISSSCHU! Hkg–CHISSSHUHH! Fuck."  He rubs at his nose with a sniffle. "Hhngh, sorry. The cold fucks me up."

"I can tell," she says as he sneezes again with twice the force and less control. 

Goddamn it. 

"God bless," she says in this voice that's somewhere between concerned and a bit. . . something else. 

Interesting . . . 

"Stick around and you'll get sick of saying that real fast," he says. 

She laughs, but doesn't refute him. She does, however, close the distance between them unexpectedly.  "Hold on." A hand reaches up to adjust the apparently lopsided bandana tied around his head. "You're about to sneeze this off." 

"Heh, thanks."  He fiddles with the knot on the thing and tightens it. "Wouldn't be the first time." He regards her with a slow, assessing tilt of his head.  “Feel like sticking around?”

Her eyes are the lightest shade of honey gold he’s ever seen.  And to think she asked him about contacts.

“Sure,” she says. “You might need someone to fix that bandana again.”  A faint hint of super white and slightly pointed teeth peek from behind her lips,  which is so absurdly attractive to him, he shoves a hand in his pocket to keep it to himself. 

But that still leaves him with one.  Which he holds out to her.

It only takes her a second to decide to fork over her fingers, which slide into the width of his palm like something delicate and precious.  Compared to Blair, most people are on the smaller side, but while Avery is tall, she's particularly slender of frame, a fact that is emphasized by the tight black pants and matching bodysuit with strategically placed fabric slashes she’d chosen for the gig. It highlighted the fuck out of her multi-colored hair.  Like autumn leaves in a jeweled pit fire. 

“Hungry?” he asks as he leads her down the rowdy expanse of the corridor where musicians and techs alike are loudly congratulating themselves over the success of the show.

“I could eat something,” she says.

So could he. 

______________________________________

The booth is a semicircle, not one of those across the table deals. And she sits close to him, so close that her leg presses against his thigh. 

He's not sure what he's done to elicit that kind of contact, but he wants more. So, he does the cheesy movie thing and drapes an arm across her shoulders, casually at first, but when she willingly curls closer against his side, he ups his game with an upper arm squeeze. 

Damn, she smells good. Like spring rain and oleander. 

"Are you still cold?"

He nuzzles her thick hair. "Not as much." 

Mainly because she's a fucking furnace, like a personal space heater. No complaints from him. 

Well, except for the goddamn prickling the "defrost" is causing in his sinuses. No, dammit. He's not unwinding his arm from her lithe body. 

He unrolls the napkin-wrapped silverware and snaps the thing open, but doesn't quite make it. 

"HhhRISSCH! ISSCCHUH!"  His lip curls away from his teeth in a snarl of irritation and he clamps the napkin over his mouth and nose. "AahhRISSCHuh! IKGSSSH-U!"  He sniffles and dabs at his nose with a hint of a smirk. "Hnnnh, sorry I'm so goddamn sexy." 

She laughs in a high, almost tittering way that is reminiscent of something he can't quite place, but he likes it. 

"I think I can handle you." She hooks a piece of his hair that escaped his bandana behind one ear. "God bless." 

Her breath tickles his ear and coaxes the hair on his arms to stark attention. 

"Hmn, thanks." His voice drops to a lower, darker version of itself. "You want a steak?"

"Sure," she says. "Purrs" is a better word. "I like meat." 

The way she says that is hotter than it has any right to be.

"Yeah?" He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. "How do you like your meat?"

Her lips brush the line of his jaw with scantist touch. "Extra rare." 

Okay, fuck it. 

He shifts his body just enough to slide a hand into her hair and leans in close, pausing just shy of capturing that mischievous mouth of hers. Makes her wait for it. Teases her with a faint exchange of breath.  But when the tip of her tongue darts out to just barely flick his lower lip, he’s over it.  

And damn, can she kiss.  It’s electricity and fire, the slow, smoldering promise of something far more urgent, but deftly restrained. His body finally gets the message and switches on the heat until his skin is feverishly hot.  Sharp nails dig into his shoulders just enough to make temporary, pointed crescents in the flesh and he sits back against the vinyl seat as the kiss recedes, the faintest wisp of smoke curling from his lips. 

“Goddamn.” His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he exhales a breath from the depths of his chest, as if he’d been holding it for hours. 

Nails drag down his forearm in a light, affectionate scratch.  “Been a while?”

“Oh yeah,” he says.

A long fucking while. 

__________________________________________________________

The seated dinner had turned into “fuck an hour wait, room service is better” and man, had he made the right choice.  

The idiots in the kitchen had forgotten the steak knives and rather than ask some underpaid kid to go seventeen floors down to get a couple, Blair and his “date” had opted for the more barbaric option. 

Just pick the shit up and eat it. 

Now, watching Avery snack on that rare slab of meat was hotter than any porno could ever be.  There is something primal about the way she takes small, but efficient bites of the steak, the way she sort of tears off a chunk and licks her fingers afterwards.  And when he doesn't eat the entirety of his own steak, she finishes it for him. 

Where the hell had she put it all?  The woman is a slender wisp of a person.

If that’s what she actually is. 

It's the same thing with Caspian.  A flash of something wild. That “otherness.”  He’s seen it before. Plenty of times. 

“I don’t usually do this, you know,” she is saying as she licks the last of the blood and juices from between her fingers. 

“And what’s that?”

She flashes him her super pearly whites.  “Eat meat with strange men.” 

He chuckles and it morphs into a bit of a cough, reminding him that the surge of heat between them earlier hadn’t been enough of a catalyst to jumpstart his body into actually doing anything about his damn "illness."

Her expression morphs from playful to concerned and she sets the plate on the nightstand.  “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”  He wipes at the edges of his nose with a clean napkin and winces.  “Still too goddamn cold, I guess.”  

That fucking nose ring.  Not like he could just take the bastard out without some pliers.  Special ones. 

Avery moves closer, but he holds up a hand to stop her progress, his breath hitching in ragged, uneven catches.  

“Hhheh—!  RISSSCCH–UHH! ISSCCHHU!  Mother. Fucker.”  He growls to himself and drops the napkin in favor of the box of tissues that she’s now offering him.  

Fuck it, he’s taking the whole box.  

“Thanks,” he says in a tone that is way more grumbling grouchiness than he means it to be.  

But she’s obviously not put off by that because she’s suddenly right beside him, her hand on his thigh, even though he’s gross as hell whilst taking care of his dripping sinuses. 

“Sorry,” he says with a sigh.  “Was hoping this shit would just let up or fuck off.” 

“Stop apologizing.”  She rolls her eyes a little and he’s reminded of the same exasperation Caspian uses for Miami, which is more than a touch amusing. “I’m not worried about your cold or whatever it is.”  She tosses all of that flaming hair over one shoulder.  “I like a guy that can be a hot mess and own it.” 

Blair laughs.  “Jackpot, then.” 

“You can lie down, you know.”  She pats the top of his free hand.  “It won’t hurt my feelings if you’re tired.” 

After tossing the tissues into the trash, he slips her fingers into his palm and scratches his thumbnails over her knuckle.  “Mmn, I’m not that tired.” 

She leans in for a kiss and he affords her the opportunity with eager reception. Doesn't stop her when she presses herself against him again.  In fact, he pretty much pulls her into his lap and she’s happy to be there, given the way she’s kicked off her boots and settled in.

“I’m not contagious,” he says.  

Her hands slide over his chest and clutch the fabric of his shirt.  “Wouldn’t care if you were.” 

“Want me to take this off?” He tugs at the edge of his shirt.

“No,” she says.  “I want to take it off.” 

If his eyebrow arched any higher, it would disappear into his hairline.  “Okay.”  He leans back against the bed frame and lets go of her hips.  “All yours.” 

(TBC...)

[fairy-writes]

Merfolk!Viktor x Reader 04

part one of merman!viktor HERE

part two of merman!viktor HERE

part three of merman!viktor HERE

all parts of this series are tagged under cryptid!viktor

cryptid!viktor also includes my pieces with vampire!viktor

POSTING THIS ON THE LAST DAY OF MERMAY LETS GOOO

“what is he doing here?!” you demand and hear a voice behind you.

“it’s here because you found it.” comes a smooth baritone, and you spin around to see silco leroy. 

he’s dressed immaculately in a black three-piece suit with a red button-down and white tie. his shiny black dress shoes splashed through the water that was being flung up by viktor’s constant attempts to make it over the wall. which weren’t going well, mind you. his shoulders kept slamming against the concrete barriers, and his long nails scraped and clawed so much you were worried they’d snap. 

what parts of the cage weren’t surrounded by concrete were surrounded by laminated glass meant for viewing the animal in the habitat. it looked thick, way too thick for anything to break through.

just how long had this enclosure been in progress? when was it built, and why didn’t you know about it?

“what do you mean he’s here because i found him?” you ask incredulously, and sevika steps out from behind silco when you start to get angry. she’s decked out in her full security guard garb with her pistol on her belt and her hand on her baton. she looks more like a police officer than a security guard. 

but she gets the job done and absolutely terrifies you.

not as much as silco… but no one scares you as much as silco does. 

“because you found this creature. do you have any idea how valuable it is?” he inquires, and you shrug,

“about as much as the next person, i suppose.” and get the immediate feeling that your answer was the incorrect one. he shakes his head, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he crosses his arms. he looks like a dissatisfied father scolding a child. 

and you had the feeling you were the child in question.

“we both know that is a lie. you know exactly how valuable this thing is and the strides we could make in the scientific community with it.” you have the notion that he’s calling viktor an “it” just to irk you.

it’s working.

you cross your arms and lean on one foot, scuffing the other against the concrete. you flinch when water splashes against your back over the top of the angled glass where viktor is still trying to escape and duck your head as if something had been thrown at you when he starts screeching. 

it’s a heart-wrenching sound that pulls at your soul. it simultaneously scares and hurts you.

it’s the sound of a man who is angry and lost. a man who longs to return to his home and is oh so scared of what is going to happen to him. 

you only hope they don’t kill him. 

“fine, yes, i know how valuable he is.” you say and stress the “he” in your sentence. 

silco quirks an eyebrow, but you keep talking, 

“and what do you want me to do with that information?” you finally ask, and he gestures to where viktor has finally stopped throwing himself from the water and is resting on the small sandy shore, shoulders heaving and head down as he tries to catch his breath. 

so merfolk do breathe air. 

how did they function underwater? 

you could’ve sworn you saw gills on him yesterday. 

do they have both lungs and gills?

you realize abruptly that silco is talking.

“—to study the creature. take samples. learn the behavior. possibly even teach it how to communicate. and no telling anyone. after all, you did sign the NDA, did you not?” he talks in that silky smooth and very unnerving voice of his. you involuntarily shudder, and he notices. his smile turns triumphant as you duck your head and mumble in agreement.

it seemed you had no choice.

but… 

teach viktor how to communicate?

did he even have the physical capabilities to speak a human language? much less english? all you had heard from him yet was hisses and screeches. noises unable to be made by human vocal cords. they sounded more animalistic, almost whale-like. it was a noise made deep in his chest that resonated throughout the air. 

it would have been beautiful if it weren’t such a heartbreaking sound. 

it made you wonder just how human merfolk actually were. 

you were snapped from your musings by silco leaving with sevika on his tail. he turned at the door and offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“you start immediately. marcus will explain the rest. best of luck.” he said and shut the door without another word. 

marcus does not, in fact, explain anything. he just reiterates what silco said and leaves you and viktor alone. 

speaking of viktor…

he’s gone.

he wasn’t on the beach. 

where was he?

you ignore the flash of panic that goes through you and rushes to the glass that stands between you and the water. you search frantically through the clear blue water for any signs of the merman.

only to fall on your rear when he erupts from the water like a man possessed and slams into the laminated glass with an enraged screech, his talons scraping and leaving gouges in the transparent material before splashing back into the enclosure.

one thing is clear as you look into the water and see him circling the perimeter, his angry golden eyes watching you with clear scorning. 

he blames you entirely. 

[planetpedri]

Hi!!! This is my first request but could you please do an imagine with Pau Cubarsi x reader where he wants to be more than friends and doesn't know how to tell her but in the end he finally does. your writing is amazing btw!!

I’ll call you mine — Pau Cubarsí.

Pairing: Pau Cubarsí x Fem!Reader

Summary: Pau has been trying to confess for months, but instead of it coming out with a planned confession, he just blurted it out.

Word count: 1.58k+

Disclaimer/s: Injured (but healing) cat + fluff

A/N: on a pau grind because i’m desperately in love with him.

Your whole study group, which consisted of you, Pau, Lamine, and a girl named Elaine, had agreed to meet at a local diner a few blockes away from school. Pau had kindly offered you a ride there, since he was your neighbor and best friend.

Music played quietly in the background while he drove, adding a nice vibe to the one you’d already created while talking. Pau was asking about you cat, Beatrice, since she just had surgery.

“Oh my God, she literally—“ You let out an annoyed breath, “she literally is so energetic. She literally just got her surgery and now she’s suddenly full of life! I had twenty-four hours of peace before she started walking on our balcony railing again!”

Pau chuckles, his eyes darting to you every few seconds to watch your animated retelling of Beatrice’s actions. “She’s always been a handful, why are you surprised?”

Pinching your lips together, you huff. “Okay, true. It’s still stressful though. So anyways, Lamine and Elaine texted and said they are waiting for us.. but, I was thinking we.. you, could stop at the gas station so I can get some chips? They always have boring flavors at the diner.” You turn in your seat to face Pau, your lips jutting out in a pleading pout.

The boy glances at you with a knowing look, but of course he could never say no to you. “Yeah, sure. Just be quick, we’re already late.”

Pau turns into one of the corner stores, parking in the front so you could get in and out as quickly as possible. As you dig for your bag to get your card, Pau pulls his out from his wallet, shoving it into your face.

Pulling back, you give him a look. “No. Pau, you paid for them last time!”

“And, i’ll pay for them this time.” He waves the card in front of your face, which was forming an annoyed look. “Take it. Go.”

With a groan, you snatch it from his hand. “Okay, thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

You were in and out of the gas station in five minutes, clicking your seatbelt on and handing Pau’s card back with a smile. Chips in hand, you watch the store disappear as Pau drives away.

Your eyes eventually trail back to Pau, who seemed to be deep in thought. Observing his concentrated face, you don’t realize the growing upturn to your lips. He feels your stare, but doesn’t say anything to stop it. His stomach churns the longer you silently watch him and his heart felt like it was beating so fast that it wasn’t beating at all.

You only look away when he parks outside the diner. Unbuckling and climbing out with an eager bounce in your step. Inside, you two find Lamine and Elaine waiting in a back booth, their laptops already opened on the table alongside a red box of fries.

“About time.” Elaine quips, not bothering to look up from her laptop when you and Pau slide into the bench across from her and Lamine.

“Someone,” Pau drawls out, eyes flickering to yours teasingly, “wanted her chips.”

Lamine laughs, sticking out his hand to Elaine who frowns as she places a few bucks into his open palm. “I told you.”

Your lips pull into a frown, “what the hell? You placed a bet—you know what. Whatever! I don’t even care. Moving along, who has the wifi password?”

“They haven’t changed it since we were last here.” Elaine informs, plopping a fry into her mouth.

Pau’s eyebrows quirk up, “they haven’t?”

Your elbow nudges his shoulder, “they are learning to love us!”

Lamine glances between the duo, sharing a quirked eyebrow with Pau when your hand lingered a bit too long on the boy’s arm, and Pau’s cheeks had flushed a bright red.

The thing was, Lamine had been trying to get Pau to tell you how he felt for months. Every time, the boy promised he’d do it ‘soon’. He never did.

As the night went on, the group studies quietly, sharing small talk here and there. You and Pau decided to leave early, opting out of the study session to go watch a movie at your house.

The second you two arrived back at your house, you had changed into pajamas and joined Pau on the couch. With your parents already fast asleep, they didn’t bother telling you what time to have Pau leave. This was quite a normal activity for you two; Pau coming over to your house and staying over while you guys half-pay attention to the movie playing.

Most of the time you two spent together was filled with you talking and Pau listening. Thats the sort of friendship you had. He loved to hear you talk, and, well, you loved to talk. Plus, Pau preferred it that way simply because he could avoid the stuttering mess you made him when you listened to him talk.

Even as you sat there, only a foot between each other as you talked. Your knees were pulled to your chest and you were going in on a conspiracy theory you happened to come across on Tiktok. Pau’s eyes darted across your face as you spoke, and you found it harder and harder to remember all the facts when his eyes kept wandering to your lips.

Maybe he should just tell you.

Your brain was spinning just trying to focus on the topic at hand, but you had enough. “Pau, will you stop. I’m trying to tell a story here.”

The boy blinks, taken aback at your random call out. “What?

“Whatever you’re doing with your eyes, stop. Look away, it’s like.. distracting.” You gulp, why was it distracting in the first place?

Pau nods, he hadn’t even realized what exactly he was doing, so he just avoided your face. That, though, was harder than he thought. All he wanted to do was look at you, to see your face, and now more than ever.

That was the hardest part about him liking you. He was so deeply enthralled with everything you did, having that taken away was horrible. Pau had started to hate away games for the simple fact that he saw you less.

“Okay, but also, this—Pau? Hi?” You wave your hand in front of the teen’s face. “You went off into another planet, did you even get the last part? It was kind of vital.”

“Sorry, I was thinking. Could you repeat?” He looks back at you, and finds his breath catching in his throat. Had you gotten closer? You did look beautiful in the TV lights glow.

You suck in a long breath, “okay. Prepare—“

“I like you.”

Oh.

Silence.

“Huh?”

Another long beat of silence.

Pau’s mouth parts, he didn’t mean to say that out loud. He really didn’t. “Whaaat.. who said that?”

It was your turn for your mouth to fall open, slightly shocked but more.. well. You started laughing. You were choking on your laughter, your hand clutching Pau’s shoulder as your head dipped down to rest on it. He was laughing too, partly humiliated, partly-amused.

When you finally calmed down and look back up at him, you take a deep breath, swiping a hand in front of your face for dramatic effect. “Okay, i’m done. Sorry. Say it again.”

“Uhm… say what?”

“Quit playing with me Pau. Say it again so I can have a serious reaction.” Crossing your legs, you wait for him to speak again.

Pau feels his face grow hot. He really didn’t want to do that. “Do I have to?”

You blink, “what? Did you not mean it?”

His face flattens, “what? No! No, I did mean it… it’s just embarrassing.” He exhales, attempting to calm himself down. He truly did mean it, he just didn’t want to say it without a certain response from you.

His eyes meet yours and he notices the almost hopeful look in your eyes. “I like you.” He says slowly, cautiously.

“I like you too.” You smile, the weight of your once hidden feelings dissolved as the words tumbled off your lips.

Pau’s heart feels heavy with the emotions rushing through it. “Yeah?”

You nod, “yeah.” You weren’t sure what to do next, but truthfully, neither did he. Instead, you both sat there with stupidly wide smiles on your faces and rosy cheeks.

“I wonder if Lamine and Elaine bet on this too.” Pau suddenly blurts, cutting the tension you’d just formed. He laughs nervously, causing you to laugh in turn.

“Probably.” You agree, “maybe we just shouldn’t tell them, not for a bit.”

Pau’s eyebrows pull together, confusion flashing across his face. “Why?”

You shrug, settling into the couch beside him, a bit closer this time. “I dunno, I kind of want to have this to ourself for a little while… not long, but, y’know?”

Understanding what you meant, the boy leans back against the couch, his arm draping over your shoulder’s and pulling you into his side. “Yeah, I don’t mind that.”

You smile against him, your stomach fluttering when you process the boy you’d had feelings for since you were thirteen, liked you just the same. He was finally yours.

Pau sat back too, smiling to himself. This meant he could finally call you his, and vise versa. He’d waited for this moment for a very long time and he was very grateful for his lack of… self control.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any pau posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @spidybaby @unx100to !

[bugcartoons]

HEADCANNON FOR DNDADS SEASON 1!!!!!

(I will draw these eventually, but art college is just kicking my butt really hard rn, like my classes are fucking me up fr fr)

The longer the Oak boys are in the forgotten realms the pointer their ears get cause they are half elf and it starts to come through the more they learn about magic

Mercedes is also from the forgotten realms. It was an arranged marriage that Barry Oak still somehow managed to force but jokes on him, they are literally perfect together

Lark gets his spells from his dad and Sparrow gets his spells from his mom. Its like a genetic thing for what spell types you are inherently best at

Samantha and Mercades are like besties, both boho vibes with their arsthetics. Henry also (platonically) loves Samantha because Henry is a crystal girly at heart because of his wife but he wont admit it

The children all start the series in the same fit, aka their soccer uniform, but as soon as they get sold off they get different fits that match with where they end up in the world

Morgan is RIPPED. Like, biker girl, all leather, spikes, big red hair.

Glenn gets in a lot of fights at his mall gigs but Morgan would end them

Samantha will happily pick up Ron and he LOVES it. It makes him feel cared for and loved

Lark and Sparrow teach spanish to the other kids so they can yell cuss words on the field when there was a bad move or a bs ref call and not get in as much trouble

The kids are all actually really good friends but Grant and Terry Jr are def the closest

Everyone knew Grant liked boys years before Grant knew

Carol is such a business woman it isnt even funny. Slick back platnum pony, the blazers and pencil skirts with the office heals and a pair of really hot glasses??? Yeah 100%. She also had bright red lipstick and the sharpest eyeliner with those laminated eyebrows AND she also has pointy acrylics that are done every other week. She ALWAYS looks perfect and genuienly commands so much respect in the office she works in

Carol is a huge stickler for no shoes in the house BUT you also have to wear house slippers if you walk anywhere inside

Carol would be vegan if Darryl wasnt the main person that cooked meals but she loves him and knows he loves his smoker and grill so she happily goes along with it cause she likes seeing her husband happy

I know there are so many Carol ones rn but one more, she never cheated on Darryl. It was so heavily implied that she did with Darnel(?) but she never went through with it because she realized she loved her husband more then she thought right as she was about to cheat

Every now and again Grant will leave his videogames to help Darryl cook dinner. It is such a special thing to Darryl and those moments are usually when they both open up to each other

Terry Jr does a lot of different styles with his hair. Grant has asked about it before since he has curly hair and Terry Jr tried to teach him how to take care of twists, cornrows, dreads or literally just whatever style he has in the moment but since Grant doesnt have the same type of hair he just ends up getting confused

Grant tries really really hard to learn tho because he can see that Terry really trusts him with it and he wants to make his friend proud/happy cause it would make him feel proud/happy too

Funny enough Samantha also tries to teach Ron how to do her hair (Terry Jr learned that letting someone else do your hair is a sign of trust from his mom). Ron actually is a quick learner and eventually it just becomes their daily routien where he helps her with her hair

Darryl has curly hair

This might just be an opinion but Glenn is the most caring dad of the group by a lot

Rom cried when he found out he was gonna have a grandaughter

Glenn happily chills with Jodie in hell when Nick is with his mom

Glenn and Jodie dont really hate each other anymore. They pretend to hate each other a lot but are perfectly fine hanging out together considering how much they do it

One more lol, Glenn and Jodie are so dramatic for no reason. Literal theater kids without being theater kids

[gammacousin]

✒️ Jennifer Walters just got a new habit in the latest chapter of A Ghost Thing

Rated: T

Genre: Family Drama/Comedy, Crack taken seriously

Warnings: Drug reference

---

“Ask her about the cat,” Susan is standing crooked, lowered opacity fingers reaching mid-question.

“Never mind the cat!” Elaine nudges her sister, “How’s Morris?!”

Natasha selects the last question to repeat, sipping her tea.

Jennifer tilts her head from side to side, “Dad is Dad. He loves to fuss in the garage and take things apart. He's busy with a new convertible.”

Elaine holds her forehead, “Such frivolous spending. He could afford to update my headstone.”

“Ask Jenny if she's met a man!” Susan prods further.

Natasha lowers her mug, sitting in the sofa ‘with’ Elaine and Susan across from Jennifer, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Ha!” Jennifer leans back, dodging behind her laugh, “I was. Things got awkward when I met his parents. They didn't like the whole, hey! I change colors! Thing.”

“Got it.”

“Yeah. I don't know why I can't find a decent man with a family who won't judge me. I mean, you manage well. You don't find it strange.”

“Not anymore. It, does take some time to adjust. Be patient.”

“Adjust to what?” Elaine glares with foggy eyes, “What's wrong with turning green?!”

“I'm back with a menu!” Bruce enters the living room with a laminated sheet.

“Oh wow,’ Natasha leans back, ‘where was this? In the attic?”

“I made it myself, thank you very much,” He looks in between the twosome, “What’ll it be?”

“Ooh uh,’ Jennifer taps her lip with her green painted nails, ‘hmm.”

Natasha crosses a knee in silence, “There are a lot of options.”

“Well?” Bruce impatiently urges his cousin to pick.

Jennifer lowers the paper, fingertips spread as they tap each other, “What else do you have?”

“What do you mean, ‘what else’? I have what's on the sheet,” he gestures, sitting on the edge of the table.

“It's just. It's quirky, cousin.”

“What's quirky about it?”

“Natalia!” Romanoff hears her mother lecture as she passes through, doing her best version of dusting from beyond the grave, “That table is a priceless gift from the Czar and not to be sat on!”

“Bruce?” Natasha rubs her temple.

“Yeah, what?” he looks over his shoulder.

“The table...”

He blinks.

She shuts her eyes as her mother goes off in Russian and answers quickly, “We have other furniture meant to be sat in.”

“Okay, okay!” Bruce stands, cautiously pressing the air as if the gesture will calm Natasha.

Her mother nods and continues through the next wall.

“I'm thinking,’ Jennifer looks upward toward the ceiling, ‘steak.”

“Steak,” Banner’s eyebrows lift.

“Yes. And mashed potatoes. Not from the bag.”

“That's not on the menu.”

“No, but that's what I want,” she smirks.

“Uh huh…That’s nice,’ Bruce takes his page back in a huff, ‘seriously?!”

“Seriously.”

Elaine throws her hands into the air, “Who spoiled HER? Natasha?! You go find the inheritance money and split it with Bruce.”

“Bruce will get mine when I,” Susan swipes a finger across her neck.

“You've been dead for years, Sue! Your money was divided up and given to the children years ago!” Elaine glares.

Susan's eyes widen, “What do you mean ‘dead’?! Who's dead?! Is my ex dead?”

“YES!”

“Finally! I should've shot him years ago.”

“SUSAN! So are YOU!”

...Read the Rest

[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 6 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

.

← previous: Part 5

.

The emergency room receptionist is an older Filipina woman with long dark hair, a petite frame, and a kind face. Her hospital issued ID reads 'Angela' and she has an LGBTQ+ sticker on her laminated access badge. She listens to Peter as he rambles, calmly nodding along as he explains that he needs to see Dr. Christine Palmer, please, it's important and it will only take a minute, before she holds out a clipboard and a cheap pen.

"Oh, I'm not—" Peter begins.

"Dr. Palmer is not available for walk-ins," Angela says, shutting Peter down in a single sentence. "But if you will please fill out that form and return it to me, the next available physician will be able to treat you with equal care."

Somehow, the clipboard and pen are in Peter's hands, and he looks down at them. Looks at Wade, doe eyes wide. Looks at Angela, in her hot pink scrubs, and says almost dumbly, "But I'm not sick."

"We do encourage you to be truthful when describing your symptoms, as it can help you receive timely and accurate healthcare," Angela says. Her dark eyes slide from Peter to Wade, flicking up and down his body as though she has x-ray vision. Then she turns back to Peter and continues with, "Of course, if the issue is more... delicate in nature, you can leave that section of the form blank and discuss it with your doctor when they see you."

Confused, Peter also glances at Wade—as though trying to see what Angela saw—before parroting, "Delicate?"

"Sexual," she clarifies, the picture of professionalism. Again she looks at Wade, though this time, her gaze clearly lingers on Wade's crotch longer than his face or any other body part. "Bedroom accidents do happen, from time to time. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Angela might as well have called Peter an over-enthusiastic cockslut who hurt himself because he couldn't handle Wade's magnum dong. A bark of laughter escapes Wade before he can smother it, loud and inappropriate. More tries to follow but he pushes it down—yet even then, his shoulders shake with his barely contained mirth.

Next to Wade, Peter's face turns pink, a flush that builds to red underneath his freckles. He looks at Wade helplessly, before stammering, "It's not—he's not my—oh god—" Peter glances upwards as though the words he's looking for are printed on the ceiling. "I'm not hurt or anything, I just need to see Dr. Palmer regarding a personal matter—I mean, not personal personal but like, personal for her—"

Both of Angela's eyebrows skyrocket to her hairline.

"That's not what I mean either!" Peter shrills. He brings the clipboard up to his face to hide his cherry red complexion from her. "And Jesus, Wade, stop smirking! This isn't funny!"

"It's a little funny," Wade admits gleefully. His cheeks hurt with how hard he's smiling, especially the cheek bisected by his scar, where the skin is less flexible. "Ah, come on Petey, don't be like that. You just need some price-gouged Johnson & Johnson pharmaceuticals after gouging yourself on my johnson—"

Still holding the clipboard up, one cheek smashed against the unfilled paperwork, Peter jabs the capped end of the pen into Wade's side. Hard. Wade grunts, but it does little to erase his shit-eating grin.

Worth it, he thinks.

"I'm going to carve your guts out with this pen," Peter hisses. "And when your entrails are out-trails, then at least we can write something down on the form!"

"Violence is not permitted within the hospital," Angela informs Peter.

"I'm not—!" Peter starts, before abruptly cutting himself off. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, hold it, then exhale. He removes the pen from Wade's side, handing both it and the clipboard back to Angela.

"Look," Peter says, lowering his voice so he sounds more serious. "I'm not here because I have a medical emergency. I'm not sick and I'm not hurt. I just need to ask Dr. Palmer a few simple questions about a mutual acquaintance. She's the only person who might know where he is, and I really need to find him as soon as possible."

Angela tilts her head to the side, her long, dark braid slipping over one shoulder. She seems like the kind of person who can tell when she's being lied to or played—a good quality for a person working in the emergency room at a New York hospital—and it's obvious she's using her Bullshit-o-Meter on Peter. It does not take her long to decide that Peter is being sincere and, when she realizes he's genuine, she lowers her guard enough to let real empathy shine through.

"I understand," she tells Peter, pulling the clipboard and pen back into her station. "But it's against policy to allow patients or other members of the public to see hospital staff without prior authorization or a scheduled visit. It's a safety issue. So unfortunately, there is nothing I can do besides help you set up a future appointment, or tell you to send an email to Dr. Palmer through the hospital's directory."

Peter chews his bottom lip as he weighs his options. Wade knows from his hospital experiences that an email will be faster than scheduling an appointment—a matter of days instead of weeks or months—but he also knows that sometimes it's best to ask questions face-to-face. Emails can't deliver the nuance of expression or tone. They're inorganic and clunky. If Dr. Palmer wants or needs to hide something about Strange, she'll be able to do it better through the computer. On the other hand, making an appointment means time. And as Peter said before, he doesn't know why he's here or if he's in danger. It's better to be cautious, to get answers as quickly and quietly as possible. Having to wait makes Wade uneasy.

"Is she working today?" Wade asks Angela. "Or is it against policy to disclose that too?"

Angela raises one eyebrow as though to say 'What do you think?'.

"Right," Wade says, a plan solidifying in his head. "Well, Angie, I forgot that I'm ridiculously allergic to bureaucracy, and I think all this policy talk has made me break out with life-threatening hives. So if you give me that form and that pen, I'll fill it out, and we'll be out of your hair. Deal?"

Thankfully, Angela does not deny his request. She simply gives him the clipboard and the pen, and instructs them to return the form once it has been filled out in full. Wade sighs and resigns himself to the boredom of paperwork.

"So?" Peter asks quietly as they sit down in the old chairs cluttered around the waiting area, the blue seat cushion thin and frayed. "What's your plan?"

"My plan is to fill this out, return it, and see a medical professional about the fake heart attack symptoms I've developed in the past ten seconds." Wade puts his pen to paper. "What do you like better: Aaron Applebaum or Barry Barrington?"

"Wade."

Wade gives Aaron Applebaum the fake birthday of June 9th, 1969, and tells, "The doors are locked."

"Doors?"

"Just past the reception desk," Wade answers, scribbling down a random address in the Upper East Side, the swanky location deeply incongruent with Aaron Applebaum's lack of health insurance. "It leads to the rest of the hospital on this level and can only be opened by personnel, so we're not getting through there without stealing an access card or causing a scene. I mean, normally I would love to run distraction, but our main goal is to be quick and quiet, right?"

"Right," Peter says as he watches Wade put down signs that are related to having a heart attack and answer in the affirmative to every 'DO YOU HAVE [SYMPTOM]: YES [ X ] or NO [ ]'.

"We could try going to another level of the hospital, which would probably be less monitored, and use the stairs to come back down. But that's risky too because we might run into the same locked door problem. Also, those wards aren't as busy, so chances are someone will realize that we're somewhere where we shouldn't be and our cover will be busted." Wade finishes the form and jerks his hand across the signature line, getting at least two vaguely shaped As in there for authenticity. "An email will take days and an appointment weeks. So, in order to see Dr. Palmer sometime this century, I need to fill out this form, return it to Stonewall Jackson over there, and wait fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?" Peter releases an exaggerated groan and slumps deeper into his chair. "Oh god, that's so long. What if I die of boredom before then?"

Wade stands up and digs his phone out of his pocket. Unlocks it. Finds a game for Peter to play and hands it over.

"Fruit Ninja? Really?" Peter says, even as he takes the phone from Wade's hands. "Your millennial is showing."

"At least Angela doesn't think I got my fruit ninja'd so hard I had to go the ER, unlike some people—"

Peter tries to kick Wade in the back of the thighs but Wade dodges, laughing, and goes to return the form to Angela. She skims it with a frown yet says nothing, which Wade chalks up to Peter’s general goodness and believability, because Wade certainly isn’t winning any Boy Scout badges. She simply tells him that someone will be with him as soon as possible, and to please wait.

And for seventeen minutes, that's what Wade and Peter do. Well, Peter plays Fruit Ninja while Wade watches, offering unhelpful pointers, and they snipe at each other good-naturedly as Peter attempts to beat Wade's high score. He gets close several times. Wade is almost grateful when a nurse emerges from the back and calls for Mr. Applebaum; Wade works hard for his high scores, often spending hours of stake-outs messing around on his phone. The fact that Peter almost usurped him from his throne of mini-games has him sweating.

"I'm sorry," the nurse tells Peter when both he and Wade approach him. "Only family is allowed in with the patient. If you would like to wait here—"

"I'm his husband," Peter interrupts, holding up his left hand while simultaneously sliding the other to the small of Wade's back. The touch is practiced, as though it's been done a hundred thousand times, and Wade tries not to tense at how nice it feels. Not sexual but easy. Easy like the way Peter says husband…

You're reaching again, Wade's brain scoffs. He just said it because he needs to go back with you. Husband is easier to believe than brothers, considering your ugly mug. No way you could be related.

The nurse frowns down at the form Wade filled out and says, "There's no emergency contact."

Innocently, Peter asks, "Did we need to fill that out even though I'm with him?"

"We can add it later," the nurse says. "But in the future, remember that it's good to put it down. It's good to have for our records."

The nurse leads them past the locked doors, down a hallway, and brings them into a small room with a medical bed and various equipment. The walls and ceiling are beige and boring and deeply reminiscent of the walls and ceiling of the hospital where Wade did most of his chemo. His stomach twists with nausea and his mouth floods with saliva, a Pavlovian response, and he swallows a few times to smother the sick feeling. His face must give away his discomfort because Peter notices and frowns.

"Okay?" Peter whispers. He steps into Wade's space once again and his hand curls around Wade's side. Wade cannot help but angle into it; he's always been a tactile person, and the unquestioning way Peter touches him provides a disproportionate amount of comfort.

"You know me, baby boy," Wade whispers back. "I'm always okay."

"That's why I'm worried," Peter murmurs.

The nurse directs Wade to sit on the examination table and—despite the absolute nonsense that was Wade's form—the nurse barely bats an eye as he asks Wade relevant questions and runs basic tests. Peter hovers the entire time, less than an arm's length away, the very image of anxious husband.

"Well, everything sounds okay and your vitals are fine, but we'll do an EKG just to make sure," the nurse explains. He grabs a hospital gown from out of one of the cabinets and hands it to Wade. "If you'll put this on, I'll be back in a few minutes."

When the nurse leaves, Wade takes off his baseball cap and jacket, hoodie and shirt. The air is cold against his skin and he hisses at the prickle over his naked skin. The chill isn't as bad as the hospital gown, though; the smell of bleach sunk into the cotton drags him viscerally back to his cancer treatments, where he would sit in a chair and get pumped full of drugs that brought his body to the brink of failure. He can feel his hands shake, a fine tremble, and he clenches them into fists to stop it.

"Okay, no," Peter says firmly as Wade sits down on the examination table and takes a deep, fortifying breath. "I'm calling it."

Wade looks up from his lap and at Peter, who's frown has deepened even more. Wade forces a smile to counteract it and says, "Calling it? Whaddya mean by that, Petey Pie?"

"You're not okay," Peter answers, unmoved by Wade's brittle attempt at levity. "You're as white as a sheet and look like you're about to throw up. I know you said you don't like hospitals but this is more than 'not liking', Wade. This is—"

"And you can call me Buttercup, because I can suck it up," Wade snaps back. "You need to find Strange and the best way to do that is to talk to Palmer. This is the fastest way—"

"So?" Peter interrupts. "The cost isn't worth it."

Wade snorts. "What cost?"

"Your well-being, Wade." Peter scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth, as though he could wipe away a bad taste that's built up. "Goddamnit, stop being a self-sacrificing idiot and put your clothes back on. We're getting out of here. Now. We'll find another way." Then, under his breath, Peter mutters, "Every fucking universe. Christ."

It isn't that Wade isn't tempted. He's always disliked hospitals—ever since he was little and he watched his mom wither to nothing in a sad, sterile room—and he hasn't been back in the three years since he was declared cancer free. He didn't know it would trigger him so badly; normally, he's pretty good at avoiding the shit that messes with his head, but this time, he just didn't know.

He just... didn't know.

"No," Wade croaks, shaking his head slowly. "We're already here. We just have to find Palmer—"

"Wade—"

"Don't fucking 'Wade' me, Peter. Listen." Wade glares at the man with spider-adjacent super powers who broke into his apartment, who might be from a different universe or might be a mentally cracked genetic experiment on the run from the military. "We know fuck all about what's going on. You don't know why you're here and you don't know if you're in danger. And yeah, I'm not gonna lie—I don't like being here. But we need answers, and this is the fastest way to get them, so I'm going to sit here and get the fucking EKG, and you are going to go find Palmer and ask your questions. Okay?"

The last word is a soft plea rather than a request because they both know that if Peter wanted to, he could merely haul Wade over his shoulder and carry him out. Problem is, they both also know that Wade's right. The more they know—and the quicker they know it—the safer they are.

"Fine," Peter concedes after a stretch of tense silence, uncrossing his arms and letting his shoulders slump. "But only because I know how stubborn you are."

"Pot," Wade says, pointing at Peter. Then, pointing at himself, "Kettle."

A soft rap of knuckles on the doorframe refocuses their attention, and a woman with auburn hair twisted into a low bun enters. She says, "Sorry to interrupt," as she steps into the room. "My name is Christine. I'll be taking over for your EKG. You're in today because of unexpected chest pain?"

Christine. Wade sits up straighter and trades a look with Peter. What are the odds that the person that they need to talk to ends up being the person that just walks into the room? Such a coincidence is either their first stroke of good luck or a sign that something is about to go very badly. Wade hadn't thought about it before, but what if Palmer somehow recognizes Peter? What if the reason Peter knows her is because she was involved in whatever gave him superpowers? What if they've walked into a trap? If anything happens, Wade only has his knife in his boot, and that might not be enough to get them out of the hospital safely.

Once again, Peter brings Wade out from the spiral of his thoughts with a gentle touch. He places his palm on Wade's naked back where the hospital gown parts, a gesture that radiates warmth and reassurance.

"Are you Dr. Palmer?" Peter asks.

Christine tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she searches Peter's face, trying to place him. There is no hint of recognition. A good sign, Wade thinks as she answers with a hint of caution, "Yes, I am."

"We haven't met," Peter assures her. "I've just heard about you from Stephen."

It is not at all what Christine was expecting. Her mouth twists; she shifts her weight; her nicely shaped eyebrows pull together, baffled.

"Stephen Strange," Peter clarifies.

"I know who my ex-fiancé is," Christine says sharply. "It's just... how do you know him?"

"We're colleagues. Were. Sorry. Were colleagues," Peter tells her. She hears the truth in it as clearly as Wade does but—without the context that Wade has—it makes little sense. Strange had been a surgeon before he disappeared, a speciality that takes years to obtain, and Peter looks like he just graduated high school. Peter seems to realize the oddness of it only seconds after he says it, and tries to hastily amend, "Not in a co-worker sense! I'm not a doctor. Yet. I mean, I'm working on my Ph.D., not an M.D. and—"

"Colleague in the sense of mutual membership to an organization," Wade supplies.

"Yes." Peter snaps his fingers. "That."

Christine's expression morphs into disbelief and she crosses her arms across her chest. "What organization?"

Peter opens his mouth; hesitates for a split second as he realizes that he can't give the honest answer; and closes his mouth. Looks at Wade as though Wade can think of another half-truth, as though his obvious hesitation hasn't run this conversation straight into a dead end. How Peter has made it this far in life being such a terrible liar is beyond Wade.

Wade shrugs and says to Peter, "Might as well just ask, baby boy."

"Ask me what?"

For a moment, all Peter does is dig his teeth into his bottom lip and twist his wedding ring around, searching for the right thing to say. If he says too much, Christine will think Peter's crazy and call hospital security to escort them to the loony bin. If he says too little, Christine will say nothing and tell them to leave. Wade can tell she's one of those stubbornly loyal types; she won't say anything about Strange if Peter isn't convincing enough.

"It's complicated," Peter finally says, taking his hat off his head and raking one hand through his flattened curls. It makes it easy for Christine to see his big brown eyes and his conflicted expression. Wade would be impressed by the sincerity, if he thought Peter were acting; instead, Wade feels fond, knowing that Peter's tactic is barely a tactic at all. "I need to find Stephen, and I can't really tell you why because I may or may not be in trouble. And if there is trouble, the less you know, the better."

"And Stephen wouldn't be?" Christine snaps.

"If it's the kind of trouble I think it is, then he's already involved," Peter says. "Please. I just need to know where he went after his accident and if you've been in contact recently."

Christine stares at Peter for a while, her face inscrutable, before saying, "I think he's still in Kathmandu."

Wade's been to Kathmandu. For two days. He spent most of it on a rooftop across the street from a rundown hotel where his target was holed up, sweating his balls off as he laid on his stomach and stared at the man's saggy ass through a sniper scope. Wade only shot him when the prostitute he was with left and, after, bought some water buffalo skewers from the vendor down the block.

"At the Kamar-Taj?" Peter asks.

"I can't remember the name of his monastery, but I don't think that's it. Started with a 'puh'." Christine's eyes briefly unfocus as she stares into the middle distance. "I looked it up online after he sent back the watch I gave him for one of our anniversaries. Red columns. Gold roof." She snorts. "It was a very nice building for Buddhists who were supposed to give up all worldly attachments and belongings, but I suppose finding enlightenment was better than the financial ruin he had driven himself into."

"So you're not in contact?" asks Wade.

"No," Christine replies flatly. "I haven't heard from him in over three years."

Wade can hear the bitterness in her voice. He doesn't blame her. If he and Vanessa had been engaged, and she broke it off to permanently move to the other side of the world to become a monk, Wade might take it a little personally too.

"And before that," Peter asks. "Did he say anything about... magic? Or mystical arts, or the Sorcerer Supreme?"

"I only got a few letters after he disappeared. Mostly, they were apologies studded with his burgeoning spiritual philosophies and how peaceful he found meditation. I mean, all religion sounds like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo when you're an atheist, but nothing struck me as overtly occult or sketchy."

Christine doesn't sound as though she's trying to hide anything, and nothing about her demeanor suggests otherwise. What little she can tell them is all there is to tell. Wade watches the way Peter's shoulders slump and knows that—short of buying a couple of tickets to Nepal—this lead has led them nowhere.

"So he's not in trouble?" Christine asks as Peter tugs his baseball cap back on.

"From what you've told me, no."

"And you're not going to tell me anything else about what's going on?"

"It's... probably safest if you know as little as possible."

"What about your husband?" she continues, motioning to Wade, who is still perched on the examination table with the hospital gown on. "I don't suppose he's actually sick?"

"Peak physical condition, ma'am," Wade chirps. It feels nice to have a stranger think that Wade, with his deforming scar and grab-bag of mental health issues, could land someone like Peter. "I would say sorry for the false pretense—and the false identity—but I take my baby boy's safety very seriously, and that includes not leaving a paper trail. You understand."

"Falsifying hospital records is a felony," Christine tells him.

"Eh. Wouldn't be my first."

It's a little bit of a surprise when Christine laughs, but Wade supposes that trauma surgeons who work in the emergency room of a New York City hospital might need a darker sense of humor than most. Either that or a really strong liver.

"God, what a weird day," she murmurs to herself. Then, more loudly, "Alright, well. As fun as this has been, I am actually very busy and need to get back to work. So. I am going to leave this room for a few minutes and, when I get back, I firmly suggest that you are not here. There's a stairwell at the end of this hall, on the left side, with an exit further down that doesn't have an alarm attached. It will spit you out into the back alley. Just be careful exiting—lots of staff take cigarette breaks out there."

"Oh." Peter blinks at her swift instructions. "Umm, thank you? You didn't need to—"

"Of course I did," Christine answers. "I'm a doctor. I help people, even the ones who bring up old exes, ask cryptic questions, and are potentially involved in a murderous magical cult."

And with one last pointed look at them both she turns on her heel and leaves, taking Aaron Applebaum's nonsense form with her.

"Fuck, that was cool," Wade says as he hops off the examination table and peels the hospital gown off his torso. Peter takes the gown and folds it, the adorable nerd, while Wade hastily puts his clothes back on.

Once his hat has been firmly wedged back on his head, Wade takes point and Peter falls naturally behind him, as though they've done it a thousand times before. They move together silently—seamlessly—down the empty hallway and into the stairwell, where the exit Christine told them about is a hundred feet beyond them. Wade opens it slowly, sticking his head out and checking for other people wedged in the alley between the hospital and the neighboring parking garage.

There's no one.

Wade lets Peter out into the alley and gently closes the door. Then he's off again, heading towards the street, where pedestrians are walking and cars are clogging the narrow road. He can feel Peter's presence close at his back as he heads north on Amsterdam for several blocks, then east back towards Central Park. He's not counting on the small spaces to hide them now; he's counting on the increasing mass of people to disguise them as he steers them towards more popular areas. Wade only stops after half an hour of street-crossing and double-backing.

"See anyone?" Peter asks as Wade stops them on a random street corner, stepping from the flow of foot traffic. He leans his back against the brick of a random building, the scratch of fired clay imperceptible through his layers.

"No," Wade answers. "Not that I expected us to be chased by orderlies or anything, but..."

"Better safe than sorry," Peter finishes. There's no judgment in his tone and he doesn't make comments about Wade being paranoid. He makes it sound normal, as though shaking a tail were routine behavior.

Maybe it is, for a superhero, Wade thinks.

Sighing, Peter joins him, leaning against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. His eyelashes are long and black, touching the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks tired, Wade thinks. Not tired in the sense that he didn't get enough sleep the night before—which he probably did not, considering they were up past four—but tired in a way that's bone deep.

"You know, I was really hoping that it would be easy," Peter says softly. "That I would find Strange without any problems and that he would just poof me back to my universe. But here—in this reality—he might just be a Buddhist monk, with no magic whatsoever. Problem is, I have absolutely no idea who might be the Sorcerer Supreme. Worse, I keep wondering if I've been transported to a reality where there is no Sorcerer Supreme. That's just Parker luck, I guess."

"Parker luck?" Wade asks, still staring at Peter's face. He doesn't like the little frown that's formed on his mouth and between his thick eyebrows, but he's still much nicer to look at than any person passing them.

"Kinda like Murphy's Law meets bad luck, and with the lovely side effect of constantly making my life harder than it needs to be," Peter explains.

"Nah, that can't be it."

"And how is that?"

"Well, for one, Angie didn't call hospital security on us when there were obvious shenanigans afoot. Two, Palmer was the one who came in to treat Mr. Applebaum's myocardial infarction and, three, she was way nicer to us than most people would have been. I count all of those as wins."

"That was definitely all your doing, not mine." Peter opens his eyes and tilts his head up to Wade. "Also, you're forgetting a huge piece of evidence that also counts in your favor."

"And what is that?"

"You," Peter says simply.

It has been roughly twelve hours since Peter came into Wade's life and, in that time, Wade has been drawn to Peter in deep and terrifying ways that he can barely articulate. The draw is physical, emotional, mental; Peter pulls Wade closer with every moment and Wade lets it happen happily. Sure, Wade tries to remind himself that there are variables he has to consider—namely, the wife and the whole mysterious background—but if he's being honest, those reminders are cursory at best and, right now, after Peter's devastated him with a single syllable, he isn't thinking about either.

He's thinking about kissing Peter.

He's thinking about reaching up and curling a hand around Peter's cheek to bring him closer.

He's thinking about tracing the swell of Peter's bottom lip—abused so often by Peter's own teeth—and biting it himself, so the sting will make Peter gasp and arch into him, mouth parting, letting Wade push his tongue inside, letting Wade taste him—

A stranger knocks into Wade's shoulder and forces Wade to take a step back away from Peter. He blinks. He had pushed off the wall and gotten into Peter’s space without conscious thought, and his hand, which was halfway to Peter's jaw, now hovers in the air without purpose. It takes effort to let it fall back to his side and let it hang, empty.

"Wade?" Peter says gently.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Wade turns away from Peter, pretending to peer down the street when he's actually more focused on not looking at Peter's face. His voice is low. Gruff. He clears his throat and tries to sound more like himself. "It's just been kind of a long day already. Whaddya say we find some place around here that sells street tacos and churros? We can walk around the park a bit and think of our next move?"

"Sounds good to me," Peter agrees easily enough, either ignorant to or ignoring Wade's sudden weirdness. "I always think better on a full stomach."

And, Wade thinks, if I’m shoveling tacos into my mouth, then I can't kiss you. A win-win situation for everybody.

.

next → : Part 7

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[write-helluva-messy-boss]

this came to my head recently:

Fizzarolli as a disgruntled cashier

Some Karen pisses him off. Not difficult to do since he's already in a job he hates. But of course he's the most sarcastic asshole you'll ever meet if you annoy him at his horrible job.

She's been hounding and nagging at him since she got here. Wouldn't leave him alone, expected him to do everything she wanted. She even called him a freeloader. Hell didn't offer bonuses, but they should have with customers like these.

And now, she was pissed he was her cashier. And that he wasn't going fast enough. It wasn't his fault she decided to get three-million things, all of which apparently were beneath her standards anyway.

And then, she said it. Annoyance on her face, looking at his arms. "They really will hire any crippled retard off the street now, won't they? Can you even hear me? I've got places to be and I don't want to smell like knock-off perfume."

He stares her dead in the face, eyes narrow. He's tired. It's right before close. Her ridiculously huge order is clogging up the conveyer, and of course, the line behind her is a mile long.

In one swift motion, Fizz extends his arm. It wraps completely around her pile of groceries. He slides it all in one big heap, over the scanner and into the bagging area. His machine beeps once, satisfied. All her groceries overflow from one plastic bag and tumble all over the floor, fruits rolling, bottles colliding with each other, boxes denting, meats and cheeses splatting.

The woman is so flabbergasted she can't even speak. Fizz shrugs.

"Oops."

Then his eyes return to the charge screen. "Six-hundred fourteen (614) dollars and eighty-two (82) cents."

Fizz's banal declaration seems to snap her out of her silence, but her voice is still hoarse, her mind blankly processing the mess rolling at her feet.

"That's not what it—"

Fizz talks over her, his teeth starting to bare. "Eight-hundred ninety eight (898) dollars and thirty-five (35) cents."

"You can't just make—"

"A thousand (1000) fucking dollars!"

By now, the checkout lane manager has heard the commotion. He's coming over. The woman is getting red in the face, almost hysterical.

"You're—!" She starts screaming profanities at him. Countless slurs.

"Twenty (20) grand!" Fizz snaps over her. "A hundred (100) grand!" Oh, he could play this game all day. His manager is trying to talk over him, pull him away, get between them. It's not fazing anybody.

"How about a million fucking dollars, you cunt?" he asks, clawing into the keyboard.

Everyone in the vicinity gasps, and the woman shrieks in anger. Fizz's arms launch to the computer where he keymashes numbers. By now, several employees have been enlisted to drag Fizzarolli away from the counter. He continues pounding on the keyboard, even as they yank at his arms. He's overextending them just to stay put.

"A trillion bucks for groceries, you whore! See how you like that shit, huh? You gonna pay for it? Pay for my disability? Keep up my useless citizen pity pay?"

She starts whacking his computer with her purse, aiming for his hands, his face, anywhere. And he, of course, starts clawing at her back, until the tug of war finally breaks him away. The manager and crowd of employees (and now bystanders) drags him away. Applause and cheering erupts from the crowd.

"Shut the fuck up, you pompous fucking cowards," Fizz bellows at them, dragged by his feet, face down across the laminate flooring of the grocer, still clenching fistfuls of fabric and electronics. One of them throws money at him. A perfectly wadded twenty-dollar bill lands in front of his face on the white, stained floor, and he watches it retreat away from him as the crowd pulls him back into a swinging door. Only then does he realize that maybe some of them were on his side.

They toss him on the ground behind a chain link fence in the stock room. The manager appears, panting, eyebrows furrowed.

"You're fired," he declares angrily before leaving once again, likely to go back to comforting that arrogant bitch. The crowd disperses, some customers spitting at Fizz's feet.

Fizz sits up, his body hurting. The world is slowing down finally, and feeling is rushing back into his core. His shoulders and ribs ache. He looks down into his hands.

Part of the keyboard is in one hand, keys falling off their spots as he releases his grip. In the other hand, there's ripped pleather. And a wallet.

He opens it up.

Credit cards. Cash. Tons of cash. The ID card matches that damn Karen.

There's his bonus.