#here to prove i still hold a pen sometimes and make shapes. take

[shevr]

[spiltscribbles]

Prompt: Pro Athlete Sirius because that my and Remus' kink

~Notes: OMFG VICTOrIA!!!! I FUCKING SCREECHED!!!! lkadfjlaksdgjoiaejfalskdgjioeugisfkldshg Yes tis my kink as well!!! And then I saw this from Nonny and worlds collided and BOOM! I hope you like this my love<3<3 You incredibly talented sugarplum!!! TBH I want to write a thousand more things in this AU XD

.-

FROM THIS LIST  |  Send Me A Prompt!💜 | A REBLOG MEANS THE GALAXY!!💜

.-

When Remus was young— surrounded by the light breeze of the Welsh coast and the harmony of birds chirping in the distance— he would follow his mother to their small garden behind their cottage  at the cusp of twilight as his father cooked their supper, and he’d watch as she laid flat all sorts of newspapers written in French and Arabic and English, watch as she brought her red pen against the ink and marked the articles with underlines and shorthand he wouldn’t understand for years still.

He asked her once, when he was barely eight years old, why she bothered to keep up with so many different publications, why she read the same story penned by countless perspectives when all the facts stayed the same at the end of the day. And he remembers how she had let out a quick, shrill of a laugh, tossing back her golden head while sucking in a puff from the bubbling hookah she had set up besides her— a habit she acquired from her Algerian, refugee parents, and one that became synonymous to those late nights in Remus’s eyes.

“Facts can be wielded to someone’s personal vendettas, Remus John,” she had crooned in that adoring way of hers whenever she spoke to him— honey eyes that were the same color and shape to Remus’s own flashing alight and their matching smiles going crooked in her stunningly beautiful face. 

“Oh.” Remus had replied, still confused as all get out but was perfectly fine with just holding his small vigil, watching her beneath moonlight and the soft glow of their outdoors lamps, as he listened to the shuffling of papers while she commenced this odd quirk. 

It’s a decade and a half later—  as his editor for the Phoenix, a small, but bustling online editorial that plans on dethroning the likes of Politico and Vox in only a matter of years, scans his latest findings on the corrupt boosters linked to MP Avery from Leeds— when Remus thinks he suddenly understands what his mother, with her keen eyes and pixelated air, had meant by facts in how they can be colored differently simply by the words surrounding them. And he wonders if one day soon, one of his bylines will join her little stack of stories, if she’ll be proud of him even if she says as much even now, when he’s a lost twenty-something stumbling through life in the capitol and barely making it as is, between his actual job and the gig he has at the coffee shop nearest his dingy flat he shares with three other blokes.

“Mmm, this is good, Lupin,” Dorcas declares after what feels like an eon, dropping her long, dark legs from where they were lounging leisurely on her desk and scuffs out her cigarette in a pretty, glass ashtray. “Send it over to Flores to look into deeper, maybe it’ll corroborate the info she’s already gotten from her sources.”

Remus feels himself bristle, hopes that it doesn’t show, that his face stays passive as he contends, “I think I should at least help her write the expose, I’m the one who got this bombshell.”

“That’s not how it works, sweets,” Dorcas toots, tossing back her dark head of curls as she rises, perching on the corner of her desk delicately and looking down, straight into his gaze. “I know it’s frustrating, but you’re fresh blood. barely six months here, but Alice has been with us for years. This is her baby, and we’re just here to nurture it.”

“So I’ll have to wait another ten months, at least,  to get the same treatment?” He argues in an admittedly petulant way, making Dorcas laugh endearingly, and Remus is suddenly,  searingly reminded of his age, and how he’s the youngest staffer that this London based news outlet has on hand. 

“C’mon, love, it won’t be that long for someone as sharp as you, just be patient, and don’t try to pull a Zoe Barnes on us, yeah? You���re far too pretty to clean up on the rails of  the tube.” Dorcas tousles a hand into his dark tawny curls, and Remus holds back the roll to his eyes that he feels willing up inside of him as he stands fully.

“Thanks Cas.”

She smiles beatifically, and throws him a wink. “You’re joining Emmy for the report tomorrow on those United footballers and their fundraiser for the hospital, yeah?”

“Bright and early,” Remus replies, still feels a bit miffed that he was chosen to write up the charity function, considering he doesn’t know a lick about football and doesn’t really get on with anyone who does. But Caradoc— their typical sports reporter— is out sick with the flew, so it’s on him. “I’ll have it on your desk early enough so it’ll be published by tea time.”

“Good man,” Dorcas says in thanks, picking up her crowing cellphone before waving him off.

Remus isn’t all that surprised when he strides out of the office only to find Benjy Fenwick sitting against the opposite wall, knees pressed to his chest and quickly scrambling up when he catches sight of Remus. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe that the bespectacled man in front of him is one of the top editors for the Phoenix, that he’s a regular corespondent for places like the BBC or CNN— that his rebukes against the piss poor inquiries waged during PMQs have become more anticipated than the sessions themselves. Remus tends to forget all of that when he sees him like this, messy haired and wearing a graphic T-shirt with some marvel superhero embossed on the front. “Wotcher Remus.”

“Hiya Remus says, smiling softly and rocking back on his heels. “You wanted to talk to the sergeant then?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no. I didn’t want to talk to Dorcas, I just— Erm, I know you were showing her that stuff you got from that intern, Pettigrew, and i know you were chafed about not getting any opportunity here so—“ He trails off, scratching the back of his head and studying a point over Remus’s shoulder, and it’s all too endearing, and Remus is so beyond thankful he’s made such a good friend here.

“No cigar,” he says in answer to the unspoken question, shrugging noncommittally even if he feels like shit over it.

Benjy nods, face contrite in a way that tells Remus he never thought it would’ve went otherwise. “I’m sorry, that’s bollocks.”

“’S whatever,” Remus shrugs off the apology, begins walking down the hall and straightening his report to hand over to Alice. 

“Ah,, erm. We can get a drink, yeah? In commiseration,” Benjy offers, and Remus stilts only for a beat before continuing the twisting trail to where Alice is set up with the more senior members on staff. And he feels only sorta bad about wanting to refuse. He knows that if he says yes, it’ll mean something different to Benjy than it does him, that he’ll probably take it as Remus finally giving into his pestering and deciding to actually go out with him, even if he’s refuted the other four times he’s asked as much. Remus’s simply just too busy trying to get a footing in this city, and trying to figure out where he’s suppose to go from here, and what he’s suppose to do. And yes, Benjy is cute— a complete Seth Cohen archetype. And he’s sweet and smart and funny enough. But Remus is really not in the mood for doing the whole flowers and wine and candle lit dinners shtick, had gotten enough of that while still with his university boyfriend. And yeah, he’s only just turned 24, but he already feels too old and too jaded for that sort of puppy love— even if Benjy’s got a good decade and some change on him.

Probably sensing his hesitation, Benjy is quick to rectify the offer. “I’ll ask Mary, and Fabian too, and a few others. We can make a night of it, just some drinks on a Friday after work.”

Stalling by the last turn to Alice’s desk, Remus looks at him from over his shoulder, and sort of hates himself for being such a soft hearted fuck sometimes. “Yeah Benj, sounds nice. Just let me know on the group chat, yeah?”

Benjy grins, much more genuine than his awkward quirk of the lips from earlier. “Yeah, good call, I’ll let the others know pronto.”

“Aces,” Remus says, tosses him a obligatory thumbs-up before finding an expectant looking Alice who’s tapping her foot impatiently.

Yeah, today is so bloody shit.

.-

Surprisingly, the round of drinks turns to another and then a third and fourth and Remus is currently nursing his fifth mango margarita on Benjy’s tab, and he actually feels lighter than he has since taking the job at Phoenix, feels bright and bubbling and like absolutely nothing could be wrong as long as he’s got this drink in his grasp and he’s sitting with the handful of reporters and photographers from the office that don’t all have sticks up their asses. It’s fun, it’s good. So obviously it couldn’t have lasted.

Mary is currently cackling about her Uber driver from last night who asked her all sorts of well meaning, but incredibly dense questions about her hijab— a freshly poured glass of coke in one hand, while the other is tangled into her girlfriend Emmy’s. And From his left Remus can hear Fabian ribbing Frank on his crush on Alice, while Benjy scoots intermittently closer as they watch Kingsley and Marlene sparring over something to do with a Kardashian or TikTok trend or whatever the fuck else— The guy has resilience, Remus has to give Benjy that.

“Right, who’s buying next?” Marlene asks, abrasive as ever while scrolling through her phone, ostensively finding something to prove her point against the managing editor.

“Reckon it’s my turn,” Benjy crows, standing up smoothly and glancing down at Remus with a nervous sort of half grin.

“Just a water for me, ta. I need to sober up,” Remus tells him, feels proud that he didn’t even slur slightly. Benjy bobs his head understandingly, and Remus turns to ask Marlene about her latest tinder hookup which always is a good laugh, but then he catches on it. On the sound of the pub’s doors flinging open, followed by a raucous crowd of athletic looking guys probably only a bit older than he is, clambering indoors. 

They’re all so very sixth-form, broad grins and slapping each other’s shoulders with jeers, topped off with loud, bark like laughter that makes it obvious to Remus that these wankers think that they’re some sort of group of gods amongst men, roaming around like everyone should fall to their feet and offer everything they have. It makes Remus roll his eyes so far back that it feels like he might’ve sprained them. They just give off this exhausting aura that reminds him of a past boyfriend in tenth year who was on the footie team and who’s favorite activity was either making Remus feel lucky enough to go out with someone so popular, or dragging him around like some sort of bloody trophy.

To put it nicely, Remus sorta hates them on sight. So when he sees one of the tossers— regrettably the brightest of the lot who’s all pearly teeth, and glittering eyes and incredibly impressive shoulders that tape off to a narrow waste in an objectively infuriating matter— swivels up to the barkeep and jostles Benjy on his way, well Remus doesn’t hesitate to dart forwards to tell him off.

“Oi, watch where you’re going, yeah?”

Benjy and the bloke who looks like he might moonlight as a model for Calvin briefs for when he’s not lounging in a yacht off the Tuscany coast, both turn to him at the same time. Benjy looking abashed, and the aforementioned tosser preening like the cat who’s just caught a canary.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t see you there,” he says in a delightfully deep tenner, giving Remus an appreciative once over, and Remus absolutely despises how the action makes him feel both thrilled and irritated. “Trust and believe, I wouldn’t have looked away if I saw you.”

“Not me, arse.” Remus spits back, refuses to pay any credence to how his cheeks have begun to flush. “You bumped into my mate right there, the one with the tray of loggers.”

The tosser darts his almost molten gray eyes over to Benjy for a sparing second before he laser focusses back onto Remus, the most phony expression of contrition all over his face. “Sorry to your friend,” he says the descriptor like a joke that no one else is in on. “Let me buy you a drink in sorry for the one I made slim here spill.”

Remus is officially unimpressed, hopes that his flat tone gets it across. “You’re an arse.”

“You’re mouthy,” he retorts, looks like it’s something he greatly appreciates— delights over even. 

“Ah, ’s fine Remus, really. I’ll just bring these back and get us a new glass.”

“Listen to slim, Remus, he’s got the right idea.” The tosser hurriedly interjects, strutting close enough to him that he makes it so Remus has to tip his head back just slightly so not to drop his gaze. “I’m Black, Sirius Black, just to get the pleasantries out of the way.” His leer tells Remus that the name should probably evoke some response of aw into Remus, but all it does is make him sound so egregiously pretentious that Remus wants to smack his own bloody head against a dry wall and stay in the hole until this ruddy Sirius bloke leaves him the hell alone.

“Good for you,” he says instead of all of that, and spots Sirius’s friends from behind Sirius chuckling and elbowing one another. Evidently this is a line the tosser uses frequently, and Remus is pleased that he might be one of the first who aren’t at all impressed by the grandiose way he introduced himself.

“Hah, you know I’m use to the pretty ones playing hard to get, but I’m really feeling here that you’re not exactly liking my company, love.”

Remus sucks in a frustrated breath through his nose, shouldering past Sirius and taking the tray of drinks from Benjy before storming back to their table where the others have begun openly gawping at the scene— Marlene outright squawking with Fabian just as Remus takes his seat.

“Don’t,” Remus warns them all as he silently says fuck off to the water and instead gargles down one of the loggers. And if he has to steadfastly not turn around for the rest of the night towards where he can feel Sirius’s gaze burning into his back— well then so be it.

.-

The next morning, Remus has to puke twice into the toilet, and gulps down three aspirins just to stave off his bloody hangover from the night before where he decided that getting properly sloshed would prove as a good technique to not end up making out with Sirius in some dark corner— or regrettably the backseat of his car. And if he does still remember flashes of ranting to him about how insufferable preppy, rich boys actually are while Sirius gazed at him endeared— well Remus just decides to purge it out along with the stomach acid. It’s not like he’ll ever see the douche again.

.-

He meets Arthur— one of the accountants who also helps out by taking photos for more low key news stories— outside the hospital where the conference will be taking place with the Manchester United team. There was a scrimmage that they all played with some of the kids in the cancer ward that occurred at around eight in the ruddy morning, but thankfully Remus didn’t have to show up until an hour later when the team presented their big shiny check, to the big, shiny hospital. 

However, Arthur has been here for hours, so he’s beyond chirpy and looks like he’s downed three cups of espresso as he chatters on about his son Percy starting secondary school, and his eldest, Bill, getting an award for his reading prowess, and all the strange craving his wife has been having throughout her pregnancy with the twins they’re expecting any week now. And Remus loves Arthur, he does— one of the sweetest folks he’s ever met— but God, his head is still thrumming from those misguided tequila shots and he really just wants to get his three quotes, and write up the story so he can find refuge back in his sheets.

While Arthur has moved to talking about his wife, Molly’s, plans to open up a daycare in their refurnished garage, Remus scans his eyes over the familiar face of reporters from other outlets who look just as bored as him, and then to the stage where a woman in a sharply pressed suit is ushering for the group of football stars to join her, so that the conference can finally fucking begin. 

And Remus thinks that their faces are sorta familiar, probably from all the publicity they get on the telly— but then he freezes as he stops at one of them with dark brown skin, and thick rimmed spectacles— and he suddenly can hear him chatting about his redheaded girlfriend and drunkenly declaring that she’ll be the mother of his children some day soon. So he completely expects it when his stomach drops as he moves his glance just a bit to the right, being struck by pearly teeth, and glittering eyes and incredibly impressive shoulders that tape off to a narrow waste, made all the more infuriating by the tight kit he’s got on and the blazing number twelve splayed against his chest.

And fuck.

Remus runs through about a dozen scenarios in which he can make a discrete, or not so discrete exit before he notices him, but in tandem to his spiraling thoughts, the wanker actually looks forwards, and like a creepy metal detector, his quick silver gaze pinpoints onto Remus.

They stare at one another for a beat before his smirk goes wolfish, and he runs a hand through his artfully tousled hair in a way that practically screams, fancy meeting you here. And holy fuck he looks so mouth watteringly attractive with that faint film of sweat running down his neck, and how his smile pulls slightly more to the left, and how he’s looking at Remus like he’s his birthday and Christmas presents all rolled into one.

Remus suddenly hates everything— but most of all hates Sirius, and how bloody fit he is.

“Oh, you’re a fan then?” 

Starting, Remus shifts around slightly so that he’s facing Arthur completely. “Pardon?”

“Sirius Black I mean, you’re a fan?” Arthur asks in that abrasively congenial and intensely scrutinizing way that he treats everything. “I mean he’s a great player, but I know you don’t really watch. So I bet it’s all that charity work he does, yeah?”

“Charity work?” Remus echos, feeling like a floundering fish.

“Truly some amazing stuff.” Arthur pontificates, rubbing a hand against his jaw as he tips his head back. “I mean obviously I’m partial to the fundraising for Reporters Without Borders, but of course the things he does with the more impoverished kids is great. And I know Molly likes his very outspoken posts about being anti war and his annual live streams to earn money for refugees in those war torn nations, like the last one he did for Syria?”

“Oh—“ Remus says, feeling like his head is being overrun by a fountain of new information.

“Yes well, you don’t usually see athletes get into the thick of it with political issues, but I reckon he never really minded. I mean the fact he’s the first football star from United to have come out without any fanfare really proved that. Oh, I think they’re starting, I should probably get some photos before Dorcas gives me a tongue lashing.”

And as quick as the flash of his camera’s lends, Arthur is using his considerable height to get to a more advantageous spot towards the front, and leaves Remus in the dust, as if he hasn’t just obliterated his every assumption of Sirius from after that initial meeting.

And unbidden, the words his mother had told him so many years ago, about facts and how they can color a situation just simply based off the person who’s speaking them— flood to the forefront of his mind.

“Fucking hell,” Remus mutters lowly, gets jostled by Greengrass, a hawkish reporter from a rivaling publication who always has on the most wickedly sharp acrylic nails, and perfectly quaffed curls— as she waves around her certification to speak her inquiry.

“My question is for Potter,” she announces when the woman leading the event, McGonagall, points her way. “And I was wondering how early you boys have to rise for training during the season? And how intense the sessions are that Coach Hooch puts you guys through?”

Potter, the one with the redheaded girlfriend that Remus heard so much about last night between his ranting at Sirius, parts his lips, but it’s not his voice that ends up reverberating through the outdoors space. Instead, it’s Sirius, who’s shouldering him with a goading air, obviously expecting his comment to have only ended up in Potter’s ear and not caught by the mike.

“I wonder if Lupin will let me wake up with’m so he can let me get some real training done before practices, eh?”

And just as soon as his words pitter off, the entire crowd drops to a hush— quiet enough so that they could probably hear it if a pen dropped. 

Sirius’s handsome face— strong jawline, and broad but sharp cheekbones, and a long, narrow nose— goes suddenly ashen, and he flashes over to Remus as if he’s terrified that he’ll bite his face off.

God, what an idiot.

With a long suffering sigh, Remus plucks out the microphone from a slack faced Greengrass’s hand. “We can discuss the regimen afterwards, Black. Just meet me by the front doors and let your mate answer the bloody question.”

Everyone around them falls into laughter that’s caught between uncomfortable chuckles and amazingly amused cackling, but the only person Remus is paying any mind is Sirius, and how he seems to have gone absolutely incandescent, nodding electrically before miming the zip of his lips and gesturing for Potter to carry on.

Jesus help him, Remus has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

.-

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist

~Buy Me A Coffee 

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

inventory, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: You’re missing a piece of inventory from your erotica shop. Surprisingly, you find it in the same day. It’s around your boyfriend’s neck, who also happens to be your sub. Hm, well, you have to act accordingly, don’t you?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; non-idol!AU; dom/sub dynamic; feels and there’s a decent bit of buildup; smut (mirror kink, spitting, cock ring usage, cock-slapping, scratching, spanking, vibrator use, overstimulation, edging, m-masturbation, cum eating, f-receiving oral); fluff; noona dom!reader x sub!Jungkook

technically part iv of ‘customer service’ series, but can be read alone

–

customer service part i | part ii | part iii

-

Jeon Jungkook was a problem.

Technically, your problem.

You tapped your pen against your recordkeeping book. No one was in the store. It was the middle of the week. Not usually the time to get freaky. People got freaky on the weekends. You usually spent these times doing the boring stuff. Setting up the deliveries for the rich customers that purchased clothing from you. Cleaning the store from top to bottom and finding some interesting fluids in interesting places. Typical. Answering emails, accounting, taking inventory. You were missing one piece of inventory, but those things always turned up eventually. You weren’t worried.

Eh, wasn’t a big problem.

Your big problem was Jeon Jungkook.

He wanted to be exclusive. Okay. He wanted it to be a relationship. Slightly less in your comfort zone, but you were willing to give it a shot. Unfortunately, Jungkook also wanted one more thing.

He wanted you to lose you temper at him.

Now, there were several things you, personally, did not do anymore. And number one on the list was losing your temper. You did not want to be in power and actively angry at the person you were fucking at the same time. It was dangerous. It was irresponsible. You’ve gone too far before and hurt your sub. You weren’t going to repeat it.

Not with Jungkook, no matter how much he tried to rile you up.

And he tried. Disobeyed you outright. Talked back. Taunted you. It took a lot of your skill and redirection to focus his attention elsewhere and not at his ultimate goal of pissing you off so much that you used sex as a weapon, because quite frankly, that was a fucked-up thing to do and you were not going to do it. You would rather leave than become that.

You told him this. You told him that he should not try to provoke you, especially not this early in the relationship. His body couldn’t handle it, he couldn’t handle it mentally, and you didn’t want to end up emotionally and sexually abusing him, even if it was an accident. Because it was your responsibility to not do that and you took that shit very seriously.

Jungkook had agreed reluctantly and he still tried.

Sigh.

You rubbed your forehead. If he was an experienced sub, then maybe you could be less strict. But he wasn’t. And yeah, maybe you were a little scared. Because your last relationship had ended very, very badly, because you had gone too far and your sub had been too scared to use the safe word even when it was too much and that really, really fucked you up. You regretted it, even after all this time, even after all the apologizing, even after your sub had forgiven you, multiple times.

You had never forgiven yourself for it.

The whole relationship had fallen apart because of that one time.

After that, you didn’t really date. All you did was have one-night stands with subs you already knew. It was easy having sex with no strings attached. Now you were dating Jungkook. Yeah, that. The dating bit. It was messing you up. It was making you overly cautious. You didn’t want to repeat your mistakes.

You let out a tense exhale.

You didn’t tell Jungkook about this, mostly because you didn’t want to admit it. You didn’t want to admit your sub had been too scared of you to use their safe word. You were ashamed. Scared of yourself and what you were capable of.

Sometimes, when you thought about it, you wondered if you should stop. Give up on the dom/sub thing and have vanilla sex instead with some nice guy who had a normal job and raise some babies and fucking chill out. Seemed nice. Life wasn’t about needing a power complex when being intimate after all. You could have a perfectly satisfying sex life with two people in equal power. Could even still be kinky without the whole ‘I’m the authority and you have to listen to me’ thing.

Yeah, well. Before you could commit to that, Jeon Jungkook decided to fucking seduce you in your own damn sex shop.

You placed your hands on your head and let out a big sigh.

Damn you, Jungkook.

-

You found your missing piece of inventory.

It was around Jeon Jungkook’s neck when he opened his apartment door for you.

Your face was completely neutral, one hand in the pocket of your black trench coat. The other holding your black leather briefcase. Underneath the coat, you wore a simple floor-length black skirt. Black heels. Nothing but your face and hands uncovered. In one second, you took in every detail upon seeing Jungkook.

One, his long black hair was tied back, his bangs framing his large brown eyes. Two, he was wearing a little bit of makeup. Slight amount of eyeshadow and liner, lip balm to make his lips pinker. Three, he was wearing a very low V-necked black t-shirt that was quite obviously meant to show off his shapely collarbones and sculpted pecs. The ink-black tattoos in his right arm stood out against his tan skin. Fourth, he was wearing leather pants – not the ones you made him, that would be indecent exposure showing up to the door like that – but, still, black tight faux leather trousers that he half-tucked his shirt in so his crotch was visible.

And.

Fifth.

He was wearing a black leather collar around his neck, one with a large silver ring hanging down at the center. It had silver studs with in the shape of a diamond pattern punched into the leather. It closed in the back with a silver buckle.

How did you know this?

It was your missing piece of inventory, of course.

You clicked your tongue.

“Oh! Noona,” Jungkook said nervously, biting his lip.

You little shit, don’t you ‘oh, noona’ me. You almost turned around and left. Almost. Irritation was putting it mildly. You were pissed. He had stolen from your shop. Became an actual fucking thief to get a rise out of you. You two weren’t going out on a date. It was already late, so both of you had intended on having a nice night in. He’d dressed up for it, as one does. Made himself pretty for you to ruin. Jungkook knew what he wanted. And he wasn’t being subtle about it, wearing the stolen inventory right in front of your face the second he opened the door.

He wanted you mad and he wanted you mad from the start.

You did not look at the collar. Instead, you stared into his eyes, furious internally, but completely placid on the outside. His brown orbs were observing you in anticipation. He wanted it. Bad. You had refused to let him cum last time because he had talked back to you. That was a week ago. You wondered if he had jacked off or not. You put no such restrictions on him even though he asked you to. You were curious on how far Jungkook was willing to go, so you let him choose.

And, clearly, Jungkook choose death.

Just kidding. But he was really testing you here. And so, you made up your mind.

You waited, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook flushed and backed up, holding the door with two hands.

“C-Come in.”

You stepped inside, heels clicking on the hardwood. Jungkook closed the door behind you. The large, floor-length mirror was in the living room again. The incident in the fitting room must have really had an impact on him. Maybe he was developing a mirror kink because of it.

You felt Jungkook slide up next to you, his breath against your ear. Shallow, needy, already horny. You weren’t surprised. Nobody dresses like that and doesn’t want to be fucked.

“N-noona…” He was making his voice desperate and breathy, already submissive for you. “I really missed you.”

“That’s lovely to hear.”

You kept your tone light, no pet names, stepping out of your heels and walking towards the couch. Jungkook followed you like a shadow, still chewing on his lip, messing up his own hard work of making himself pretty for you. You placed your briefcase on the coffee table. He hovered as you undid your trench coat slowly, pulling open the tie and unbuttoning it deftly, fingers dancing on the placket.

“I can help you?” Jungkook offered, holding his hands out.

Your eyes gradually lifted, locking your gaze with his. You saw him visibly shiver in excitement.

“No need.”

You saw Jungkook pout as you slipped out of the coat, one arm, then the other, revealing the white dress shirt that was neatly tucked into your black skirt. It had pleated detailing down the front and silver collar pins, completed by the silver cuff links you used to close the sleeves. You folded the coat elegantly and laid it over the back of his couch.

“Are you mad, noona?”

You want me to be mad. Thankfully, at this point you had calmed a little. Yes, Jungkook was an idiot for doing such a thing, but he wasn’t doing it because he was trying to hurt you or actually steal from you. Maybe it was something he’d seen or read in porn. Maybe it was something his brain devised because he felt some weird need to prove to you that he was a good and obedient sub, because he knew you had previous partners and he wanted to outdo them or something. Maybe he wanted to see how much of a dom you really were.

And, most likely, it was all of those things.

“Jungkook.”

This time, you said his name with a sharper tone.

“Y… yes?”

You turned your right hand upwards, entirely aware of the placement of your fingers. Pinky, ring, middle curled inwards. Index up, thumb out. Poised, elegant, almost haughty. You flicked your cuff link, straightening the backing to slip it out. It was a diamond-shaped accessory, completely unnecessary for everyday life and completely necessary to force Jungkook to wait on you one more second. One more heart-stopping moment.

You glanced at his crotch. Hm. Interesting. Then you blinked and your eyes were on his. Hair hanging around his cheekbones, pupils dilating, swollen lips parted as he let out light pants of desire. He was slowly but surely losing it.

Maybe it was because his erection was suffocating in his leather pants.

You twirled your cuff link in your fingers. Jungkook watched the action, entranced by the dexterity of your digits. You knew what he wanted. He’d been texting you all day, trying to work you up. You had made him wait. Just like how you were making him wait now.

“What is your safe word?”

That was the question you used to start off the scene.

Instantly, you saw the relief, the hunger, the absolute need to serve flood his dark brown eyes. Now you were the dom. Now he was the sub.

“Euphoria,” Jungkook nearly moaned.

You nodded slowly, placing the cuff link on his coffee table. You upturned your other wrist, removing the other with a swift flick. You heard him whimper at the quick action. You almost smiled. He really wanted it. Ah, but you are a bad, bad boy, Jungkook. The metal clinked as it touched the walnut wood of the tabletop.

And there are consequences for being a bad, bad boy.

Your gaze connected with his once again. His eyes were practically begging for instruction.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” you drawled. His teeth sunk into his lower lip once more, the tiny mole underneath winking at you. “Go ahead.”

His eyes flitted about, trying to search for the trap. He swallowed, straining against the collar.

“Do… do you notice anything different about me?” Jungkook asked hesitantly, taking a step towards you.

You didn’t move from your position, observing him closely. His hands by his sides were antsy, itching to touch you or be caged with rope. You hooked your thumb at the base of your cuff and rolled it down. Once. Twice. Three times.

“You’re wearing makeup for me,” you replied, letting a small smile drift to your lips.

“A-ah…” He blushed. “Is it… is it too unmanly?”

Who the fuck put these ideas in Jeon Jungkook’s head? You just wanted to talk to them. And by talk, you meant flog the living daylights out of them. You had a big one at home. It could be arranged.

“No, of course not. You look very handsome.” Pause. “And fuckable.”

No reason not to tell the truth.

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed a dark pink. “T-Thank you, noona.”

During the entire conversation, you had folded the sleeves of your dress shirt up to your elbows. The stiff, crisp fabric held, and suddenly you were imposing, sleeves rolled up, black skirt skimming the hardwood floor. The neutral façade you had upheld for so long dropped away. Jungkook noticed the change instantly, even though you hadn’t actually said anything yet. His eyes widened a little, shoulders tensing.

Your eyes flashed, chin lifting.

“Or is that not what you meant, pretty boy?”

You did not hide the irritation in your voice this time. His breathing hitched, the muscles his arms ripped and Jungkook very, very much wanted to be punished.

“Um…” He fiddled with his hands guiltily, eyes skirting about. “It’s not what I was referring to, no…”

“Look at me.”

He snapped his head up, gulping. So obvious. His neck strained against the leather. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What were you referring to?” you questioned icily.

Jungkook was shaking all over. He lifted his hand slowly, reaching up to his neck, hooking two fingers around the metal ring of the collar. He tightened them, tugging down a little, eyelashes fluttering, a tiny moan rumbling in his throat. You were going insane on the inside. Fuck, did he know how submissive he was? Did he know how his small, cute little actions made him look so fucking appetizing?

“T-This.”

“Ah, yes,” you finally acknowledged. You waved a hand and he removed his, biting his lip again. “I did notice that. A nice touch. Is it for me?”

He nodded quickly. He seemed to forget for a second that he stole it from you. “Yes, noona, it’s for you.”

You sighed. Jungkook’s expression changed, becoming slightly confused.

“Pause.”

The indication that there was an intermission in the scene. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You are testing me, Jungkook, and I do not like it.”

Jungkook’s brows knitted together, looking down. “I’m sorry, noona.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t try to make me angry on purpose.”

He closed the distance between you two, placing his hands on your elbows. His brown orbs anxiously found yours. “I… I just… please…” His fingers pressed into your skin, his breathing deepening. “I want to see how far I can go. How far you can take me. You won’t…” Jungkook shook his head, hair flying everywhere, ponytail bouncing. “You’re holding back, but I can take it, noona, I promise. I promise I can.” His fingertips caressed you, determination in his eyes.

Hm. Jungkook could tell. You breathed in deeply, inhaling his clean scent.

You are aware of your mistakes. You have learned.

You pursed your lips.

I really, really do not want to hurt you, Jungkook.

“You must promise me.” You looked deep into his eyes. “You must promise me, that if it is too much, if you cannot handle it, if it is not something you want, you must use your safe word.”

He nodded quickly. “I promise.”

And then you crumpled a little bit, your strict demeanor falling, the fears rising, the vulnerability making your voice quiver as you unfurled your arms and grabbed his t-shirt, shaking him roughly.

“No, Jungkook,” you pleaded. “You must promise me.” And you couldn’t explain, couldn’t bring yourself to say why, but he could tell how serious you were because you were suddenly weak, suddenly the parts of yourself that you kept under wraps revealed themselves, the parts you were ashamed of appearing, and you were letting him witness it. Because he said he wanted you. Not just dom you, but you.

And this, well, this was you too.

Jungkook’s eyes softened and he smiled. He leaned in and kissed you, long, sweet, delicate. It was like time stopped. As if the world froze and there was nothing but Jungkook’s lips on yours, reassuring and comforting. He drew back and opened his eyes slowly, warmth in his chocolate orbs.

“I promise.”

You looked up at him, stunned. He grinned at you, showing off his teeth, a little cheeky and embarrassed all at once. You removed your hands from his shirt, lowering them gradually.

“Sorry, I…”

Jungkook’s hands dropped and held yours tightly. He shook his head.

“No, noona. I understand. I know you are looking out for me,” he said brightly. “Because I’m always trying to get into trouble.”

A muscle in your eye twitched. At least he admitted it.

His teeth caught his lip, still smiling. Less nervous now, more playful.

You removed your hands from his. Okay. Okay, fine. Jungkook wanted you to be the dom. Not a dom, the dom. You let out a breath, controlled, clean. Step back into your role. You are in control. You can do this.

“What is your safe word?”

You cracked your neck, a sharp pop that made Jungkook jump.

“Euphoria,” he replied automatically.

“Very good.”

A beat passed. Jungkook remained close to you, unsure what was going to happen. His eyes wide and flighty, chin trembling, hands in front of his chest. You lowered yours, placing them behind your back. Piercing gaze on him, taking a step. His eyes followed you as you slowly circled him, speaking carefully and deliberately.

“So, Jungkook, tell me,” you began, skirt grazing the floor as your glided around him. “What makes you think you’re wearing the collar for me?”

Jungkook’s head whipped around quickly, following your movement with darting eyes. Damn, his ass looked great in these leather pants. He looked unconfident, brows furrowing, trying to conjure the right answer to get what he wanted.

“Um… I thought… maybe you might like it…” He stumbled through his words. “B-Because you like controlling me…”

You smiled at him. Jungkook brightened.

“I do.”

The eagerness beamed off his face as you stopped in front of him, still smiling pleasantly.

“I love controlling you.”

Then the smile dropped. The air around you became ten degrees colder with your shift in demeanor. Jungkook barely had a half-second to realize the change before your hand shot out and gripped the silver ring, yanking down harshly. He yelped, arms flying out, falling to his knees hard, gripping your skirt for balance. Your other arm was still behind you, folded into the small of your back. You narrowed your eyes, holding the collar ring so tightly that your knuckles were white.

His eyes flew up, pain and surprise.

You ticked your head. “But clearly, I’ve done a poor job, because you’ve gone and stole from me, you bad boy.”

Jungkook shook his head quickly, scooting himself forward, clutching your skirt tightly. “N-No, please, noona, I only–”

You yanked the ring up and Jungkook gasped, words cut off from the sudden jerk of his head snapping back. “You only what? Pickpocketed? Broke the law? Took my hard-earned money from right under my nose, to hurt me?”

“No, no, never,” Jungkook whimpered, looking up at you, blinking rapidly. “I don’t want to hurt you, noona. Never.”

“Then explain yourself,” you barked severely.

His eyes were turning teary, pleading. “I only… I only wanted to borrow it. So you could punish me and so I could show you I could be a good boy and take what I deserve.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your other punishments weren’t enough?”

Jungkook’s lower lip quivered. The shame of his true intent was creeping in his eyes now.

“I… I wanted to see you angry, noona.”

“Even after I told you that you shouldn’t?”

He nodded, scurrying himself even closer on his now, most likely, bruised knees. Eyes on you, holding onto your skirt, whole body trembling. He angled his hips forward, showing you how hard he was in his pants, straining it even more by pressing his erection into the zipper of the leather. His lips open, black curls hanging around his face, almost pathetic but not quite, because you knew Jungkook was acutely aware of exactly what he looked like. Doing it to entice you, doing it to assure you that he wanted it.

“Y-Yes,” he admitted.

You forcefully let go of the ring, flinging him away from you. Jungkook squeaked, releasing your clothes as his body twisted to the side from your sharp movement. You swept your skirts away and took a step back.

“Noona, w-wait!”

Jungkook tried to scramble to his feet, but you snarled deep in your chest, making him freeze.

“Crawl.”

He looked startled, looking at you with wide puppy eyes. You took another step back. Jungkook followed you, on hands and knees, his bangs flared out, the low neckline of his shirt hanging down, revealing his chest. You could see his back muscles rippling under the fabric. Fuck, he was so handsome. You weren’t heading for the front door. You watched his mind calculate the angle of your body, mood lightening as he realized that was the direction of the bedroom. You, however, stopped at the floor-length mirror in the living room. Pointed to the patch of floor at your feet.

“Here. Now.”

Jungkook immediately complied, getting on his knees in front of you, hands between his legs, keen to please, facing you.

“Other way,” you clarified, sounding disappointed.

He lowered his head at his mistake and spun around, now facing his reflection. You glared through the mirror, making eye contact. He looked very sorry and very dejected. You almost forgave him just like that. Maybe Jungkook didn’t like this. Maybe you were being too harsh.

“Do you want to use your safe word?”

His eyes on yours. He shook his head lightly, not breaking your gaze.

“No, noona.” Your heart thudded in your chest at his tone of voice. “I’ve been a very bad boy.”

Jungkook licked his lips slowly, not looking away, the tip of his pink tongue lingering before sliding back into his mouth. He kept the same look in his eyes, but his actions were giving you the go ahead.

Shit.

You raised an eyebrow and lowered your hands. They floated above his shoulders and you were reminded of the first time, in the fitting room of your erotica shop, the moment he seduced you and pulled you into his pace. Jungkook tipped his head back, long hair sliding to his ears, the reflection of the stolen collar taunting you.

This brat.

Slowly, finger by finger, you placed your hands on his face. Fingertips pressing into his jaw, cheek, temple, into his soft skin, nails slightly digging in. Scratching up his pretty face a little, claiming it as yours. Jungkook had perfect bone structure, high cheekbones, sharp jaw, pretty forehead. He was panting, mouth open, hot breath drifting down. Hands on his thighs, clutching them tight.

You bent down, chin above his head so he could feel your hot breath on his scalp.

“My pretty boy,” you murmured softly. “Why must you be so bad? Do I not treat you well enough? Do I not give you what you love?”

“You do,” Jungkook whined in your hands, the guilt creeping into his voice. “You do, noona. Your pretty boy is… g-greedy.” He rolled his hips a little, spreading his thighs more, staring at his own reflection of his low-necked shirt and his thighs open, cock bulging in his leather pants.

Your fingers slipped down, down, tracing the leather collar. You let your index finger circle around the metal, not yet touching his chest, so close but so far. Jungkook kept trying to raise it into your touch.  Your other hand reached back and grabbed his ponytail, yanking his head back. He moaned right into your chin, too turned on to pretend he was hurt.

“I am going to my briefcase,” you stated, not looking at him under you and instead staring at his reflection, torso straining from how sharply you were forcing him to arch his back. “You are to remove your clothes. Whatever is left on you will remain for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, noona.”

You abruptly let him go, striding to your briefcase swiftly, hearing a flurry of noise as Jungkook flung all of his clothes off. Snap, open, grab. You had already packed a black velvet bag holding the things you intended to use on him tonight. You spun around to see him practically ripping his leather pants off, the panic and regret evident on his face as he tried to shove them down his muscular calves. Smart boy had removed his underwear with his pants, smearing trails of pre-cum down his legs and onto the floor. You waited half a second for Jungkook to pop them over his ankles and he threw the pants to the far wall, so hard they made a loud slapping noise. Jungkook was on his hands and knees, panting, beads of sweat on his forehead.

It was actually hilarious to watch, but now was not the time to laugh.

Jungkook snapped his head towards you, eyes wide, his hard cock smacking his thigh. You raised an eyebrow at him. He gulped. Wearing nothing but the collar. Oh, he looked so good. You could tell him to get into position.

Or.

Tease him.

“Want to put my mouth on you, handsome boy.”

His cock twitched as his jaw dropped.

Your tongue slid out and stayed at the side of your lips as you spoke. “You look so tasty for me. When was the last time you came, Jungkook?”

His hands curled into fists on the hardwood floor, legs falling open, cock throbbing. The veins stood out against the hardness, head swollen and red.

“F-Fifteen days ago…” he whimpered.

He had denied himself. So cute. What a good boy. You smiled at him, still holding the velvet bag. “Really? You didn’t cum, not even once, without me?”

Jungkook shook his head rapidly, hair flying everywhere. “Wa… wanted to be tasty for you.”

You pouted a little. “Hm, that’s half a month. You waited so long.”

Jungkook nodded, chewing on his lip. You gestured for him to adjust his position and he turned his body to fully face you.

“Eyes on the mirror.”

He turned his head to face his reflection. Hands on the floor next to his ass, slightly leaning back, legs open.

“Look away and I’ll walk away,” you warned.

“Y-yes, noona.”

You floated down to the floor. He couldn’t exactly see you, but you slid into the frame of the mirror, right between his legs. The velvet bag was out of his sight, next to his leg, but Jungkook wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at his stiff cock and your proximity to it, holding his breath. You collected your saliva on your tongue and opened your mouth. It dripped down in a thin, slim line, hitting the angry red head of his cock and causing it to jerk at the sudden impact, coating it.

“A-ah, s-so good…”

“What do we say?” you purred, collecting more.

“T-thank you, noona,” Jungkook moaned, watching as you dropped more onto his aching cock, splattering onto his crotch. You lowered your head, closer. Closer. Jungkook sucked in a breath, waiting, needing, trying not to move. You made eye contact with him in the mirror.

“You’re a bad boy, Jungkook.”

And then you spat on his balls.

His head tipped back as he groaned, eyes barely open as he watched himself, chest shuddering as he felt it trickle down and onto the floor below. You spat on his genitals again, more force this time, spraying it across his cock and stomach. He cried out, slamming one of his fists onto the hardwood.

“Y-yes, noona, I’m a bad boy.”

And then you produced a cock ring seemingly out of nowhere, eyebrow raised as he wailed loudly.

“N-no, please, please don’t,” Jungkook panicked as you brought the black silicone ring closer and closer to his now saliva-drenched cock. “Please, I promise to be a good boy, please don’t do it…”

You said nothing, simply placing it on the engorged head and using three fingers to hold it, pushing down slowly.

“Noona, a-ah… no…” His eyelids fluttered, eyes on the reflection of his thick cock being viciously squeezed into the silicone ring. He let out a choked sob as it popped over the bottom of the head, sliding down, down, all the way to the base. You barely touched him, removing your hand as Jungkook shuddered, his pulsating length now bound by the black band.

You raised your head. He was still, very obediently, staring at the mirror.

You smacked his cock with your palm.

Not hard, but enough to make it bounce and for Jungkook to squeal, hips rising as his dick shook from side to side, unable to move much from the tight cock ring. He was making it move more by rocking his hips, heightening the feeling of being bound.

You waited until it stopped swaying.

“Your neighbors will hear you, Jungkook,” you said calmly. You turned your head and looked into the mirror. His eyes locked on yours, pupils dilated, strands of hair clinging to his sweaty face. “Should I gag you?”

“N-no, noona,” he whispered hotly, breathing shallow and tight. “They have to know I’m being punished. B-Because I’ve been b-bad.”

Good gracious, Jungkook.

Your panties instantly soaked. Who was losing it here? Was it him or was it you? Fuck.

You slowly smacked his cock back and forth, back and forth, staring at his face in the mirror. His head tipped back, not closing his eyes, moaning wantonly as his stiff length was roughly shoved around, barely any pressure and too much at once because of how hard he was. You stopped, watching his cock bob, almost purple-red now. Pre-cum beaded at the tip.

You couldn’t help it.

You leaned down, tucking your hair behind your ear so he could see, and gave the slit a tiny kitten lick.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Jungkook lost control, eyes rolling back into his head, and you almost moaned, his strong, intense taste all over your tongue. He tasted so good. So fucking delicious. You pulled back, pretending not to notice that Jungkook had looked away from the mirror as he quickly collected himself, back to staring at his reflection. You grabbed his hips and dug your nails into his skin, dragging him so his body was tilted.

“Flip over,” you growled.

You backed up, taking the velvet pouch with you as Jungkook obeyed, on his hands and knees now.

“On your face.”

Jungkook whimpered, lowering his cheek to the cool floor, leaning against it. Now his ass was up in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

“Both hands on the ring.”

His teeth sank into his lower lip, scooting his hands so he held the silver collar ring with fingers on both hands, arms against the floor to hold him up. His cock stuck straight down, stiff and swollen, trapped in the silicone circle. You waited to let Jungkook readjust his knees to be more comfortable and so he could see everything. The muscles on his back tensed with anticipation.

“I didn’t cover your mouth for a reason.”

“Yes, noona,” Jungkook breathed.

You raised your hands and raked your nails over his back, all the way to his ass. Hard, deep, leaving lines of pink and red, almost breaking the skin. Jungkook moaned, tongue sliding out, body shaking, eyelids fluttering. You did it again, and again, creating your pattern of lust on his back.

“Mine,” you growled possessively. Your eyes locked with his.

Thump.

Had anyone ever looked at you with so much adoration before?

Jungkook nodded.

“All yours, noona.”

You slapped his ass with your open palm.

He yelped, shoulders hitting the floor, face sliding a little against the wood. Pupils dilating, whimpering for more. You smacked him again, and again, and again, never the same spot, always with the full palm, all over, causing large red handprints patterned all over his ass. Jungkook was a groaning mess, legs slipping, the head of his cock touching the hardwood.

You stopped.

His ass was bright red, covered in your slaps and scratches.

Jungkook opened his eyes. He seemed to realize he wasn’t looking at his reflection anymore. He panicked, seeing your glare in the mirror, and tried to raise his hips, but your hand stopped him. The tip of his cock was in contact the floor, dripping pre-cum.

You pressed his hips down a little and shifted them from side to side.

Even the little stimulation of the head against the hardwood made Jungkook moan, pleading with you as he desperately clutched the collar.

“Noona, p-please… Please let me c-cum…”

You removed your hand. Jungkook continued rubbing himself in his own puddle of pre-cum on his living room floor, as you predicted. You didn’t stop him. You reached into the velvet pouch again. Jungkook’s eyes had fluttered closed as he continued stimulating himself, probably not enough, but he didn’t seem to care. You pressed the thing in your hand onto his scrotum and turned it on.

“A-ah!”

Jungkook’s hips flew up, balls suddenly shaking violently from the bullet vibrator in your hand. He shut his legs, sticking his ass out into your hand as he gasped, pressing back into the vibrator as you lazily drifted it around his balls.

“Oh, fuck, noona, oh, fuck!”

He was still holding onto the collar somehow as he tried to get more, wiggling his hips, but you were faster, grabbing his ass with one hand and digging your nails into it.

“Stop.”

Jungkook froze, whimpering and panting on the hardwood, cheeks hollowed out, eyes glazed over.

You traced his asshole with the tip of the vibrator.

His eyes rolled back, tongue lolling out.

“Oh, please, noona, put it in me, p-please…”

You drew figure-eights around his asshole and his balls, calmly.

“I bet you would love that, but you’ve been a bad boy, so I don’t think so.”

Jungkook whined, shaking his head, dark curls fluttering, soaked with sweat.

“P-please, I’ll be good, I need it, I need you to do it, fuck, please.”

“No.”

You pressed the vibrator into the cock ring and Jungkook nearly screamed, cutting himself off by snapping his jaw shut and yelling into the floor, hips jerking in your hands. You kept it there for a good five seconds before you removed it and backed up, reaching into the velvet bag again. Jungkook had maybe one shaking inhale before you gripped him under his armpits, hoisting him up.

“Let go of the ring,” you commanded, and his hands dropped, helping you get him to his knees. His bruised knees. Still, he leaned against you, soaking your clothes with his sweat, spreading his legs out more so his body lowered and your head could be seen past his shoulder. 

You reached down and removed the cock ring, Jungkook gasping in relief. It rolled away, now forgotten.

“Get yourself off.”

“B-but, noona…”

Your hands appeared and pressed against his nipples, turning on both bullet vibrators at once.

“Get. Yourself. Off.”

“F-fuck!”

His hand immediately flew to his cock, viciously pumping himself as you rubbed his nipples with the toys, his groans rumbling in his chest with the vibrations, so strong, so intense, his tan skin glistening with sweat, arm tattoos dancing as he stroked himself fast, his cock so hard it was purple now, veins popping out.

And, like the masochist he was…

Jungkook grabbed the head and squeezed firmly, cutting off his own orgasm with a wail.

You responded just as fast, dropping your hands and shoving the vibrators against his balls, twice as much stimulation as before. His head fell back against your shoulder, half-moans, half-screams of your name as he bucked into them, working himself up once again, your breath against his neck, your eyes watching Jungkook’s reflection – his shaking legs, his balls cupped in your hands, his abused and overstimulated cock popping in and out of his tattooed hand, his now inflamed nipples, sweat dripping down his neck, long black hair flared out against your cheek, the mole under his lower lip trembling with his cries.

Fuck, he was everything. Everything you ever wanted.

“Ah, noona, yes, yes, you’re so good to me, so good…”

“Cum on the mirror,” you demanded. “Cum all over yourself, pretty boy.”

Jungkook whined, snapping his head back down, feeling you increase the vibration setting on his balls and that was it, the tipping point as he sobbed out your name, shooting all over the mirror in large splatters of white, jerking his hips so it traveled higher, sticking onto the reflective glass, all over his reflection.

And he watched it, moaning, so entranced by his likeness covered in his own cum, dripping down in slow smears, messy and dirty.

You turned off the vibrators, withdrew your hands from him.

“Lick it off.”

Jungkook was exhausted, wheezing, hoarse, and yet he still removed his hand from his cock, crawling to the mess he made, pink tongue flopping out, licking his own cum off the mirror, eating it up with groans of satisfaction. You watched him, fascinated, surprised he even listened to you, surprised he was still going, because honestly at this point, you really thought you had gone too far, but Jungkook was enthusiastically making out with his own face with his orgasm at your command, and loving every second of it.

“Jungkook.”

He pushed himself away from the mirror, immediately coming to you, his dark brown eyes hazy with pleasure. He dumped himself in your lap. You still wearing all your clothes. He looked up at you, lips curving into a naughty grin.

“I love it when you turn me into your plaything.”

This guy.

“What do you want?” Jungkook panted. “I’ll do anything. Anything for you.”

Oh, that’s right. You had spent so much focus and energy on Jungkook that you completely forgot about yourself. How did that happen? Ah, but you were so tired now. You let out a puff of disbelief and slid down to the floor.

“I want a nap. Get back to me tomorrow morning.”

-

You woke up slowly to something wet and hot between your legs.

Can I wake you up by eating you out tomorrow morning?

If you brush your teeth.

Really?!

If you brush your teeth, yes.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, breathing in Jungkook’s scent. His bed. His tongue against your opening, softly lapping, burying his nose into your core. You pursed your lips, sighing softly. The tip of the wet muscle slid up, licking at your clit. You pressed your hips into his face and the large hands around your thighs tightened, holding you closer.

He moaned, so hot, right into your pussy.

Your hands released the sheets, sliding across the fabric, up your hip, tracing his fingers. Eyes still closed, feeling for his long hair, clean, fluffy, wild from sleep. Burying your fingers in the strands, pressing him down into you.

“Ah, Jungkook…”

He licked faster, lips closing around your clit, pushing his head into you as he pressed your thighs into the sides of his face. You could feel his cheekbones, his jaw rubbing against your skin. Felt his wet warmth, rapidly rubbing your sensitive nub.

“That’s a good boy,” you purred and he whined, vibrating your pussy with the sound.

Your fingers tightened in his hair and you hissed, gliding into your orgasm, dripping into his mouth as your clit throbbed against his tongue, pleasure flooding you like a warm blanket.

You finally opened your eyes, breathing out as you saw Jungkook’s handsome face between your legs, cleaning you up. He kissed the insides of your thighs, nuzzling your skin. He seemed to feel you watching him and his eyes looked up, bright, doe-like, chocolatey. His pink lips glistened with your release.

“Noona?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I keep the collar?”

You raised an eyebrow. He smiled at you, playful, naughty.

“If you pay for it,” you replied, half-joking.

His tongue flashed out.

“I can pay in cash and in orgasms.”

You laughed as Jungkook dove down between your legs once again.

--

masterpost

[shyficwriter]

Temporary Home: Chapter 17

Guardians of the Galaxy fanfic | Reader x Guardians (With Yondu and Kraglin!)

Summary: Peter, grasping for straws to remain 'The Prank Master,' thinks he's found a way to annoy you into conceding. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to him, what he's found is something much worse.

Previous Chapter here | Next Chapter Here Or click here to: Start From Beginning

Author’s Note: Content Warning for descriptions/mentions of PTSD and flashbacks. Also, for my records this chapter ends on day 34 of the Guardians living with reader. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6,761

Red covered your mouth and nose, all over your hand, and a bit on your sheets. You blearily tried to gather your senses, tried to open your eyes against the unforgiving light that blinded you.

Peter stood over you, laughing. Telling you that you got what was coming to you as you groaned.

That fecker had put ketchup in your hand while you slept and then tickled your nose with one of the fuzzy-tipped novelty pens on your desk. The dickhead.

"Ugh! Gross! Dude!?" you complain, sitting up and reaching over to grab the tissues off your desk so you could clean yourself up.

"Serves you right for what you did to me!" Peter countered, gesturing to the blue staining his body. He began to walk out of your room, making sure to let you know that you shouldn't expect the two of you were even.

You roll your eyes and continue wiping the ketchup-y mess off of you. You glance down at your sheets and realized you'd need to wash them today too. Great. Guess this is what you got for sleeping-in.

Once you had finally cleaned yourself up you gathered your sheets to take them downstairs to wash them, but not before making a pit-stop to Peter's room. Wanting to make the trip quick you grabbed the first thing you could find- his comb- and pocketed it. It was about to have a date with some jelly.

As you turned to leave his room you saw Rocket standing in the hall just outside the door.

With a knowing grin he asked, "Whatcha doin' there?"

"Nothing," you answer flatly, gathering your sheets back up.

He let you pass but said, "So I guess I didn't just see you steal Quill's comb, then?" There was amusement in his voice.

"He'll get it back," you answer, not pausing in your walk towards the stairs.

"What do you plan on doing to it?" he asked, intrigued. He had no intents to squeal on you. This prank-y-ness was a side of you he had been pleasantly surprised to see. Much better the the stiff agent-type you usually liked to display. Had he maybe misjudged you?

"The less you know the better," you answered, continuing down the stairs.

No witnesses. Rocket liked your style. Maybe you didn't have such a stick up your butt after all.

***

You threw your sheets in the washer and put the kettle on. It was time to make some jelly.

While waiting for the kettle you grabbed the packet of jelly from the pantry and something quick for breakfast. Deciding on a granola bar, you go to pull one from the box when you also notice that all your spices had been flipped upside down. Obviously Peter's doing. That's also when you remember that you had hidden the rest of the food dye behind the spices, prompting you to give a quick peek to see that the box was still there.

It wasn't.

Peter must have found it while setting up his prank and took them, intent on making the two of you "even."

Crap.

The kettle began to whistle and you pulled yourself out of your thoughts of doom to start fixing the jelly. You could think about the dye later. Right now you had mischief to make.

You mix up the jelly in a glass bowl, adding in an extra packet of gelatin to make sure the shape would hold later. Then, looking around to make sure no one was around, you take Peter's comb out of your pocket and drop it in. The bowl was just big enough for the comb to catch on the sides roughly about halfway deep in the jelly water, so that when you turned it out it would be nicely suspended in the green jelly. You then quickly take the bowl to the fridge to set, burying it in the back on the bottom shelf so it hopefully wouldn't be seen.

Then you simply went about your day as normal.

***

Other than several bad puns, Peter surprisingly didn't attempt much to annoy you that day, and you had no doubts that it was because he was confident that he'd be able to return the favor in dyeing you an odd color when you showered tonight.

Not if you had anything to say about it.

Too bad for him he had no way to know that you knew, and you were confident that you could deal with it when that time came if you paid enough attention. For now you were just going to act none-the-wiser, and accept his invitation to watch a show with the others.

You settled in on the couch and the episode starts. It's a title you haven't heard of before.

Watching it you gathered it was a type of mystery/detective/thriller type that was somehow also a comedy. A detective was accused of killing this old lady, and he was on the run to try and prove his innocence. Lots of action, a bunch of red-herrings, overall not a bad show so far if you had to judge by this episode.

Then there was the end-scene.

The detective finally found the actual murderer, the mayor, and after tricking him into broadcasting his confession over the radio in this abandoned radio station- where he somehow had managed to make a broadcast work- the two fight. Only the mayor has a gun, and the detective's fell into a storm drain two scenes ago.

Through his cunning the detective manages to escape alive, but not unharmed. He's got a compound fracture to his leg. Cops are on the scene and arresting the mayor after surrounding him at gunpoint, and ambulances can be heard in the background.

You feel the hair on your arms stand up.

The sound of the sirens just keeps getting louder.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

They get louder. You look away from the screen into your lap.

All you can hear now is sirens. You don't realize they've already stopped on the screen. There's now instead dialogue, a conversation between characters, but you are unaware of it.

Your hands clench into fists, nails digging into your palms. You fight the images in your head. You don't want to see them. You hear sounds of tearing metal. Sirens. Screaming. Beeping. Your breathing gets shallow and you work to keep it quiet. You had to fight it back. Sirens. Bright lights. Glass shattering. Screaming. Sirens. You keep saying to yourself inside your mind that it's ok. You're ok. But what about-

Kraglin makes a comment to Yondu about something said on screen. You don't hear him. You only hear the sirens. God, why won't they stop? Screeching. Sirens. Blinding lights. Sirens.

Yondu turns to reply to Kraglin, but sees you looking strange. He raises an eyebrow, which Kraglin notices. He follows Yondu's gaze and sees you staring into your lap, body rigid, hands balled tightly into fists. Your eyes are wide, but unseeing. Your jaw is set.

Before either of them can say a word the buzzer on the washer goes off and you seem to jolt out of it, quickly hopping up and making your way out of the room.

Yondu and Kraglin share a look. What was that about?

***

You didn't return for another episode. Instead, you decided it was a nice enough day to hang your washing on the line. It hardly took you any time at all to finish, but you decide to stay outside for a bit anyways. Fresh air and all that.

Everything was fine. You were ok.

When you finally come back in it's well after a suitable lunchtime, and realizing that the only thing you had today was a granola bar, you decide to cut up an apple and sit at the table, scrolling on your phone as you eat.

Yondu comes into the kitchen for a drink and joins you at the table. "Where'd you go runnin' off to?" he asks, "Decide you didn't like the show?" What he really wanted to ask was what had prompted that look in your eyes earlier, but he knew better than to just come out an ask. You'd just deny anything had happened.

"Had laundry to dry," you answer, not looking up from your phone.

"Ya were gone an awful long time for laundry." Yondu said, not missing that you completely ignored his question about the show. But the question still bugged him. He recognized the look in your eyes back then. He remembered sometimes catching it in the eyes of some of the older battle slaves in the barracks when he was younger. It was the look one had when they were flashing back to something horrific they had been through. He and the other younger battle slaves were always told by other elders to leave those be when they were "stuck in it", as they would say. Don't disturb them. They'll come out of it. Nothing for it but to let it pass.

That never did sit right with him.

"It's a nice day. Thought I'd enjoy it," you answered.

Yondu hummed shortly. You weren't giving him anything, and he knew you wouldn't.

He decided not to press it for now, but he could tell something had triggered that response from you, he just didn't know what. He suspected it had something to do with whatever it was that you kept locked away inside. He had clues and suspicions as to what, but of course he couldn't be sure, though he was more determined now than he had previously been to figure you out. Only one thing was certain. You had pain inside you. A lot of it. No one should have to go through that alone.

***

Kraglin, unlike Yondu, wasn't nearly as subtle when he saw you next. However, he wouldn't get any further.

"Mind if I help?" he asked, joining you in the garden where you were pulling a few weeds.

"Go for it," you reply, barely looking up. There weren't many to pull, as it was starting to get cooler lately. You mostly just came out for something to do. Soon it'd be time to harvest the whole garden.

The two of you work in silence for a bit. Then, Kraglin asks, "So, um, was you alright earlier? I mean, saw that ya looked mighty shaken when we was watching that show."

"Don't know what you're talking about," you answer, standing up and tossing the weeds you picked over to the compost bucket.

Kraglin looked up to meet your gaze, frowning. He was about to say something along the lines that you were full of shit, but he stopped himself when he saw your stern expression. You weren't just denying it. With just those few words, combined with the subtly hard look on your face, you were outright telling him that he didn't see whatever it was that he thought he saw.

He exhaled out his nose and just gave you a look that said that he didn't believe you, but he wouldn't push it. He could see that you would just shut him out, and he felt like it wasn't his place to press it.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, breaking the awkward silence and causing you both to jump.

You sigh, not appreciating the jolt, and said, "Damn hunters."

Kraglin nodded and tried to take this distraction as an opportunity to change the subject. If you wouldn't open up, maybe he could try and make you smile instead. "So... nice job on dyeing Pete blue last night. Real funny."

"I certainly thought so," you said.

He almost thought he saw you crack a smile. Wanting to bring about a full grin he decided to tell a story. "Yeah, it was just like this time Pete rigged a dye pack up in one of Yondu's drawers, I think he mentioned it last night. Anyway, so somehow Pete rigs it up, I think he got mad at Cap'n for making him scrub the grease traps or somethin', but anyway then Yondu goes to open his drawer one mornin,' yeah? And he's blasted in the face with this red dye. Ohhh boy! He was madder than a muzzled Flerken!!"

The mental image was enough to make your lips curl up involuntarily.

Kraglin noted this and continued, "What's worse is he had to meet with some lady client the next day about a job, and he couldn't get it off. He was this funny shade of purple for over a week!"

A short laugh suddenly breaks through your throat and you look at him. "Really?" you ask, mirth in your eyes. The mental image of the blue man looking quite cross and splattered purple while trying to commit space pirate business dealings was a humorous one.

"Yeah. He grounded Pete for so long after that." Kraglin replied, chuckling.

"I'll bet," you say as you stand up and brush yourself off, now finished with weeding and prepared to go inside. "Thanks. For helping in the garden, I mean." you say.

Kraglin also stands. "Not a problem, ma'am."

You wince and shake you head as you turn back to the house. You thought of telling him to knock it off with the 'ma'am' stuff, but you were concerned with what might replace it. So you left it alone for now.

***

You were on alert when you got ready for your shower that evening. You knew Peter had plenty of opportunity to have tampered with your bath products, but you played it cool. Acted unaware.

The plan? Beat him at his own game.

First you turned on the shower and let it run. You cupped your hands beneath the stream to make sure the water wasn't an odd color.

All clear.

You get into the shower, deciding to inspect your shampoo and conditioner bottles first. You felt it was unlikely he'd put it in those, as it would be unlikely to have a decent enough payoff for him, but you still checked just in case. Your shampoo bottle was see-through and the liquid inside clear, so it was obvious it had gone untampered. You went ahead and used it.

Time for conditioner. Unscrewing the top you look inside the conditioner. Completely white. Untampered. Good.

Finally you checked your body wash. It was a rose scented type and was already colored pink. If he was was going to strike anywhere, it would likely be there with the red dye. You squirted a little into a rag to test it on your hip, an inconspicuous area. You didn't even need to use it before you realized you were right. The body wash came out much darker than usual. It was like he hadn't even mixed it. Actually, that's likely exactly what he did. He probably wanted to make sure as much dye got on you as possible and so just squirted it right on top. Just out of curiosity, however, you still tested it.

Yep. It left a red steak right on your hip. You catch a glance at Peter's bottle on the shower shelf, and grin.

Silly Peter. He shouldn't have forgotten his bottle in the shower. Again.

You reach out of the shower for a new washcloth, and use some of his body wash instead. Of course, not before testing it on the first rag to make sure it wasn't left behind on purpose as a trap. It wasn't. The test proved it free of dye and safe to use.

For now.

Once you finished washing you then unscrewed the top off of Peter's bottle and carefully poured in as much of the dye from the top of your tampered bottle as you could without getting it on your hands. You had to sacrifice a little of the soap down the drain just to make sure it would come out clean the next time you used it.

Was he sure to notice? Probably, but you didn't care. You'd be just as happy with the message it would deliver if nothing else.

He was going to see that you were the Prank Master here.

***

Once finished with your shower you retreated to your bedroom. On the way you could hear Peter in his room asking Gamora if she had seen his comb, and you grinned. You sure knew where his comb was.

Mantis is gathering her own stuff together to take a shower when you enter the room. You glance at what she's carrying to make sure she has enough soap. God forbid she might run out and then use Peter's instead of yours. You actually would feel bad if the prank accidentally hit her instead of Peter. Satisfied that she does you shut your door behind her and wait, unable to keep a grin from splitting your face.

Perhaps half an hour later, a good bit after Mantis had returned from her shower, you can hear Peter shouting.

"Are you KIDDING me!?"

Mantis looks towards the sound in shock before turning to see you covering your giggles with your hand.

Now you can hear Peter cursing your name.

"What did you do?" Mantis asks, both intrigued and alarmed.

"He tried to get me back for turning him blue by putting red dye in my soap. I found out and turned it back on him," you answered, nearly stuttering over your giggles.

"How?"

"I just poured the tainted soap into his bottle. Now he'll have been dyed twice." You grinned, but it fell shortly when you heard the bathroom door slam open and heard his footsteps coming in the direction of your room. You jumped up and quickly flicked the lock just before he reached the door.

The knob jiggled and then he started to pound on the door, cursing your name and demanding you come out.

Feeling cheeky, you answered, "Nobody's home!"

From the other side Peter said loudly, "Come out here, you coward!"

"Do you need something?" you ask, your grin wide.

"You. Out here. Now."

"Whatever for?" You're have a real hard time biting back your laughter. Mantis is sitting on her bed, hugging her bear and openly giggling.

"You know exactly what for!"

You look to Mantis. "Should I?" you chuckle.

"YES! You should!" answered Peter from the other side of the door.

"Didn't ask you!" you retort. You look back to Mantis and she nods excitedly. She wanted to see what had happened to Peter.

"Alright," you answer, loud enough for Peter to hear as well. You unlock the door and slowly open it.

You tried to hold it in. Honestly, you did. But the sight of Peter standing there in his pajama bottoms, and now purple where he had previously been blue, and a pinkish-red just about everywhere else you could see, you lost it.

Your laughter, combined with seeing that you didn't have a spec of dye on you, made Peter cry out in frustration. "HOW?!"

"It-It's your fault," you laughed. "You left a trail!"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "I did not leave a trail!"

"You did! I-I saw you had taken the rest of the dye and I knew what you'd do with it. Dude, you- you really should have left the box behind. I might not have noticed then." It was all you could do to say the sentence coherently as you tried to hold back your giggles. "How did you not notice I turned it around and poured it back in your bottle? Don't you look??"

As Peter sputtered indignantly for a reply you noticed that you again had an audience. Yondu and Kraglin stood at the bottom of the stairs, grinning up at the scene and shaking their heads. Rocket and Drax were standing by their room, Drax chuckling with a giggling Groot on his shoulder and Rocket almost looking impressed. Almost. Gamora was standing across the landing, shaking her head, though it appeared more out of second-hand embarrassment for Peter rather than disdain for you.

"Don't I- You- I'm- UGH!" Peter sputtered in frustration. He had half a mind to tickle you until you peed your pants for this- Well, not literally, though he wouldn't be above threatening it. He may be an asshole, but he wasn't 100% a dick. Regardless, the other half of his brain was too busy trying to think of any suitable comeback... and failing. He was The Prank Master! How were you beating him at his game? He glared at you. He wanted to wipe that smirk off your face. "You think you're so funny, don't you?! Just wait. You better watch your back. I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

"You're not going to do anything, Peter." It was Gamora who spoke now, her tone teetering somewhere between warning and exhaustion, with a hint of amusement buried somewhere in there. "She beat you at your own game. Go to bed."

You couldn't stop the grin that split your face if your life depended on it. You took a calculated step back, hand resting on your door. You put on your most innocent voice. "So..." you started. "Does this mean I'm The Prank Master, now?"

The look in Peter's eyes could have vaporized you. "That's it!" he cried, stepping towards you. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got hold of you. Hold you in a headlock until you apologized? Wet Willie? Both? Neither? Didn't matter. All he knew was you were going to pay for this.

However, he'd never get the chance. You were too fast, slamming the door in his face and flicking the lock just before he could get near.

You and Mantis doubled over laughing and Peter sputtered some more empty threats before Gamora could be heard scolding him and telling him to go to bed.

It was even better the second time.

***

The next morning you were, dare you say, cheerful.

Peter, less so. He was still a bit cranky that not only had he been the victim of the dye prank twice, just one night after the first, but that it had happened because he tried to get you back and you turned the tables on him. Sure, he had cooled down a bit from last night, but he was still an uneven purple/pinkish-red mess and the others kept snickering at him. Even Gamora had been caught hiding a grin behind her hand a couple of times.

It wasn't fair. He was determined to get you back, but how would-

He spotted something on the kitchen table, interrupting his thoughts. Something shiny, and green, and was that...?

Oh you were going to get it.

***

You were minding your own business, walking over to one of the bookcases in the sitting room, when suddenly you were accosted.

Peter had pulled you into a headlock from behind.

"Hey! What the hell! Let me go!" you demanded.

"Tell me you're sorry and I'll think about it!"

You had a feeling what this was about, but you played dumb. "I'm not going to apologize for turning the tables back around on you! It was your own fault for trying."

"That's not what I mean and you know it!"

You started softly laughing despite the moderate chokehold. You couldn't help it. "Did you- Did you ever find your comb?"

Suddenly you feel something wet in your ear. You knew there was only one thing it could be. "Ew! No! Peter!" you squeal, trying to squirm away. "That's disgusting! Stop it!"

Peter was chuckling now, still giving you a wet willie. "Say you're sorry!"

You jerk against him. "Never!" You were laughing despite really only having one hand to fight him with. The limited range on your brace made it so you couldn't bend your elbow enough to grab his arm with that hand, and you were standing too close to the bookcase to throw him over you and get out of the headlock. Well, too close to do it without hurting him, or your books, that is. You were stuck, but you still weren't going to give in.

Turns out you wouldn't need to.

"Alright. Break it up," came Yondu's voice from somewhere off to the side. "What's going on here?"

Peter released you and you rubbed your ear against your shoulder to get the wet feeling out of it. "She put my stuff in Jello!" he complained.

Yondu gave you a weird, albeit amused look. "Don't ya think ya did enough to him already, missy?" He wasn't scolding you, but he actually was surprised you were still on the attack after having seemingly won the war last night.

Fighting a grin you reply, "In my defense, I'd already done that before the dye thing. I only found out he was planning that afterwards," Technically not the full truth- you actually found out during the setup of the jelly prank, not after, but it was close enough, "and what was I supposed to do, not turn the tables back on him when I found out?"

Peter punches you in the shoulder, but there was no anger behind it, just cheekiness. You stick your tongue out at like a child in retaliation.

Yondu grinned and shook his head. It'd been awhile since he'd seen his boy carefree and goofing off like this, even if he was bickering with you like the two of you were kids. Still, he should maybe try to persuade a stop to the prank war again before things escalated any more and you two killed each other. It'd be a shame to save him from Ego just to let him die in a prank war of all things, and bad form to let him kill their host. "Boy, I think ya might need to accept that she won this round." he said, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"I will do no such thing! She just got lucky." Peter replied.

You smirked. "Yeah. Sure. 'Lucky'," you taunt. "Just say it and I'll call us even."

"EVEN?!" Peter exclaimed. He gestured to the stained purple and pinkish red of the areas of skin you could see. "Look at me!"

Trying not to smile you slowly look down to the brace on your arm. Head cocked to the side your eyes look back to Peter. "You were saying?"

Peter bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. You could tell he wanted to retort with something, but he knew he had no leg to stand on. Eventually he settled for, "I'm still not saying it."

Yondu snorted a laugh. "Whatever it is, just be a man and say it, boy. Quit while yer ahead."

Peter looked at him indignantly. "I am not going to declare her The Prank Master."

Unable to suppress your grin any longer you nudge him in the shoulder and say in your sweetest voice, "It's ok, you don't have to say it," taking a few steps away you add, "We already know." You then jogged out of the way when he made a grab for you.

You made your way out the front door, but he didn't follow, instead just stood there pouting.

"Ya finally gonna give it up, boy? Take yer loss like a man?" Yondu chuckled, teasingly.

"Never." Peter responded, too busy plotting revenge to fully catch the "take it like a man" part as he walked out of the room.

Yondu chuckled and rolled his eyes as he went to take a seat on the sofa. It was nice to see that you had a goofy side, though he wondered if it was Peter rubbing off on you, or if you had just had it buried under layers of stubbornness and sass.

Either way, it seemed certain that the boy was gonna have to relinquish his self-proclaimed title of "The Prank Master."

***

Over the next couple days the pranks between you and Peter had slowed down. This was likely in part because of how you made Peter realize that he couldn't complain too much about getting even for the dye prank if he considered that you were still in a brace as a result from one of his previous pranks gone wrong, but also in part because the two of you had pulled so many pranks so far you were seemingly running out of ideas.

Peter moved the furniture in your sitting room 3 inches to the left, likely to get your back for putting his comb in jelly.

You retaliated by setting up some cling film up at head height in the kitchen doorway for him to walk into and then calling him into the kitchen.

He got back at you by swapping your salt and sugar out, thereby ruining what would have been a perfectly good cup of tea.

For this high crime, you decided to get him back by scrapping out a couple Oreos and filling them with toothpaste. He was most definitely not fond of that one. Called it a crime against nature, and he may have been right, but so was what he had done to your tea.

Other than that, nothing really escalated, well apart from the oreos and tea, that is. The two of you kept making little jabs at each other and annoying one another. Really bad puns, petty insults, that sort of thing.

You did assume, however, that Peter was just biding his time, trying to think of something big that he could spring on you that might make you give up the game and declare him The Prank Master, because gods knew he wasn't going to concede.

And you'd be right.

Peter spent a decent amount of time brainstorming ideas for a really good prank, or even just a decent way to annoy you, in between all the smaller ones, but he was coming up with nothing he deemed quite good enough.

He was about to consider throwing in the towel when you inadvertently provided him with the fodder he needed.

***

It was the fourth day since the first dye prank and most of the dye on Peter had worn off by now.

You were reading on the couch, little Groot was playing with the TV and flipping through random videos on the YouTube app with Drax, and Peter and Kraglin were in the middle of a card game at the table on the other side of the room.

In what you would chalk up to a cruel twist of fate, Groot managed to find his way into a video of ambulance calls.

Rudely and immediately torn from your book by the sound, your hand shoots out for the TV remote and you mute the TV, much to the dismay of little Groot, who had found the noise fun and had been cheering the siren on. As calmly as you can despite your rapid heartbeat, you ask Drax, who was confused by your behavior, to please tell Groot to find something else to watch.

Drax looks at you strangely, but translates for Groot anyway, which again, only sounded to you like he was repeating your words verbatim due to his translator. You still didn't know that the translators didn't actually translate into Groot, but rather Groot had just picked up and could understand a bit of Galactic Standard, even if he couldn't speak it.

Groots looks slightly disappointed for a second but agrees and switches videos and you unmute the TV.

You didn't bother checking what new video he had chosen. That had been a mistake.

After the ad finished playing you were jerked back into reality from your book by the sounds of now multiple ambulance calls going at once. You mute the TV once again and say, "I'm sorry. I should have been more clear. Anything else. Anything else except for videos of that sound."

Drax, rightfully confused, asks, "Why?"

"I do not like it." is all you offer, and you don't elaborate when asked.

Peter, of course, overhears all this, and thinks he's found his new way to annoy you. He of course had no way of knowing the reason you couldn't bare the sound wasn't due to annoyance. He had no way of knowing its effect on you.

***

He tested the waters the next day after lunch.

You were washing up the dishes with Gamora when the sound of an ambulance siren makes you freeze in the middle of drying a bowl.

Gamora turns her head towards the noise and wonders aloud what it was.

Without answering you take towards the direction of the sitting room to, gently, scold Groot for playing those videos again.

Of course, when you get there, you only see Peter, who pretended to be surprised to see you.

"Turn that off," you say sharply.

"What?" Peter asked innocently.

You didn't ask him again. You just grabbed the control and exited the video before throwing the control back down into his lap. "Don't play that again," you warn.

"Why? Does it annoy you?" Peter asked with a smirk. He didn't notice your hands shaking.

Your eyes hardened. "Just don't," you say, returning to the kitchen.

Peter grinned. He was going to have fun with this.

***

Peter would play that sound three more times that afternoon, each time eliciting a more irritated response from you until you finally ripped the plug to the TV out of the wall and turn to him to angrily yell, "Stop it!"

"What?" Peter asked, chuckling in surprise at your latest response. You must really hate that noise.

"You know exactly what. I'm seriously, genuinely asking you to knock it off," you reply.

Gamora, who could tell Peter was working your last nerve and who was also becoming irritated by the repeated playing of the sirens, nudged Peter and told him he had his fun.

Peter half smirked and seemed to relent, saying simply, "Okay."

You sigh. "Thank yo-"

"After you declare me The Prank Master."

Gamora rolled her eyes and propped her head up on the hand resting on the arm of the couch, not wanting to get involved, but inches from yelling at her boyfriend that she was ending the prank war herself.

You were seething. "You're a goddamn child!" you scold, leaving the sitting room and considering getting out some of the vodka you had in the freezer just to calm your nerves.

You had only just made it into the kitchen when the sound started up again.

You back against the wall and cover your face, inches from tears. Your breaths came in shallow gasps as flashes of bright lights and the sounds of tearing metal and screaming fill your senses. You tangle your hands in your hair.

"FUCKING STOP IT!" you scream.

Peter and the others in the sitting room, as well as those upstairs, all paused in shock at the sheer volume behind your scream.

They then heard the sound of the back door slamming forcefully.

Yondu, who had been at the table playing cards with Kraglin, had only been present for the second and last incidence of Peter annoying you with the sound, and it wasn't until now that he put the pieces together. That day when you acted strange and walked out on the show- this siren sound had been playing then too.

Shit.

He got up and scolded Peter, who in his shock still hadn't turned the video back off. "Turn that shit off now, boy! If I hear it again I'm gonna shove my arrow up your ass! You hear me?"

Peter, recognizing the tone in Yondu's voice as one that he had encountered many times as a child when he was in trouble, immediately switched the video off. He had to concede that perhaps he went a little too far this time, but of course he didn't actually understand just how true that sentiment was.

Yondu went to go see where you went, and he didn't need to look very far, which surprised him. He was for sure you would have taken off for the forest again, since it was kinda your thing.

Instead, you were sat with your back pressed against the stone of the house about a couple meters from the door, hand clamped over your mouth and eyes in that terrible 'wide yet unseeing' way. In the dim light provided by what shone out the kitchen windows from inside he thought he could almost see the remnants of fallen tears.

He tried to approach you slowly, but you caught him out the corner of your eye and jerked to a standing position.

"Hey, hey-" Yondu said, holding his hands up. "It's alright-" he started, but then found he didn't know what else to say. After a moment he settled on, "Ya wanna talk about what that was about?"

You don't meet his gaze. "Nothing. He just pisses me off. He's a damn child."

"While that may be true, yer still full of shit."

You glare at him.

He continues. "If this was just about Quill gettin' under yer skin ya wouldn't be shakin' like that, and I doubt you'd be crying neither."

"Am not," you mutter. You turn away, wipe your eyes, cross your arms self-consciously, and start walking away. "It's cold."

Yondu rolled his eyes. It was cool out, yes, but it wasn't that cold. "Ya wanna talk about why ya dislike the particular noise so much?" Yondu called after you. "Ya ain't got to, but I can tell somethin's eating ya. I might help to get it off your chest."

"It's nothing." you reply. "Just an annoying sound."

Yondu frowned. "Now listen here. I ain't gonna force ya to tell me, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let anyone just flat out lie to my face, missy."

You turn to him, indignant. "I'm not-"

"Hell if ya ain't. I've seen that look before, I know what it is. Ya can lie to yerself, but ya can't lie to me!"

You glare at him. "Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here acting like you know anything about me!"

"I'm the person telling ya that it ain't healthy to keep that shit bottled up inside ya. It'll eat ya alive."

You don't respond. Just roll your eyes and start walking away again.

Yondu threw up his hands. "To hell with you then!" He starts to walk back inside but stops at the door to speak again, this time his tone a little softer, "I have a feelin' no one's ever told ya, girl, but ya don't have to 'be strong' all the time. Sometimes it's ok to let people in. It don't make ya weak." With that he headed back in the house.

You lean your back against the cool stone and sigh in frustration. What did he know.

***

You head back inside a bit later, not feeling much better.

Peter catches you as you're about to head up the stairs. "Hey, I just wanted to say sorry for-"

"Don't." You cut him off, not stoping in your path. "I don't care. I'm going to bed."

Peter frowns, but lets you go. Maybe he could try again in the morning. He truly was sorry. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun.

***

You stared up at the ceiling from your bed for what felt like hours. You couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about it. You knew Peter had no way of knowing why you couldn't stand that sound, but you still couldn't help but be unhappy with him. He just wouldn't stop.

You can feel your jaw clenching with each flash of horrific memory.

You were annoyed at Yondu too. Acting like he knew anything about you or some shit. What did he know? Not you, that's what. You didn't need someone acting like they cared. You didn't need anyone, really. People come, people go. No one stays forever.

You feel your chest clench. Your throat tightens and you sit up. You didn't want to cry.

A walk. That's what you needed. A walk in the forest would surely help wash the memories away. You could walk until you were too tired to think about it, then sleep it off. It would be better in the morning. You'd be ok.

You quietly slip on some jeans and make your way downstairs to put on your boots and grab a jacket. Choosing your thin leather one because it had been chilly when you were out earlier, you open the back door and head out into the cool night air.

You'd find out soon enough that you should have stayed in bed.

[thedumpsterqueen]

Standards of Performance

Here it is!!!!! First chapter of my first fic on my new AO3! This is a multi-chapter, slow burn work. Please let me know what you think, I welcome screaming and incoherent asks about our fave special agent in my inbox. Full text under the cut, or you can find it through the AO3 link below.

AO3 link

Summary:  You're the BAU's newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?

Chapter: 1, Coffee Stains and Neckties

Words: 2388

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairings: Hotch x Reader, Hotch x You

Warnings: Not much for this chapter specifically, but let’s just assume general gore and murder stuff, explicit language, and sexual content are fair game form here on out.

Enjoy! I’ll try to update weekly, if not more often. I’ll let you know when I have a more defined schedule!

“Fucking SHIT!”

You cursed as you felt the (very, very) hot coffee soak your new skirt. Grabbing as many paper towels as you could with one hand, you tried to sop up the mess on the floor. The stain on your outfit? A shame, but nothing compared to marring the assuredly expensive cream color of the BAU’s breakroom carpet.

A low chuckle sounded off behind you, and you froze.

For the love of god, please don’t be…

“Morgan! Please tell me you have carpet cleaner, oh my god. I don’t even know how that happened.”

Morgan grinned, as he typically did, sauntering into the breakroom with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, the janitor's got it later. I was looking for you, team meeting in five. You all good? You look a little - ” he paused, probably searching for a descriptor that wouldn’t sting too bad, “ - rushed.”

You stood up, sighing. He was right, after all. You had stayed up late last night poring over psychology textbooks and only just woken up in time to leave your apartment. As the BAU’s newest profiling intern - whatever the hell that actually meant - the pressure of performing to seasoned profilers’ standards manifested in spending practically all your free time buried in research. Hence why your hair was coated in unbelievable amounts of dry shampoo, you were wearing your unflatteringly oversized glasses instead of your usual contacts, and why your frantic attempt at pouring yourself a cup of coffee when you got into work had resulted in the giant wet spot currently soaking your skirt.

At least the skirt was black.

“You’re right. Late night,” you said, rolling your eyes at Morgan’s suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Not like that, I wish. Just trying to catch up. Don’t really want to repeat last week’s disaster,” you mumbled, referring to the first time you actually got to question a suspect, which had ended up with a wad of saliva hawked in your face. It was only your third week in the position, but damn, if that hadn’t let the wind out of your sails a bit.

“Hey, what did I tell you then?” Morgan asked, as you walked out of the breakroom together. “You’re not a true profiler until you get assaulted by a serial killer!”

“I’m not a true profiler until I finish the year long training program,” you pointed out, “so I think I could do without the spit in the meantime.”

Morgan laughed, opening the door of the team’s briefing room for you. “Well if we’d known you were gonna be so picky, we might have gone with someone else.”

“Who’s picky?” asked Emily, looking up from her seat.

While Morgan laughed and launched into a dramatic retelling of the event as if the entire team hadn’t already fucking seen it in real time, you took your seat at the table. Reid nodded in acknowledgment, and you returned it with a small smile. Damn if he wasn’t handsome, and ridiculously smart to boot, but you were pretty sure your chances with him withered and died when you asked him what he was doing after work last Friday and he answered with, “Reading.” Point taken.

Hotch swiveled in his chair to face the table and you suddenly became acutely aware of how much of a mess you probably looked. It’s not that you cared about his opinion regarding your general appearance beyond the basic standard of professional attire, but his always-intense gaze and stony expression had a way of making you second guess even your most confidently held opinions.

“Sit,” he said, his voice cutting through the rest of the team’s animated chatter.

It would have been hard not to notice how quickly they obliged, not out of fear, but rather a respect and deference so deeply ingrained that it almost gave you goosebumps. You’d never thought of yourself as a follower, per say, but if Hotch was what a leader looked like, you certainly didn’t fit into that category either.

He scanned the table, stopping on you. “New glasses?” he asked, with a single, slightly raised eyebrow.

“I, um, not really, just didn’t have time to put my contacts in,” you stammered.

“Hm,” Hotch said, “They look nice.”

Your cheeks suddenly felt hot, and you thanked him quickly, looking down at your shoes to conceal the pink that was probably spreading across your face. Hotch had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound like the absolute truth, which was probably why such an innocuous little compliment had disarmed you so much.

Still though, jesus christ. Get it the fuck together. You’re not Reid; you’re not smart enough to be this awkward.

Hotch, blessedly ignoring how painful you just made that interaction, addressed the team while JJ passed out files. “We have a new case. Three bodies, all found completely drained of blood in various woods, off hiking trails. Cause of death appears to be blood loss from severed carotid arteries, meaning they were likely strung up and drained before being moved to where they were discovered.”

Reid spoke up first. “Erm, what exactly do you mean by various woods?”

“That’s the unusual thing,” Hotch said, pulling up a map of the southwestern United States on the screen behind him. "Each body was found in a different state, one here, one here, and one here,” pointing to spots in California, Arizona, and Nevada. “However, local police discovered the bodies within hours of each other due to anonymous tip offs, and medical examiners estimate approximately the same time of death for all three.”

Morgan whistled lowly. “So what you’re saying is, this guy kills three victims around the same time and takes a road trip to hide their bodies in places he knows won't be discovered until he calls in.”

“That’s how it appears, yes,” Hotch confirmed.

Rossi shook his head, twirling a pen that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. “So, how are we splitting this up?”

You whipped your head in his direction. Splitting up? Of course, you should have known it’d only make sense considering the ground to be covered, but your quick mental calculations told you that there were six of them, evenly split into three groups of two, and one odd man out, both in skill and number - you.

“So, who’s getting stuck with me?” you asked, trying to beat everyone to the punch. Not that any of them would voice it, but if you couldn’t project confidence, you figured self-awareness would do.

When you entered the internship as a recent college grad around a month ago, you knew you’d be in way over your head. Everyone else on the team was a seasoned expert, and you were a 20-something with a degree in psychology who somehow managed to charm her way through the interviews of the BAU’s flagship internship program. It’s not that you weren’t smart, you were, of course, but comparatively? You were pretty sure this was shaping up to be a glorified babysitting program, and you were the baby.

“Oh, hush,” JJ said, smiling and shaking her head. You smiled back. JJ had gone out of her way to make you feel welcome, which you were unspeakably grateful for. Between her and Morgan, you sometimes felt like maybe when this year was done, you could actually belong on this team.

Hotch interrupted your pity party. “Rossi, you’re with Reid in Phoenix. JJ and Emily, you’re going to Vegas. Morgan, you and I are going to San Diego.”

He turned to you. “You’re coming with me.”

Your stomach flipped at his words. You knew he had the most to teach you, and you could observe him coordinating the entire investigation from San Diego, but the idea of your performance being directly scrutinized by your boss in such a small group made you more nauseous than excited.

“Please be aware,” he continued, “Garcia is going to have to deal with three times the inquiries as normal. I recommend you only contact her if the information you’re searching for is genuinely too difficult to find yourself.” He gave Morgan a pointed look, to which Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“We’ll drop teams off as we go,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in thirty.”

____________

As you settled into your seat on the plane, your mind spun, trying to review every piece of psychology knowledge you’d ever encountered. This wasn’t your first case, but it was the first one you got to travel for, which made it feel much more real.

The hours ticked by as the team reviewed the case. You contributed - not much, and nothing they wouldn’t have thought of without you - but it was something. Narcissist, craves attention and spotlight, physically confident enough to detain and murder three women at the same time. The method was throwing the team for a loop, however. Bleeding the victims out was clinical, relatively painless - uncharacteristic of the sexual injuries found on the corpses and the bravado with which the killer executed the rest of the crime.

When you, Hotch, and Morgan trudged off the plane in San Diego, you had been going at the potential profile for hours and even Morgan’s patience was wearing thin.

“Look, Hotch, let’s hold off on speculation until we see the crime scene in person, alright?”

Hotch nodded, and took that as a cue to head straight to the crime scene. You groaned internally - having barely showered this morning and spent half the day on a plane, your greasy hair and coffee-stained skirt would have greatly benefited from a stop at the hotel to freshen up.

It’s not like you have to look good to go stare at a patch of dirt where a dead body used to to be though, right?

____________

Turns out the aforementioned patch of dirt was actually a wooded grove off a hiking trail leading to a nude beach, much to Morgan’s delight. The site itself was uninteresting except for the way the body had been buried - covered up very securely, implying remorse, another characteristic that didn’t make sense with the initial profile.

This commonality between all three crime scenes was hotly debated on the video conference between the entire team when you got back to the hotel. Cross legged on the bed in Hotch’s hotel room, you listened to Reid and Rossi snipe back and forth on the laptop about what the burial method could mean for ten-plus minutes (“It’s clearly just a functional tool to properly hide the body, Reid.” “But you don’t know that, the significance of burial practices can tell us so much more beyond function, it can even tell us about his religious upbringing…”) before Hotch put a stop to it.

“What do you think?” Hotch asked you, turning and looking directly into your gaze. You were suddenly hyperware of the proximity between you two - sitting close enough on the edge of the bed that your thighs were almost touching. Morgan had abandoned his position on the other side of you to stretch out in the armchair by the window halfway through Rossi and Reid’s debate. Hotch’s eyes boring into yours from only a few feet away and the expectant silence of the other team members on the video call spiked your heart rate, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“I… agree with Dr. Reid. I think it means something. The position of the hands, they were crossed across the chest, right? He didn’t need to do that. I don’t know if it means he was remorseful, but it was on purpose. I think.”

Hotch nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Let's move forward with that theory.” He turned back to the laptop. “Let me know how interviews with the loved ones go tomorrow. Let’s find the connection between the victims. Call me if you need anything.” After shutting the laptop, he turned to you and Morgan. “Let’s call it for tonight. Meet me in the lobby at 7 tomorrow.”

Having been excused, you and Morgan made your way to your hotel rooms next to Hotch’s. Morgan wished you goodnight, and you unlocked your door and practically sprinted into your shower.

After you got out, you looked around the room, towel drying your hair. It was nice, much nicer than anywhere you’d ever stayed. The abstract art on the walls and the modern, clean white lines of the furniture were lit by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony overlooking the ocean. You poured yourself a glass of wine from the minibar (a reimbursable travel expense, right?) and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the ocean air.

“Nice night, hm?”

You jumped, nearly spilling your drink down your front for the second time in less than 24 hours. Hotch was sitting in a chair on his balcony to the left of yours, reclining with his hands behind his head. Despite wearing nothing but your thin hotel robe, you felt the urge to avert your eyes from him. His suit jacket was shucked, tie undone and hanging around his neck, and the top two buttons of his white, collared shirt were unbuttoned. You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t have, like the cold stoniness of his exterior had shifted just slightly and allowed you a glimpse underneath.

It’s just a couple buttons, calm down. You’re the one who’s barely clothed in front of your fucking boss.

“It is. Shame we can’t go to the beach,” you replied, keeping your eyes forward.

Oh my god, three women were murdered and I just complained to my boss about not being able to go to the beach.

“You’re welcome to get up early and go tomorrow; might be a bit cold,” Hotch replied. You could tell from his voice he was smiling.

You mumbled in affirmation, continuing to avoid glancing in his direction. “Well, I just wanted to see the view, um, I’m gonna get to bed. Goodnight, Agent Hotchner!” You ducked back into your room, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle before you slid the door shut.

After getting ready, beating yourself up mentally for your complete social incompetence, and tucking in under the plush, white duvet, you drifted off to sleep.

[sapphire374]

Forever In Your Arms

“I scraped my knee and now you’re fixing it up and I swear if you don’t stop running your hands over my leg, I will kick you.”

Wattpad Link

Ámbar stormed out of the Jam and Roller. Furious was an understatement for how she was feeling. “No Ámbar, wait,” Simón yelled chasing after her. “For what. So you can tell me it was my fault and that I was the one to blame.” Simon was able to catch up to her and took a hold of her arm so she could stop. She turned around facing him this time and pushed her arm out of his hand. She pursed her lips in anger and barely wanted to see his face. 

“Look Ambar I wasn’t trying to accuse you. I was only trying to ask if you were the one who took Luna’s lucky keychain. Sometimes we take things by accident.”

“Oh please Simón you know that’s a lie what you’re saying right now. You did accuse me of stealing it. Nobody just takes things by accident and you automatically assumed I purposely stole it. Look I know I’ve done bad things in the past but I have changed and I thought you saw that too but it turns out I was wrong.”

Simón began to stutter seeing Ámbar’s eyes water. “No no no I don’t doubt for a second you have changed ok. I was only curious that’s all. The keychain wasn’t appearing anywhere and you didn’t say a single word after Luna told us about it.”

Ámbar bit her lip holding back the tears. She didn’t say anything all day but for a reason. A reason she wasn’t comfortable to say yet. “Simón you can’t quickly assume it was me just because I stayed quiet in a conversation. That is a pity excuse and I thought you knew me very well and would have noticed I haven’t said a word all day before that conversation happened. But I was wrong, you don’t know me. All I am to you is some girl you imagine me to be. A vision of the perfect woman but you still linger onto the doubt that I haven’t changed.” Ámbar turns around and leaves clenching the strap of her shoulder back. The tears were slowly coming out now. She didn’t mean to say all of those harsh things to Simón cause she knows he truly does love her but she felt it was best and that he deserved it. He shouldn’t have assumed she would do something like that after she has numerously proved that she has changed for good. Out of all the people in the world, it had to be him who doubted her. When that thought settled in at that moment, the pain couldn’t escape her lungs. 

Simón with his head down ambled to the Jam and Roller. There, Luna immediately greeted him. “Simón what happened? I saw you chasing after Ámbar, how did it go?” Simón scratching his head replied, “Horrible. It was the worst. And to be honest I deserved it. What was I thinking to question Ámbar is if she did it? I should’ve trusted her. She changed to become a better person for good and I, the idiot, doubted her. Now I don’t know what to do. She probably doesn’t ever want to see me again.” Luna didn’t know what to say or do other than hug him. 

After a two minute silent hug, Luna broke free from his arms and said, “Look it’s going to take Ambar some time to forgive you but I know she will cause she loves you and knows you love her, but you will have to demonstrate that to her these upcoming days.”

“Like how? How can I be able to erase my act of stupidity from existence.”

Luna giggles. “Yes it was very stupid what you did but we’re all human and the important thing is you learned from your mistakes. You won’t be able to erase that moment from existence since that’s not possible but like I said you can truly show her that you are sincerely sorry and really do love her.”

“But the real question is how do I do that?” Simón being frustrated now.

Luna pauses for a second to think. “Well there are many ways you can show your love for Ámbar. You can write her a song, you can surprise her with a gift, or you can hire a mariachi band to sing to her how sorry you are.” Luna then nudged Simon’s arm and he let out a little chuckle. 

“Luna, Mariachi bands may have been able to save us many times but I don’t think it can save me this time. Tú Carcel isn’t that powerful either so don’t even think about it.”

Luna then frowned and jokingly said, “Simón, how dare you disrespect our song that way. Ámbar probably wasn’t singing it that day but I can guarantee you, she was singing it in her head.” 

“No but I really blew it this time Luna. I doubted her and lost all of her trust after everything we have gone through together.”

Luna froze for a second. She hasn’t seen Simón so disheartening in ages. “Look Simón, what you did was wrong but you can’t give up on love so easily. Plus, we’re all human and bound to make mistakes. Eventually she will understand and forgive you.”

Simón rapidly took his hands out of his face to now cover his mouth in shock. “No no no I’m so stupid!”

“Well you definitely can be at times but I thought we already cleared up that topic since you came back here.”

“No it’s that I forgot to apologize. The whole time I was too busy trying to find excuses that I forgot to tell her I was sorry,” Simón stuttered.

“Then what are you waiting for, do it now!” Luna demanded.

“I can't, it's too late already and I’m in charge of closing up the Jam and Roller today,” Simón whined.

“Well then you’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

~~~~

Ámbar slammed the door shut behind her. Her anger lingered around the air, ever since she entered the mansion, like strong perfume. Everyone in the house noticed the vibe and felt it was best to leave her alone. Well almost everyone. She paraded around her room scrambling for her journal. She had officially decided for a month now to let out her anger in a journal. She felt like this coping mechanism was easier to work with than her mirror sessions. She had a precise plan laid out. She would write down her feelings, rip the page out of her notebook and stick it into the paper shredder. The paper shredder was a better choice than doing it by hand so no one would even be able to tape back the pieces. 

Right when she finally found her journal and a pen to use, she heard a knocking at the door. “Who could it possibly be now,” Ámbar agitated wondered. Ambar got up from the covers and annoyingly turned the knob of her door. Her face quickly changed when she saw it was Monica there. “Hi Ámbar. I wanted to tell you goodnight before you went to bed.”

“Was that all you wanted to tell me cause it seems like there’s more.” Ámbar sounded more irritated than what she meant it to be. She sincerely was curious but found it hard to show it.

“Well you appeared upset ever since you came and it made me worried. Since I am a mom, maybe I can help. It’s ok you can talk to me… or not whichever is your choice just know I’ll always be here.”

Ámbar now stared at the floor, contemplating what to say next. The only other person she felt a little more comfortable with when opening up, other than Simon, was surprisingly Luna’s mom. She always wished ever since she was little to have somebody there to talk to and listen to her, no matter how stupid or unimportant the topic may have sounded.

“I guess you can come in.”

Monica slowly took a few steps into Ámbar’s room. At the time Ámbar didn’t realize Monica was carrying something till now. She took out a tray of delicacies from her behind and placed them on the coffee table. There was a cup of milk, a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and a bowl of precisely cut fruit. They were in the shape of little stars. Ámbar couldn’t stop but stare at the food.

“I already ate dinner,” Ámbar coldly stated.

“I know you have but you forgot dessert. I brought you some options so you can pick what you like. I even cut up the fruit into little stars since I know that’s your favorite shape.”

“You do?!!”

“Of course I do. I remember you once said it in a conversation we had at the dinner table.”

Ámbar couldn’t help but get a little teary-eyed. No one has ever put this much effort for her. In fact no one has ever known her favorite shape was a star, not even her best friends Delfi and Jazmin. It’s her favorite ship since it reminds her of the birthmark she has at the side of her stomach. Monica noticed the shiny, watery glare in Ámbar’s eyes. She thought of the best thing to do, and that was to hug her. Ámbar really started crying in her warm, and gentle embrace. 

“Shh it’s ok hija. It’s ok. You’re safe with me.”

The hug lasted for a good ten minutes. Once Ámbar cried out all the tears she had held in, she broke free from the hug. 

“Thank you…. It’s just me and Simon got in an argument and I know that may sound so stupid cause it’s boy drama but it’s more than that -”

Monica immediately cut Ámbar off and said, “It’s not stupid at all and you don’t have to give me an excuse dear, I completely understand.”

This came as a shock to Ámbar. She wasn’t used to this at all. Whenever she wanted to talk about anything outside of school to Sharon, her Madrina would scold her for wasting her attention on useless topics and people.

“Well it’s just I’m worried that no one will ever believe the fact that I have truly changed. How everyone will probably still see me as the same manipulative mean girl I used to be. I’m tired of gaining everyone’s trust and belief. I really have changed but I don’t know what else to do so they can realize that,” Ámbar now sat down slouching.

“Ámbar you don’t have to prove to anyone that you have changed. You’ve already been showing it for quite a long time now. Don’t beat yourself up so hard for this. For some people it takes longer than others to trust again. Try not to focus your energy on those people. If they can’t see the incredible person I see right in front of me, then it's their loss.”

“You truly think so.”

“I know so.”

~~~~

“Wait, Ámbar slow down,” Simón yells out a mile away from her. Ámbar decided to skate in the morning to the Jam and Roller today. She tried to take the other route to avoid Simón, but he knew that she likes to take this path whenever she’s angry, especially at him.

“Can you please stop following me. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ámbar I came to apologize and say I’m sorry.”

This came off as a shock to Ámbar. “You wh-” Thump. Due to her attention being solely focused on Simón, she didn’t realize the big hole on the pavement. Her foot lost control of the wheel and her knee slid on to the pure concrete. Ámbar was on the floor now in pain, clenching on to her knee. It was bleeding and she tried to not show any signs of pain.

Simón came faster than lightning. “ÁMBAR!” He bent down to the floor and examined her knee. He then slid his backpack off of his shoulders and unzipped it. He took out a napkin and hurriedly cleaned off the blood streaming down her lower leg. His touch felt like an electric zap and the way his fingers swept across her leg made her badly want to kick him now. She’s still angry at him but deep down finds him very romantic the way in how he’s stressing out about her. She shook her head out of a daydream, surprisingly feeling like her prince charming coming to the rescue. She doesn’t need a prince even though having one right by her side feels nice. She may be a damsel in distress but can handle this all on her own. 

“Look it’s ok. I can fix it just let me be.”

“No you’re not okay Ámbar. I don’t care what else you say, and be mad at me for all that matters but I’m not leaving you alone. I can’t bear to witness you hurt. So go ahead and complain all you want but I’m not leaving.”

Ámbar froze at his response. He untied the plaid shirt around his waist and instead wrapped it around her leg. Before he was able to hear a response from her, he picked her up and carried her bridal style. He skated like the Flash, almost never before. She couldn’t help but stare at Simón’s worry look plastered all over his face. Now the electricity in her is building up into fireworks, her heart has never beaten so fast in her life. She can feel his tense grasp around her waist and legs. This position actually felt comforting for her, as if she can stay in his arms forever. 

Right then and there Ámbar realized how it didn’t matter if people didn’t believe her or not on whether she has changed. She has people by her side who truly care about her. 

“You know I’m still mad at you.”

“You can be mad at me for an eternity. I deserve it. As long as you're healthy and safe while you scold me, I’ll forever be happy. I truly am sorry by the way. I do trust you and I don’t know why I even doubted you for a second, it was such a dumb decision and I truly regret it,” Simón panted.

“Good. You should regret it. You apologizing and running to help me, not necessarily saving since I don’t need saving, has made me a little less angry at you.”

Simón chuckled. “I love you so much bonita. Never forget that.”

“I love you too, stupid,” Ámbar giggled.

[vampire--dad]

For the Witcher Writers’ Circle prompt bingo!

Prompt: Grieving

I am so sorry

(you did this to yourself kell)

——————

(song: play this when i’m gone — Machine Gun Kelly)

I’m writing you this message just so I can say that I love you.

The letter slips from Jaskier’s satchel as Geralt moves it aside to find his nice black doublet. His eyes follow the parchment as it falls to the floor and sees his name penned delicately across the folded page. He’s almost scared to read it, especially today. But he does. He picks it up from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed as he unfolds the page. He almost hears the bard’s sweet voice in his head, wishing that it was more than a figment of his imagination, that it was real, that he was still here.

They both knew it would happen someday, but Geralt had hoped they’d have more time. Jaskier’s death came early even for a human. Some sickness had caught him. Yennefer and Triss did everything they could, brought all the help they could muster, but nothing worked. No herb or potion could cure whatever it was that ailed him. All they could do was ease the pain as he slipped away.

The witcher sighs as his eyes pass over those three words. Jaskier could never say it too many times. It never lost its meaning. He proved it in new ways every day, even on his deathbed.

I had to let you know that everything about me was you.

As if Geralt didn’t already know. Jaskier loved to say that Geralt was his smile, his laughter, the sparkle in those beautiful blue eyes that he misses so sorely. The witcher almost smiles thinking of those eyes and how Jaskier used to set them upon him and smile and tell him for at least the fifth time that day that he loved him. Sometimes Geralt wasn’t sure why he did. Jaskier would lay with him late at night or early in the morning, brushing a hand through his hair, and remind him of all the reasons he adored him.

But not even those memories can ease the pain of the truth. Those eyes now remain closed, the smile nothing more than a memory that Geralt clings to. Sometimes, if he closes his eyes and relaxes enough, which doesn’t come easily, he can almost feel Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, brushing through the snowy locks and twisting them into a braid. He only wishes it was real. That he was still here next to him peppering kisses on his cheeks and making him laugh like no one ever could.

I think it’s time for me to leave, but I’ll never leave you.

He dares not look outside. He knows that by now Eskel and Lambert will have laid his body on a pyre. He promised himself that he would hold himself together for as long as he could and seeing his body, having to accept once again that he’s gone, will break him before the funeral even starts.

His free hand rests on the chain around his neck that carries two rings. They dangle just below his medallion, close to his heart. Both are made of gold, one shaped like two vines woven together, the other simple, but not bland. They hang next to his heart as a reminder, something for Geralt to remember his husband by. Not that he needs it. Jaskier is burned into his brain like a brand. No matter how many years pass until he sees his lover again, he’ll never forget him.

“Dad?”

Ciri stands by his door in a long dress of black silk with a light cloak drawn around her shoulders. Jaskier did love that dress on her. It brought out those beautiful green eyes, he’d say. Geralt can tell that she’s already been crying. Jaskier, her papa, meant the world to her as she did to him. He loved that girl as fiercely as Geralt does. She has his wonderful imagination, his creativity, his way with words that Geralt could never understand, and, unfortunately, his flirtatiousness. He hears Jaskier every time she tells a story of a hideous monster or a wonderful woman she’s met on her travels.

Geralt sets aside the letter and stands, returning to his search for his doublet.

“I’m almost ready,” he says shortly, not trusting himself to say much more.

“Are you?” she asks softly. Geralt doesn’t respond. He can’t. A lump forms in his throat that he chokes back down. “I don’t think I am… I’m not ready to say goodbye to him…”

She sniffles and sighs, letting out a chuckle to try to lift her own spirits.

“Gods, I’m a mess already.”

“That makes two of us,” he replies thickly, leaning against the dresser with a sigh.

The pain in Ciri’s voice only adds to his own. Tears shine in his yellow eyes as they meet Ciri’s green ones. Her lip trembles as she throws herself into Geralt’s arms.

I’m not gonna lie and tell you it’s alright. It’s alright.

“It’s alright, Geralt.”

Those were his last words to his lover. His voice was barely above a whisper, weak and shaking in his chest as his heart came to a stop. Geralt wonders if he knew when he said those words how deeply they would hurt him when he was gone. He remembers feeling Jaskier’s hand go limp in his, watching his eyes close for the last time and the life slip from his body, wishing he’d had the strength to say ‘I love you’ one last time for him to hear. Yennefer and Triss were quick to leave the room, each holding their breath so Geralt wouldn’t hear them cry. He shakes his head slightly, trying not to think about the moment his husband passed. It only hurts more.

Ciri helps him fiddle with the buttons of the doublet. Usually he would hate wearing these things and would much prefer to wear his armour, but of all people, Geralt insisted that they bring out what little finery they allow themselves to have. Jaskier loved to see them all dressed up. Over the years he shared with Geralt on the Path, the witcher convinced him to wear something slightly more protective than silk and lace, but he loved to dress up. He liked to look pretty for his White Wolf, as he would say so affectionately.

“He would have loved this outfit,” Ciri says softly.

“He would have loved yours more, petal.”

Ciri draws in a slow, calming breath at the use of one of Jaskier’s old nicknames. Her eyes are already reddened and puffy.

“I should have gone out last night and picked some daisies for my hair.”

You’re gonna cry and baby, that’s alright. It’s alright.

It’s a struggle, but Geralt manages to hold back his tears until the fire roars and envelopes Jaskier’s body, wrapped delicately in the finest silk Lambert and Eskel could find. The funeral was going to be painful enough without having to see Jaskier’s pale face.

With his brothers’ arms slung around his shoulders, Geralt looks up at the clouds that hang above their heads and sighs shakily, tears streaming from his eyes. Eskel glances at him and pulls him into a hug. That’s what really breaks him. All of a sudden he’s sobbing quietly into his brother’s shoulder, Lambert’s hand still on his back. Eskel clenches his jaw and blinks tears from his own eyes as they meet with those of his younger brother. Lambert quickly looks away. Even at a funeral, he doesn’t want his brothers to see him cry. Jaskier had become incredibly close with Geralt’s brothers. Eskel loved to share his stories with him for his songs. He always made it known that those stories weren’t of the famed White Wolf, but another charming warrior. He never wanted his brother’s fame, but at least Jaskier gave him the credit. Lambert used to have such terrific exchanges with the bard, sharing the most creative empty insults and making each other howl with laughter. Late at night they’d share much kinder words. Jaskier would tell the witcher that his voice would pair wonderfully with his own. Lambert never took him up on the offer. He should have.

Ciri has her head buried in Yennefer's shoulder, crying her eyes out again. Her papa was her sunshine. She was his daisy. He made sure that she knew how to collect her skirt when she sat down, how to curtsey, how to braid her hair— not easy things for a girl to learn when she’s raised by wolves. Luckily, though he didn’t have sisters of his own, he had many, many cousins. Yennefer was expecting a wild, boyish, awkward child when she took Ciri into her care. She was surprised to meet a polite young lady with expertly braided hair. She often spoke of her fathers, one being a little rough around the edges but loving and kind, the other being like a walking ray of sunshine. Yennefer eventually met this wonderful man she described and found this to be oh so true. She and Jaskier spent many nights together drinking expensive wine and gossiping. He often told her of his latest quarrel with his husband, but no matter how disagreeable he could be at times, he always spoke of Geralt with love and affection. She remembers those nights fondly as she watches flames engulf his body with tears rolling down her cheeks.

I wrote you this song to keep when I’m gone if you ever feel alone.

Geralt hasn’t slept properly since he passed. The only thing that grants him relief from the exhaustion is the exhaustion itself. In the early hours of the morning he’ll pass out, only to wake a few hours later, still alone. That’s quite possibly the hardest part. He’d grown so used to Jaskier lying next to him, snoring softly, that trying to sleep alone is almost impossible. He misses tracing the curve of his back, burying his face in the crook of his neck, kissing his hair and neck to wake him, watching those bright blue eyes flutter open. He wouldn’t dare sleep with another. He doubts he ever will. Jaskier was his light. Nothing can replace that. No one can.

But the weight of being alone becomes heavier with each day that passes. The chain around his neck feels like an anchor, but taking it off would hurt even more. He finds himself bed ridden some days, not seeing much of a reason to get up. He knows what Jaskier would say. He tries to listen. The others don’t say anything, other than words of encouragement. They know how Geralt feels. Jaskier’s passing weighs heavily on all of them but it’s nothing compared to him, the man he would have followed to the ends of the earth. The weight on Geralt is unimaginable.

Part of me doesn’t want this cruel world to know you.

“Freak.”

“Mutant.”

“We don’t want your kind ‘round here.”

“You’re no different from the things you hunt, you know that?”

Jaskier used to work himself into a frenzy over those comments. Geralt reassured him that he was used to it, it came with the occupation, but the bard wouldn’t accept that.

“What the fuck do they think they know?!” he would exclaim. “They call you all these names, but they don’t know you. Not like I do.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else to know me like you know me, songbird,” the witcher would reply.

Jaskier would turn to him, still annoyed, but smiling. That was the one thing about him that never aged, his smile. Wrinkles slowly formed around his eyes. Grey streaks appeared among his mass of chestnut hair. But his smile never aged, even framed by a thick but well kept beard.

“Well, no, I wouldn’t want anyone to know you quite that well either. But still, Geralt. They don’t give you a chance.”

Geralt would chuckle and shake his head. Jaskier hated how adorable the witcher thought he was when he was angry, but that anger quickly melted when Geralt pulled him into his arms.

So just try and keep in mind everything that I told you.

Jaskier would shower Geralt in compliments, if not just to see him try to hide how flustered he was. He’d give him all of the nicknames he could come up with and deepen the blush on Geralt’s cheeks by peppering kisses on them and on the tip of his nose. Geralt had maybe one or two nicknames for him. His favourite was songbird. Jaskier would smile brighter than the sun whenever he called him that.

“Your eyes look like rays of sunshine, dear heart. Like the finest gold.”

“Sweet Melitele, your hair, my love. It’s so soft when it’s clean. It looks and feels like fresh snow.”

“Have I ever told you how wonderfully intelligent I think you are, my dearest? You like to act like you’re not, but I know you are. If I had met you at Oxenfurt I would have thought you a scholar.”

“Stop it, Jask.”

“Why? Oh, is my big scary wolf getting all flustered because I called him pretty and smart?”

“No. Witchers don’t get flustered.”

“Bollocks to that. I see you blushing.”

Maybe there was some truth to all the things Jaskier said to him.

This is the last time I’ll ever open up my eyes, I apologise.

That moment haunts Geralt. He tries his best not to think about it, but late at night it flashes before his eyes, clear as day.

Yennefer had sought him out early in the morning, waking him from what little sleep he was trying to get. She looked exhausted, but they couldn’t afford to stop working. Jaskier was getting worse, she told him. She didn’t need to say anymore. They both knew. They were losing him. Geralt was out of bed and up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.

Even weak and dying, Jaskier’s smile could light up a room in seconds. Despite the tears beginning to slip from his eyes, Geralt smiled weakly and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and kissing him softly. He had to. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew then it would be the last time.

Jaskier managed a soft chuckle and told him he looked like shit. Nothing could quash his sense of humour. Geralt told him he wasn’t looking much better and immediately regretted it, even if it was just a joke. Jaskier shrugged. He seemed to have already accepted his fate.

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s breath rattled in his chest. The smile slipped from Geralt’s face as he leaned over Jaskier and gripped his hand firmly. The bard had kept on smiling and reassured him he was alright. Geralt begged to differ, but stayed silent as Jaskier cupped his face gently and told him he loved him. He said it with such finality that Geralt just about started sobbing then and there. Jaskier wiped a tear from his cheek gently but before he could speak again, he coughed, his hand falling from his face and clutching at his chest. Geralt looked on helplessly as he fought to draw one last breath.

“It’s alright, Geralt.”

He doesn’t remember much after that. He remembers clutching Jaskier’s body to his chest and sobbing, but he can’t recall how long he sat there. At some point, Eskel had come in to pull Geralt away. He didn’t want to go, but Eskel had to remind him that there was nothing he could do now. He was gone.

In that moment, Geralt’s whole world had come crashing down before his very eyes.

——————

Tags: @lovelyeskel @jaskierswolf @patchwork-quilts @viking-raider

[derieri]

Masterpost of ADHD Coping Things I Learned to Do In College

Both as a resource for other people and a reminder to myself of habits to pick back up as I’m going into a Ph.D. program this fall.  

 This can all help cheat the executive function and focus challenges that trip up ADHD people in school and at work.

Here’s the short list of tips. They’re all explained and elaborated on after the cut!

Manage energy, not time

Treat motivation like inertia

Diversify productivity time

Use baby stimuli while studying

Learn the brain’s quirks

Maintain yourself and your environment

Keep tasks small

Exploit impulsivity

Don’t memorize, use

- Manage energy, not time. The ADHD brain is really hard to drag through school because it refuses to focus on anything it doesn’t find interesting. Every time you’re in a productive mood, choose to work on your least favorite class or assignment for as long as you possibly can. One of two things will happen: on a good day, your brain gets the message and will behave or sometimes even hyperfocus on this onerous work. Alternatively, you’ll lose all motivation and focus after a while---but you will still have gotten work done. This is a great strategy to boost work efficiency because forcing yourself to study for 4 hours is pointless if you only function for 2.

- Treat motivation like inertia. Objects in motion stay in motion. Objects at rest stay at rest. The transition from rest to motion (productivity) is really hard for ADHD brain, so don’t make yourself do it more than you must. When you need a break from homework or studying, don’t just chill out on the internet. Switch to another topic or class that uses a different skill set, take a shower, go for a walk, or do a chore. Stay in motion!

- Diversify productivity time. ADHD people, in general, struggle to sit and study for hours on end. So don’t. Intersperse chunks of study time (determined by natural energy and motivation levels, as in point 2) with other subjects or activities. Work on another assignment or subject, put your laundry in or go for a walk, or move locations or use a new background stimulus. The variation will help you focus.

- Use baby stimuli while studying. Through trial and error, identify small stimuli you can use while you’re studying to hush that mega-bored corner of your brain without distracting yourself. Lots of people use fidgets. I had success with a favorite texture (wrapping my security blanket around my shoulders) and strong tastes (calamata olives one at a time).

- Learn the brain’s quirks. Learn what makes you feel good and what helps you focus and do a lot of it. Sometimes this will be weird, like your hairstyle or the position you sit in. It’s still super important to sort out what works. I recommend paying attention to foods, hygiene, and the organization & orderliness of your room.

Weird shit that affected me: which wall my desk faced in the same corner, the ability of my desk chair to roll, how I sat, the amount of ambient noise (changed depending on the day), typing single vs. 1.5 vs. double-spaced, which font I used, how greasy my hair was, whether I had chapstick on, whether I had glasses or contacts on, and which kind of pants I was wearing.

- Maintain yourself and your environment. Self-care is important for everyone, but it’s vital for people with ADHD. To be at all functional, our brain needs to be in tip-top shape. Keep your room clean, eat well, exercise and go outside, sleep, and maintain your hygiene. This all sounds like a lot, but if you use these productive tasks as study breaks (see inertia and diversity) it can all get done.

- Keep tasks small. ADHD brain is easily overwhelmed by big tasks to the point of shutting down. Let them stay small. Break tasks down in your planner, then break them down further and only work on one piece at a time. Ask yourself: “what can I do in the next 5 minutes that will contribute to x” and do something, even if it’s technically out of order.

Note on room cleaning/environment: Once and a while you’ll manage the herculean task of actually cleaning your room up all the way. After that, or even while it’s still a mess, do yourself a favor and tidy up every night before bed. It’s small enough a task for your brain to not be daunted by it, it keeps the mess under control, and since it’s physical, it’s a good wind-down stimulus so shutting your brain off for sleep isn’t so hard. 

- Exploit impulsivity. A TED talk I watched said that when you have an urge to do something, you have ten seconds to act on it. After that, you just won’t do it. This is extra true for ADHD. With ADHD we’re so used to suppressing impulses, but you can use them to help yourself too! If you have an impulse to do something productive, even if it’s not an essential task, let that impulse move you to act. This is similar to working with energy instead of time. Got an impulse to wash dishes? Random desire to go for a run? Sudden inspiration for that one essay? Do it.

 - Don’t memorize, use. Short-term and working memory is garbage for people with ADHD. Our brains just don’t hold on to things the way they’re supposed to. Instead of writing your notes down and hoping that your brain retains it, use your notes as a proving ground for new information as you’re acquiring it. Rephrase the bullet point. Draw a diagram instead of writing numbers. Make a flow chart to connect ideas or a timeline. Scribble questions and counter-points in the margins. This carves those mental pathways---those memory pathways---much deeper than normal note-taking does. Then, review your notes by trying to teach them to someone else (stuffed animals and imaginary friends work too).

General Specifics (just trust me on these) - Make your bed in the morning. - Clear off your desk and the walls around it.  - Maintain a planner or checklist.  - Don’t let yourself doodle in your planner or use it for anything else, ever.  -  Plug your phone in away from your bed. - Use drinking water / a water bottle to stim. Stimulus helps Brain, hydration helps Brain, and frequent study breaks to go pee help Brain too. - Brainstorm and outline for essays with old-fashioned pen and paper.

The big summary of it all is this: Work with your brain, not against it.

Basically, learn and remember how your brain works, what things it does and does not like to do. Instead of trying to function on the same rhythms, patterns, and schedules that neurotypical people do, devise methods of working with your brain’s quirks to get things done.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

with you [chapter four]

Summary: Clementine pops the question, Louis has nightmares, Violet can’t let go of the past, Mitch doesn’t know how to handle gross feelings, Ruby’s a goddamn sweetheart, Willy doesn’t ever remember to knock, Aasim can’t dance, and James is here, too.

Nothing like a wedding to bring this family together.

Note: tbh working on this story at night is the only thing holding my sanity together while I’m taking care of my grams. But also this chapter was a huge pain in the ass to fix and I’m 0.02 seconds away from punching a hole in the wall. But it’s fine because it’s finished and I ran all the way home just to quickly post this. 

Anyway, thank you for reading and your constant support. It truly means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy ch4. ❤️

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4

Read on: AO3

---

The page remains blank.

No matter how much Violet wills the pen to move on its own, to put all thoughts both known and unconscious to paper, it remains beside the open notebook. As outrageous as it sounds, a small part of her hopes one day the pen will magically come to life and solve all of her problems with its problem-solving ink. Then everything will be okay. 

Though she has a feeling the walkers will go extinct before her pen develops a sentient personality or therapeutic skills. 

And she’ll be dead by then, so it wouldn’t matter anyway. 

“It helps if you pick up the pen,” Aasim said, not bothering to look up from his own work. “Just saying.”

She knows even by his deadpan tone that he’s trying to joke with her, even if he’s not good at it. Laying bait for her to bite back with a sarcastic remark of her own. 

“But then I’d actually have to write something down.”

“Oh no,” Aasim smirks, paying her a brief glance. “Effort.”

That cracks a small smile out of her, and for a fleeting moment, they’re smiling at each other as if that’s a normal thing. It’s hard to maintain that connection, so damn hard, so Violet hides her smile from him by turning away to look towards the gates.

The very same gates that Clementine, AJ, and Rosie pass through. Back from patrol, if she overheard correctly. Even from a distance, Violet can see the delighted grin Clementine wears, a grin only matched by AJ’s. Far brighter than Violet’s. 

AJ hugs her tightly before breaking away and bolting towards Louis, James, and Tenn. Clementine remains, though, arms folded over her chest as she watches the group of boys with such fondness that it damn near makes Violet want to scream.

Shit, just…. Shit . 

“Hey,” Aasim reaches over, tapping on the blank page of her journal with his own worn-out pen to grab her attention. “Lucy had her babies this morning. Seven of them. Well, eight, but one of them didn’t make it.”

Violet tears her glare away from Clementine to instead glare at Aasim. 

“Who the hell is Lucy?”

“One of the pregnant rabbits, remember? Not the one that had babies last week, the other one.”

“We’re still naming them?” Violet asks. Aasim made it very clear that no names were to be used when they started up the rabbit farm by the greenhouse. 

“They’re food, not pets. No names. No attachments.” 

That didn’t last long.

“ I didn’t name her,” Aasim corrects. “Willy did, even though I’ve told him again and again not to. Now when it comes time for us to put Lucy down, he’s not going to talk to me for another two weeks, as if I’m the only one at fault. Remember Albert?”

“Ah, Prince Albert,” Violet nods. “He sure was delicious.”

Everyone agreed that the lovely Prince Albert was one of the handsomest rabbits they had with his snow white fur offset by brown feet and ears. They also agreed that he made one of the best rabbit stews Omar’s ever created. 

Including Willy. That is until Omar offered him one of Prince Albert’s lucky feet and Willy realized just who he had consumed. 

The boy didn’t speak to Aasim or Omar for a week, but Violet believes that he still carries around one of Prince Albert’s feet for good luck, despite everything. 

“Yeah, anyway, did you want to come with me to check on them? Ruby’s out there now. Maybe you could stay with her and help out?”

Violet scoffs. 

“Look, I’ll take your night shift, too,” Aasim adds. “That way you don’t spend all day out there and then have to do a night shift.” 

“I like having the night shift.”

“Every night?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” Aasim taps his pen against the table, thinking loudly to himself. “I’m giving you the night off anyway. Ruby would appreciate your company.”

Oh, would she, now…?

It’s not that Violet minds Ruby. She’s the only girl Violet has left to talk to at this place- the only girl she’s willing to talk to, actually. 

Violet would say that she enjoys evenings spent with Ruby… most of the time. 

The problem with talking to or spending time with Ruby is she’s a lot. Not in the same way Louis is, but more in an overbearing mother sort of way. Always asking her how she’s feeling, asking about her day, if there’s anything she can do to help Violet out or if she wants to do this or that. She’s far too pushy sometimes, especially when it comes to shit she doesn’t understand. 

“Clem’s tryin’, Vi.”

As if Ruby has all the answers to make her happy. She always makes it sound so damn easy. 

“Why can’t ya just talk to each other?”

The problem is that Ruby tries to take care of everyone so that she doesn’t have to think about how to make herself happy. Why focus on your problems when you can bury your pains and wishes beneath fairy tales and other people’s problems?

At least, that’s Violet’s assumption. 

Maybe Ruby is happy. 

Maybe Violet just wishes she wasn’t. 

Fucking hell. 

Just when she thought she couldn’t be any more fucked...

“My company or yours?” Violet mumbles, finally picking up her pen, putting it to paper. 

“What? My company- oh, I see.” Aasim rolls his eyes, dropping his pen in the book before shutting it. “Ha ha, very funny. I get it.”

Violet nearly rolls her eyes, too. Speaking of those who don’t bother with their own shit-

“I was thinking that it’d be good for you to go out there and help her, that’s all,” Aasim says, tucking his notebook under his arm and standing from the table. He means to walk away on that annoying note but hesitates. Then, lowering his voice to one of disquiet, he says, “I’m worried about you. So is everyone else.”

“I’m fine, Aasim.”

“...Right,” he sighs heavily. “Please go help Ruby with the rabbits. I’m only going to be there for a little bit before heading out to check the traps with Louis, and she could really use the help. Please?”

“Fine.”

Aasim lingers, shifting his weight as he gives her a chance to say something more, a chance she refuses. 

“Thank you.”

With that, he’s walking away, leaving her by herself to finish a doodle of a pen with curly hair and fire for eyes with a speech bubble. 

“Why are ya still here?”

---

“Is my neck supposed to feel this stiff?”

“Yes. It’s a sign of a good, unmoving model.”

“Well, good to hear that my career is off to a good start.”

Louis is still sitting there at the table, cracking jokes and trying his best not to move while James and Tenn draw. James points to various parts of Louis’ face before motioning to Tenn’s paper, something that brings a grin to Clementine’s face. 

“Don’t worry, Clem,” says AJ as he hugs her. “I won’t say anything. Can I go draw now?”

“Have fun, kiddo.”

She can safely leave AJ to catch up on art lessons with James. He promised her he wouldn’t breathe a word of this to anyone- even Tenn- until she had everything all planned out.

Now that Mitch has the measurements, the ring is- hopefully- being taken care of, so all that leaves is how she plans on doing this. Several lingering thoughts follow her as she spends most of the day helping around the school, doing usual repairs to the gate and their walls. 

She would’ve checked on Lucy and the other rabbits, but Aasim warned her that Violet was there with Ruby and Louis. She almost pushed him aside and went in anyway, but damn it, she knows better by this point. 

Instead, she and AJ help Omar clean out the fire pit and gather fresh wood, briefly considering letting him in on her intentions. Omar’s a trustworthy friend and while she appreciates his opinion, she decides against telling anyone else until she has the ring. She’s found that battling her eagerness to be growing more difficult with every passing day. 

So much so that she also considers asking about the progress on said ring when she finds Mitch and James near the library’s entrance, speaking in hushed whispers that she couldn’t make out. All talk stopped when she approached them, and began again when Mitch became snappy with her before dragging James away. 

Odd, and not boding well for her, but she firmly believes that if there were any issues she should know about, Mitch would tell her.

When the sky finally turns a lovely mixture of pink and orange, AJ gives her a hug goodnight before making his way over to Tenn’s room for another sleepover. 

Before retiring to her dorm for the night, Clementine pokes her head into the music room to find it empty. A slight disappointment falls over her as she hoped Louis would be up for some piano lessons, but that dissipates when she finds Louis kneeling on AJ’s desk with a roll of duct tape hanging from his mouth when she walks in, a stack of drawings placed beside him. He’s taping up one of the portraits of himself on the wall.

“Ey!” He waves at her before spitting the tape out. “Look at these!” He hops off the desk and points at the one he just hung up. “That’s the one James drew. Charming, isn’t it?”

The amount of detail in the portrait is startling, a fully shaded-in head portrait of Louis that seemingly stares right at her. Even the little details, like his freckles and the scar on his chin, are noticeable.

“It’s way weirder than I thought it’d be,” he says, “having someone stare and dissect every part of your face. Did you know I have a very angular jawline?” He tilts his head up to prove his point. “And James said I have a nice eye shape.”

“He did do you justice,” she says, still admiring the picture. “Very handsome.”

His chuckle comes out loud and anxious, not having expected her to say that. 

“Hah, yeah, except,” then Louis pushes his jacket back to place his hands on his hips, “uhm, do you think my nose is big?”

“What?”

“James said I have a wider nose. He drew it bigger than it actually is, right?”  

“You have a very cute nose.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Clementine giggles. “Your nose is perfectly fine, Louis.”

He eyes the portrait, still uncertain, only to then gasp as if just remembering something. 

“Oh, wait though, ready for this?” He searches through the pile before plucking the one he wants out. “ This is the one Tenn drew.” He proudly holds it up.

She can’t say she’s not impressed. It’s nowhere near as proportional or advanced as James’, but Clementine can see the effort and charm within the lines. Definitely Tenn’s work.

“Wow,” Clementine smirks, nudging him. “I see it now. James is right, you do have a big nose.”

“ Hey ,” Louis reaches up and playfully pinches her nose, “big talk from little button nose over here.” Louis sticks Tenn’s portrait on the wall, next to James’. “There! We’re getting quite the art gallery.”

“One’s missing, though.” Clementine grabs Louis’ picture of Rosie off the desk and tapes it up with the others.

“Seriously?” he asks sheepishly.

“Oh yeah. We’re never taking that one down.”

“Terrific.”

Louis continues to look through the rest of the drawings. He hums to himself lightly, a tune she recognizes. He sticks more drawings on the wall; ones that AJ drew of him and Tenn, one he drew of Disco Broccoli.

He pauses when he comes across the one of AJ, Clementine, and him. The one with the beach ball. He smiles fondly at it before sticking it up there with the rest.

She sits on AJ’s bed, leaning against the frame to close her eyes and listen to his cheerful humming. 

One of the few things she loves in this world is the comfort she has when he’s around. 

It’s a comfort she never thought she’d find again. Before Ericson, she and AJ never had time for comfortable peace. When it was just them, there was always that lurking feeling, that bitterness, that lingered in her thoughts. 

Now, they have a place they call home. 

Clementine can’t imagine where they would’ve ended up had she not crashed the car. They’d still be out in the world, scavenging every little bit they could to survive. They never would’ve met the people she now considered family.

She and Louis would’ve never met, where she and AJ never met anyone at Ericson. 

That’s a really shitty thing to think about.

Finding this place, their home, was the best thing that happened to them. Meeting everyone here- Louis, Violet, Mitch, Ruby, Aasim, everyone - has done so much for them. For years, she worried about her and AJ, about always being on the road in a car that constantly ran on fumes, about running across assholes who wanted to hurt them, about the dead finally getting the best of them. Nowhere to go, no direction. A neverending search. 

 She sneaks a glance at Louis. He has no idea. 

He finishes up, shoving the duct tape in a drawer. Leaning against the desk with arms crossed over his chest, he looks at her with a tired grin, but says nothing. 

She raises a brow. 

“What?”

He shrugs.

It’s like the weariness of their previous night has caught up to him, like something triggered a sinking reality that weighs him down. The shadows along his face from the setting light do nothing to hide the sadness betraying his eyes.

She slowly approaches him and reaches out to grab his hand, tugging him closer to her.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Hey.”

“You feeling any better?”

“Of course.”

“Really?” Clementine locks their fingers together. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had one that bad.”

He keeps his stare focused on their hands. “...It wasn’t that bad.”

“Louis.”

“Clementine.”

“It was about that woman, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing, but she can see the answer clear in his eyes.

Yes, Clem, you know it was. It always is.

The first and only living person Louis ever personally killed, and it was purely accidental. It frustrates her that it still haunts him, and even more so that it’ll always haunt him. Even when he expressed the relief of “having it in him” to protect those he loves, there’s always a suffocating weight that comes with the first. If anyone knew that, it’s Clementine. 

That kind of guilt, no matter how irrational, never stops. 

“Dorian.”

“Hm?”

Louis closes his eyes and leans forward to press his forehead to hers.

“Her name was Dorian.”

“Lou-”

“I know.” He pulls back, forcing a smile. “I know.” 

His gaze falls on her nose. He pinches it again. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” she smiles sincerely. “Just… want to make sure you’re alright.”

“You don’t have to worry about me so much, Clem. There are more important ways to spend your time.”

More important? 

She supposes that’s a good way to put it. 

“Y’know, I was thinking about what you said this morning,” Clementine smiles. “AJ’s having another sleepover with Tenn tonight, so we have the whole room to ourselves.” 

Louis raises a brow, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. 

“Wanna build a pillow fort?”

“You read my mind.”

Without any hesitation, she kisses him. It’s a quick, soft, comforting peck that catches him off guard.

Another kiss to his lips, and then another. Clementine holds onto the nape of his neck and moves to his chin, his cheek, placing soft, intimate kisses against his warm skin. 

He looks at her with lidded eyes before his hands caress her cheeks, his thumb brushing just below her eye.

He kisses her, eager for every press of her mouth. He doesn’t stop kissing her, even when she tightens her grip on his jacket and pulls him back with her. The desk hits her hip and he’s quick to lift her up onto the surface, almost knocking over her venus fly trap plant.  

A pleased sigh escapes her lungs as she desperately moves to his jaw, down his neck. Her hands move beneath his jacket, trailing down to the hem of his shirt before bunching the material up. His skin is warm. His breathing is quick, shallow.  

“Clem! Clem!”

Louis yanks back, their lips parting quickly with a loud smack as she nearly topples over from the force of him ripping away. 

The bedroom door slams open and in barges Willy. 

She’s disoriented, lightheaded, blinking rapidly and frantically searching for any sign of danger. All she finds is Louis, who’s now over at AJ’s desk, humming incredibly loud, and Willy hurrying in with a triumphant smile.

“Clem, guess wha-!” The second he sees Louis, he stops and gasps. “Oh no!”

“Oh, look, darling!” Louis stops pretending to look at the pictures and glares at the young boy. “It’s Willy, the boy who doesn’t know how to knock! Nice of you to pop in unannounced this late in the evening !”

Willy’s face flushes a scarlet red as his gaze darts between the two, falling down to Louis’ shirt, which remains lifted to reveal part of his stomach. 

Louis yanks the material down, fake coughing.  

Willy’s face is reminiscent of a fresh tomato at this point. It seems that even he got the sense of what was happening before he ran in. 

Clementine slips down from the desk and tries to casually straighten out her own jacket and adjust her hat with an unfazed face, even though she’s positive that her skin is blotchy and red, too. 

“I’m sorry!” Willy blurts out, covering his eyes. “I didn’t see anything! I’ll knock next time! I swear!”

“Uh-huh,” Louis frowns. “Said that last time, didn’t you?”

Now she’s not sure who’s redder, her or Willy.

“Willy, what do you want?’ Clementine sighs. She composes herself and approaches the boy.

His eyes went to Louis before meeting hers. That’s all she needs.

“Is it Mitch?” 

Willy nods.

Clementine’s heart flutters. Choosing her words carefully, she asks, “Is he done?”

Willy nods once more. 

“Done with what?” Louis asks. 

“Uh-”

“Watch,” Clementine interrupts. “I completely forgot that I have watch.”

“Seriously?” Louis asks, confused. “Wait, I thought Ruby had watch tonight.”

“I switched her,” she lies, moving towards Willy and adding, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Willy leaves without another word, staring down at the floor. Clementine holds back an annoyed sigh. The previous mood is completely gone and now she’s made a mess of lies that she’s gotta detangle before Louis gets suspicious. 

Damn it, Willy. 

Couldn’t have waited until morning. 

Louis gives a thoughtful frown. 

“I’m a little worried about him,” he says, “about Mitch, I mean.”

“Oh, uh, really?”

"Something weird’s going on with him,” Louis nods. “He’s been down in the basement every day for the past week and- ...Well, I went to check on him this morning before breakfast.”

Panic shoots through her stomach and into her heart.

Louis pauses, unsure if he should continue. 

“And?” Clementine presses.

 “...Well, when I tried going down the stairs, I think- well, it was probably nothing. I probably didn’t see what I thought I saw because I could’ve sworn I saw James down there, too-”

Clementine’s stomach drops.

“-and I don’t know what they were doing but before I could even get down the stairs, Mitch threw a shoe at me.”

“A shoe?”

Oh, goddamn it, Mitch-

“Yeah, right at my face! He about hit me in my big nose!”

Clementine rolls her eyes. “Again with the nose thing?”

“I’ve accepted its abnormally monstrous size,” he says. “Anyway, then I saw him again on my way to the greenhouse and he wouldn’t even look at me. Not that he’s one for conversation or anything, but it’s like… I don’t know. It felt weird. I don’t know what he’s doing down in the basement or what they’re doing if that really was James I saw. I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’m sure it was nothing.”

“Probably… I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone shout ‘no!’ and ‘out!’ that many times in a ten-second time frame before hurling shoes at me. It was pretty terrifying.”

“Mitch is…” Clementine’s at a loss. While she’s thankful for Mitch’s ability to think on his feet so quickly, she wasn’t sure if she approved of the shoe method. “...Hard to understand sometimes, and he and James are friends so it’s not that weird that they’re hanging out together.”

Louis considers this, though she can tell he’s not completely convinced. 

“...Do you think they’re… I mean, it’s none of my business but if there was something going on between them-”

Oh boy.

Louis then shakes his head, changing his mind. 

“Y’know what? I’m sure it was nothing.”

She sighs. So much for not making Louis suspicious of anything. Then again, maybe this is her fault. She did tell James that Mitch was working on fixing the ring, and she should’ve known that would lead to him trying to help. 

“He’s working on a project,” she says lamely. “He probably wants a second opinion on it from James. ”

“A bomb project? I didn’t think James was a fan of explosions.”

“Firecrackers work as a great distraction for the walkers,” says Clementine, which isn’t a total lie. Mitch brought up the suggestion to James a while ago. They spent a long time discussing the idea if she remembers correctly. 

Well, better not let sweet Ruby know,” Louis says. “She’s still got a personal grudge towards Mitch’s bombs ever since that thing in the greenhouse, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she smirks. “ ‘A bomb? I will whip his ass!’ ”

Her Ruby impression gets a chuckle out of him. “Hope he knows a shoe won’t be enough to stop her. If anything, that’s just provoking the beast.”

“He’ll have to learn that for himself,” she smiles. Clementine approaches him again, fixing the collar of his jacket and apologizing, “Sorry I can't stay and help you build an amazing, comfortable pillow fort. Will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, darling.” He grabs her hand and kisses her cheek. “We can always build a pillow fort another night, or, uhm, finish what we started. Maybe I’ll go tickle the ivories for a while before bed, so if I don’t see you before your finished or if I’m not awake, goodnight and stay warm.”

She gives him a long kiss goodbye before she leaves. 

One the door’s shut, she takes a moment to take a deep breath. 

Her face still feels warm after all the excitement. She’s still a little annoyed at the interruption, but if she’s right about what Willy was trying to imply, then she has to hurry. She can only hope that Mitch found a way to fix the ring.

The wait is starting to make her anxious.

[capaldifiction]

Our Chaotic Life (Part One) - Lewis Capaldi x Reader

For this request I had several scenes in mind I was going to just put into one long story, but thought it might be fun to just split it up into several individual scenes that go together, but can be read separately. They’re all sort of memories the reader and Lewis have of their relationship going up until the present, and the final part will end in the present. Hopefully to the Anon that requested this, this format is cool with you? There’s going to be a fluff, adorableness, joking around, and their relationship / respective careers growing from just starting at when they meet, to being really successful.

Paring: Lewis Capaldi x Comedian Reader

Word Count: 1,276

Description: Based on the request: “Lewis and the reader are kinda like a power couple of sorts? Idk it sounds cheesy but maybe she’s like a comedian or something and they are kinda infamous for their TikToks and Instagram Lives and stuff of that sort? Maybe it’s just a compilation of them just being effin adorable?“

In this part Lewis and Y/N first meet in the early stages of their careers.

Warnings: Some swearing

PART 2

Italics are inner thoughts.

Sitting at one of the tables in the small venue, Y/N swings her legs from the bar stool absentmindedly as she reads through the stack of papers in front of her, occasionally circling and highlighting. Tonight was going to be her second night performing at this venue, after last weekend went so well the owner had given her another night.

While she was excited for getting a repeat gig at the biggest venue she’d performed in thus far, it left her with a week to write and pull together new material for the show. Luckily the owner was a pretty nice guy, and had let her come in a few hours before the venue opened to get ready. She had a loose idea of the routine she was going with, but actually being in the space was helping her pair it down to the best bits.

The sound of the front door opening distracts her, as her head lifts to see who was coming in, when a blur in the shape of a person goes flying past her toward the bathrooms, sending her papers flying everywhere.

“Hey!” she shouts after the form, “Watch where you’re fucking going!” Grumbling more to herself, she drops down from the seat in search of all the papers that seemed to have scattered further than she thought.

After a minute of searching, she’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps and someone clearing their throat. Looking up from the floor she’s met by the culprit from before.

A young man in a pink hoodie looks back at her, an apologetic look on his face as he offers her a piece of paper, “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N shrugs as she pulls her eyes away from his reddening cheeks as she tries to focus on the paper he’s handed her. Long hair framing his face, blushing cheeks, blue eyes. Fuck. He’s cute.

“It’s fine,” she responds, looking at which one he’d handed her. “When nature calls, it must be answered.”

He chuckles at that and drops down to his knees as well to help her search, “Was a long ride down here, was focused on not being late, then I realized as I got here I was bustin’.”

“Wise decision there I see,” she laughs, climbing back to her feet as they gather the last page.

“One of my finest moments” he agrees with a smirk. Looking down at the sheets in his hands he lifts an eyebrow, “What are these?”

“Wow not only does bathroom boy not know to not run indoors, he also doesn’t understand basic privacy,” she teases as she climbs back up on to the stool.

“I- well, sorry?” he offers with an awkward smile, setting the paper back on the counter.

“Nah it’s fine,” she says flipping through the pages to put them back in order. “I have a routine here tonight, and this is my new material. Came in early to figure out exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Comedian?”

“No, lion tamer, I’m on at 8,” she rolls her eyes as she glances back at him.

“The new act of the century, the woman who tames lions with jokes,” he muses, leaning against the counter next to her.

“Thank you, it’s about time someone recognized my innovation,” she comments, sticking her tongue out at him. “So what are you here for?”

“Singing gig at 9. You’ll make them laugh, then I’ll come in and send everyone home with a big sexy cry. Fulfilling night of emotions,” he says with a wink.

“Ooh, bathroom boy has jokes himself and a voice?”

“A voice of an angel,” he comments, mockingly flipping back his long hair.

“I already got the joke part, you didn’t need to make another to prove it,” she adds.

He rises an eyebrow before placing an arm on the countertop near her stack of papers, “So what’s your name?”

“Oh so the angel is asking for the mere mortal’s name?” She asks with a smirk.

“Well,” he clears his throat looking obviously embarrassed. “I may have the voice of the angel, but I’m not the angel here.”

“That pickup line though,” she chuckles, reaching out to lightly flick his long hair. “You’ve got the angel hair though I must say. But that line was so bad I’ll go for it. I’m Y/N, comedian extraordinaire. Aka this is my second mildly big gig, and it’s at the same place, so I’m a nobody. What about you?”

“Lewis,” he says with a smile, shifting a bit closer to her. “I’ve been gigging awhile, but this is the first of this size. You like performing here?”

“Yeah it’s pretty nice,” she admits, her fingertips running over the page in front of her. “Bit terrifying at first. But fantastic.”

“From this very short while I’ve known you, I’m guessing you’re pretty damn funny on the stage,” he compliments.

“Nah, I’m a sarcastic asshole that writes a few good jokes. Sometimes people like them, and sometimes it’s silence. You just hope to fucking god it’s not silence when it matters,” she says with a shrug.

“Well I’ll hang out and watch your set, I could use a few laughs before my turn,” he comments. “You going to stick around for mine?”

“I could be tempted to,” she muses, tapping her pencil against her lips. “I could use some new material, and you seem interesting.”

“I’m interesting huh?” he asks with a mischievous look. “Well I could use some new material too Miss Sarcasm.”

“And what exactly is it you write about Lewis?” she questions, turning fully toward him, subconsciously leaning in as he does.

“Heartbreak mostly,” he admits, chuckling as her surprised expression. “And you look like you could ruin me.”

With a mocking pout she reaches out to hold the cross necklace dangling from his neck, “You’ve gone and hurt my feelings, now I’m just going to have to go long haul and prove you wrong.”

“Oh?” he lifts one foot to put it on the base of the stool she’s sitting on. “What kind of long haul are we talking about here?”

“Obviously long haul marriage til death do us part sort of shit,” she explains, “That way you can never write a single sad song about me, and I can write years worth of content on my husband that can’t use the bathroom before it’s a dire emergency.”

“Oh yeah?” he questions looking down at her hand still holding his necklace. “I can be pretty fucking annoying, I think you’ll give in way before that.”

“Nah, fuck you, I’ll win,” she grins.

“Alright then, what’s your number?” he grabs her pen from the counter and twists it between his fingers. “I need to know how to contact my future wife.”

Raising an eyebrow, she lets go of his necklace to swipe the pen back from him. She pulls his arm closer and slides up the sleeve of his hoodie to write her number on his forearm with her name below it.

The sound of the door of the venue opening causes Lewis to jump back as they both look up to see the owner looking at them, “Lewis right? We got a space cleared in the back for you, come unload your equipment.”

“Class, be right there,” he shouts back stepping away from Y/N. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Well you’re going to have to,” she shrugs. “I’m on before you, and apparently we’re now betrothed Lewis, take this seriously.”

“Oh so seriously Y/N, my heart is already yours,” he says sweetly in a sing-song voice.

“Good, I’m already winning.”

“We’ll see Y/N, we’ll see.”

-----

PART 2

Masterlist

Request List

[redneckangelsdrinkmoonshine]

Heaven Forbid/ 5. November, 2021

Chapter 1 - "When It Rains, It Pours" (draft)

It was almost as if the Georgian skies were falling apart; rain poured down freely while the wind wailed like a banshee that was hiding somewhere off in the distance. It seemed to carry the same promise of death and destruction.

The wipers of the Impala squeaked and screeched like never as they struggled to fight off the Tsunami that was gathered at the bottom of the windshield. Sam thought that he should maybe turn them off, at least then his brother wouldn’t have to get new ones because these were bound to break any second. However, that was the least of their concerns, and they seemed to have plenty. Surprisingly, the storm with chances of a tornado wasn’t one of them either. What was, was currently bleeding out on the backseat while Dean’s shaky hands applied pressure to the wound on the poor creature’s abdomen while holding him at a weird angle so neither his back or stomach were in contact with the seat. Creature, because they had no idea what Cas was anyway.

Castiel started coughing violently when he and Dean jerked to the side due to the harsh turn. Dean wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing, but he decided it was a good thing; if Cas had enough air in his lungs to cough then he was going to be alright. “Okay, Sammy, we’re gonna go down Chestlehurst road, pass two churches, cross the bridge that goes over Keg creek, then at the end of the street you’re gonna make a left. Then we go down, the farm is on the right.”

“Go a bit faster, Goddammit! Would’ve been faster if we carried the freaking car there!” The last part was muttered under Dean’s breath, his wide, green eyes skimmed all over the place, from the red of Cas’s blood to the scenery that passed by them, always searching for the signs on the highway, showing which miles they passed. Dean’s free hand cradled Cas’s head closer to his chest as his other hand pressed down even harder, letting out a barely there sigh when Cas muttered some nonsense under his breath, “Ey buddy, just hang on a little longer, alright? You’re a tough son of a bitch, the toughest one I know.” Castiel's shirtless self was shivering hard, which was understandable, he had lost a lot of blood. Dean paused before he buried his face in Castiel’s dirty, tousled hair and planted a careful kiss on the top of his head, “Don’t you dare prove me wrong, you hear me? I know you hate to disappoint me, you’ve never done that so don’t start now, okay?”

The older Winchester continued to track the plates on the highway, making a mental check to make sure they were heading the right way. He sighed in relief when he saw the exit, along with the sign that said “sixteen”, “Here! Right here!”

Dean cursed under his breath when he felt the blood soak through the handkerchief and seep into his hand like ink, he didn't even want to think about the open wounds on his back which were left to the mercy of the air, “Alright Sammy, I don’t care about the freaking damage from potholes or whatever, Baby can handle it, however – look, the shock absorbers are stronger than Cas right now so just go freaking faster.”

They were almost there but it still felt as if it would take ten more hours. Just when Dean started to fear the worst because Cas was way too quiet for way too long and almost completely unresponsive, the farm came into view. He patted Cas’s shoulder as his younger brother breathed out a sigh of relief, “It’s okay Cas, we’re here, we’re gonna be okay.” Just when Dean was ready to let out a colorful combination of curse words, relief washed over him when he saw that the storm had taken care of the gate that would’ve been in their way was it otherwise. Sam went all the way to the house, parking the car on the side. He opened his door as Dean gave him instructions, “Tell them we need help, I don’t want to move him unless I know exactly how to.” Sam nodded as he scrambled out of the Impala and rounded the side of the house. Dean took in a shaky breath and all of the air left his lungs when he noticed that Castiel was way too still for his liking, “Cas? Castiel?!”

The door to his side opened and there stood Sam, a man with a white beard and a guy who looked way too much like Bobby. They helped get Cas out of the car gently, somehow Castiel didn’t even grunt in protest, and once Dean was somewhat stable on his feet, he accepted the weight of the fallen angel in his arms. The older man spoke,”We’ve gotta take ‘im to the infirmary, from what I see we don’t have much time.”

-

The storm had calmed, but not the one inside Dean’s head. He was sitting on a chair, his eyes were unfocused and his dull nails were picking at the blood that seemed to be almost like ink that was deep under his skin. The rain outside was nothing but a calm drizzle, however it caused them nothing but anxiety. Sam was pacing back and forth, shooting worried glances at his brother, but Dean didn’t even have the energy to tell him he was fine. Maybe because he wasn’t, he was far from it.

The scene from earlier that day played in his mind on repeat, over and over again. His own terrified scream made his ears ring and his head pound, the vision of Castiel chained up like a rabbit with zero signs of life showing. Surprisingly the only threat was a deep wound in his abdomen that made both Sam and Dean fear that he had already lost a lot of blood, but thankfully that wasn’t the case. It was almost like Cas had fought so hard to stay alive just so he could make sure they found him so he could say goodbye.

The brothers finally regained their control and returned to the plan, they had to get Castiel out of these chains and into the Impala. Dean stood in front of Castiel yet again, ready to catch him before he fell. However, when Sam started to undo the restrains, Castiel’s eyes opened but he didn’t seem to see a thing. His mouth was open in a silent scream, ready to fight whoever was in sight which made Dean equally terrified and proud. But then Castiel’s eyes finally met Dean’s and he immediately calmed down. He tilted his head to the side in his typical Cas way before he breathed out with a barely there smile, “Dean?” With that, his eyes rolled back and Dean accepted Castiel’s limp body into his arms when the last chain was undone.

Of course, they couldn't have nice things. They found Castiel, he was alive, but the wound on his abdomen wasn't the only major one.

When Dean cradled Cas’s face in his shaky hands, his vision was blurry with tears. Sam started to undo the chains while Dean got in the right position to accept Castiel’s weight, but then Sam jumped back with a startled "Son of a bitch!". Of course it didn't sound well, so Dean went to stand next to Sam. The sight in front of them was gruesome: there were six slices across Castiel's back, parallel to one another. The longest set was seven inches long and about three inches wide, the other two were about five inches in length and two inches in width. The longest set was the one in the middle, the first row was on the shoulder blades and the third was maybe just shy of the small of Castiel's back. Slightly underneath them, on either side of Castiel's loin, about eight inches under where the third set of cuts ended stood another set of wounds, but in a round shape. They were slightly burned, almost as if whoever made these cuts decided to seal them shut. Their attempt to stop the bleeding was more or less useless, because blood still oozed and trickled down slowly but steadily.

When the two week marker of Castiel’s absence hit, Dean decided to look for clues. However, he had no idea where to begin. Thankfully, when Dean used his heart, Sam used his brain.

All types of feelings burned in his veins. Dean was overwhelmed with sadness, anger, hurt, and hopelessness, but the worst of it all was grief. What was he going to tell Claire and Jack? Why did Cas go off somewhere in the first place, without even telling Dean? That son of a bitch had to have the nerve to die before answering Dean’s many questions.

Dean had no idea how it was so hard for Cas to learn. Through the past thirteen years, whenever Castiel or any of their trio, sometimes even the extended crew, whenever anyone didn’t tell the others what they were up to something bad happened. But Castiel always took it to the next level. The thing with the Leviathans was bad, then Naomi, Metatron. From bad to worse. However, Cas getting stabbed and not having the ability to heal himself? That only meant one thing, Castiel’s grace was damaged or completely gone. He was no longer an angel. Dean decided that Castiel had scraped the absolute bottom.

Back in the beginning of it all, when their father had disappeared and Dean went to look for him with Sam, they looked for clues in John’s journal. Ever since they found the bunker, they no longer used that thing. Whenever Castiel was around and they didn’t have a case, he would sit around with a book. Castiel was the only one who had read all of the books, some of them even more than once and whenever he left the bunker, he would come back with even more books, some were normal novels, others were books they could use for research. That one thing Castiel loved to read more than anything was John’s journal. When Dean noticed that his friend had read the journal for the fiftieth the time, the next time he went out to get more beer and some pie, he stopped by the bookstore he knew Cas liked and bought a travel journal. The thing looked quite thick, it had enough pages for Cas to fill with his smartass thoughts and discoveries. Dean even bought a bunch of pens and some pencils, along with a sharpener and an eraser, for all he knew Castiel was a hidden Picasso. The only reason Dean had bought that journal was because the leather covers were the same beige as Castiel’s trench coat and the silk string that separated the pages was the deep shade of blue that was Cas’s newest suit.

Castiel was stunned, he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He carefully peered inside the bag and a child-like innocence lit up his face. His eyes were wide and Dean decided to ignore the way his heart started beating faster. He shrugged as he pushed himself away from the door frame, “At this point you’ve read dad’s journal a hundred times. I’m sure you’re an expert now and I, I decided it’d be a good idea to create your own journal.” Castiel’s lips trembled slightly before he beamed with an adorable, sickeningly-sweet smile on his face, the type of smile that made his nose scrunch up and the corners of his eyes crinkle, “Thank you.” Dean nodded as he rubbed the back of his neck. He sighed before he reached out and patted Castiel’s chest gently, “Alright, get in the shower, you smell like crap.” Castiel rolled his eyes with a hint of a smile before he stepped back enough to close the door.

Dean knew he would always remember Castiel’s face when he gave him that journal. He had it in a simple paper bag, Cas was in his room in the bunker, the number fifteen was no longer black, Cas had changed it to gold when he claimed the room as his own.

Cas and Dean never knocked on each other’s doors. When he opened the door, Dean was taken by surprise when he saw Castiel doing handstand push-ups in perfect form, “Damn, I don’t know if I should come back later or go get some popcorn and a drink.” Dean had to mask his laughter with a cough when he scared Castiel so badly that he crumbled to the ground with a squeak, “Y’know Cas, I thought angels were supposed to be graceful-” “And I thought humans did that thing where they knock and ask for permission before they enter a closed door.” Dean tried to look wherever but his eyes were glued to Cas's naked, sweaty upper body. The fact that he wore some of Dean's old sweats didn't help at all. Maybe the angel knew what he was doing because he purposefully lifted himself on his hands before he set down his feet and slowly straightened up to his full height. Dean cocked his head to the side in surprise, “I didn’t know you have a tattoo.” Cas looked at the ink on his ribs as he scratched it, “Got it back when I was human. Angels were, as you say, on my ass, and I needed to protect myself somehow. It hurt like hell but I ended up liking it. I could heal it completely, remove the ink from my body if I wanted to, but I don’t mind it.” He undid the strings of his pants to redo them and Dean found it nearly impossible to look Cas in the eyes, “What’s up, is there a case?” Dean shook his head as he licked his lips, “Nah, we’ve got a day off, for now. Look, I've, uh, I’ve got something for you.” He held out the bag with a small smile.

Castiel loved that journal way too much. He carried it everywhere and wrote in it a lot. He would sit at the big wooden table, surrounded by books and he would write whatever he found important in a notebook, then write it in the journal and he would even separate the different subjects and highlight important things. From thoughts to detailed sketches here and there that made John’s sketches look like doodles done by a toddler. Dean knew all of that because Cas would show him his progress from time to time. Of course Dean waited until Cas was not around so he could read whatever was on Cas’s mind. There was a single section of the journal that was written in Enochian and the fact that Dean didn’t understand it pissed him off, but he never asked what any of these words meant, because he respected Castiel's privacy.

Looking through John’s journal helped them find him so Sam was sure that if there was a place where they’d find any useful information it would be in Castiel’s journal. Dean had found it in the pocket of Castiel’s trench coat which was folded on the foot of Castiel’s bed. That was a huge red flag since Castiel never took it off and never went anywhere without the journal unless he was going to get in some real dirty business.

The man moved on, this time talking about Castiel's recovery, "We need to be sure he’s going to make it through the night, when he wakes up we’re going to turn the respirator off and we're going to figure out a way to make him rest on his side so he wouldn't have to put pressure on his back. I suggest someone stays with him all the time, I will also send one of my daughters from time to time to check his vitals. If all goes well, he should wake up tomorrow, well, today by noon. Worst case scenario, he'd be out for days, but he should pull through.” Sam sighed as he put a hand on his chest, sincerity dripping from his tone, “Thank you so, so much and I apologize for coming so late, but you were the only option we really had. We were sure you would be the best shot.” Dean nodded as he shoved his hands in his pockets, “Yea, really, that guy there? He’s family. We‘re really, really grateful for what you did. Every single second you spent working on him. Thank you.” The elderly one nodded his head, his deep eyes showing nothing but kindness and sympathy. “Thank me when he wakes up, son. I’m sorry about Bobby. He was a good man, such a shame he’s no longer with us.”

The door to the living room opened and the brothers looked at the newcomers. The man from the earlier walked inside, followed by a woman with kind eyes and blonde hair. The man was still wiping his hands on a towel, smears of Castiel’s blood stood out his snow-white shirt. Dean quickly got to his feet as he turned to the man, ignoring the warning look his brother sent him, “How is he? Is he going to be okay?” The man gave a single nod as he replied, “He is stable. I have fixed people up before, but I wasn’t really sure if he’s human at all, not that I wouldn’t have helped him, I just needed some time and information. Your guy is a lucky one, people with his injuries usually don’t last as long as he did. He’s going to be okay.” Dean sighed as he allowed his chin to fall against his chest while Sam slapped his back in victory. They returned their attention to the man when he spoke up, “He’s under right now, the medication I fixed in his IV is going to make him rather drowsy for a while, but his body needs to rest. There were multiple stab wounds, cuts, and bruises. Clear signs of torture. The stab wound in his abdomen is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, the ones on his back... I had to operate, but it should heal nicely. For now we’re keeping him on a respirator, better safe than sorry. There's an extra cocktail of pain killers because until he wakes up, he has to rest on his back and even if the removal was done nicely -" "Wait, removal?" Dean stepped forward as he pointed military-style, all five fingers pointed at Hershell, "What do you mean by removal?"

The older man was quiet for a second, trying to choose his words wisely, "If I'm not mistaken, your friend is an angel. A Seraph, judging by the count of the wings. I'm a religious man and to be completely honest, I have no idea how they did what they did... But the easy explanation would be that your friend had his wings and uropygial glands removed. I can't say anything else now until your friend has woken up and I've been able to run an actual check-up. There are zero traces of grace, of anything holy for that matter. He was turned mortal in a surgical way, something I've read about in some Norse myths." Dean lifted his hand and wiped his mouth, struggling to bottle the fear he felt. Sam had gone visibly pale and he was gaping like a fish out of water, so Dean could only guess that the news had hit him just as hard.

A moment of silence followed, Dean had to bite his tongue to swallow the urge to roll his eyes at the man and his wife when they did the “cross my heart and hope to die”. Dean reached out his hand as he introduced himself and his brother, “I’m Dean, this is my brother, Sam. The guy back there, his name is Castiel, but we call him Cas for short.” They all shook hands and then the man put a hand on the woman’s back, “I’m Hershel. This here, is my wife Anette. She pretty much did most of the work, thank God she’s a nurse, just like our youngest, Beth. These two are the brains, I’m nothing but a Christian man and a vet with a little bit of basic knowledge.”

Both Dean and Sam gulped at the same time. They shared a look, “A vet? Like... You mean a military doctor or-” Sam paled while his brother simply stood speechless, “-you mean veterinarian.” Hershel nodded before he shot a look at his wife who was struggling to hide her amusement. Dean cleared his throat as he pointed towards the door, “You, do you mind if I go check up on him? Y’know, just to make sure you haven’t attached bunny ears to him or some-” The “thing” came out in a grunt when Sam elbowed his brother a bit too harshly. Hershel gave him a nod as he stepped out of the way.

-

Mud stuck to Dean’s boots and he cringed when he saw that he had already left a print or two on the white tile floor of the infirmary. He paused to take them off by the front door and just as he was putting the left boot next to the right, he heard a voice, “Hey, don’t worry about it, I’m going to clean up in a second.”

While the girl got back to wiping the floors, Dean took his sweet ass time in front of the door that separated him from Castiel. He was afraid his heart was going to burst from anxiety. He bowed his head as he allowed his body to shake off the nerves, “Alright, stop acting like a chick.” He breathed in through his nose before he almost angrily gripped the door handle.

There was a girl that reminded him of the human version of Bambi. Her blonde curls were up in a messy ponytail with a fell braids here and there, her big blue eyes were almost like skies on a hot, summer day.

She had a kind smile on her clean, round face, such a comforting smile that Dean felt his own lips quirk up, “Don’t want to give you any more work, I’m sure we’ve already made a mess.” The girl was almost offended by Dean’s comment, “No, no! It’s okay, really! Like Daddy says, a good Christian is always there to help people.” Dean’s smile flattened a bit, but he made sure it wasn’t obvious, “Sure, I agree, I guess. Hershel is your dad, which probably makes you Beth?” The girl nodded with a soft "mm" sound as Dean awkwardly padded his way over to her in his socketed feet. He felt almost naked without the comfort of his boots but he tried to ignore it, “I’m Dean.” They shook hands, Dean was surprised by her firm grip and slightly calloused, warm hand, “Thank you for what you did to help our friend. His name is Castiel, by the way.” Beth’s smile softened, sympathy overtook her angelic features. “Oh, don’t even mention it!” She did a quick once-over and a childish mischievousness showed in her eyes, “I should probably let you get to him, would be nice for you to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. Goodnight, Dean.” Dean paused before he decided to ignore it and instead flashed her a smile, “Goodnight, Beth.”

Just as he opened the door, he stopped like a deer in headlights. Once he snapped out of it, he closed the door so he could give them some privacy. Well, himself. Because he didn’t want to break down in front of Beth.

Castiel looked so small, he almost disappeared in the bed. The machines beeped, one dripped, the scariest of them was the one that hummed as it blew air into something that was like a muzzle, hiding that beautiful face. Castiel almost didn’t look like himself, the hospital gown was way too huge on him and he looked like he was drowning in that clothing.

There was a cut over his left eyebrow, another cut that seemed to go all the way from his bottom lip went down to his chin. He was wearing a shiner, his cheekbone was a sick, dark purple with red dots all over it, the corners of the bruise were already an ugly shade of green. However Dean knew that these injuries were nothing compared to the wound on his abdomen.

Dean lowered himself on the chair by Castiel’s bedside. His panicked eyes roamed all over the room and then over Castiel. He took a shaky breath before he reached over and took Castiel’s hand in his, “Alright, Cas, you son of a bitch. No matter what happens, no matter what you did, we’re gonna figure it out. You, me and the gang. You just need to wake up. That’s all, that’s all we need from you.” He furrowed his eyebrows as his eyes finally settled on Castiel’s closed ones, “That’s all I need from you. I need you.”

Dean’s hand went up to drag his palm over his face before he ran his fingers through his hair and pulled, hoping that pain would wake him up from whatever nightmare he was in. Even if Castiel’s injuries weren’t that bad, Dean knew that the emotional damage would be hard for Castiel to handle.

Castiel was drowning in guilt as an angel and angels weren’t supposed to feel emotions. Sure, Castiel was different, almost special, but he was still an angel. Angels were God’s soldiers. There was no thing such as a military man that walked away with all of his mentality. PTSD, depression, anxiety, that was just some of it. Castiel was once God's best soldier, a commander of his garrison, not to mention how many times Castiel proved that even if he was protecting the humans on Earth, his biggest priority was to serve God. Well, it used to be. Dean saw it all happen with his own eyes, the day Jack became God was the day Castiel gave up on religion and instead chose family. However, his past was still heavy on his shoulders. Dean was one to know God’s ways weren’t fair, so he didn’t even want to know, didn’t want to think of what Castiel had to do in Chuck’s name. Not to mention the things he did after he joined Team Free Will, the things he was so guilty of and the ones that once made him consider suicide.

[tonystarkbingo]

3 Prompt Summaries

Ransom Note, Royalty and Lending a Hand - suggested by @polizwrites

@rebelmeg - what do you get when you combine elite royalty, a mob boss with a reputation for being ruthless, and a ransom note that tells them both that their child is being held hostage? well... nothing good, that's for sure, because this team-up is going to be the stuff of legends.

@deehellcat - Prince Tony is promised in marriage to King Obadiah of a neighboring realm so their lands can be merged, but marrying that creepy old man is the last thing he wants to do. he confides in his best friend and bodyguard Sir James Rhodes who pledges to lend him a hand, Rhodey pens a fake ransom note that the prince has been kidnapped then helps him sneak out of the castle in disguise.

@somesortofitalianroast - Prince Steven of Brooklyn should have known it was a bad idea when he decided to tour Philadelphia by himself. At night. By the Schuylkill. Yeah, it wasn’t his best idea. He also should have known that the Family that still [still!] ran Philadelphia would send a ransom note to his family. And he should have known that the Duchy of Brooklyn had an inside man who was happy to lend a hand.

@27dragons - Barnes doesn't generally work kidnappings -- he's a homicide detective, so if they're calling him in on a kidnapping, it's because something went terribly wrong. But when Prince Tony is kidnapped off the street in broad daylight by a crew leaving no clues whatsoever other than an encoded ransom note, Chief Fury told him to get over there and lend a hand. The problem is, the note seems to suggest that the kidnapper... is Barnes himself.

@celtic7irish - We have your prince. Four words on a ransom note with no ransom demands. James sighed. The royalty around here caused him no end of grief. He turned to his best friend and Captain of the Guard. “It’s him again. Want to lend me a hand on this one?” Steve grinned, fierce and proud. “When do we start?”

@polizwrites - When Tony disappears leaving only a couple of face cards from his favorite deck laid out on his desk, Jim thinks it’s a joke - that is until Mr. Stark gets a ransom note. And as much as he despises Tony’s dad - Jim knows he has to help.

@Magicadraconia16 - When he complained to his Captain of the Guard that he really needed a break from his princely duties - and Howard - he wasn't expecting to end up staring at a random note . . . for himself.

@rise-up-ting-ting-like-glitter - Ransom Note, Royalty, Lending a hand In sickness and in health. That was the promise. Tony hadn't meant to break it. He certainly hadn't meant to wish Bucky away. Now he's got a ransom note sent by some 'Goblin King' and ragtag troupe of labyrynth dwellers willing to lend their hands...and sometimes paws.

@jacarandabanyan - Royalty AU, Prince Anthony Stark is kidnapped! His parents are searching the realm for him, and offering high prizes to anyone who can return him to them safely. The only clue they have is a ransom note written in Tony's own handwriting, and a claim from a servant that the Prince was seen approaching a rough dubious-looking man with one arm with a request that the man 'lend him a hand' getting out of a marriage contract…

Keep reading for more!

Sunflowers, Starlight and Lollipops - suggested by @magicadraconia16

@polizwrites - Morgan was never quite sure whether her father had made up that lullaby, or if it was something that someone had sung to him as a child, but it was a tune she still hummed to herself whenever she was feeling sad or lonely.

@celtic7irish - Tony had no idea where he was, trapped on an alien planet and lost in some sort of flower field, but with no flowers he’d ever seen before. He was pretty sure those were sunflowers, but they were sparkling in the starlight, making the whole field light up like it was coated in fireflies. Checking around in his pockets, Tony sighed as he pulled out one of Morgan’s lollipops and popped it into his mouth. “Great. Let’s go find the fairies and see if they can get me back home,” he muttered, striding off across the field.

@rebelmeg - art summary - stark family lying out under the stars in a field, sunflowers bobbing over their heads, and probably holding big colorful carnival lollipops because i've got no better idea + @newnewyorker93 - that, but daytime and they're looking at clouds, one of them is definitively lollipop-shaped

@somesortofitalianroast - It was the weirdest offering Tony had ever seen on his desk. A bouquet of sunflowers, a copy of Muse’s Starlight, and a bag of Dum Dum lollipops. There wasn’t even a card to explain who it was from, or who it was too. Huh. Maybe Pepper had put the items there and forgotten about them…

@27dragons - It's late by the time Tony gets home from work -- so late it's early -- and he's exhausted beyond belief. He navigates the house by the starlight coming through the windows and hopes desperately he won't wake anyone. He just wants to sneak into bed and curl up against his spouse for whatever few hours remain of the night. But he has to stop when he gets to the living room, where a lamp has been left on, shining on a carefully-arranged bouquet of sunflowers, Tony's favorite. Stuck in between the flowers are a handful of lollipops, proving that more than one person had a hand in this. The note says, "Cleared it with Pepper, you have tomorrow off. Come to bed." Tony's family is the best. [There, managed to write it so it can be whatever ship you want.]

@jacarandabanyan - One of Tony's less-publicized hobbies is funding off-the-wall science proposals made in jest at scientific conferences. The more outrageous the project, the more willing he is to pitch in money, supplies, networking help, etc. This time, he's even agreed to do the research himself. Which is how he found himself up on the moon of an unfamiliar planet in an unfamiliar galaxy, studying botany papers and trying to find what happens when you grow sunflowers by the light of a different star than Earth's sun. As ways to avoid the press and the Board go, it's original at least. Two months into his experiment, two little girls claiming to be "daughters of Thanos" pay him a rather menacing visit. He offers them a lollipop.

@rise-up-ting-ting-like-glitter - Once a decade, under the light of the full moon, and across the three dark nights of the winter solstice, the Starlight games are hosted. Sunflower has won the last four games running, but that was before Lollipop had Bucky fighting for them. This round they're out for nectar and Bucky intends to be MVP. Of course, the prize this year was extra sweet: a kiss from Starlight prince Tony-and a chance to win his hand.

@deehellcat - the last thing Morgan remembers is her mommy screaming as the car careened off the road and crashed. she sits up and looks around but she isn't in the city anymore, instead in a grassy field. a man comes toward her, a man she recognizes, and she runs into his arms yelling DADDY. they go for a walk thru a field of tall sunflowers (he says they're his favorite) and up a hill, they lie in the grass sucking on lollipops and looking at the stars. then he kisses her & tells her to give her mommy his love, before the world around her fades and she finds herself waking up in a hospital with Pepper hovering over her.

@summerpipedream - "What's this?" The book was frayed at the edges, but had a beautiful sunflower on the cover, a lolipop sticker on the edge. "Ana's cookbook," said Jarvis. "With all your favourite recipes as a child. " Now that omega Tony is expecting, and forced into bedrest by the doctor and his worried mate Steve, Tony vows to learn how to cook, one recipe at a time.

Hallmark, magic, and brunch - @somesortofitalianroast

@somesortofitalianroast - It’s not like Tony was expecting his Sunday brunch to be something out of a Hallmark movie, but he could have done without his fairy godmother showing up and telling him that he was the sole heir to a magical kingdom and it was time for him to claim his throne.

@polizwrites - Tony knows how to conjure up exquisite dishes with the wave of a wand; but to prove he truly loves his partners, he makes them a meal from scratch. It’s not his fault he really, really likes cinnamon…

@summerpipedream - "Nat, how the hell are pancakes supposed to solve anything?" Natasha rolled her eyes and tapped on the sign behind the counter. "Pancakes solve everything." Bucky glared. "You literally just put that up." Natasha waved her wand with a flourish. "And if I did? Eat up Barnes. Your destiny is about to walk through that door." Bucky was about to complain, but then the bell to the diner rang. Tony Stark walked through the door.

@27dragons - This isn't some sappy Hallmark movie. Bucky knows that. He's not expecting some magical force to make Tony fall in love with him, really. But he's going to try, anyway. Starting with brunch.

@rebelmeg - "tony... these are the most flawless eggs i've ever seen. how did you do that?" he grinned to himself as he slid the two perfect sunny-side-up eggs onto the waiting plate. "just magic." rhodey was watching from the table, a smirk on his face. "yeah, that or the hallmark movie you watched last week that made you cry." rhodey kind figured he deserved the piece of toast that tony threw at him.

@newnewyorker93 - Unfortunately for Stephen Strange there isn't a Hallmark card that quite covers apologizing for ruining brunch with Tony when a chaotic interdimensional beastie follows him through his portal (next time he'll take the subway)

@celtic7irish - Stephen glared at the man standing next to him. “What makes you think I can just I this away?” he demanded sarcastically. Tony shrugged, trying to hide a shiver. He wasn't dressed for this weather. “I don’t know. I mean, we were just supposed to be having brunch, and now we’re in some sort of freaking Hallmark Christmas thing, and I’m pretty sure that magic caused it. Because it definitely isn’t science.” He grimaced; Tony hated admitting that things like magic even existed, but when one had the Sorcerer Supreme for a boyfriend, one learned to accept that magic was probably real. Stephen sighed, summoning a portal to the Mirror Dimension. “Well, at least our first anniversary date isn’t boring.” Tony glared.

candlelight, window, vampire - suggested by @rebelmeg

@celtic7irish - The slender figure standing in the window, his profile lit only by the flickering candlelight, turned to look at him, and James shivered. So this was Anthony, rumored vampire and lord of the castle. And James' new patron.

@somesortofitalianroast - They’d all heard the rumors: an honest-to-god Vampire had set up in a moldering castle in Transylvania and was passing himself off as Dracula. After several sets of negotiations, Steve was chosen to go and check out the rumors. He was expecting… Well, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to see the most beautiful man he’d ever seen through the window, shaving by candlelight.

@27dragons - Bucky was starting to get a handle on this whole vampire gig. He'd figured out the best ways to hide from the sun, how to hide the death-pallor of his skin with candlelight, how to mask the scent of blood on his breath with wine. What he hadn't figured out was what to do about the stunningly beautiful man who was currently climbing through his window.

@rebelmeg - it had practically been a challenge, and Tony never backed down from a challenge.  The whole world at large had managed to make vampires unsexy for pepper, but danged if he wouldn’t manage it before the night was through.  The candles by the window had been placed strategically, putting a soft golden glow over the two of them as they looked at their reflections in the glass.  

“Okay, tip your head back on my shoulder.  A little more.  Just like that.  Now look.”  tony saw it on her face when she saw them, framed in the window, his hand resting delicately on her jaw as he lowered his mouth to her throat.

“You win,” she said around a bit of a gasp, her pupils dilating as her heartbeat skyrocketed. “You as a vampire would definitely be sexy.”

With a pleased hum, tony gave her a playful nip.  Just a little one.

@summerpipedream - You have 3 new messages. Press one to playback. 

"Hey Tony, it's Steve. I'm sorry to interrupt your honeymoon with Bucky, but uh- do you remember Count Dracula lookalike last month? The guy who tried to take over the city? Well he's sent some sort of wedding gift to the tower. It's uh- hanging out the window. Hold on-" 

"Hey Tony. It's Steve again. Uh any chance you know where the spare candles are? That's stupid why would the tower have candles- never mind." 

"NEVER MIND. IT'S BAD. WE"RE RUNNING. DON'T COME BACK TO THE TOWER-" 

End of new messages

@gavilansblog - Tony stared at the candle on the windowsill. Or rather, squinted. "What were you thinking?" He demanded, slurring around his fake vampire teeth. "How is this supposed to look like a haunted house when the lights are making it bright as day in here?" Bucky winced. "How was I supposed to know they even made 1000 watt candle shaped bulbs?" (Brought to you by the conversation I was having just now with a friend whose brother made this mistake)

@Magicadraconia16 - "Leave a candle in the window," they said. A load of superstitious old nonsense, if you asked Tony. As if he's really going to leave an old-fashioned burning candle in the window where Dum-E could knock it over (although, that would give him an opportunity to use his brand new fire extinguisher...) It was just a shame that nobody mentioned that the candles weren't to scare the vampire off - they were to feed the light-vampire, and without it... well, the next nearest source in Tony's house just so happens to be his arc reactor.

@polizwrites - As a creature of the night the warm glow of the candle on the windowsill was a bittersweet reminder of the world he’d never see again. “I’m sorry, my love.” James reached out as if to snuff the flame, but Anthony stayed his hand. “No need to apologize, dear one.”

Cats, Sandwich, Chaos - suggested by @celtic7irish

@somesortofitalianroast - Very little had changed since Steve had brought Bucky in from the cold. Except the lunch meat disappeared from the fridge at a rate that not even JARVIS could explain. And that Bucky brought a cat with him. It was a small, white thing that loved Tony’s workshop and loved the bots. It caused more chaos than something that only weight five pounds should have been able to cause, and it loved his sandwiches.

@celtic7irish - Tony stared at the chaos in his living room; overturned tables, toppled lamps, and were those claw marks on his drapes? “What the-?” Tony trailed off, his voice faint, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Daddy!” Morgan squealed, her eyes wide and face innocent as she held a squirming, wriggling bundle in her arms. A moment later, a small kitten stuck its head out of the blanket, meowing pitifully. “Can we keep her?”

@27dragons - Tony likes to think he takes a lot of weird things in stride, as an Avenger. Magic? Sure. Random visitations from a god of chaos? Old hat, these days. Insane robots and/or aliens trying to take over the city? No problem. But he had to admit, even he was having trouble maintaining his calm in the face of a trio of superheroes sitting at the kitchen table, eating sandwiches and sporting cat ears. Real ones. Oh, and tails. Yeah, he's... going back to bed.

@rebelmeg - “BUCKY!”

“What?”

“Your cat stole my sandwich again!”

Bucky watched as alpine skidded around the corner and dove under the couch, tony’s beloved 3-bacon sandwich clamped tight in his jaws.

“Yup.  he sure did.  Why do you keep leaving it out?”

“IT WAS IN MY HAND!”

Just another tuesday...

[darkmindsotome]

Idiot’s Choice

Fandom: MLQC

Pairing: Victor Lee x Mc

Word count: 3,101

Warning: very slight spoilers on some early phone calls, fluff with a little angst.

Written by: darkmindsotome

A/N: The idea for this came to me after running back through the producer’s birthday messages on the game from my last birthday. A soft CEO.

Darkmindsotome Masterlist 

---

Idiot’s Choice

He checked his calendar again. The screen on his computer refreshed for the eighth time that hour showing no changes. There was a childish digital sticker on today’s date with no explanation attached to it. Not that he needed any details, he knew why he had placed that sticker there.

The cutesy cartoon squirrel looked like her, well to him it did. He thought back on a dumb conversation they had had a while ago when she was rambling on about how he resembled a cat in her eyes. Despite himself, he still smiled when he heard her ask why he thought of her as a squirrel only to be lost for words at his explanation.

Today was the day. He had taken it upon himself to look at her personnel profile for work. Her company had this thing for making an office blog that ran alongside normal productions for Miracle Finder. He was told it was a new trend among companies, a peek behind the scenes. Small snippets of office banter and candid pictures had popped up revealing a workspace quite unlike any you would find in LFG. He frowned briefly wondering how you were supposed to work efficiently in such chaos before moving on to pull up the event pages.

A picture of a giant ice cream cake in the shape of something that he supposed was a kind of animal filled his screen. Text laid out in sloppy icing saying “Happy Birthday Boss!” was clearly visible. He cross-checked the date with the small personnel file in his hand that contained his contract with her. Yes, the date matched so now all he had to do was wait.

Waiting sounded like the easiest part of his whole plan. In fact, it was excruciatingly painful. His eyes fell on the pile of gifts he had selected and had wrapped. What he thought was a small pile in fact covered most of the top of a table in his office.

The different shaped boxes ranging from palm-sized to something closer to a shoebox were arranged so each could be seen. The complimentary wrapping paper with corresponding ribbons and bows made it look like an upmarket window display.

Time was a constant factor he was always aware of. The steady tick tick tick from the hands of the clock sounded mocking as he tried to focus on some work. Where was she? She wouldn’t forget about today, would she? No… maybe she’s thinking of seeing someone else today and not me? The idea, as brief as it was, hurt to even consider.

He had seen her posts on Moments where others had happily commented back. He had read her words smiling only to see the reply from someone else wipe it from his face. She was free to have friends and naturally that would include any gender. It didn’t stop his mind from wandering a petty path of jealousy when he saw the happy insider jokes and promises to meet up and try something new together when it was directed at another man.

He chastised himself for getting so worked up over something so childish. He knew what she was like when he fell for her. Oblivious, naïve, perhaps lacking in experience would have been a kinder way of thinking about it. What he felt to be a fairly obvious display of his intentions had repeatedly taken a turn he had not predicted.

“…Dummy.” His softly spoken term of endearment tumbled from smiling lips as he turned the page on another document. Using his pen to mark typos and underline sections for correction.

Time marched on and eventually, the entire morning had passed him by without the cheerful voice he wished to here filling his office. He thought back about a conversation they had where she had asked him what he did for his birthdays only to look upset at his reply of ‘nothing special’.

Birthdays to him were another day. They held some significance as a child, as they did to all children. Even back then though they had still felt more like a formality for him. His father was always working hard, his mother… actually that might have been the last time he had what you would call a very happy birthday. He shook his head chasing away the maudlin thoughts and refocused.

Today was her birthday it wasn’t about him at all. She had such a sad look on her face when he spoke of his own that he really did have to wonder how someone with such a kind heart had remained so pure in this world. She had known pain and loss yet she still moved forward like a blinding light in the darkness. The strength she showed, that self-motivating determination was what had made him take a second chance on an otherwise fruitless business arrangement.

She had a fire, she had a spark that reached out and touched others. She had so much potential if she only applied herself a little more to the groundwork. He guided her and watched her grow. He drove past her office on his way home frowning at the lights remaining on so late at night. He wanted her to grow but he didn’t expect her to work herself to exhaustion. He reminded her she could ask for help, ask him. Am I really so unreliable? Unapproachable?

The time she spent on his own birthday preparations had been a shock. The flowers, balloons other kitschy decorations that were completely her and yet it had touched him deeply that she had tried so hard on his behalf to prepare something he would like. He didn’t tell her that all he needed was to have her there with him. All he needed was to hear her say the words “Happy Birthday Victor!” in her cheerful voice and he would have been just as blown away.

The pile of gifts on the table caught his eye again. Knowing her she would try to refuse taking them, but he wished for her to have all of them and more should her heart desire it. Where was she?

Slipping his phone from him jacket he checked for any notifications even though he had turned the volume on the device all the way up to maximum and knew he couldn’t have missed a thing. He caught his own reflection in the glass of his window. The cool, calm man he usually saw was absent from view.

In all these years nothing had rattled him to the core in such an obvious manner. He could count the few times something had on one hand. This was different. Ever since their very first meeting, it felt like there was a lingering memory attached to her.

He listened to her talk and babble on about inane topics and found himself enthralled. When she was struggling, he found himself practically running to her aid. She was like an open book, so full of life and connected to all kinds of emotions. She was nothing like the other people he had met and here was the proof. He was waiting for her.    

The knocking on his door drew him back to himself. He calmed his nerves and removed all signs of his previous anxieties from his overactive mind. In all honesty, he could laugh. How many times did he call her and her childish imagination out when it took hold of her?

“Victor it’s me.” Of course, it was.

“Come in.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall and straightened his posture. The door opened as he fixed his stoic mask in place resisting the desire to look at her. His eyes wavered on the document in his hand tracing the lines of text there without registering any of them.

“I’m sorry it took a while to get here. I finished the report and my printer was broken at home so I have to go to the office.”

A thin office binder appeared in his view. His eyes followed its high gloss cover to the delicate manicured fingers holding it. The sun from the window behind him catching on her jewellery as he looked up into her eyes. She looked different. It wasn’t the passage of time or his own mind playing tricks.

She had adjusted her makeup and styled her hair differently. She wasn’t meant to be working at all today but she had managed to appear before him dressed as if she had just walked in from a presentation. Her cream blouse was tucked into a form-fitting pencil skirt. Even the blazer she had chosen seemed so alien to him.

“Is something wrong? I didn’t use the wrong type of binder or something did I?” Her enquiry made him realise he had been staring.

“No, it’s fine.” He took another look at the document she had handed him before adding it to the pile on his desk and turning his critical eye back to her. “You got dressed up like that to drop off a report? You are aware there is a difference between professionalism and amateur dramatic performances?”

She fidgeted in place those little wheels turning in her mind just behind those clear eyes. His caustic words had a way of provoking a response. Sometimes he did it on purpose but there were other times such as now when they simply seemed to leak from him. A precise and cutting verbal display of word vomit even he, on occasion, hated with a passion.

The opinions of others never usually affected him. If they were hurt in some way by his critical reviews of their work and efforts, he saw it more as a ‘prove me wrong’ installation of inspiration. They had a choice, double down and get it done or walk away. It was a hard, cut-throat approach to business that had seen him a long way.

Meeting her had changed that. She shook him to his core. Had him questioning his managerial style and way of interacting in general. They had not known each other long at all but he already knew things had changed. For better or worse this was now something he was sure he didn’t want to lose.

Those little wheels kept turning in her mind. His harsh words however many he spoke in jest or just to get a rise out of her. He always felt a pinch in his chest as he waited for her reaction. He never wanted to hurt her.

“Say what you like I have already decided that nothing you say to me today is going to get to me.” Her childish bravado made him scoff.

“Oh really? I’m so pleased you found a way of keeping yourself happy. However, misguided the ideas to do so maybe.”

She gave him the most adorable glare before looking around the room and realising rather comically there was a stack of gifts behind her.

“What’s all this your fan – mail?” It was clear from her voice she had been thrown by the cheerful collection of wrapping paper trussed up with all the ribbons and bows.

“A return gift,” He said rising from behind his desk to stand just behind her. Leaning close enough the scent of her shampoo to fill his nose. “for a Dummy.”

“Return gift?” She spun around the unbridled curiosity in her eyes sparkling.

“Have you forgotten your own birthday?” He teased.

“Of course I haven’t. I’m just a little surprised you would know my birthday. Besides people don’t give gifts expecting anything in return.” She looked back at the collection of gifts without moving to take one. He was at least thankful for her distracted attention because she had managed to draw out something like shyness from him.

“Don’t go getting so excited I only picked up a few things and had them delivered here for you.” He cleared his throat and moved back to his desk. Choosing to perch on the edge of it rather than sit behind it.

“A few things this looks like half a store. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” Now she was at least taking a closer look at them all. Her hands reached out with fingers showing a slight shake as she brushed them over a coral pink ribbon.

“You think selecting a few things like this is trouble? I just happened to see some items that looked like the kind of childish knickknacks you enjoy and…”

“So, you were thinking of me?” She stopped investigating the ribbons and turned to him with a disarming smile.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I was just acquiring some items in passing.” He covered for his floundering heart as she continued to smile at him. Honestly, what are you thinking looking at me like that?

“Whilst thinking of me?” Her persistence only added another layer to his own wonder at her line of questioning.

He knew she was right outside of work usually people didn’t gift a gift expecting one in return that was the whole nature of gift-giving at its core. You gave a gift as a gift without a desire for personal gain entering into the equation.

“All I thought was there was a certain Dummy who would like them. If you don’t want them you don’t have to have them.”

The smile on her face faltered at his words but it wasn’t in a way that he recognised as upset with him. Her eyes became downcast, the energy she showed so confidently when entering his office looked as if it were draining out of her.

There was something hidden in that curious look she was giving him. Concealed under the surface of her words and questions. He knew what he wanted it to be but he also felt that it was the wrong answer. How can such a simple mind confound me like this?

“What’s wrong?” He asked. His worry affecting the tone of his voice, making it softer.

“Nothing just… Ever since Dad. I’ve been on my own you know? The guys at the office try to do things and it's great but…” She cut her explanations short as if she were trying to trim off the pain from memory. He knew all to well that it didn’t work like that.

“… no substitution.” His voice was almost a whisper. His own protected memories answering her own, mirroring the loss.

“What?” Her eyes returned to him. Her smile was gone and it was like someone had dimmed all light in the world.

“I’m the same with my—Well we have similar thoughts on the subject.” He didn’t speak about his past. He had no reason too. It was private his life was of no concern of others but when it came to her, he wanted to tell her. They had shared so many things in such a short time it was strange to think that they hadn’t simply always just been together.

“Thank you.” Her smile crept back, tugging gently on the corners of her mouth.

“If you want to thank me you could pick a gift.” He joked hoping to get that smile to beam brighter.

“Oh! I couldn’t there are so many and I don’t know prices on them or anything. Knowing you they are all really expensive and—”

“Price isn’t important. Whatever I give to you is because I wish you to have it. Pick a gift.” He cut her off as she rambled. Why did everything come back to money? Accept the gift already. Accept… Even in his own mind, he couldn’t voice his own desires.

“… Y-you.” Her eyes flew open along with her mouth. She seemed completely stunned.

“Excuse me?” Did I say something that was truly that shocking?

“If you want me to pick a gift. I chose to have one that is truly and completely one that is so expensive no amount of money could hope to cover it.” She seemed to be back to her usual self or at least the playful childish one he had grown to love. With a sheepish smile that only added to her charm, she planted both of her feet firmly in front of him like she was awaiting a firing squad. “I chose you. Will you be my gift?”

Her request had his own mind grind to a screeching halt. Nothing could have prepared him for that question. Even if he had in a moment of lucid daydreaming thought that she might for a moment suggest such a notion he still had no control over himself.

“Do you have any idea what you are asking me?” His shocked face was reflected in her eyes that were searching him, wondering what his reply would be.

“I just want to spend some time with you on my birthday. Eat a meal, hang out maybe go watch a movie. Is that so wrong?” Her voice grew quieter the more she spoke. Withdrawing into herself fear of rejection looming over her head as he continued to look in awe at the woman in front of him.

*Sigh* She really has no idea of what she does to me, does she?

“No not wrong at all. It is very you.” He drew her to him and gave her a hug. She felt stiff in his arms by the sudden change in proximity but quickly relaxed against his chest. “You got bolder.” His words brushed over the top of her head causing her to giggle at the way it tickled.

“I’m allowed to at least for one day out of the year.” She squeezed him back.

“Let me finish up here and I’ll meet you at reception.” He withdrew from her sharply not trusting himself any further without first taking a moment to compose himself.

“Ok!” She happily bounced out of his office the door clicking shut behind her completely unaware of how shaken she had left him.

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his black suit jacket. Remembering those two small arms of hers putting in as much effort as she could to show him how much she appreciated him agreeing. We don’t give a gift to receive one in return but what would you say if I told you this right here is one of the best return gifts I’ve ever received?

He delved into the pocket and pulled out the key to his car as his eyes looked once more at the pile of unclaimed gifts.

“You could have had any of these and this is what you choose?... Idiot.”

---

[hualianisms]

YOUR MOST DEVOTED BELIEVER: a hualian playlist

(books 2, 4, the 800 year separation) (books 1, 3, 5 here)

listen here

track annotations under the cut:

someone to stay - vancouver sleep clinic

You were alone, left out in the cold/Clinging to the ruin of your broken home/Too lost and hurting to carry your load/We all need someone to hold [...] Hear you, falling and lonely, cry out: / Will you fix me up? Will you show me hope?

an act of kindness - bastille

An act of kindness/Is what you show to me [...] It holds me 'till I ache/Overflow and start to break [...] But you warm me to my core and you left me wanting more

carry you - ruelle & fleurie

I know it hurts/It's hard to breathe sometimes/These nights are long/You've lost the will to fight/Is anybody out there?/Can you lead me to the light/Is anybody out there?/Tell me it'll all be alright/You are not alone/I've been here the whole time singing you a song/I will carry you, I will carry you

saturn - sleeping at last

With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite/How rare and beautiful it is, to even exist/I couldn't help but ask/For you to say it all again/I tried to write it down/But I could never find a pen  

die young - sylvan esso

I had it all planned out before you met me/Was gonna leave early and so swiftly/People would weep, "How tragic, so early"/I was gonna die young/Now I gotta wait for you, honey/I was a firecracker, baby, with somethin' to prove/Now I gotta contend with the living blues

strawberry blond - mitski

All I need, darling/Is a life in your shape/I picture it, soft/And I ache

花雨落 - xun (translation)

Flowers fall into the city as you look back/Horse's hoofs are far away from your gentleness/Who is still outside the building/Empty rain

do it for her - steven universe

You do it for him/And you would do it again [...] What they don't know/Is your real advantage/When you live for someone/You're prepared to die [...] Deep down I know/That I'm just a human/But I know that I can draw my sword and fight/With my short existence/I can make a difference/I can be there for him/I can be his knight/I can do it for him)

small hands - radical face

If you need come build your home in me/And you know I won't complain/And I can't fix what was done to you/But I'll shield you from the rain/And if the walls they build become too high/Then step up on my back and climb [...] And though my hands are much too small to hold you up/I will be there to pick up the pieces

angels - the xx

If someone believed me/They would be/As in love with you as I am [..] And with words unspoken/A silent devotion

the last of the real ones - fall out boy

I was just an only child of the universe/And then I found you/You are the sun and I am just the planets/Spinning around you [...] I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you/But not as much as I do [...] I will shield you from the waves/If they find you/I will protect you

alive - gabrielle aplin

When your kingdom falls/And your family fades/But it wasn't your fault/It was never your fault [...] All your worries will escape through the door/And you'll wake up all alone on the floor/It's not too late/Just rely on me now

everything i wanted - billie eilish

As long as I'm here/No one can hurt you/Don't wanna lie here/But you can learn to/If I could change/The way that you see yourself/You wouldn't wonder why you hear/"They don't deserve you"

take me to church - hozier

The only heaven I'll be sent to/Is when I'm alone with you [...] Take me to church/I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife/Offer me that deathless death/Good God, let me give you my life

sunlight - hozier

A soul that’s born in cold and rain/Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight/And at last can grant a name/To a buried and a burning flame/As love and its decisive pain [...] Know that I would gladly be/The Icarus to your certainty/Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight/Strap the wing to me/Death trap clad happily/With wax melted, I’d meet the sea

light - sleeping at last 

With every heartbeat I have left/I will defend your every breath/And I'll do better/Сause you are loved/You are loved more than you know/I hereby pledge all of my days/To prove it so

box of stones - benjamin francis leftwich

I am young, and I am yours/I am free, but I am flawed/I am here and your heart/I was here from the start

you’re the only good thing in my life - cigarettes after sex

Everything is wrong, but it's alright /You're the only good thing in my life

dirge - perfume genius   ((ch 190))

Boys that held him dear,/Do your weeping now,/All you loved of him lies here,/Do your weeping now.

shrike - hozier

I couldn't utter my love when it counted/Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now/And I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted/Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now [...] Remember me love when I'm reborn/As the shrike to your sharp/And glorious thorn

NFWMB - hozier    ((wu ming))

If I was born as a blackthorn tree/I'd wanna be felled by you/Held by you/Fuel the pyre of your enemies/Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames?/Ain't it the life you, your lighting of the blaze?/Ain't it a waste they'd watch the throwing of the shade?/Ain't you my baby, ain't you my babe?

gone, gone, gone - phillip phillips

And I would do it for you, for you/Baby I'm not moving on/I’ll love you long after you're gone

(during the 800 year separation)

south london forever - florence + the machine

And everything I ever did/Was just another way to scream your name/Over and over and over and over again/Over and over and over and over again

hanahaki (bloom) by molly ofgeography

A braid of love and longing in the taste of rose and pine / A fatal growth belonging to the want you couldn't hide / Bloom / I don't believe in much but I believe in you

staring at the sun - MIKA

Here I stand, staring at the sun/Distant land, staring at the sun/You're not there, but we share the same one/Miles apart, staring at the sun/Distant town, staring at the sun/One thing's true just like you/There's only one

always - francois klark

Cause you are/Always in my mind/Always in my heart/Always the one that waits for me in my dreams/You are always the one I long for/Always the one I feel by my side even though you’re gone/Cause you are my always

finding you - kesha

after this life, I'll find you in the next/So when I say "forever, " it's the goddamn truth/I'll keep finding, finding you/I'm gonna search for your love/Right through Hell and Heaven/Millions of years yet to come/And in all dimensions

遇见 - stefanie sun (translation)

There is a person waiting in the future./To the left, to the right, to the front I look./How many corners must love turns before it arrives?/Who will I meet, what are we going to say?/The person I’m waiting for, how far away is he in the future?

[lovelylogans]

cohabit

or: five times someone has mentioned that virgil has, effectively, moved in with patton, one time virgil notices, and what virgil does about that.

part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, mentions of something that could be a panic attack, allusions to sex (lying in a bed together partially unclothed, that’s as graphic as it gets), miscommunication, deceit mention, let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 10,869

notes: me, looking at the tentative, private schedule i made for this series and then at the date i’m posting this: whoops. whoops. wHOOPS—

virgil’s facing a dilemma.

see, he’s got a tray in his hands. and usually, he’s pretty good at carrying a tray one-handed, but this one’s different than the one he’s used to, so the way the weight distributes is strange, and he really doesn’t wanna risk swapping to one handed. but, if he doesn’t swap to one-handed, he’s going to have to get pretty creative right now, and—oh, wait, he can get creative. that’s pretty easy.

virgil shuffles a little, to be sure he doesn’t accidentally knock anything over, and bends over slowly to press a kiss to patton’s curls, just barely visible over the covers.

“good morning,” he murmurs, and patton makes a grumbling noise, looking close to hiding under the blankets until the sun actually rises. virgil kisses him again, on the forehead, this time, and patton peeks out from under the blankets, squinting at virgil blearily.

“morning, sunshine,” virgil teases. “um—happy anniversary.”

patton visibly softens, some of the inherent “awake ugh why” grouchiness fading from his eyes. “honey,” he says softly, and squirms a little so he can sit up some.

“here, let me—hold your hands out, just in case?” virgil says, and patton does, obligingly. virgil does keep his hands on the tray until he knows patton’s got it steady, though—over the past seventeen years generally, and the past year especially he’s seen how clumsy a just-woken-up, pre-caffeinated patton can be.

patton settles the tray on his lap, and smiles up at virgil—even now, it’s still kind of weird to see patton without his glasses on, but virgil still loves that smile, that face, glasses or no glasses.

“you made me breakfast in bed?” patton asks, grinning.

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean—i wanted to do something since we’re both working up until dinner tonight, so, i mean—”

patton’s peering at the plate—the pancakes, the bacon, the fresh fruit, the mug of hot cocoa/coffee with a carafe for refilling beside it—and virgil keeps going, because, well.

“—so i just figured i could, you know. make you breakfast. like usual. it’s, um, i know it’s not a huge thing, i just—“

“virgil,” patton says, beaming, and virgil ducks his head. “thank you.”

“it’s—well, you’re welcome,” virgil says, “but i, um, i know it’s not a lot, and—”

“i love it,” patton says, and, as if to prove his point, he picks up his mug of hot cocoa/coffee and takes a sip. 

“i—well, i mean, thanks, but, um, it’s—i mean, it’s only a little outside of the ordinary, it’s not really anything special—”

“the pancakes are in the shape of hearts,” patton says—the same mushy, sappy tone he uses whenever he sees a really cute kitten or a baby or something.

“i—well, i mean, yeah, it’s not really hard, you just put the batter in a bottle and—”

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i know we don’t usually kiss when one of us has got death breath,” patton says. “but i really wanna kiss you right now.”

virgil considers this. he says, “take a drink of hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton, grinning, takes a big gulp, before setting the mug aside and puckering his lips in a blatant invitation for a kiss. virgil smiles at him, unable to help himself, and leans forward to press his lips against patton’s.

by now, kissing patton is familiar—something that a year, a week, and a day ago would have been a secret daydream of his, something that couldn’t have possibly been real—he’d always thought that he’d be pining from afar, that he’d always be waiting, that this would never actually happen.

and now—a year, a week, and a day later—it’s familiar, true, but it’s no less exciting, kissing patton. virgil’s always been a fan of routine, of things being normal, and honestly, just the fact that kissing patton is normal now is still enough to make his heart race. 

patton’s lips curve up—virgil can feel it—and patton flops back against the pillows again, smiling up at him.

“i’ve never really had breakfast in bed before, you know,” patton says cheerfully, as virgil goes over to the closet, digging out one of his purple flannels from where they’re nestled between patton’s sweaters, and tossing it on over his black t-shirt. “i mean, logan did for father’s day, when he was about five or six, but he made me two slices of toast and then brought an entire jar of crofter’s and mostly used it as an excuse to try and eat the whole thing.”

“well, i’m happy i did this, then,” virgil says decisively, crosses back to the bed, and pushes some of patton’s sleep-mussed hair out of his face. he kisses him on the forehead again. “do you need anything else?”

“nope,” patton says, popping the p.

“all right,” virgil says. “i’m going to work, then. i know you’ve got that meeting with the people from that writer convention thing, so it’ll probably be sookie’s for lunch, but—”

“dinner,” patton says, smiling. 

“meet back at home at six, yeah?” virgil says absently, straightening his collar.

patton’s smile grows even bigger—virgil isn’t really sure why, but he sure isn’t complaining.

“yeah,” patton says, soft, and almost shy, and virgil can’t resist going back for another kiss before he goes to work.

“looking forward to it,” he murmurs against patton’s lips, and patton splays his hand on virgil’s cheek, moving back enough so that virgil can see his eyes—bright, excited, happy.

“me too.”

...

“which one?”

virgil and logan both glance up—virgil, from tying his shoes, logan, from his latest copies of the courant and the franklin that he’s marking up with a red pen—and virgil’s jaw drops, just a little.

patton looks spectacular. he’s in a tailored black suit, in a crisp white shirt, with an open waistcoat, as he’s holding up two ties for inspection—a tie, in that sky blue color that’s always been his favorite, and a navy-and-pink patterned bowtie.

“patton,” virgil begins, voice soft.

“do not get mushy around me, it’s bad enough that i had to deal with him going all lovesick over breakfast,” logan says without looking up, and patton makes a face at logan. virgil presses his lips together to hide his smile.

there’s a stretch of silence. logan sighs loudly, as if truly impressing upon them how much of his time they’re taking up, and patton helpfully clears his throat.

“so?” he says, and logan sighs again. he gives the options a cursory glance. 

“tie.”

patton grins, setting the bowtie on the table before he flips up his collar and slides the tie into place, carefully measuring the ends before he starts to tie it. 

“okay, so,” patton says, distracted slightly by his tie. virgil’s only a little disappointed that he’s talking while he does, because sometimes when patton ties a tie he pokes his tongue out a little in concentration, and it’s very adorable. “i put a magnet over a twenty on the fridge, and i want evidence that you spent it on food, and that you took a break to eat that food. i know finals are coming up, but that doesn’t mean you have to power through dinner, you can take forty-five minutes to let your brain breathe a little. um, takeout menus are in the drawer, we’ll be home arooound... virgil, what time are we gonna be back?”

“i dunno, nine, maybe?” virgil guesses. “ten at latest?”

“right, yeah,” patton says, straightening the tie and tweaking the knot, one last time. “do you want anything from the restaurant, too? we can bring home dessert.”

“sure,” logan says absently, attention already reabsorbed by the papers—his english books and a stack of post-its looking like the next in line for his studying focus.

“remember to take that break,” patton says, semi-sternly, before making sure that he’s got his wallet and the keys. 

“right,” logan says, frowning thoughtfully at a page before digging out his battered, post-it-noted, scrawled-over copy of the ap style guide.

“logan, what did i say?” patton says.

“remember to take a break,” logan grumbles.

“good,” patton says, and crosses the room to kiss logan on the head. logan makes a noise of complaint. “we’ll be back later.”

“no sneak coffee,” virgil adds, as patton crosses the room. virgil automatically offers patton his arm, and patton, grinning, takes it. “and try to get one vegetable with dinner, okay?”

logan hums and waves a hand at them dismissively. virgil takes that as their cue to go—patton darts ahead to open the door for virgil with a little flourish.

“bye, logan!” patton calls. “eight!”

“sixteen,” floats in from the living room, and patton shuts the door, locking it behind them, before taking virgil’s arm again.

"he’s gonna study through dinner, isn’t he?” patton says.

"probably,” virgil says. “i mean, we can text him a reminder, or something.”

patton sighs a little, before opening the car door for virgil, too. virgil slides into the driver’s seat, immediately turning the car on—the sooner they can get the heat going, the better—and patton hops into the passenger’s seat, slamming the car door and shivering exaggeratedly.

“it’s not as snowy as last winter,” patton says, “but jeez, is it cold.”

“i know,” virgil agrees. “here, gimme your hands.”

"i’ll hand ‘em over,” patton jokes, and virgil laughs.

patton and virgil swap off on the whole ‘who-has-cold-appendages-because-of-our-terrible-circulation’ thing. on any given night, one of them, if not both of them, will attempt to press their icy feet into each other’s calves to try and warm up, or slip frigid fingers under shirts. it gets even worse in the winter—the pair of them always wrapped up in blankets and snuggled all night, like a burrito that would leave at least one of them sweaty and overheated at some point—so this is routine by now, too.

virgil wraps up patton’s hands in both of his, and patton sighs softly, wiggling his fingers just a little. patton’s hands aren’t the coldest they’ve ever been, but they sure aren’t a normal temperature, either—and virgil will happily let patton leech his body heat if it makes him feel more comfortable.

“so,” virgil says. “how was work?”

patton makes a face. “i got called in for a ‘can-i-speak-to-your-manager’ today.”

virgil groans sympathetically—ugh, the worst. the people of sideshire tend to recognize the patterns of pricing and accept them (well, except for taylor) but the main problem was when visitors came to town, and since it was so close to the holidays, it meant more and more talk-to-the-manager moments.

“something about a discount, i guess?” patton says, and the corner of his mouth turns down. “even though we’d already offered him the one we’ve got, and he kept going on and on and on about price matching, or something—”

“even though you don’t do that?”

“right,” patton says emphatically. “i mean, as far as the only inn in town goes, and even then, we’re pretty cheap considering the relative area, it was just. ugh. ya know?”

“i know,” virgil says, and squeezes his hands. “sorry about that.”

“oh, it turned out okay,” patton says. “eventually i asked him to pull up the price he wanted us to match and proved my point, but it was just... ugh. seeing his face when he realized our price was lower in the first place was pretty funny, though. enough to make up for it. he left without a word after that.”

“good,” virgil murmurs, and kisses the tips of patton’s fingers. “warmed up?”

“uh-huh,” patton says, and grins at him. “thanks.”

virgil smiles back, regretfully releases patton’s hands, and starts to drive.

patton keeps talking as they drive, and park, and walk out of the car and into the restaurant, about the lull between the two influxes of holiday visitors, and about sookie, and michel. 

it’s a fancy, richard-and-emily-recommended place. when he and patton had mentioned it was part of their plans in the coming couple of weeks to go out to dinner for their anniversary, emily and richard had both fallen over themselves trying to recommend somewhere, even though they hadn’t really asked for a place to go. virgil figures it’s a good sign that they want virgil and patton’s anniversary to go well, so they’ve taken their advice, and made a reservation, and promised to tell emily and richard what they thought of the place the next time they’re all at dinner.

virgil’s still chuckling to himself a little, about a story about sookie going moony-eyed over some good persimmons, when they walk into the restaurant, and he immediately cuts himself off.

well, he isn’t really sure what he’d expected when this place is endorsed by the elder sanders’. it’s a place that’s low-lit, each table offered a smidgen more illumination by a candle atop the pristine white tablecloths. the customers are all in finery that makes virgil a bit grateful that he’d decided to bust out his suit for this. waiters sweep along at a coordinated speed that virgil, practiced in the profession, envies a little bit. it’s all a bit eerily quiet under the live piano music.

“hi,” patton says to the host, polite and soft, “reservation for sanders?”

he checks the guestbook, nods, and says, “table or two?”

“yes,” and the host gathers up menus in his arms.

“right this way, gentlemen.”

they sit at the table. patton shifts, just a little bit, and they both thank the waiter when he drops off menus.

menus that are, um.... well. well, virgil’s in the food industry, so it’s not like he’s the world’s biggest expert on food, but he knows a pretty fair amount, really.

what he does not know, however, is french. after a few minutes, during which a patton-selected (virgil wouldn’t be shocked if it was also, somehow, an emily-selected) bottle of wine arrives at the table, he doesn’t magically absorb the language, either.

he leans across the table, and, in a whisper, asks, “what the fuck is poitevin?”

patton giggles, attracting Looks from the rest of the near-silent diners around them, and immediately quiets down. virgil glowers in their direction.

“no idea,” patton whispers, and consults the menu. “i mean, it’s paired with a baguette, right? baguettes are good.”

“you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?” virgil asks in the same whisper.

“not a bit,” patton says in a cheerful undertone.

virgil grimaces, just a little. “great. how many dirty looks am i gonna get if i get out my phone and try to translate this?”

“if you don’t, i will,” patton says, and so they dig out their phones together.

virgil pulls a face when he manages to translate the first item on the menu.

“you’ll hate the, um... rouille de seiche? it’s got squid.”

“oh, ick, thanks for the heads up,” patton murmurs back. “um, the ratatouille’s gotta be good, right? disney wouldn’t lie to us.”

virgil snorts, and then hunches his shoulders when he sees someone swivel in his direction, as if to ask who would dare make such an undignified noise in a place of such high repute. 

patton scowls fiercely in their direction, until they turn away from their table, and then looks around the restaurant and lowers his voice.

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i’ll leave enough money on the table plus a tip if you can figure out the fastest and least noticeable way for us to escape right now.”

virgil grins, a little. “enough money?”

“well, even if this place full of people who seem to hate the sound of happiness, the wine’s pretty good,” patton admits, and virgil’s grin widens.

“yeah, all right,” he says. “we’ll finish off these glasses and while we’re doing that—” he leans forward to whisper. “i’ll figure out a way for us ditch.”

patton beams at him.

a few minutes spent observing the waiters, looking covertly around the room, and two hastily-gulped glasses of wine later, patton dug out his wallet and casually set enough money to cover the wine on his plate, visible to their waiter. virgil stands, buttoning his jacket, and patton snatches the bottle of wine, hiding it, before blinking up at virgil with big, innocent eyes, as if the very obvious shape of a wine bottle wasn’t bulging from under his jacket.

virgil’s lip twitches, and patton’s grin grows bigger, which makes virgil smile, and patton grabs virgil’s hand with his free one and virgil tugs him along and they both start giggling before they’re even halfway close to the door that virgil’s spied in the corner, virgil snickering and pulling patton along behind him as they basically end up giving up any semblance of being proper, rigid adults they’ve got and make a run for it.

they securely lock themselves in the car, patton wheezing out “drive drive drive!” between his laughs as he fumblingly stashes the wine somewhere safe. virgil, snickering all the while, manages it—they end up a block away before he pulls into a mostly empty parking lot for some pharmacy.

"oh, my god, i can’t believe we did that,” patton says, and bursts into giggles. “oh, my god, imelda morton was there, she’s gonna tattle to mom so fast, and—”

patton can’t keep talking from all the sniggering, and virgil laughs with him. 

“disney wouldn’t lie to us!” virgil mimicks patton, who shrieks with delight even as he swats teasingly at virgil’s arm.

“you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?” patton teases right back. “you know full well i’m a high school dropout!”

“oh my god, i can’t believe we actually thought somewhere with a name neither of us could really pronounce would be somewhere we’d actually like,” virgil says. 

patton flops back against his seat, still grinning, and turns his head to look at virgil, eyes twinkling and smiling brightly and curls tousled up, even though he’d tried to get them in order in anticipation of going somewhere fancy, and virgil—

virgil catches patton’s hand, and presses his lips to it, smiling. god, he’s so stupidly in love, he’s so thankful, he’s so—

“what’s that face?” patton asks softly.

“m’happy, is all,” virgil mumbles against patton’s hand. patton wiggles his fingers, and virgil lets go of it. patton’s palm rests against his cheek, and virgil leans into it—it feels like his heart will explode from how absurdly besotted he is. “i’m just—i’m just really happy.”

patton’s face softens, and he smiles at virgil—a gentle, soft, smile that’s so emotionally expressive that it kind of makes virgil want to cry, a little—and leans forward a little. the distant lights of the street lamps and the glow of the dashboard play prettily off the curves of his face, catching a curl here, lighting up his eyes there. he’s so beautiful, so wonderful, and virgil is so lucky.

“me too,” patton whispers. “i’m happy, too. and i’m happy that you’re happy, and i’m happy that we’re happy, and can i just kiss you now?”

virgil nods so energetically that his hair flops into his eyes, and patton giggles—virgil loves his laugh, he loves it—before patton pushes his hair back into place, and leans forward.

patton tastes like wine, tart and fruity, and his lips are warm and soft and a little bit wet, like he’d just snuck a swig of wine, or licked his lips. patton exhales softly, and virgil’s lips part easily. he shivers, just slightly, just a little, when patton’s tongue makes a very welcome appearance.

“love you,” patton sighs, “love you, love you—”

“love you too,” virgil murmurs, and kisses him once more, almost chaste, before he pulls back. even as close as they are, and how dark their surroundings are, he can still see that patton pouts, just a little.

“so,” virgil says. “now that we’ve run away from our main plan from our anniversary, do we have any other ideas?”

“other than making out in the back of the car like teenagers?” patton quips.

“i’ve never made out with someone in the back of a car,” virgil admits.

“you what,” patton says, incredulous. “that’s, like, a formative romantic experience!”

“i just—!” virgil says. “i never really—i mean, i didn’t really date much when i was a teenager, so by the time i started, you know, dating-dating, i had my own apartment, and—”

“unbelievable,” patton says. “next you’re going to tell me that you’ve never played spin-the-bottle.”

“nope,” virgil says.

“what?!” patton demands.

“sorry my life isn’t a corny teen movie,” virgil says.

“but you had a briefly rebellious phase, i know you did!” patton says. “you never made out in the back of the car?! never drunkenly played spin the bottle?!”

“my teenage rebellious phase was nothing like your teenage rebellious phase,” virgil says. “we, you know. spray painted walls and listened to loud emo music and threw rocks at cars, stuff like that.”

“well, i know the later half of your teenage years weren’t like mine,” patton jokes. “no baby, after all.”

“nah, no kid,” virgil says. “other than the two i’ve somehow managed to adopt.”

patton beams at him, before he claps his hands, once. “okay, so, new plan. i see there’s a pizza place over there. we’ll go and get a carryout order, plus two plastic glasses, and park at the car somewhere close to home so we won’t be drinking and driving, and then we eat and drink our fancy french wine and i introduce you to the rite of passage that is making out in the back of a car. sound good?”

honestly, patton could have said anything—we’re going to find the nearest river and jump in, even though it’s below freezing, or we’re going to go back and deep-clean the whole house, actually—and virgil would have been absolutely down to do it, as long as he was with patton.

“sounds perfect,” virgil says honestly.

so they go in and order a pizza for them to split, and another pizza, a dozen cupcakes (”we said we’d bring back stuff for logan!” patton says, as if he thinks virgil doesn’t know full well that patton will probably eat the majority of the cupcakes) and they lift a couple plastic cups that they hand out for water, for their wine. patton makes some small-talk with the cashier, who now knows that it’s their anniversary, and patton now knows that he’s a nursing student who works nights to save up for his degree.

“you two might have a lot of leftovers,” the cashier cautions, as virgil wins out the rock-paper-scissors battle of who pays this time. “these come pretty big, so i hope you’ve cleared out your fridge.”

“we’ll make enough space for it,” virgil says, handing over his card.

“he’s good at fridge management,” patton adds. virgil grins, as if this is an incredibly high comment that patton’s paid him—honestly, from his tone, it seems like it is.

“well, have a nice meal, and have a nice anniversary,” the cashier says, handing over their various boxes. “and get home safe!”

“thanks, we will!” patton says brightly.

they do—they park the car in one of the parking lots for one of sideshire’s parks that’s easily walking distance from the house. virgil leaves on the car enough to keep the heat on, and patton turns on the radio at a low level, on a station that’s playing classic christmas music in anticipation for the holiday, so virgil tries to negotiate the best way to balance the pizza box on the center console to operate as a table for their slices and their plastic cups of wine as bing crosby croons about being home for christmas in the background.

at last, virgil manages it, and patton proffers the wine bottle with a flourish.

“and now,” virgil says, equally dramatic, “we partake in our recommended pairing of—” he squints at the label, “domaine de cristia grenache with a lovely pepperoni pizza—or margherita, i don’t know which one you’re trying first—just watch how the flavor of the wine develops when introduced to the plastic—”

patton rolls his eyes, smiling sweetly, and says “bad jokes are my thing” as he passes over virgil’s plastic cup of wine before pouring his own.

“your jokes aren’t bad,” virgil says. “they’re...”

“like a pun-ishment?” patton quips.

“i take it back,” virgil says, chuckling despite himself. “that one was bad.”

“cheers, then,” patton says, and smiles wider. “to a whole year of you being romantic with me, even with all my bad jokes. happy anniversary.”

“and here’s to many more,” virgil murmurs, and taps the rim of his cup against patton’s, before he takes a sip. “happy anniversary.”

patton beams at him. 

(when virgil and patton sneak back into the house, ties a little askew from the time patton’s spent initiating virgil in the arts of spin the bottle and making out in the backseat of a car, after having finished the whole bottle of their fancy wine, the pair of them shushing each other and giggling, logan rolls his eyes from where he sits in his room at the top of the stairs. he’ll go down for his dessert and a sneak cup of coffee later.)

(no, he’s not smiling and a little sappy and just generally happy that his parents dad and virgil are happy. he isn’t.)

(well. maybe he is, a little. but he isn’t about to tell anyone.)

...

"hey, man, merry christmas,” christopher says, and goes in for a hug. virgil, a little confused, just kind of weathers it. they’ve met once. but then again, this man was once patton’s best friend. maybe he’s a hugger, too.

this is also just kind of a weird situation. since patton is stuck at work, and logan is busy at the courant mostly out of stubbornness, it means virgil’s the only person who’s available to pick christopher up at the airport and drive him back to sideshire in anticipation of the christmas celebration. so. hugs it is, virgil guesses. why not.

christopher draws back, with a few strong thumps to virgil’s back, and virgil coughs a little.

“merry christmas,” virgil says. “uh, how was your flight?”

“bit bumpy, but all right,” he says. “how’re our boys?”

virgil smiles, a little, unable to help himself. “logan’s driving rudy crazy at the courant now that he’s free of Finals Prep Time, and patton’s—well, patton’s patton. he’s, um. he’s great.”

“good, good,” christopher says, and points. “that your car?”

“yeah, can i, um—d’you have any luggage?”

christopher shakes his head, jerks his thumb toward his backpack. “traveling light,” he quips.

“right, then,” virgil says, and they both go to the car. virgil mentally runs through the lists he’s prepared of Okay conversation topics, Maybe Let’s Not Go There conversation topics, and I’m Desperately Curious But Under Threat Of Death I Will Not Ask You About It conversation topics. 

the last topic, admittedly, has mostly to do with young, rebellious patton, which he’s heard a few stories about and feels like he half wants to know more, half knows he’ll want to go and give patton a really long hug after hearing anything about it, so.

“so, how’s california?” is virgil’s first relatively safe conversational softball.

“sunny,” christopher says. “dry. you know, the usual.”

some more silence.

“how’d you mean, finals prep time?” christopher says.

“oh, you know,” virgil says. “smart kid like logan, he always goes a bit, um, study-crazy at the end of the semester. wants to keep his grades up, that kind of thing.”

“‘course he will,” christopher says breezily. “he’ll have his pick of colleges, just you wait.”

“i agree, but that’s a conversational landmine, just so you know,” virgil says.

“yeah?”

“logan’s trying to pick what he wants to do, and getting all his applications in order even though it’s months before he has to apply,” virgil says. “and patton’s happy for him, he is, but he’s also gearing up for the emotions that’ll happen when logan leaves, and emily and richard—“

“oh, god, say no more,” christopher grimaces. “if they’re anything like they were back then—let me guess, they’re pushing yale all the way?”

“they’re pushing yale all the way,” virgil confirms.  “so. bring up college at your own risk.”

“noted,” christopher says, making a little ticking motion in the air with his finger like he’s actually writing it down, which reminds virgil, strangely, of logan. 

“anyway,” virgil says. “he’s pretty sure he’s done well, and he’s, you know, logan. so.”

christopher nods. virgil moves on to the next topic.

“got any plans while you’re here, other than the sanders christmas extravaganza?” virgil says.

christopher hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough that something in virgil’s brain seizes on it. he’s about to ask, before christopher says, “this is your first sanders family christmas, isn’t it?”

virgil lets it go. “yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, we did new year’s and we split thanksgiving between my family and his, and we did patton’s birthday there and something for logan’s, but—first christmas.”

“so you know how the holiday thing goes there,” christopher says, and he sounds distracted. “cool. good. picked out a present?”

“logan and patton did.”

“probably the best choice,” christopher says. “last year, they got me baccarat candlesticks. i mean, sure, they’re fancy, but what am i gonna do with golden candlesticks, you know?”

“yeah,” virgil says, and thinks about patton’s kitschy decor and how fancy things would clash with its coziness and—oh, god, they’re not gonna try and get him something fancy, are they? is he expected to get them an individual gift? he’ll have to ask patton about it. if he’s supposed to get them something, what on earth should he get—?!

“what did you end up doing with them?” virgil asks, instead of thinking about all that. 

“traded ‘em,” christopher admits. “which i can get away with because they’re probably never going to come out to visit me in california. you two have got to worry about emily and richard coming to visit, so you’ve got less of a chance of getting away with that.”

“true,” virgil says grudgingly. even though the majority of the time, they meet at the elder sanders’ house, they still come to sideshire sometimes, so they can’t really risk selling it or something. maybe they could put it somewhere out of the way? table in the front hall, maybe. evident enough that they saw it when they walked into the house, but out of sight the rest of the time. 

“so,” virgil says, doubling back, “any advice on how to handle a very sanders christmas?”

...

no advice could have really prepared him for this.

granted, virgil’s been coming over to sanders dinners on and off for a year now—once or twice a month, usually, with work and everything—but every time he still feels... well, he just feels out of place, that’s all. the most fancy dressing-up stuff virgil would do when he was growing up was when his family would go to church on christmas and easter, and never really dressed up much outside that. his family was firmly a pajamas-early-morning-christmas kind of family—they’d all thunder down the stairs as soon as his parents had checked that santa had come, and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and spend the rest of the day making dinner and playing with their toys and listening to christmas music and just having general family time.

true, the sanders household in sideshire was very much a pajamas-christmas kind of household. logan was too old to really run around in his pajamas and jump on their bed to wake them up at five in the morning, for which virgil was grateful, but they still got up early and exchanged presents and drank coffee and ate cinnamon rolls. ms. prince and roman had even stopped by sometime in the afternoon, between celebrating christmas themselves and the showing of the nutcracker that happens on christmas day. christopher and ms. prince had kind of seemed like they were at an eternal impasse, conversation-wise, but it went mostly okay. virgil’s still kind of in shock that patton’s allowed to call her ‘isadora,’ now that their sons are dating.

the elder sanders household, on the other hand...

“your tie is fine,” patton scolds him gently as they get out of the car. virgil grimaces, and drops his hands from where he’d been adjusting it for the five millionth time.

“you’re sure i shouldn’t have gotten them something?” virgil checks.

“positive,” patton says firmly. "take a deep breath, okay?”

virgil does as he says. granted, they’re here a bit earlier than normal, because virgil ended up volunteering to make dinner, somehow, so he has the safe haven of the kitchen to duck into if he needs space.

however, this also means they’ll be here for longer than normal. so.

christopher volunteers to carry presents, so virgil offers patton his arm and they fall into step behind logan and chris, approaching their imposing front door.

emily has started therapy, in a move that was, frankly, shocking to virgil. she and patton fight less, which is good in virgil’s book. 

however, emily wouldn’t be emily if she wasn’t so... well. emily.

“logan, christopher!” emily says warmly, and logan tolerates her hug with his usual stiffness. “merry christmas, come in, come in... hello, patton. virgil.”

“merry christmas, mom,” patton says, accepting her hug with enthusiasm.

“emily,” virgil says. “merry christmas.”

emily doesn’t move to hug him, and he doesn’t move to hug her. they have a mutual understanding, really.

“ah, virgil, christopher!” richard says merrily. “logan, patton, hello—come in, come in, the both of you, christopher, would you like a martini, old boy...?”

the conversation fades as the rest of them file into the living room, and virgil hangs back.

“i’ll come find you soon, yeah?” patton says, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek.

“get them out of the awkward small talk discussion zone for me,” virgil says in an undertone, tilting his cheek a little so patton has better access. patton kisses it, and squeezes his arm, and heads for the door—which his mother is holding open.

“virgil,” emily says, then, “you know where the kitchen is.”

“i do,” virgil says, and she gives him a little nod before stepping more fully into the living room, and virgil goes to the kitchen.

it’s a well-stocked kitchen, with top-of-the-line appliances and cookware. virgil’s been in kitchens for as long as he can remember, so it’s not as overwhelming as the rest of the house can be, sometimes, but it’s still, well. it’s still aggressively elder-sanders-ian, in that upper-society, best-of-everything way, not quite like his utilitarian, cook-for-the-masses kitchen in the diner, or the cozy confines of patton’s, or even the familiarity of the kitchen in the house he’d grown up in or the apartment.

but, well. it’s a kitchen. and virgil knows his way around a kitchen, no matter how high-class. even if it’s williams sonoma and alessi and le creuset, a spatula’s a spatula, and a pot’s a pot, and a pan’s a pan. the knives are sharp, the ingredients fresh, and the recipes long-since memorized, so virgil settles into a rhythm of letting dough rise and preheating ovens and chopping up vegetables and cracking eggs and making sure the stove is warm and—

a soft couple knocks at the door, and virgil looks up, fully expecting patton, or maybe logan, but—

“virgil, old boy,” richard says. “would you like some punch?”

“oh,” virgil says, a little startled, and wipes his hands on the dish towel he’s slung over his shoulder to accept the cut-crystal glass. “um, sure. thank you, richard.”

“it smells delightful,” richard says. “what are we having?”

virgil quickly swallows the tentative sip he’d taken—some kind of cherry soda, some champagne, maybe, the aftertaste leaving a bite that probably meant vodka—and gestures.

“well, i thought,” he began, and cleared his throat. “it’s—well, emily didn’t recommend anything in particular, so i figured i may as well—” virgil shakes himself and gets himself on the right track. “it’s tradition, my family’s, i mean, to have breakfast for dinner, on christmas.”

“oh, how endearing!” 

endearing. well, that’s just about a seal of approval, virgil guesses. 

“so,” virgil says. “biscuits, there. eggs and bacon are about to be made. i was going to ask if there were any particular votes on how many waffles would be wanted, i noticed you had an iron, but—”

“as many as you’d think best would work nicely, i’m sure,” richard says. “how’s the diner, these days?”

richard, since his declaration of his blessing a year ago, has dropped in on both the inn and the diner a handful of times since. each time, he seems to delight in the small town charm of it in a way that was only a little snobbish—the way he’d exclaimed over a slice of mud pie was a prime example, things like “what a funny idea!” and “is this very... popular?” and “ah, the kids, of course, of course”—but in a mostly well-meaning kind of way. 

virgil hopes so, anyway.

but he talks about the diner with richard as he mixes up the batter, things like menu changes and insurance policies and really, mostly the parts of business that would be boring to almost anyone else. well. mostly.

until, that is, richard starts asking about how to properly make an egg over-easy, and then, somehow, virgil is sipping at his punch as he carefully coaches richard through the art of how to fry an egg.

“...right, then, jiggle the pan a little to be sure it isn’t sticking,” virgil’s saying, as the kitchen door opens once again and a familiar face peeks in.

“like this?—oh, this is looking a lot better than the last one, isn’t it?” richard says, entirely too cheered.

“it is,” virgil says, conscious that the scent of burnt egg is still hovering in the air.

"have you gotten grandpa to try cooking?” logan asks, wandering into the kitchen and sitting at the counter.

“more like i’ve barged into the process,” richard says. “should i plate it now?”

“yep,” virgil says, and examines it. well, it’s an egg, certainly. maybe not quite as cohesive as an over-easy egg that virgil might make, but... not a bad egg.

“i’m afraid i’ve never really cooked before,” richard says thoughtfully. “it was always a bit of a passing interest, i suppose, but that was always more about food itself than it was the cooking. perhaps i should try it.”

“it’s a skill everyone needs to learn at some point,” virgil says with a shrug. 

“do you cook often, at home?” richard asks. “or do you bring things back from the diner?”

it’s logan who answers. “usually, he’s still working at the diner when it’s dinnertime, but if he isn’t, he’ll usually cook.”

"i get to sneak you more vegetables that way,” virgil says, only a little bit joking. 

gradually, people bleed into the kitchen, bit by bit—patton’s next, and he tries to sneak chocolate chips into the waffle batter, as if virgil won’t prepare him his own chocolate-chip waffle—and then christopher, ferrying refills for everyone, and at last emily deigns to enter her own kitchen with a slightly world-weary sigh as she opens the door, only to come to a stop at the sight before her.

“emily!” richard says excitedly. “i’m frying bacon!”

the sight before her is her husband, son, grandson, grandson’s father, and son’s partner all working in the kitchen, each with their own job—richard with the bacon, logan with the eggs, patton keeping an eye on the timer for the waffle iron, christopher with the mimosas he’d decided were absolutely necessary for breakfast for dinner—and virgil overseeing it all, trying his best to make sure no one would burn themselves or the food.

“delightful,” emily says, a smidge disdainfully. 

“dinner should be ready soon,” virgil says, disregarding her tone. 

emily sighs. then, utterly surprising virgil, she rolls up her sleeves, and says, “i’ll set the table, shall i?”

the breakfast-for-dinner thing goes over surprisingly well, and virgil isn’t sure if he should thank his assistants’ good cooking or the whole “good will of christmas” thing, or maybe emily’s had her own three ghosts of christmas past, present, and future visit and she’s about to pull a scrooge, but virgil isn’t about to ask which option it is.

they’re at the last part of the evening—christmas presents, then coffee, and then he and patton and logan will be heading back to the house as christopher stays at emily and richard’s. apparently they’re all going to some mutual friend’s party tomorrow, or something. christopher seems a little twitchy about it, whenever he or patton ask him for details—virgil would be too, really. he’s so far managed to escape the realm of sanders parties, but it’s only a matter of time.

emily and richard get books from logan, bottles of californian wine from chirstopher, and home-knitted scarves, a fancy bracelet, and a new set of cufflinks from patton and virgil. 

logan gets books, books, and more books, in addition to the stuff he’s gotten from virgil and patton at home this morning—the journalist and the murderer, the latest ap style guide, the new new journalism, the corpse had a familiar face, a biography of agatha christie, a couple young adult series that are the latest on his reading list—plus a fancy pen, all the better to report with, virgil guesses.

patton gets new knitting needles, some high-quality yarn, ties, a couple books, and—

“what’s this?” patton says, unearthing three stuffed animals—a quokka, a capybara, and—virgil squints at the tag—a fennec fox.

“it’s through the world wildlife fund,” emily says briskly. “we made donations—in your name, of course—and this was an option for it. so there’s a thank you note and a photo of the animal you helped adopt in there somewhere.” 

“i hope we correctly selected the animals,” richard says. “i remember you liked those, when you were young.”

patton looks up, startled but smiling.

“thank you,” he says softly, touched. virgil reaches over automatically and squeezes his hand. patton squeezes back. “i—you chose exactly right.”

virgil has a feeling patton would have said that with any animal they could’ve picked for him, but he can’t deny that those are good options, as far as patton’s concerned—all of them are small, cuddly, and cute, and all of them are prey animals that need protection.

“and for you, virgil,” richard says, and virgil braces himself with his best thank you, it’s a great gift smile that he might have practiced in the mirror. it starts off pretty good.

virgil gets a couple cookbooks, some new measuring cups, . some fall a little flat, like, virgil doesn’t think that he and patton are going to have much use for a cheeseboard, but who knows, but some, like the immersion blender that he’s been considering for a while, make up for it.

“i’d guess it’s been a while since there was some new cookware in that house,” emily says archly.

“i’ve mostly been bringing over stuff from mine, yeah,” virgil says neutrally, but he’s really too focused on the soups he can start to make now that he’s got an immersion blender in his home kitchen.

“and one more thing,” richard says, and hands over a small, relatively flat box. emily looks slightly sour, like she’s sucked on a lemon. she huffs, a little, crossing her legs primly and taking a drink, which bodes well for... whatever this is. 

virgil takes the box, and unwraps it, revealing, well. another box—leather, well-made. 

“what is it?” logan asks after virgil’s staring at it for a few moments, setting aside his ap style guide.

“it’s a pocket watch,” virgil says, not quite sure how to react to this. it’s a pretty neat looking pocket watch, actually—all silver, roman numerals, the gears exposed, steampunk-adjacent but not so steampunk that emily and richard would disapprove of it—but, well. virgil wears t-shirts and hoodies and jeans on a daily basis. so he isn’t sure exactly when he’s going to wear a—

“dad,” patton says softly, and virgil glances over at him, and back at the watch, and back at patton. 

richard explains, almost kindly, “emily’s father got me a pocket watch, the first christmas we spent together as a family.”

virgil’s mouth goes dry, and he looks back at the watch.

“oh,” he says, and swallows hard. “it’s—it’s lovely. thank you.”

he fumbles with the catch, for a few moments, closing it again, before he runs his fingers along the sleek, silvery chain, the latch.

patton kisses him on the cheek, and rests his cheek briefly against his shoulder, like an excuse to stare at the watch. 

the first christmas we spent together as a family rings in his ears. virgil leans his head against patton’s head, feeling his hair against his cheek, before virgil. clears his throat and looks up at the two elder sanders’.

“seriously,” he says, quiet and serious. “thank you.”

emily lets out a put-upon sigh, but she smiles flatly all the same. 

“you’re welcome,” she says. 

and that’s close enough to christmas peace and good will between men, women, and people outside of the gender spectrum for virgil.

...

“two dozen?”

“absolutely not.”

“fine, one dozen.”

“roman,” virgil says, on the edge of a sigh.

roman grins at him, huge and unapologetic. 

“you are out of your mind if you think you can negotiate your way into me giving you a dozen donuts for breakfast,” virgil informs him. “c’mon, pick something on the menu that’s got some kind of nutritional value, and i might give you a donut on the side.”

“fiiiiine,” roman sighs. “waffles?”

“i said nutritional value,” virgil says.

“cheat! meal!” roman says, slamming his fists against the counter to emphasize each word. 

“roman—”

“virgil, i have been eating nothing but chicken and quinoa and vegetables,” roman informs him. “i’m dying of a lack of sugar, dying, let me have this. waffles and a donut and hot cocoa/coffee.”

“your mom’s going to kill me,” virgil says. 

“she knows i’m here for a cheat meal, she isn’t expecting me to eat something healthy,” roman says brightly, because he knows when he’s won. 

“fine,” virgil says. “fine. what kind of donut do you want, and any toppings on the waffle?”

“chocolate icing for the donut, and chocolate chip waffles,” roman says. “i’m going all-out here.”

“i hope you know how much pain you cause me on a daily basis, i seriously do,” virgil informs him.

roman laughs after him as virgil goes to put in his order, and gets him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee and his donut.

“oh!” roman says, when he gets back. “i nearly forgot—” and he starts digging through his bag.

“if it’s some kind of new shirt in your latest attempt for a makeover, i don’t want it,” virgil says, hovering enough of a distance away that roman would have to lunge to try and shove a shirt into his arms. 

roman rolls his eyes. “please,” he scoffs. “you wish i would bless you with my sense of style—oh, here it is!”

he pulls a book out of his backpack, and sets it on the counter.

"could you give this to logan? he left it at the apartment last night. i’d give it to him, except i have to get back to the studio right after this—mom wants to rearrange the barres or something, so i’m going to be hauling around furniture all day. it’s probably her way of sneaking a strength workout in during a rest day, honestly,” he muses, and virgil picks up the book, flipping it to examine the spine.

“siddhartha?” he says, trying to sound it out. 

“yeah, you’d have to ask him about it,” roman says. “some kind of religious studies unit for his english class, i guess? anyway, you can give it to him when you go home today.”

roman takes a bite of his donut.

“if i’m going to patton’s today, you mean,” virgil corrects absently, and roman blinks at him.

“um,” roman says, “you mean, if you’re going home today.”

“i—no?” virgil says. “i mean, i—i live here. and i go over to patton’s a lot, sure, but i don’t live there, that’s not—” 

but even as he’s saying it, his brain is tossing up images as if to specifically contradict him. his and patton’s socks jumbled together in the drawer. the christmas cards from his siblings on the fridge. virgil’s spot on the couch, if they’re all talking, his spot in the armchair if they’re all having quiet time. his default chair at the dinner table. his hairbrush in the bathroom. his lotion in the nightstand cabinet because the weather’s so cold, which means his hands get as dry as anything. his cookbooks, which have somehow nestled their way into the empty nooks and crannies in patton’s kitchen that can fit them even though he can hardly remember bringing them over. making coffee for logan and patton in the morning, enough caffeine to provide them with one or maybe two cups each, before he starts transitioning into half-caf. some of the little decorative things that his siblings have given him from the various cities they’ve lived in over the years. virgil’s handwriting dominating the grocery list. logan and virgil and patton splitting up chores. virgil’s flannels and patton’s sweaters in the closet, all hanging side-by-side.

everything he’s carted over there, over the past year—bit by bit, piece by piece. item by item. things he’d think he’d need if he was staying over, and then, well, never bringing them back. never returning things to his apartment. and that begged a question—

when was the last time he’d slept in his apartment???

“oh my god,” virgil says. he couldn’t identify his own tone if he had been recording this conversation and could play it back three hundred times. 

“what?” roman says.

“oh, my god, i’m living with patton,” virgil realizes, with a long, noisy exhale, and he sucks in another breath. “we’re living together.”

roman stared at him, slightly slackjawed, before he sets aside the donut.

“please don’t tell me you just now realized this.”

“shut up,” virgil says, his face heating up.

“you just now,” roman says, slightly gleefully, “like, just now. you just now realized that you and patton are—”

“shut up!” virgil hisses, conscious of the other diners starting to eavesdrop, and roman snickers, holding up his hands in surrender, and virgil figures the only way he can really salvage this is if he goes to hide in the kitchen and has his crisis there.

so he does.

...

"well, it’s nice to see you, virgil, but it’s been a while since i’ve seen you here,” emile picani says, adjusting his glasses and clicking his pen.

virgil clears his throat, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. “yeah. i, uh—yeah, i guess.”

“so,” emile says, big doe eyes wide and sympathetic. “what’s up, doc?”

“it’s, um,” virgil says, and clears his throat. “it’s been pointed out to me recently that i’ve... essentially... moved in with patton and logan.”

“is that good?” emile says, and virgil chews at his lip.

“i—i mean, i think so,” virgil says. “i want it to be, anyway. i mean, i’m—i’m excited about patton, i love him, logan’s—well, logan’s basically my kid too—and i definitely figured moving in would be a someday, but when i realized i basically had already, i—well, i kinda... i’m not the best at change, so i kinda freaked out, a little.”

to be precise, virgil had mentioned that he’d probably stay at his apartment just to be there to open the diner and maybe make an ingredient run beforehand, and patton had pouted a little but agreed and hadn’t seemed too upset, or cotton on to the whole “virgil’s-taking-some-space-because-he’s-anxious-about-the-future” thing that virgil was trying to do, which almost made it worse, and then virgil couldn’t sleep because the bed was too big and too cold and too uncomfortable and he spent most of the night pacing and trying to untangle all the thoughts in his head and hadn’t quite succeeded, so. an appointment with emile it was.

which he explains, and emile hums thoughtfully, tapping his pen on his notepad.

“so, what’s your goal for this session?” emile says. “or sessions, if you like, other than untangling your thoughts.”

virgil considers it, and says, “the last time a change to our relationship happened, i didn’t... well, i didn’t really handle it very well. i ended up basically shutting everyone out for nearly a week so that i could figure myself out. and i mean, i’d like—i want to live with patton. i was happy when i was basically living with patton, so i don’t know why the change being pointed out to me made me freak out, and i don’t want—i don’t want to shut him out again. so. to get... to get accustomed to the idea, maybe, and to—to communicate a bit more clearly about making it official, i guess, and then maybe to figure out how to deal with becoming a landlord or whatever else i might do with the apartment. those are my goals.”

emile smiles, nods, and clicks his pen. “let’s see what i can do to help you achieve that, then.”

...

“how much salsa, again?”

“maybe just bring me the jar?” virgil suggests, from where he’s transporting chicken breasts from the pan to a bowl. “i’ll eyeball it.”

logan nods, and fetches the salsa from the fridge, before he leans his hip against the counter, tilting his head to survey the way that virgil’s begun shredding the chicken.

it’s a quiet evening at home for the pair of them—patton’s staying late at work—so virgil’s decided to make enchiladas for dinner, which he hasn’t made in a while. 

virgil takes in a breath, remembering one of emile’s suggestions, and clears his throat, keeping his stare fixed on the chicken. “can i ask you something?”

“sure,” logan says.

virgil swallows, and says, casually, “i was wondering what you thought about—um. well, you’re a smart kid, i’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that i’ve been... here... more. so i was wondering if you were, um. comfortable. with me—” say it, virgil, just say it, “living here.”

the reaction isn’t what virgil’s expecting. logan, without breaking facial expression (he rarely does, virgil doesn’t know why he’d expected that) digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, putting it on speaker.

“hello, my love, the light of my life,” roman says pleasantly, and logan smiles a little, a sort of teenage-puppy-love expression that he’d ardently deny if patton or virgil teased him about it later.

“you’re on speaker and you owe me lucy’s,” logan says smugly.

“what?! dammit!” roman says.

“he what,” virgil says.

“i told you so,” logan says.

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” roman grumbles. “god, virgil, i won out the last time we bet on your love life—”

“you—" virgil begins, before he shakes himself and decides to leave any parental lecturing about gambling for later, and maybe to patton and ms. prince.

“you just had to ruin my streak,” roman continues in a grumble. “fine, then. if i have to. lucy’s date tomorrow after you’re done with the franklin?”

“we’ll text about it,” logan informs him.

“okay. love you, even if you are at an unfair advantage!”

“love you too,” logan says, hangs up, and tells whatever expression on virgil’s face, “shut up.”

“didn’t say anything,” virgil says. 

“anyway,” logan says. “i have been slowly transitioning from phrases like ‘i’ll see you back at the house’ to ‘when we’re at home’ for months now, i can’t believe you just now noticed.”

“you—what,” virgil says blankly.

“i’ve been slowly bringing over your cookbooks to see if you’d ever notice, but you never really did—”

“that’s how they got here?” virgil says, thrown off.

"—and i’ve been bringing your possessions more and more to the forefront, too, look,” logan says, going into the living room and holding up—

“is that my throw blanket?”

“it is,” logan says, setting it back on the couch. “and the photo of your family on the mantle, and the christmas cards from your siblings on the fridge, and the plant you and dad picked out when you went shopping last week.”

“you—you put those all there?” virgil says. “i thought patton did.”

logan shrugs, non-commital, and suddenly something clicks for virgil. sometimes, non-verbal methods are the way that logan communicates he cares, which virgil gets—he’s been making the kid eat healthy for as long as he was capable of it, after all. 

“so,” virgil says slowly, because he needs verbal assent, here. “you’re okay with it?”

logan stares at him, a look that combines the essence of i can’t believe you’re so dense sometimes and fondness. his lip quirks up, soft, and a little like he wasn’t intending to smile at all.

“yeah,” logan says, a little softer than his usual brisk, abrasive tone, but virgil’s fully willing to let this emotional moment happen without commenting on that. “yeah. i’m okay with it.”

virgil clears his throat from where it’s suddenly a little clogged up, and messes up his hair, and, fleetingly, logan grins at him with the same kind of smile he’d used when he was six and lost his first tooth in the diner, when he was nine and won in the school-wide spelling bee, when he was sixteen and he and patton told him they’d gotten together.

“good,” virgil says. if his voice a bit rougher than usual, logan has the strategic grace to not mention it. 

...

“so,” roman says, “you wouldn’t be my neighbor anymore, i guess.”

virgil shrugs. “diner’s still there, and you’re over at the house often enough.”

“you are,” logan confirms. 

listen, virgil isn’t sure how he got signed up for the “carpool-the-kids-to-their-date” thing, but he somehow has, so now he’s driving them to a roller rink because roman won out on deciding where date night would be after the milkshakes at lucy’s they’re both sipping on. 

“have you talked to dad about it?” logan says.

virgil tries not to squirm. “not yet. i will tomorrow, probably.”

logan scowls, visible enough in the rearview mirror. “while i’m working a weekend shift at the franklin.”

“got it in one,” virgil says. “are you still sure that you’re going to dee’s after?”

“i could totally still kill him for you,” roman adds.

“we have an understanding,” logan says, giving roman a Look. “an alliance, so to speak.”

“you can say that he’s your friend now, it’s okay,” virgil prompts, and feels someone kick at the back of his seat.

“someone who initiated a duel is not a friend!” roman says, aghast. 

“louise is the one who did that, it’s just,” logan says, and then, “well, you know. he’s...”

logan trails off. roman scowls out of the window, and logan pauses, before he leans over enough to kiss roman on the cheek. 

he mumbles something that sounds like “you’re still my favorite,” and virgil tries not to comment, he really does, but—

“no making out in the back of my car.”

“we weren’t!” roman squawks. “god, virgil, you’re not my dad—”

“thank god—“

“—you’re so embarrassing, maybe it’s good that you’re moving,” roman huffs, flopping back against the seat.

“you’re just bitter you lost the bet,” logan informs him.

“yeah, we’re gonna talk about the gambling thing,” virgil says. “you know that can be addictive, right, even if it just starts with lucy’s?”

instead of answering, roman says thoughtfully, “when you move, can i have that nightmare before christmas hill scene cross-stitch you’ve got framed?”

“absolutely not,” virgil says.

"i’ll steal it for you,” logan says.

“or i can steal it while i’m helping move out boxes,” roman says.

“none of this has distracted me from the gambling lecture i’m about to give you both,” virgil says, and both boys groan.

...

for someone so invested in sleeping for as long as he possibly can, virgil really shouldn’t be so surprised that patton’s bed is so comfortable, but it is. so much more comfortable than his own, back in his apartment.

patton’s sheets are soft and they always smell clean. he’s got a soft, fuzzy blanket, and a quilt, and then a thick, quilt-stitched duvet to top it all off, decorated in soft blues and whites. patton’s mattress is soft, but not too soft, and his pillows are at the exact perfect degree of fluffiness.

of course, being in patton’s bed with patton might be what makes it the best, in virgil’s mind, but he’s pretty biased.

virgil lets out a soft, content sigh as he adjusts himself, just a little—his head on patton’s chest, patton’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and with his lips pressed against his hair, virgil’s hand on patton’s chest. virgil absentmindedly follows nonsense paths with his fingertips, feeling the old, white scar from patton’s top surgery under his fingertips.

he’s content. he’s happy. he really, truly is.

so he shouldn’t be so anxious right now. they’ve been together for a little over a year, now, and things have been going well, they’ve been going great, it’s just—well. he supposes it’s a step that most people get nervous about regardless. but he shouldn’t be nervous right now, when patton’s humming, soft and tuneless, and it’s late at night, a lazy saturday morning that’s turned into a lazy saturday day and then night, and the day’s been great. it’s been amazing.

he’s talked to logan about it. he’s talked to roman about it. he’s talked to emile about it, for god’s sakes. he just needs to... well. talk to patton about it.

patton’s lips move, pressing against his head again, and he squeezes virgil a little closer.

“i can hear you thinking, darling,” patton murmurs. “penny for your thoughts?”

virgil hesitates. well, now’s as good a time as any, he supposes. he adjusts himself, so that he’s leaning on one arm, hand still on patton’s chest, but now he can look at patton’s face. 

“so, um,” virgil says, and swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “i just—i’m gonna say something, and you don’t have to say anything right now, it’s not an immediate yes or no, but just—just so you know. okay?”

patton blinks at him—it’s strange, even now, to see him without his glasses on—and nods.

“okay,” he says apprehensively. 

virgil adds, “i mean, it isn’t—it isn’t bad, or anything, just something you should know.”

patton relaxes minutely. he runs his hand up and down virgil’s bare back, and virgil shivers, just a little. 

“okay,” patton repeats, soft and soothing. “okay, honey, go ahead.”

virgil holds his breath, before he says tentatively, “i was thinking about renting out the apartment.”

virgil does own the diner—which means he owns the apartment above the diner, too, which is where he’s been living for the past seventeen years, he’d moved in once his parents had moved out of sideshire and sold the house he’d grown up in. it used to just be an office, but after he’d taken over the diner he’d made it into a living space. but now, well... 

patton’s smiling—a slow, soft smile that’s spreading across his face.

“or—or, um, making it an office plus a break room or something, i’m not sure how i’d go about renting out something, i guess i’d technically be a landlord, but—”

“love,” patton says softly. “you wanna move in?”

virgil ducks his head, cheeks burning.

“you don’t have to answer right now,” he mumbles. “i just—you can think about it, and i know i’m kinda inviting myself in, here, but—”

and very suddenly, virgil is on his back, and patton’s lips are on his, and virgil can’t really think of anything else right now, and when patton’s lips part from his with a truly embarrassing smacking noise, patton is absolutely beaming.

“i don’t have to think about it at all,” he declares. 

...

“did you stuff this thing with bricks,” roman wheezes as he carts down yet another box from virgil’s apartment. virgil isn’t really a material person, he thinks, but it turns out that given seventeen or so years he can accumulate a lot of stuff. who knew?

“no, the bricks are the next load,” virgil says, accepting the box and settling it in the trunk of his car, surveying it. “how much is left?”

“next one should be the last one,” logan reports, handing over his own box for virgil to place in his car.

“perfect,” virgil says. “i think i might drive this to patton’s after that, then, it’s nearly full. we can deal with furniture and stuff later today, or maybe next week.”

“if it gets me a break,” roman huffs, and stomps back up the stairs—virgil watches him go, and then logan, before he digs out his phone and sends a text.

virgil: one more load and then i’m gonna be dropping off the last of boxes soon

patton: okay, sounds good!!! patton: i’m so excited for you to come home, darling <3 <3 <3

virgil grins a bit stupidly down at his phone. he’s excited to go home, too.

[bae-science]

❥,+,✘

❥: barefoot, sleepy wanderings

✘: forehead kisses

+: being led back to bed with patient whispers

TW: light blood, surgeries, mentions of hospital setting, needles, portrayal of OCD, vomiting

When people hear that Vanessa was diagnosed at five years old, they assume she doesn’t remember the experience. Her brain wasn’t developed enough. Other memories have clouded it over. Things got blocked out for being too frightening for a small child to deal with.

They’re all wrong, of course. She wishes they weren’t.

The experience isn’t totally crystallized in a perfect sequence of events; she doesn’t know exactly how her parents noticed her disorientation, weight loss, and difficulty with toilet training. She can’t remember the faces of the nurses who took care of her, or the doctor that tried to gently explain how drastically her life had changed forever. She doesn’t even know the title of the binder the social worker gave her parents on Type 1. Probably something ridiculous, though, since it was a pediatric ward. Sometimes she wonders if hospitals have crack teams specifically for that.

She remembers the IV, though. The way she couldn’t stop thinking about the way it lay under her skin, putting things inside her body she couldn’t see or understand, and the image of blood pooling underneath the clear tape from all the times she bent her elbow. Her mind looped the thoughts over and over again, expanding like a dense mass of black cotton that would, later in her life, prove persistent, and open to other topics of obsession. How she seemed to never be able to get warm. The exhaustion from being woken several times a night to be pricked and poked and sent back to bed for a few more measly hours of sleep, until the parade of doctors began anew. The blurry vision that seemed to take months to fade.

It seems almost comical, after twelve years of this, when a routine trip to the dentist reveals that her wisdom teeth are coming in wrong. The issue is so laughably common, so often played for jokes with laughing gas and woozy patients spouting nonsense before the anesthetic wears off, that Vanessa almost has trouble developing anxieties about the whole thing.

It’s then of course she’s informed about her own personal risk factors. The anesthesia could send her blood sugar either way: low because of the blood loss and healing required during the surgery, or high because of the adrenaline and falling asleep during the daytime. She’ll need to calculate her ratios, test her blood sugars, and monitor herself and her food while still recovering from the procedure. It makes a knot swell in her stomach as the dentist talks on, growing so large and choking that she nearly sprints for the car as her mother takes care of the paperwork, slamming the door and curling into the passenger seat to scream at the top of her lungs.

That night, Vanessa has to check the stove burners three times before she feels safe enough to go to bed. 

Karla, bless her heart, doesn’t quite understand, but Hermann does. He tells her how he felt going under, and which over the counter painkillers help and hinder sleep. They go out and purchase an electric blanket to drape over her pillow, hoping the heat will help any pain in her jaw, and both him and Karla declare they’ll be sleeping over several nights while she recovers, Vanessa not even given a chance to dissuade them. She’s never loved her friends more.

Hermann’s correct in that she barely remembers nearly the whole hour before the assistant slips an IV in, Vanessa clenching down her jaw to steady her breathing. The drive home, too, is a blurry haze of aches and the wooziness that comes with hovering just above the lower end of her blood sugar bracket. They pass by a McDonald’s hanging just on the outskirts of the city, gripping to the slow crawl of modernity by its fingernails, and Vanessa thinks of her classmate Rebecca, who boasted two years ago after getting her own wisdom teeth removed that she ate nothing but ice cream for a week afterwards. The gauze in her mouth is sticky and bland. Her stomach growls. 

Hermann and Karla are sitting on the porch steps when they pull in, overnight bags and cane sprawled beside them. Karla leaps to her feet before Vanessa’s mother is even parked, opening the passenger side door and taking her hand. Even with no small amount of anesthesia in her system, Vanessa still feels her heart skip a beat at Karla’s slim, cool fingers closing around hers.

“How are you feeling?” she asks anxiously, sliding her other hand around Vanessa’s waist and helping her up the steps. “Are you hungry? What hurts? Hermann,” she snaps, “get the Ibuprofen; I told you to have it out already!”

Hermann shoots Vanessa a look, and she gives a weak chuckle. The gauze in her mouth prevents any real speaking, but he understands. 

“She’s not dying, Karla,” he says, holding open the door as Karla hurries her inside. Vanessa’s mother and Hermann follow after them, and after instructing the twins to call for her if they need anything, gives Vanessa a careful hug and kisses her forehead. Karla looks as if every second Vanessa isn’t tucked into bed like a sardine and being fussed over is causing her personal agony. 

“‘c’n wohlk,” Vanessa mumbles, tongue refusing to shape the words right, but the gentle way Karla guides her up the stairs and down the hallway to her bedroom makes something soft and funny flutter in her chest. It’s been happening more often lately; this rush of discomforting elation whenever Karla shines that focused, diligent attention on her.

Hermann, seeming to sense that this is his role now, holds open her bedroom door and fetches her water bottle from the desk to bring it over. Karla pulls back the covers and eases Vanessa to sit down, kneeling to untie her sneakers. The world still hums with a muted fuzziness, but the sight gives Vanessa a brief, powerful urge to run her hand through Karla’s short, choppy curls. She wonders what it would feel like clipped and uniform, in the buzzcut she’s seen her admire on so many men. 

Karla pulls her shoes, then socks off, and Vanessa crawls under her comforter and places the side of her jaw most painful at the moment onto the electric blanket. She fumbles for the switch to turn it on, but Karla brushes her hand aside and puts it on medium. “There,” she says with an air of frazzled satisfaction. “Right. Now Hermann and I will be right here, and we’ll wake you every two hours if we need to to take your medication. You’re supposed to alternate Ibuprofen and Advil, and you can drink and eat but only liquids at the moment.” She turns to Hermann with the sharpness of a military general. “Hermann, get the soup out. We made soup,” she clarifies. “Well, I did. Hermann’s a horrible cook. Are you hungry?”

Vanessa shakes her head as best she can, swallowing spit that tastes like iron. “’m okay. Th’nk y’.”

Karla pulls out her desk chair for Hermann to take a seat, then sets a cluster of Vanessa’s throw pillows on the floor next to the bed. She leans back against the side and looks up at Vanessa, face craned so far back it’s nearly upside down. “Are you okay?”

Vanessa nods into the pillow, letting one hand dangle down off the bed. Karla catches it without missing a beat and runs a finger over the tops of her knuckles. “Mmhm.” She’s hungry; no breakfast besides a glass of water for the first dose of medication, but can’t find the energy to even consider calculating how much insulin she needs, especially when she’s so sedentary. Sleep, however, is a tantalizing prospect so close to going low, and Vanessa is out the second her eyes close again.

She wakes excruciatingly thirsty, disoriented and heart pounding. Her body is the kind of overheated she recognizes as a telltale sign of a high, and panic races through her as she tries to push herself up and search for her bag.

It’s not there.

Vanessa’s breath catches, and she slides her hands over the jumble of books and empty plastic cups and pens on her bedside table. Where the fuck is her bag? She needs her bag; she needs to find out how high she is; never mind that she doesn’t know she’ll hold her finger steady enough to prick it, or insert the strip into the meter, but she needs her insulin because she’s hot, and exhausted, and her numbers are definitely so, so bad right now.

She stumbles out of bed and towards the door, catching herself on the doorframe briefly before fear propels her forward. Maybe she left it in the bathroom? Did she go to the bathroom? She might need to if she’s over 240; oh God, if she’s over 200 she’ll just stick her head in the bathtub and turn on the faucet because that is way, way too high, and if her numbers are too high her A1C will be bad, and if her A1C is bad then she’s doing it all wrong and failing diabetes, which is definitely something that is possible to do, and her stomach twists with anxiety so badly at the thought of her beautiful, perfect 5.7 going up even a percentage that she barely makes it to the toilet before dry heaving.

Pure bile, void of anything else from her empty stomach, splatters her tongue and the inside of the bowl, and Vanessa presses her face against the cool porcelain before the stench of bleach makes her retch again. She hears footsteps just outside, barely processing the sound of the door opening wider over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

“Vanessa--?” Karla asks, before seeing the scene before her and rushing to her side. She puts a hand on each shoulder and immediately begins rubbing them soothingly, a sensation that does a surprisingly good deal to steady Vanessa’s pulse. 

She gags out, “High,” the last of bloody gauze finally falling into the toilet, and Karla nods against the back of her neck.

“Hermann!” she calls, “Hermann, get her kit! On the desk! Put a strip in the meter and new lancet!”

Oh, thinks Vanessa, that’s where it went, but Hermann is already clacking down the hall towards them. He quickly sets his cane on the bathroom counter and prepares the meter, then hands it and the lancet to Karla, who in turn hands Vanessa a tissue.

“Here,” she says gently, “for your mouth. May I see your hand?”

Vanessa clumsily wipes the acid from her chin and holds out a shaking hand, letting Karla take her pinky with careful fingers and prick it on the lowest setting she can. The pain is dulled there as well, thankfully, but the countdown as the meter processes her blood makes Vanessa’s stomach swoop.

When it shows 122, she frowns.

“But... ‘m hot,” she says, leaning back against the side of the bathtub. Karla hands the supplies back to Hermann and resumes rubbing her shoulders. 

“Well you were lying on a heating bad under a bunch of blankets, ‘Ness. That might have something to do with it.”

“Thirsty?” Vanessa adds. Hermann makes a startled face and quickly leaves, returning with her water bottle. As she takes it and swallows a few grateful mouthfuls, he raises an eyebrow.

“Dry mouth from anesthesia is a common side effect. You really should be drinking regularly, especially since you weren’t able to for several hours.” He takes his cane from the counter and shifts his weight to it. “Come on. You should go back to bed.”

Vanessa tilts her head back against the rim of the tub and lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Yeah. Okay. Gimme a sec.”

She lets herself lean into the feeling of Karla’s hands on her skin, the chilled lip of the tub on her neck, and hears Hermann move to lean against the doorframe. Karla never pauses for a moment. 

“You’re alright,” she murmurs, her head just brushing Vanessa’s hair. “We’re right here. You’re alright.”

She takes another breath, then nods. “’Kay. Let’s go.”