#i just beat final draft this afternoon and had to sit there for a half hour like :))))))) to process it

[subjxctseventeen]

microdosing the inescapable horrors of being alive by restarting alan wake 2 for the third time

[fizzigigsimmer]

Moonwood Part 4

|Part 1|

Just in case Steve somehow missed the fact that Schiller takes its basketball team very seriously, there’s a big plaque above the gymnasium door the proudly proclaims he’s in the home of the Schiller High Timberwolves, state champions!

The memo about the coach only drafting moonie guys doesn’t seem to have gotten around because Friday afternoon tryouts come and it looks like every guy in school who can tie his own shoes has had the same idea as Steve and has come out to try and earn their spot on the bench - even some guys who look like they can’t tie their shoes. He does see a good handful of moonwood guys though - including two of the guys who tried to jump him. 

The number of guys he’s got to compete against doesn’t make Steve too nervous, but the amount of people who seem to have shown up just to watch makes him a little jittery as he leaves the locker room and heads into the gym. He saw at least a dozen kids sitting up in the bleachers on his way in and there’s bound to be more by now. The bleachers were never empty at a game back in Hawkins, but everyone knew that had more to do with the limited number of thrills to find in their small town on a friday night than school spirit. It’s different when he knows people are watching because they expect the team to be good. Better than good - state champions!

Steve warms up and joins a couple of the guys who are shooting hoops at one end of the court, showing off while they covertly scope out the competition. It helps actually. Once he’s got a ball in his hands and has made a couple of shots it’s easier to relax and have fun. He makes most of the shots he takes, unlike some. This kid Hank is clearly the best though. Guy is easily six feet tall and sinks shots from half court like it’s easy, but Steve’s far from the worst. He can totally do this.

It’s fifteen after when a shrill whistle finally interrupts the sound of balls thudding against the hardwood. Steve tosses Hank the ball and turns towards the sound, and his heart skips a beat when Billy strides onto the court, flanked by Dave and Chet. Billy stops at about half court and blows the whistle between his lips again as if he doesn’t already command the attention of everyone in the gym, and Chet sets a box full of red and blue numbered jerseys on the ground at his feet.

“Alright listen up closely guys cause I won’t repeat myself. If you don’t already know I’m Chet, co-captain, and this here is Billy,” Chet gestures to Billy with a sardonic twist to his lips. Cause everybody there knows who Billy Hargrove is. “He’s team captain. There are only a few spots open on the team and a lot of you so come over and take a jersey.”

There’s an immediate scramble for the box. Steve doesn’t get what the rush is, but there’s something about the energy in the room that has him pushing forward without thinking and elbowing his way into the crush to make sure he can snag a jersey. It turns out to be a good thing, because the box empties and there are six guys left empty handed looking like they might cry.

 “Red team you’re home court, blue team you’re the visitors side. Hopefully we don’t have to tell you which team you’re on.” Chet instructs, and there’s some nervous laughter. Steve pulls his jersey over his head - he’s B3.  He’s excited to see that Hank is also on the blue team. They’re giving each other high five’s and clapping each other on the back as one of the guys who got left out, clears their throat and asks what the rest of them should do.

Steve’s mouth falls open in shock when Billy scoffs and sneers, “I don’t know, jerk off? I don’t care what you do. Scram.”

Billy being an ass isn’t the shocking bit, it’s the way the extra guys actually start to leave and nobody stops them.

“Wait a minute. They don’t even get to try out?!” pops out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop himself, and it’s like darts to the chest when blue eyes snap to him and Billy stares at him like he’s trying to peel back his skin.

“They either didn’t want it bad enough or weren’t strong enough to fight for it. So no they don’t get to try out. But you’re welcome to give up your shot if you want to.”

Steve can feel six pairs of hopeful eyes shift towards him. He grits his teeth and guilty does not meet any of their gazes. His gaze snaps back to Billy when the other teen speaks again, full of smug delight. Steve wants to be there, too much to give it up to someone else and Billy seems to relish that. His gaze is too intense and too probing.

“Any more questions Princess, or can we get on with the next test?”

Yeah Steve’s got questions. And he’s gonna ask them too cause fuck Billy Hargrove.

“What do you mean test? And where’s the coach? I’m not here to get my chain yanked Hargrove.”

Hank gives Steve a look, obviously shocked that he has the nerve to go up against Billy but kind of low key impressed too. Steve doesn’t get it. Yeah Billy’s built and he’s top of the food chain, but Hank’s not small. Six foot, wide shouldered, and muscled, Steve doesn’t even need to ask if he’s from moonwood. He just has that look. Steve’s starting to get used to it and the more he does the weirder it is to him that everyone acts like they’re scared to cross Hargrove. 

Sweaty palms and weird heart palpitations aside, Steve is not afraid of Billy Hargrove. But the dark glower Billy fixes on him at being challenged warns him that maybe he should be.

“Aww, don’t say that. You’re gonna break Billy’s heart Harrington.” Dave teases, and a couple of the other guys snicker. Those watching in the bleachers follow their cue and the gymnasium buzzes with amused sounds.

“Shut up Dave.” Billy grumbles without venom. He saves all of it for Steve as he snaps out, “Lap-ups, now! All of you pipsqueaks. Anyone who stops before I blow the whistle can hand over their jersey and take their sorry ass off my court.”

There’s some groaning but the guys immediately start shuffling towards the boundary lines to start their laps around the court. Steve hesitates for a fraction of a moment, caught in Billy’s gaze. Billy stares back at him unblinking, daring, and Steve thinks for a fraction of a second that his eyes don’t look human anymore. It’s like staring into the gaze of a predator. It sends a shiver down his spine.

He’s snapped out of the moment by Hank’s hand landing on his shoulder, the taller boy leaning close as he urges Steve to come on, explaining, “the team captains always run the first half of try-outs. It’s tradition.”

Steve frowns. It seems odd to him, especially for a winning team, for the coach to be absent for half of the try-out but what does he know? The Hawkins Tigers never won a regional title, let alone a state championship. 

The red and blue teams run laps around the court. Dave passes each of them a ball to dribble under the visitors basket and Chet catches their rebounds at the home basket. He passes them to Billy, who passes them back to Dave in between his shouts for them to pick up the pace or stop dribbling like grandmothers. 

Steve and Hank fall into stride next to each other, until one or the other has to pull ahead to catch a ball or take a shot. But they always fall back into step after, and Hank makes conversation with him. It makes it easier to ignore the burning in his legs, and the eyes he can feel digging into his back, so that Steve can just focus on showing off his control of the ball and making his layups. 

He’s a cool guy Hank. Laid back and confident with none of the usual highschool awkwardness. He kinda reminds Steve of his grandpa, which makes more sense when Hank admits he’s lived in Moonwood his entire life and has never been anywhere else.

“Really? Like not even on vacation?”

Hank shrugs his big shoulders and grins.

“What for? Got a beach if I want to swim and a whole national park on my doorstep. Plus it’s hard, you know, for folks like us planning around the cycle.”

Steve has no idea what he’s talking about or what he means by ‘folks like us’, and he doesn’t get the chance to ask because a ball comes flying towards Hank fast and hard. The other boy just barely manages to catch it, but the loud way it THUDs against his chest makes Steve wince in sympathy. Hank stumbles and his head snaps up, and Steve swears an honest to god growl rumbles out of his throat as his eyes lock with Billy.

“Stay alert ladies!” Billy mocks before he brings the whistle to his mouth and blows it sharply for everyone’s attention. “Alright game of knock-out, red against blue. Follow me!”

Billy sets off toward center court without looking to see if anyone will follow - knowing they will.

Hank mutters something under his breath that Steve doesn’t quite catch but it sounds like ‘alpha, dick-head’.

They don’t get much chance to talk after that. Billy announces that only the winning team will make the cut and continue on with the tryout.

“That’s not fair Hargrove, they’ve got Hank!” one of the guys on the red team complains. It’s this big lunkhead named Brian, one of the guys who tried to shove Steve into a locker. His pal Virgil nudges him in the side and shout whispers for everyone to hear.

“Yeah but they also have the pipsqueak. Harrington will be an easy out.” 

“Not as easy as your mother Sanchez. I’d watch how I was running my mouth if I were you.” Billy drawls in reply. Not even a snap or a bark, but still there’s something in it, like a growl, that makes the hair on Steve’s arms raise and his throat feel tight like there’s a hand squeezing the back of his neck. And he can tell it’s not just him by the way Virgil and Brian immediately clam up and avert their eyes. 

The game starts, one player from each team taking a shot from the key line at the same time until one of them makes a basket. It’s up to the next player on their team to try and out hoop the opposing player and knock him out. The last team standing wins.

Steve tries to just have fun with it, but pretty soon it’s a whirlwhind. Steve’s ears are full of the sound of pounding feet and his frantic heartbeat. A strange electric rush fills his blood as the competition heats up, the stands alive with cheers and heckling as the game becomes a chaotic scramble to try and stay one step ahead of the guy in front of him. It’s dizzying. Steve can barely focus and Billy doesn’t help.

If it’s not - “What was that? Come on Harrington! My little sister could have made that shot with her eyes closed.”

Then it’s - “You’re damn lucky Reeves has got his head up his ass today Pretty Boy. You’d be out if you were shooting against anyone else!”

Fuck you, man. Steve thinks more than once. Nearly says a couple of times. Has to bite his tongue to keep the words in when they are three blue and two red and his first shot falls off the rim and he’s a hair too slow on the rebound.

“You’re out!” Billy snaps before the red player’s ball has even made it completely through the net. “You deserved that Harrington. You call that a hustle?”

Steve calls this cruel and unusual punishment actually. He has sweated through his shirt, his face is flushed, and his chest is itchy with heat. He’s got the strangest urge to march up to Hargrove and sink his teeth into him.

He can just imagine his mom’s humiliation if she gets called to the school because ‘Stevie bit another boy’ like this is the second grade all over again. And then he remembers that he’s eighteen and technically an adult and he could get sued or worse, and keeps his teeth to himself.

Even without him the blue team wins, largely thanks to Hank. While the rest of his teammates celebrate, Steve can’t help but feel a little glum. The hour is ending, the coach never showed and he knows there’s no way in hell he’s making the cut. Not after the way Billy rode his ass the entire time. He’s kinda bummed about it because despite everything he had fun. It was challenging, but in a good way. Like it made him wake up or something. There’s something about this place that makes Steve feel more alive.

After the red players have filed off the court in defeat, Billy, Dave, and Chet have the blue team line up and congratulate them on their win.

“Really good job guys. We saw some great stuff out there today.” Chet praises and the tension in the room releases. Steve can feel the way the other guys start to relax, chests puffing out with pride and trading tired grins.

“The good news is, all of you are moving on.” Dave leads and Steve jolts. He can’t believe he heard that right. Does this mean he’s on the team?

“The bad news is that means you’re going to have to spend a week smelling each other's farts.” Billy adds dryly and some of the guys chuckle.

Steve frowns in confusion. He doesn’t understand. The try-out isn’t over? And what does he mean they’ll have to spend a week smelling each other’s farts? 

As if he can hear Steve’s brain racing Hank leans down and whispers, “The basketball team goes on a retreat at the beginning of the year. It’s like boot camp. Coach will finalize the roster after the retreat.”

“They let the basketball team take a whole week off school to go camping?” Steve asks a little weirded out. It just seems unusual to him, but this wouldn’t be the first example of special treatment he’s witnessed the basketball team getting.

Hank nods.

“The volleyball and soccer teams too. Though the soccer teams go in spring. Don’t worry. Most of the teachers will give you your assignments in advance so you don’t fall behind.”

Steve supposes that makes sense since it was early in the semester. And he supposes when the athletic teams are actually good, the school sees it as an investment in the students' futures. He’s willing to bet there is a lot of scholarship money to go around for state champions.

“Basketball camp is mandatory for the entire team, not just the rookies.” Chet explains to the group. “Dave is passing around a permission slip. Your parents need to sign it for you to get on the bus.”

“The bus leaves at seven A.M. sharp Sunday morning. If you’re not on it, tough titties.” Billy finishes. 

Sunday morning…right after the bonfire.

|PART 5|

Friendly Tags for those who expressed interest: @darleenjade @sweetwaterangel @dragonflylady77 @natchula @tip-tap-tired @sparklingsprinkles @adelacreations @bluetree76 @deadfromtheneckdown @heavensfinest @marklee-blackmore @slightlydepressedmelon

[awordsmith]

Secrets and Liars

Chapter Two

----

Aria's phone goes off and she finally breaks the awkward staring contest with the new teacher started with her. "Sorry," she mumbles.

The class goes by slowly, I stare out the window, half paying attention, casually glancing at Spencer every once in a while. I feel eyes on me, I don't know why, but it feels like it did that morning when I woke up in a bed instead of a couch or the floor and Alison was suddenly missing.

Everyone had questions; everyone had suspicions, it was almost like they thought we had something to do with it, that I'd somehow contributed to her disappearance. It got worse when school started. I'd always had my brothers, but Elio was at Hollis that year, and Romeo was checked out for a reason I didn't know.

They tried their best to act like nothing happened, but I could practically see the eggshells they were walking on. I sometimes still can.

--

"I can't believe they sold the house," Romeo sighs, leaning against the giant grey couch in the family room.

"Rome!" Elio hisses, throwing a glare at him. I ignore them both, stomping up to my room. I try forcing the tears down. This cannot be happening. It can't. It just–breath breath

I start hyperventilating, I pace back and forth, and I can't stop, I need to think. I need to get away.

I slide open my window, pull myself out, and onto the small roof of my bedroom. I stand, letting the wind tangle my hair.

As soon as I breathe in the nice afternoon air, I scream–and then I break down and start sobbing. My chest feels constricted, I grab the part of my shirt lying just above my heart, trying to count each beat to calm myself down.

It works for the most part, but I still fall into a crouch, holding my knees. I don't know why I'm crying, this feeling of sickness and heartache instantly washed over me when Romeo mentioned the Dilaurentis' selling their house and I couldn't control it. I mean, I've been wanting to cry all day, I think, but I've been holding it in, and–and–another wave of sobbing comes over me.

I stay on the roof until I feel tired and the sky turns a pinkish-orange color. I hear Elio come in without knocking, when he can't find me, he leaves, shutting the door behind him. Dinner's probably ready, but I don't feel like eating, I just want to sleep.

----

Jason I'm fine Sept/12/09 6:26 pm I heard you're selling the house

I stare at the drafted message. I probably shouldn't send it. We haven't spoken in almost a year. It wouldn't make sense. We fell out of touch, I need to just accept it–but I can't, I just can't let him go.

I don't send the message. Instead, I head downstairs, I stop short when I hear Mom and Dad arguing. I frown, leaning against the wall on the stairs, trying to be inconspicuous.

"No–no, Ric–I," Mom sighs, "I don't know if it'll be better or worse for her."

"So we should just ask–" Dad pleads, but Mom cuts him off.

"I am not asking our daughter if she wants to move now. If we were going to move it should have been when this all started."

I rush into the kitchen, "We're not moving–we can't"!

Their eyes both widen at my frantic movements, "Honey, good morning." Mom tries to smile everything away as if I haven't just caught them conspiring to move me away from the only thing I have left of Ali.

I stand firm, my eyes set, "we aren't moving."

"No, sweety," Mom walks over to me, pulling my hands in hers, "we're not moving, your father and I," she glances over at him, "We weren't, we were just talking."

I pull my hands from her, keeping my expression skeptical, "As long as this conversation ends today." Dad doesn't say anything, he turns away, avoiding my eyes, fixing the thing rectangle glasses that sit low on his nose. "Dad?" I call, wanting him to know I mean what I say.

"Right, you're mother is right, we were just talking... no more of that."

"Not on this topic," I say, brushing past them both, "I'm gonna stop by the brew before school to get coffee."

"Oh, I made some," Mom says.

"That's fine, thank you though." I say, "I'm not feeling home-made this morning." I throw one last pointed glance at Dad, then make my way out of the house.

Elio and Romeo start Hollis next week, so they're both sleeping in, lucky rats.

--

"Hey, Katherine," I glance up, catching Spencer heading toward me. I don't know how to respond so I just smile. "Are you heading to school already too?"

I press my lips together, "No, the brew, actually."

"Oh," she nods, looks at my car, "do you mind if I catch a ride?"

I frown, really wanting to say no. I don't think I know how to act around them without Ali. I'm my own person, we all are, but Ali just made things easier.

"Sure," I huff eventually, nodding for her to get into my white Honda Civic.

"Did you see them?"

"The new neighbors?" I scoff, rolling my eyes as I pull out of my driveway.

"Yeah," he purses her lips, shaking her head as if in disbelief, "I just can't–"

"–fathom it? Yeah, me neither." I sound angrier than I intend it. The words are practically lava coming from a volcano.

"Have you heard from Jason?" She asks–catching me completely off guard.

I do a 180, eyeing her as if she's lost half an eyeball. "No, why?"

She shrugs, turning to watch the passing buildings, "I just assumed, because you guys were always close."

"We weren't that close," a lie, Spencer knows that, I know that. What neither of us know is why I told it.

"Right," she nods, "my bad."

It's silence for the rest of the ride to the brew. When we get back in the car, Spencer clears her throat, "so you haven't... gotten any weird texts? From anyone?"

"What do you mean? I ask incredulously. If this is about Jason, she seriously needs to drop it.

She forces a smile, rubs her shoulder, and takes a sip of her latte, "Nothing, forget I said anything."

I look straight, nodding, "whatever you say."

----

I park and we both get out, "see you in first period." I say, breezing past her.

"See you," she murmurs.

I lock my car before heading onto campus. It's crowded outside and I have–like–10 minutes before class starts. I go to the bathroom to fix myself, spray some perfume, then head toward the lockers.

I set my things inside, brush out my hair again, and before I know it the bell is ringing. I roll my eyes and beeline into Mr. Fitz's room before the halls get too overwhelmingly crowded for comfort.

He goes over some lessons about how Arthurian Legend shaped BCE history and assigns us to come up with a topic for the next class, ten will be chosen and then we'll be divided up into groups of three. I'm really not looking forward to it, but someone already asked if they could work alone and Fitz said no, so I'm stuck in limbo.

Gasps pull me from my thoughts, I look around me, finding people staring down the hall, I follow their gazes, my heart dropping as soon as I see who they're talking about.

Mathew Li.

What the hell is he doing here? But more importantly, what the hell is his sister doing back here. Nervousness and anger rush to the forefront of my chest.

I glare at their disappearing figures as they enter the principal's office, letting out a deep, wretched sigh and turning back to my locker,. I move the lock side to side and tug it open, stumbling back as a piece of paper falls out. Frowning, I pick it up and set my bag inside the locker to read it.

What. The. "Fuck?" I say the last word out loud, though breathless, I know people must have heard me. I glance from side to side, catching Spencer's lingering stare. I grit my teeth, slamming my locker shut, and heading toward my next class.

My mind races at all the possibilities. Alison? Who else could it be? I scoff at myself, reminding myself that though they never found a body, Ali's been gone for an entire year, and her family sold their house. If this was her idea of a prank, she would have come clean before all of that happened.

No. This is someone else idea of a sick joke. But. I stop, crushing the paper in my hands as I recall the words. Words on Ali ever said to me, about something only she ever knew.

By accident. She found out by sheer... accident, but then again, nothing was ever accidental with Alison. Whoever this is, can go to hell. No one can prove it was me. I destroyed all the evidence, besides, that little skank deserved what she got. I regret nothing. They can kiss my ass for all I care.

----

Chapter Four

Hello everyone, again, just here to thank you for reading! I wasn't really sure what my OC's secret would be, but then this popped into my head, so here we are!

[razorsadness]

The siren speeds by my morning window, makes me, half asleep, think it’s racing to Jersey to rescue Ted when I remember building maintenance had already been called, found him dead a week ago and he’s going to be dead from now on. The last time I sat with him in a diner was early March, before Covid hit, after the usual Sunday Parkside afternoon reading. One feature was solid, the other sucked. Ted tried a new one that cracked the audience up and I liked how my new one sounded coming out of my mouth. Ted’s talking to the waitress. She’s maybe 25, Hispanic, with a hint of attitude spicing her words. He orders a turkey burger all the time, asks if they got sweet potato fries even though he knows they do to keep her nearby. I’m deciding between eggs up over corned beef hash or a turkey club with fries, a black and white shake to help it go down. Ted, a germ-a-phobe, washes his hands. A bit of a slob, I don’t.

We agree about the reading. Francine read two strong ones and it’s always good to hear a new one from Puma with or without music. We both wanted to assassinate the political ranter, ignored the guy who rhymed. We wanted someone to gong the woman whose introduction lasted twice as long as her harmless poem and the kid scrolling the poem he finished as the F pulled into Delancey Street needed to reconsider the sanctity of the first draft. “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” filters through the sound system and Ted calls the waitress over, asks nicely if she could please change the channel, that this song makes him sick to his stomach. The waitress walks away shaking her head, smiling, while he tells me how he can’t stand fucking Stills, re-tells his story about the night him and his friends threw snowballs at Buffalo Springfield after a show and how the Buffalos chased them down the street until they reached their apartment building safely. Tough Bronx boys my ass I laugh, tell him Steven was a better songwriter than Neil back then. I stop talking, sing along to the dododot ending while he hoped his snowball missed Young, hit Stills. Baseball’s next. Alonso or Judge, deGrom, Cole. Though I know Jacob is the best pitcher on the planet I pump up Cole because it’s more fun to argue and it cracks me up to see Ted agitated, loud. He gets up to hit the bathroom before his trip to Jersey. I hold it in, prefer my home bowl.

We should have talked about suicide. Optimistic me against Ted’s darkness. The idea of control, dignity, the freeing from hopelessness and constant suffering, peace at last, finally, versus everybody dies, why help it out and hurry it along, the finality, the no-going-back of it, just tough your way through like we always do, holding onto the little things that lift us momentarily and if you get to a point you’re thinking about it, say something. I’ll Uber to Jersey, beat you with a stick ball bat, knock some sense into your cement-hard head, alright?

It’s March, 70 degrees, Covid’s loosening its grip. Go for a brisk walk, lift your hands out of pockets. Women and girls parade Avenues looking more wonderful than ever after all this covering up, isolation. It’s time to get out of Jersey, head to Brighton Beach, that apartment you talked about. Sit on the boardwalk. Smell the ocean, hang out with Al Gal, down a few cold ones. Opening Day is three weeks away, the Mets are certain contenders, even the Knicks are watchable. Ted, you dumb fuck, where are you? There are poems only you could write, people who want to read them. I just finished a new one. I want to email it to you. I am waiting for you to tear it apart or love it a lot.

—Tony Gloeggler, “Aftermath” (Rattle #73, Fall 2021)

[abarbaricyalp]

I asked for prompts for Steve’s birthday and got:

@barneswilsonrogers i want to share a prompt for steve birthday 🥳 maybe Sam planning something big but everything goes wrong so he’s sad about it and cue Steve being so understanding and love him anyway? lol i hope you like it

which has led to this which is much longer than I intended and was written entirely in the drafts feature on the phone app so it's possibly not as polished as it could be, but I really enjoyed sitting with these two for a while again. Word of warning, you asked for things to go wrong and those things sure can go wrong. PTSD Flashback CW towards the end. Thanks for the prompt!

----

Sam hadn't had to set an alarm for years. He was always up before everyone else in his family (except his dad on Sunday mornings) and he realized quickly he'd rather be awake at the bugle call in bootcamp, or before the emergency alarms when he was overseas. After that, the habit just stuck. He was up early to run, did as many chores and errands as possible before the sun was up, and took to cat-napping in the afternoon if he wanted.

And then he met Steve Rogers, who seemed to make it his life goal to beat Sam out of bed every morning. It was kind of infuriating.

So Sam had set an alarm the night before and he still beat it awake. But the other side of the bed was cool and empty when his hand naturally drifted over to it. Again, really? he wondered with a grumble.

Rubbing his eyes, he shoved himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. Maybe Steve had gone out for some reason. Maybe Sam's plans weren't ruined yet.

No dice. He took in the spread set up across the kitchen bar and felt a little of the excitement in his chest deflate.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, coming to behind Steve to steal a strawberry and wrap his arms around Steve's waist.

Steve positively melted into Sam's touch, setting aside a knife to hug Sam's arms around him. "Couldn't sleep. Wanted French toast. Then I figured I should make eggs for you. And eggs need bacon. And then I started coffee and decided to try that caramel thing."

Sam turned to press a kiss to Steve’s neck, hiding his face there for a second and pulling another happy hum from his partner. "I was going to cook for you today."

"You make those burgers for lunch or dinner and I'll forgive you," Steve promised. Finally he turned enough to kiss Sam properly.

"It'll have to be lunch," Sam said against his mouth, so he felt it when Steve grinned.

"Oh, do we have dinner plans?" he asked. "I'll have to cancel my parade."

Sam laughed and pinched Steve’s side gently. "Let's eat on the patio," he said. "I'll move stuff out there."

"And then dessert back in bed?" Steve suggested, not at all innocently sucking on a strawberry, lips pursed around it.

Sam let himself be distracted for a second. "If that's what the birthday boy wants," he offered. "I think I could suffer through."

Steve grinned and Sam didn't feel so terrible about not cooking breakfast.

They ate outside and a cool breeze and bright sunrise made for the perfect morning scene. Then Steve, without waiting for either of them to put the plates in the sink or even inside, scooped Sam into his arms and carried him back to the bedroom.

Sam landed in their comforter with a laugh and then immediately clutched at his sides to protect them as Steve climbed over him and got his mouth on all the sensitive skin of his abdomen.

"Wait, wait, wait," he laughed, half clutching at Steve’s head, half shoving him away. "It's your birthday. I should be spoiling you."

Steve lifted his head, a dopey grin still on his mouth. "Sammy, this is exactly what I want for my birthday," he promised and went back to kissing over Sam's sternum.

He was just starting to slide Sam's boxers from his waist when Sam's phone rang.

"Ignore it," Sam mumbled, lifting his hips and holding Steve's head down. The phone fell silent and Sam had almost left himself get complacent before it started to ring again.

"It's HQ," Steve murmured against Sam's thigh.

Sam blindly reached for the phone and silenced it before throwing it across the room. "Captain America doesn't work on Fourth of July."

"Doesn't he?" Steve chuckled. "I kind of planned on putting these to work." He licked over Sam's thigh, over a bite he'd worked there while Sam was worried about the phone.

"Mmm, you're the exception to my rule," Sam decided. "You ever wanna boss me around, today's the day."

"Nah," Steve breathed, shook his head so his lips dragged over Sam's skin. "You're smarter than me. Got better ideas."

Sam hooked his other leg over Steve’s shoulder and that's when Steve’s phone began to ring.

"Come on!" Sam shouted at the ceiling as Steve chuckled softly and extricated himself from Sam.

"Maybe it's just someone calling to wish me a happy birthday."

Sam shot him a baleful look. It was very unlikely that that was the case. And judging from the grimace on Steve’s face when he answered, Sam was right.

"Uh, yeah," he said with a cringe and apologetic look to Sam. "Yeah, he's alright. No, I don't know where his phone is. Come on, it's his day off. Can't we just--" His jaw clenched tightly enough that Sam could see it from across the room. With a sigh, Sam pushed himself out of the bed again and began to get dressed.

"I'll be back quick," he promised when Steve tossed his phone on the bed. "Don't you do the dishes. I'll be back in time for lunch. Give you one of the presents. This is really screwing with my timeline."

Steve pulled Sam closer with two fingers hooked behind his hip, but anger still simmered under Sam's skin. He'd had this whole day planned out and now everything was going wrong. It was the first time they were back to normal for Steve’s birthday and it couldn't even be good.

"I know, doll," Steve soothed. And Sam got mad all over again because he was supposed to be soothing Steve. "Just get back. That's gift enough."

Sam pressed his forehead to Steve’s and closed his eyes. "Always," he promised.

The problem was down in Jersey. Sam wasn't even going to call it a mission. It really was more of a watch-and-bust kind of operation that did little more than interrupt his day.

Bucky was there, looking even more sullen than Sam felt. But he managed to get five digs in about Sam being here instead of with Steve. The jabs both infuriated Sam and also chafed at his already raw heart. It was remedied slightly back at HQ by Bucky's, possibly too sincere, offer to knock heads around for calling Sam in in the first place.

It was a silly thing to get really upset about, Sam knew. But he’d put a lot of thought into making this birthday nice for Steve. Things had been rough since the un-end of the world. They'd both been wearing themselves to the bone and today was supposed to be filled with nothing but each other and their friends and cake and fireworks.

Shit, the show. The reservations.

Sam grabbed Bucky's wrist to read his watch and then popped his wings open, about to take off.

"Date's gonna be that good, huh?" Bucky teased. "Or the after-date?" He waggled his eyebrows at Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes back. "I liked you better before you remembered your personality," he griped emptily. Unfortunately, he really liked Bucky. Quite unfortunately, Bucky knew that.

"Yeah yeah, give him a kiss for me." He made a ridiculous kissing face, arms coming up around the air dramatically. It was ridiculous and juvenile but it made some of the frustration and hurt ease up from Sam's chest. Still, Sam hoped a little bit of heat blow back from his thrusters hit Bucky.

He landed on their patio and sighed in resigned disapproval to find it had all been cleaned. The small grill had been pulled out and there were half burnt coals in it and the smell of burnt meat clung to the rack. Man could win a war but not grill a hamburger, it'd never make sense to Sam.

Inside, the apartment was quiet and calm. A record from the fifties--some genre in between swing and jazz--played lowly and a bunch of the candles that Steve liked were lit, trailing to the bedroom. Sam grinned at the theatrics, wished he had been the one to do it, and followed them into the bedroom.

The lights were low, the music louder now, and Steve was laying in their bed in a nice suit. Sam wasn't even going to ask how he'd found the reservations and knew what to wear. He sat on the edge provided by the way Steve was curled onto his side and reached out to shake his shoulder gently. His fingers traveled to Steve's jaw, tracing over the relaxed line of it then over his eyebrow and his nose and his cheekbone.

"Keep doing that and we won't get to the restaurant," Steve murmured, a grin finally coming to his mouth though his eyes didn't open.

"Who wore you out so well?" Sam asked. "Asleep before 6 in the evening, old man." He tsked teasingly.

"I'm not asleep," Steve argued. His eyes still weren't open.

"Well you stay not-asleep while I get cleaned up and dressed."

Steve whined. "That's my favorite part of going out."

Sam kissed the corner of Steve's eye, his temple, his cheekbone. "But you're already dressed and if I let you in the bathroom with me, I know you'll get into the shower fully clothed."

Steve hummed at the thought. "That does sound really nice."

"Stay here," Sam laughed. "I'll be back out in a few minutes."

The first fireworks of the night went off as Sam adjusted the temperature of the water. That's a little early, he thought with a small scowl. It wasn't even dark yet.

He tried to shower as quickly as possible but the warm water felt good on his aching muscles and there was more grime on him than he'd initially thought. Flying through New York probably didn't help anything.

He heard the door open and fondly rolled his eyes. "Thought I told you to be patient," he called.

"Hey now, give me some credit, I'm just bringing you some briefs," Steve called back. "Keep you less distracting as you get dressed."

"Oh? And what if I wanted to go commando? Make it that much easier later?" Sam teased.

Steve groaned, all put upon. "Now I definitely wanna get in the water with you."

Sam rinsed his hair one last time, scrubbing the salt of sweat from his hairline, before pointedly turning the water off.

Steve was waiting on the bath mat with a towel when Sam got the door open. "This doesn't count as being distracting?" he asked with a raised brow.

"Not if I keep my eyes up," Steve joked.

"Atta, soldier boy." Sam took the towel and started to scrub down. Another firework popped outside and Steve rolled his eyes, even if he was smiling a little.

"The Dogers used to do a great show on the Fourth," he said, steadfastly keeping his eyes above Sam's chest as promised.

"You want Yankees tickets, just let me know," Sam taunted.

"Fuck the Yankees," Steve said, like a record.

Sam laughed at him and tugged on his briefs. "Come on, I wanna give you something before we go out." This, at least, could go right today.

He took Steve's hand--sometimes that simple gesture still blew his mind; he was just allowed to do that--and took Steve into the bedroom. He dug in the emptier second closet, where super suits and weapons and shields were kept with old boots and jackets, until he could pull a shape free. There was a Captain America blanket wrapped around it in lieu of wrapping paper.

Steve laughed as he looked over it. "Good call," he said. "I glanced at this thing a hundred times but figured it couldn't be that important if you wrapped it in Bucky's gag gift."

Sam grinned at him and leaned against the bed post. "Go ahead. 'Unwrap' it."

Steve did, just as carefully as he unwrapped any gift. Under the blanket was bag with tactical straps and a good weatherproof canvas. Steve opened that gently too and grinned before the item was even out of the bag. The easel unfolded easily and Steve set it up right where he was.

"This is beautiful," he said softly, tracing his fingers over the fine wood.

"Look, it's got all this storage on the back," Sam pointed out, gesturing to a small peg board carved onto one of the supports of it. A small leather pouch was on another. Various hooks and strings dotted a third. "So you don't have to keep brushes or pencils in your pocket or on the ground."

"Where did you find something like this? It's perfect."

Sam's cheeks warmed. "I made it, actually. A friend of mine, down in Louisiana, is a wood worker. He helped me make it."

"You made this?" Steve asked, voice full of admiration and adoration, as he looked over at Sam with wide, earnest eyes.

"Everything but the bag," Sam agreed, though most of it was lost as Steve enveloped him in a hug that made the day worth it. At the rate everything else had been going, he'd half expected for the easel to be broken in the bag. But it wasn't and Steve loved it.

"I wanted something you could carry around with you, now that you might have some more down time. Take it to the park or on a train or whatever."

"Thank you," Steve breathed against Sam's shoulder. Sam hugged him back, clutching onto him. Then suddenly Steve was sweeping them around the room, moving in time to the jazzy swing on the player.

Sam laughed and clutched onto Steve’s shoulders until he got his feet under him again. Dancing with Steve was pretty much one of his favorite things to do and he let himself get lost in the feeling of it.

A firework burst right outside the bedroom window, red colors tangling in Steve's light hair, reflecting off smiling teeth.

Oh man, I know, I gotta go. It's the same thing every time. But I don't think another drink's gonna Make me lose my mind.

And suddenly Sam was in the a dusty barrack, dancing with Riley to this terrible favorite song of his.

And there was an explosion and Steve's face was red.

And there was a gunshot and Sam's dad was on the street.

And there was a blast that Sam felt the heat of before it hit Riley.

And there was fire and there was noise and there was destruction Sam couldn't stop.

There was a crash and someone was trying to pull Sam from the wreckage, away from his father's body Riley’s body, Steve's body. Away from the fight. Into the fight. Towards the noise. Into the heat.

"Sam. Sam. Baby, come back. Hey, you're home. You're home, you're safe, you're right here."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swayed in the ripcurrent of devastation around him. A hand on his shoulder, on his face. Pain all over his knees and his back. Maybe his head. Maybe it was all in his head.

It was never in his head. It'd be better if some of the terrible things that had happened would've just stayed in his head. He could handle it. But instead it exploded out of him in colors and noise and fire and tore apart everyone near him.

"Sam," a voice called again holding his head. The light eased from his eyes and shapes took form again. He made himself blink. Made shapes into a face. Steve's face. A safe face. Steve continued to look worked until Sam blinked again and furrowed his brow. "There you are," Steve breathed. He brushed his thumb over Sam's cheekbone. "You're home," he repeated. "It's okay." They were on the floor, Sam realized. He must have passed out?

Outside, a firework exploded and they both flinched.

"Your birthday," Sam gasped. "Dinner. The show. Shit I--" He looked down at his bare chest and legs. Devastation found him all over again. "I ruined it." A sob had worked its way through his chest and broke free in the words.

"Oh, angel, no," Steve sighed, pulling Sam into his lap and hugging him to his chest. Sam let himself cling onto him. "You didn't ruin anything. I'm right where I want to be. My best guy's arms. Just wish you were feeling better yourself in the moment."

"I had it all planned out. A day just for you. Food and s** and presents all day. And every single thing was ruined but at least I could take you to a fancy dinner and watch fireworks from 75 floors above with you." Sobs continued to wrack through Sam. Frustration and helplessness and pain. He was mad at himself for slipping at such a stupid moment. He'd watched dozens of fireworks shows. He had fought in a hundred more battles. How could it happen tonight of all nights, when he'd just decided to be happy again?

"Didn't we get that?" Steve asked. "We had breakfast and got playful and we danced and I got my hands all over you and you gave me the most beautiful present. Baby, I'm just worried about you right now."

Sam hid his face against Steve's shoulder and willed himself not to cry. "I'm sorry, Stevie," he murmured.

"For what?" Steve asked softly, resting his cheek on Sam's head. "You wanna know something?" he asked. "I don't like fireworks. The smell of them, especially a lot of them, reminds me of... Well, you know."

Steve's fingers started smoothing along Sam's ribs and Sam squeezed his hip in turn. "And I'd always prefer to make dinner with you than go out. I mean, that's not true. I love getting to show you off. But I just love you first. You're everything to me, Sam. Just knowing you put so much thought into today is enough. But I really only need to know that you're okay right now."

He hooked a knuckle under Sam's chin and Sam looked up at him with wet eyes. "Come on, come back to me. You're okay. We're okay."

Sam rested his forehead against Steve's jaw and nodded. "I know. I know. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for. You're here. That's all I need." He kissed Sam's hairline and rubbed his sides. "I pretty much planned on spending all day in bed anyway," he added when Sam didn't respond. "Just thought it might be warmer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're awful, y’know that?"

Steve hummed a chuckle. "Nah, I just know what makes me happy for the first time in ages."

Sam leaned against Steve's chest for a few more seconds, measuring their heartbeats until they were almost the same. "I'll take you up on cooking," he eventually said. "But it can't be burgers. The grill would set off all the fire alarms."

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. "How about that cake in the fridge we're pretending I haven't seen?" he suggested.

"Steven Grant, Captain America doesn't have dessert before dinner," Sam scolded dramatically to banish any last wavering in his voice.

Steve's hand fell to Sam's hip and over his thigh. "The way I remember it, you get dessert before dinner all time." This was further punctuated with a kiss to Sam's neck. "Besides, it's my birthday. Just call me a bad influence on Cap and have a little cake."

"Or a lot," Sam suggested, pulling Steve to his feet as he stood, just a little wobbly.

"There is a lot," Steve agreed with a grin. He kissed Sam like that'd distract Sam from him grabbing his ass. "Feeling better?"

Sam let out an exhale and nodded. Good enough for dinner at least. Good enough to start putting the old plan behind him and focus on the man in front of him. "I feel better."

"Good," Steve agreed and lifted Sam up by the thighs for the second time that day. A shocked laugh burst from Sam and he quickly clung onto Steve. "Now, you keep saying presents, like multiple. But I've only seen one."

"Oh that's how it is?" he laughed as Steve took them to the kitchen. "It was a slip of the tongue. Oh, but Bucky did say to give you this." He planted a wet, awful kiss on Steve's cheek and Steve half groaned, half screeched at it.

"Conspiracy," he accused. "Better find something better to do with that mouth."

"Like what?" Sam asked, settling on the dining table when Steve put him there, letting him step between Sam's legs.

"Like eating cake. Or like something like this." He gently cupped Sam's face in both of his hands and kissed him until Sam's brain quieted and the furrows smoothed from his forehead and a smile came to his mouth.

"I agree," he breathed when Steve stopped kissing him but didn't pull away. "That's a much better use."

"A better kiss," Steve agreed.

"I can't believe you're gonna rank my kisses."

Steve kissed him again with a grin and Sam decided maybe they could be ranked after all.

"Thank you," Steve breathed between their mouths. "For all of this. But just for everything. Every kiss and breakfast and nightmare and laughing fit and stolen shirt and night spent putting in butterfly bandages and stitches and every night spent not doing that and all the dinners at home or out. Everything you do, Sam, is perfect. I love you so much. You're the only thing I ever want. You, safe and happy and right here in my arms."

Sam hugged Steve closer. "I love you too, Steve," he promised. "Happy birthday."

And they kissed again.

[fruitcoops]

I was wondering if I could request something? Maybe Sirius' first night at the Dumais' place and Dumo can straight away tell that somethings wrong. Sirius makes polite conversation and it all looks so painful until he retires for the night and Dumo passes by his room and he hears Sirius crying maybe? Because of what his mother said, and maybe because he has trouble adjusting to new situations? Just an idea that popped into my head :) Only if you want to write it <3 Thank you

Yes, I can! I love writing Dumo, but for some reason I don't do it that often--his and Sirius' dynamic is just so wholesome and wonderful. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for implied child abuse and broken glass (no injury)

The first thing Pascal Dumais noticed about Sirius Black was how quiet he was. At only eighteen years old, Sirius was taller than most of the other Lions, with broad shoulders and gangly limbs. Yet he moved almost silently, padding along the wood floors in his socks and speaking only when spoken to. It was…honestly, a bit unsettling.

Dumo had expected a rambunctious teenage boy, still high on the thrill of being drafted to the NHL—instead, he found himself the guardian-slash-landlord of a ghost. Sirius unloaded his meager belongings with little fuss and accepted no help, his pale eyes never lingering on either of them for too long.

Celeste poked her head into the living room in the early afternoon when they returned from the grocery store; Sirius was sitting ramrod straight in the smallest chair they had with a thick book in his hands. She knocked gently on the doorframe, and he jumped. “Sirius, would you like some lunch?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” he said in that unusually soft voice.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him.

“I can make myself a sandwich if you have other things to do. Really, I’m alright.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sirius blinked, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “I had breakfast at seven and a granola bar on the plane.”

“Sirius, it’s almost two.”

“Is it?”

“Come with me for a moment, oui?” She ushered him into the kitchen; Dumo wasn’t sure he would ever get used to seeing someone so physically imposing walk so small.

“Papa?” Someone tugged on the hem of his shirt and he snapped out of his daze, leaning down to lift Adele into his arms with a smile.

“Bonjour, mon chou! Did you have fun outside?” She nodded, wiggling a little in her excitement, and put her hands on either side of his face. Dumo’s stomach sank. “Why are your hands wet?”

“I washed them!”

“Why?”

“Because we played with chalk!”

Both the boys were at day camp, and Katie was down for her afternoon nap. Dumo wracked his brain. “Who were you playing with?”

“Sirius!” she giggled, then held the front of her shirt out. Wasn’t she wearing a different one this morning?“An’ he said chalk stains, so he lifted me up so I could wash my hands and helped me get my new shirt on when it got stuck and let me braid his hair! Can we keep him? Please, Papa, I wanna keep him forever!”

Dumo kissed her forehead as a wave of emotion tickled the back of his throat. Less than six hours in their home, and Sirius was already connecting with his children. “Oui, we can. Did you say thank you?”

Adele bit her lower lip. “I don’t remember.”

“Sirius?” Dumo called. The clanking in the kitchen stopped. “Can you come here for a moment?”

There was a beat of silence before he appeared in the doorway, looking paler than before as he walked over to them. This boy needs to eat more, the parental part of Dumo’s brain thought instantly. Slate-grey eyes flickered between them. “She—she had chalk on her shirt. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“It’s alright. What do you say?” Dumo asked, turning to Adele.

She turned a beaming smile on Sirius. “Thank you!”

His whole face softened in the blink of an eye and he smiled back, giving her a light fist bump. “Pas de problem, petit papillon.”

-------------------------------

Sirius opened up a bit over lunch; Adele perched herself right in his lap with her peanut butter sandwich to his clear astonishment, but his smiles came easier after that and Dumo treasured each one. He was already grateful that Sirius did not seem like the type of asshole player that Dumo remembered from his high school years.

Marc and Louis returned to the house just as they finished, and though Sirius offered to help wash the dishes—the boy was a blessing, really—they shooed him off to play with the kids for a while. It would do them all some good to get out in the sun.

“Quiet, isn’t he?” Celeste remarked as they stood side-by-side at the sink. Her tone was casual, but Dumo saw the worry in her eyes.

He hummed in agreement. “He’s probably just nervous, mon amour. They can take a while to warm up.”

“Pascal, I don’t think—”

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the other room. The house held its breath. “Is everyone alright?” Dumo called, drying his hands on the nearest towel as his pulse picked up. “What happened?”

Hushed whispers floated out, followed by the pitter-patter of little feet. He hurried down the hall with Celeste hot on his heels. “I’m so sorry,” Sirius said as they entered the room. He was kneeling on the wood floor, gathering fragments of a small water glass in one palm. “It was my fault. I hit it with my elbow.”

Celeste frowned. “Boys? Adele? I know you were here.”

Dumo didn’t miss Sirius’ hard swallow, nor the sudden nervousness—no, that was fear—on his face as the three kids crept out from around the corner, looking guiltier than anything. Adele stepped forward, but Sirius stood in a smooth, instinctive motion, keeping her behind him. “It was my fault,” he repeated. Dumo’s heart sank.

“Adele, is that true?”

She looked up toward Sirius, who kept his broad hand ever so slightly in front of her shoulder. Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Adele Marie, tell the truth.”

“No,” she said.

“Come here, please.” Dumo watched Sirius’ breaths go shallow as Celeste beckoned to Adele, but confusion took its place when she crouched to her level. “Thank you. What Sirius did was very nice, but we don’t let other people take the fall for our mistakes in this house, Adele. We accept responsibility. Who broke the cup?”

“I was chasing Marc and we both bumped into the table,” Adele confessed, toying with the hem of her butterfly-patterned shirt. “It was an accident, I promise.”

“Did anyone get hit by the glass?” Dumo asked. All three shook their heads. “Sirius?”

He cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Dumais.”

“Marc, Adele, I want you to find the broom and dustpan so your mother and I can clean this up. Thank you for being honest. Sirius, there’s a trash can in the kitchen, but be careful of the sharp edges. And please, call me Pascal or Dumo.”

But he didn’t stop thinking about the visible alarm on Sirius’ face when Celeste brought Adele forward all afternoon. Something was not right.

--------------------------------

If it wasn’t for the baby, Dumo would not have heard it.

Katie woke around midnight with a quiet whine, which devolved into whimpering, and finally into full-out sobbing for over half an hour. He carried her downstairs so she wouldn’t wake the others and gently rocked her, humming lullabies under his breath until his throat was dry and her tears abated. “There’s my good girl,” he murmured, drying her pudgy cheeks with his sleeve.

The last bits of sleep faded away as he set her down in her crib again, and he sighed. The season didn’t start for more than a month, but he had been looking forward to a few consecutive nights of solid rest before then.

May as well check on the others, he thought, wandering down the hallway in his thickest socks and bathrobe to stave off the nighttime chill. Marc and Louis were each out cold; he took the open book splayed across Marc’s bed and set it on his dresser, turning the lamp off as he left. Adele was curled into a tight ball around no less than four of her precious stuffed animals and he tucked the blankets back over her shoulder.

Dumo’s feet carried him down the stairs before his brain fully caught up, and he paused—Sirius had been in their house for a single day, and already he had the urge to look out for him. The thought should have made him feel silly, but instead he felt…peaceful. He felt right. There was a lost and near-silent boy in his home, who protected his kids within hours of knowing them. Of course Dumo was going to make sure he was alright.

Summer wind rushed past the wide windows as he headed toward the basement. It was warmer there, and he took a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for remodeling two years prior. Hopefully, Sirius would be comfortable.

A soft sound broke through his thoughts. Dumo stopped on the last step.

There was a harsh breath, then a sniffle, as if the person inside was trying and failing to keep their tears in past the point of no return. He heard a few shaky, weak inhales, then a choked noise that cut off abruptly with a gulp.

Dumo closed his eyes to hold back tears of his own and knocked lightly on the bedroom door.

Everything went silent with a rustle.

“Sirius?” he whispered, raising his voice just enough to be heard through the door. “Are you awake?”

There was no answer.

“Can I come in?” he ventured.

An unsteady voice answered. “Ouais.”

The door creaked a little as he opened it and stepped into the dark room. Sirius was nothing more than a clump of shadows on the far side of the bed, squished tight against the wall with all his blankets wrapped around him. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Je vais bien.”

“Can I sit?” Dumo fully expected Sirius to tell him ‘no’, to make an excuse, to pull some arrogant teenager nonsense.

Instead, he tucked his legs up and made room near the foot of the bed with another sniffle. “Did I wake you?”

“Non. Katie was crying, and I thought I’d check on everyone.” He settled down and scooted until his back was against the wall as well—Sirius was still hiding in a cocoon of his duvet, but his hand came up to wipe his face. “Do you want to talk?”

“About what?”

“You seem upset. I know the homesickness is hard for the first few days, but—”

“No.” The vehemence of Sirius’ answer shocked him into silence. “No. I’m not homesick. I just—so much has happened, and I—it’s—this is everything I wanted, right here, and—”

He broke off with a wounded noise that broke Dumo’s poor heart right down the middle. He moved closer until their shoulders touched; to his surprise, Sirius leaned on him and shivered. “How can I help you?” Dumo asked quietly.

“Your family…” Sirius shook his head and drew the covers tighter. “You have a beautiful family. You should be proud of them.”

“I am, every day.”

“Your kids love you so much.” It was barely more than a whisper.

Dumo sighed through his nose. “I know.”

“No, you don’t, they—you’re their hero. And not because of hockey.”

That was Dumo’s dream, laid out right in front of him. If someone he hardly knew could see that, then it must be true. The impact was greater than he ever could have imagined; his lungs felt tight. “Thank you. Is it alright if I ask you something?”

Sirius stiffened slightly.

“You’re not in trouble, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m just…worried.”

He felt Sirius shift. “This is about the glass.” It wasn’t a question.

“Oui.” Dumo searched for the words and scrounged up any sliver of tact he could find. “Sirius, do you—what happens when you break a glass at your house?”

Sirius’ breath rushed from his lungs in a near-silent sob. Dumo gathered him close in his arms and held him, letting tears dampen his shoulder as he murmured soft reassurances in French. “I’m sorry,” Sirius croaked, though he did not move away. “I’m sorry for—for intruding, and for ruining your shirt—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Dumo gave him a light squeeze of comfort and felt him go a bit boneless. “And you are not intruding. We love having you here with us.”

“Really?”

He sounded so unsure. So young. Dumo wished he could take away whatever horrible things had been said to ever make someone so kind feel so small. “Yes. Adele, especially.”

“She’s so…colorful.” Fondness dripped from every word.

“She is,” Dumo agreed. “She came running up to me, and went ‘papa, papa, can we keep him?’”

Sirius laughed a little at his imitation and straightened up, drying his eyes on his hoodie sleeve. They sat quietly for a while until the shaking stopped and his death grip on the comforter loosened. “Thank you, Mr. Dumais.”

“Call me Pascal, or Dumo if you like. ‘Mr. Dumais’ makes me sound like a grandfather.” They laughed together, then fell silent once more. “And you’re welcome. Any time you need help, you can come to me. I might not be your father, but—”

“You’re better,” Sirius interrupted, wiping his nose. His shadow turned to face Dumo in the dark, and though he couldn’t see his face, he could picture the earnest expression. “In every way. Please don’t tell anyone about this, though.”

“It never even crossed my mind,” Dumo answered honestly. “I should let you sleep now. We have some busy weeks ahead of us, eh?”

“Bonne nuit, M—Dumo.” The name carried new weight and he let it sink in as Sirius laid back down and kicked his blankets back into place. Something told him this was the beginning of a very interesting story.

“Bonne nuit, Sirius. Welcome to our home.”

[randomshyperson]

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Land of Thieves #ChapterOne

Western/ Red Dead Redemption AU / Slow Burn / childhood best friends to lovers 

Gif is not mine.

Read on AO3 (English Version) 

Ler no AO3  / “Terra de Ladrões” (Versão Português)

Chapter warnings: explicit language, explicit violence. 

Word count for this chapter:  4002K

Summary:  When you were a child, you swore that no matter how high the reward in your head, she could always count on you. Life as an outlaw in the west is not easy, but you believe that train robberies are still easier than asking a pretty girl to dance. Land of Thieves, also know as your love story with Wanda Maximoff in the Wild West.

Pt.1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3 || Pt.4 || Pt.5 || Pt.6 || Pt.7 || Pt.8 || Pt.9 || Pt.10 || Pt.11

You were covered in mud and blood when you entered the saloon. Curious and judgmental eyes turned to you, but you didn't stare back. Stretching your back, you felt your whole body ache; the recent beating was sure to leave marks. Walking over to the counter, you threw three gold coins onto the wood, muttering in a mumbled tone "bath" to the saloon keeper. He nodded slightly, showing you the way to the restrooms. As you washed up, you grumbled against the recent cuts, but you were happy to know that you hadn't been shot. Your body ached, but without bullet wounds, you would be better in no time. A pretty girl who worked in the saloon smiled at you when she took your muddy clothes to wash them, and you looked away blushing helplessly. She handed you new clothes before she left. When you finished your shower, you put on the white silk shirt, and beat-up jeans that were handed to you. The boots were not new, but they were comfortable. You also put on spurs, but they didn't give you suspenders, so you left the shirt loose against your body, enjoying the lightness. Attaching your holstered belt to your waist, you checked to be sure your Schofield revolver was clean and locked before you holstered it. You walked to the top floor of the saloon, ignoring the curious glances cast at you on the way. You hoped that no one would recognize you from the reward posters, but you weren't so sure about that, since your face was quite exposed without your hat, which must now be somewhere lost in the middle of New Elizabeth, or on some thief's head. Whistling softly, you walked to the saloon balcony, watching the town below. Valentine is a ranching town, small and not very crowded. Lots of pedestrians, you observe. You light a cigarette as you watch the citizens go about their mundane lives, many opportunities passing before your eyes. You let your gaze wander to the town bank, a few meters ahead on the right of the saloon. You notice that security is low. Making mental notes about everything you could observe from there, you put out your cigarette, returning to the lower part of the saloon, toward the counter. - A whiskey and a beef stew. - You grumble, handing the bartender some coins. He nods in agreement and in a few minutes you get your meal. While you are sitting at the farthest table in the room, you listen attentively to the conversation of two men at the poker table, who have caught your attention. - My cousin saw the carriages in Saint Denis. Four horses in each, and he said that the riders were armed to the teeth." - The skinny man commented excitedly, his friend didn't look so happy. - Those damned bankers are like pests of the soil. You saw what happened to that southern town, I think it was called White Gate. - commented the man with the mustache, his expression frowning. - After the oil ran out, everybody lost their jobs. Stark closed the mine and the citizens began to starve. Almost everyone moved to the neighboring towns. Stark. The name was not strange to you, but you could not tell exactly where you had heard it before. You finished your stew, deciding that Steve would want to know about both the bank and the possible rich men who were visiting the town. Finishing your whiskey in one gulp, you stood up, leaving the saloon just as you collected your freshly washed clothes from the same woman who had brought them. It was hot and humid outside. Knight, your Hungarian half-breed horse, grunted with delight when you stroked his mane. You smiled at him before you mounted. You rode south, figuring you would have no trouble finding the new camp site, and trying to remember Bucky's instructions about where exactly they were. It took some time, but you finally found the camp. You dismounted Knight as you entered the area between the trees, walking calmly to the largest tent. Steve Rogers was like a father to you. When your birth parents died of cholera, you ran away from the orphanage the government put you in, and started living on the streets. You were only seven years old, but you were smart enough to hide in one of the garbage carts when the nuns weren't looking, and you ran away because you couldn't stand being beaten by the older children and your own teachers. You ended up somewhere in West Elizabeth, and while trying to steal some food, you were chased by two officers. But just as they were about to catch up with you, someone knocked them out. You smiled when Steve held out a big piece of bread and water to you. From that moment on, you lived with him. The Avengers gang became your family. Steve took care of you, and trained you as an outlaw. You learned everything that was essential to survive in the Wild West, from hunting to murder. And as the years passed, other people joined the gang, and you accepted them all as your family. When Steve saw you, he smiled tenderly, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as he motioned for you to enter the tent. - So, kiddo, what did you find out in Valentine? - asked the man as you sat down in the opposite position, on a wooden chair. - They have a poorly protected bank. - You shrugged. - But you know how these small towns are, the risk is almost always not worth the gain. - That's too bad, we need money. Especially to buy medicine. You let out a low exclamation of agreement, you knew exactly how difficult the situation was. It had been a particularly difficult season for the gang. With Fury's death at the last service, and the move out of town to get away from the officers, you were still facing a wave of illness. Carol and Bruce had been feverish and bedridden for days, and Thor had been shot during an unsuccessful robbery. - I overheard an interesting conversation, though. - You say, and Steve looks at you curiously. - Some rich people are coming to Valentine in a few days. The name Stark was mentioned, have you ever heard of it? Steve's eyes widen in surprise and excitement. - Of course I have! - he exclaims. - Filthy rich folks there! Rich enough to lend us a little money without even noticing. - I think Stark is going to buy the oil mines at Heartlands. And he's staying in Valentine while he does the negotiations. - That's excellent. - Steve says, running his hand along his chin in a thoughtful expression. - If the deposit is made in Valentine, we will have the purchase money first hand. You nodded. - But even if the deposit is made here, the money is sure to be transferred to Saint Denis. - You retort, trying to think of all the details of the scam. - Which means that we have to steal the money the same day it is deposited, or we only stand a chance during the transfer. Steve stood up, walking around the tent with the same thoughtful expression on his face. - No, no. - He began to speak as if the alternatives were rapidly forming in his head. - The carriage will be extremely protected. In the gunfire, we can be very worried about not getting killed, which will give them a chance to escape to the city. And then we'll have no way to reach them there. You sighed, knowing that he was right. You frowned, trying to think of something, but Steve soon spoke again. - We need to do this while the money is in the bank. And we have to do it fast. - He says, and then walks to the edge of the hut, looking around the field. He whistles, attracting the attention of Peggy Carter, who is chopping wood, and when she raises her curious gaze to him, Steve beckons her to join him. - What is it, Rogers? - Peggy asks gently. You exchange a smile with her. - We've got a new hit. - He says, making room for Peggy to join you. - Is Bucky around? - He went out hunting a few minutes ago. The twins went with him. - Peggy says and you rest your face on your own hand, waiting for Steve to speak again. - Oh right. I'll explain the details to them later. - The blond man says, walking around the cabin to the table in the opposite corner, and he takes a pen and paper and begins to write down what you think of as a rough draft of the plan. - We will rob Valentine's bank then. - I thought that banks in small towns were not worth the risk. - Peggy commented with a slightly confused expression. - Ah, but we have a unique opportunity. - Steve remarked, bringing the doodle over to Peggy. - Howard Stark, big oil guy, is going to buy the Heartlands mines. The purchase money will be deposited in Valentine before being transferred to Saint Denis. I believe we will have about a few hours to rob the bank - Steve, are you sure this is a good idea? - Peggy assumed a worried posture. - We are short on snipers... - It's a great idea. - He interrupts, looking at Peggy seriously, but still maintaining a calm tone. - We need the money, Peggy. If this is planned correctly, we don't have to worry about the number of weapons. - I appreciate the confidence in my abilities, by the way. - You playfully push your shoulder lightly against Peggy, she smiles at you. - Of course I trust you, Y/N. - She answers, but her gaze is still worried. - We just need to be careful in this job. You spend the rest of the afternoon planning. It doesn't take long for Bucky to join you. He hands a deer carcass to Pietro, who carries it back to the supply hut. Steve repeats the plan, and you let your gaze drift quickly to Wanda, who smiles at you, and you feel something in your stomach drop. Blushing, you look away, turning your attention back to Steve. It is already night when you have finally finished working out the plan. Wanda and Pietro joined you at some point, and you had to mentally repeat to yourself to pay attention to Steve's words and not to the redheaded girl a few feet away. You didn't want your passion to cost your life or put everyone else in danger because you didn't absorb the plan correctly, but you were getting to this level of unfocused. You felt a light tug on your arm as you walked toward the fire, and found yourself smiling wryly as you faced Wanda already looking at you. - I got my first deer today. - She declared, looking up at you with bright eyes, a tone of pride and happiness in her voice. You raise your eyebrows in a pleased expression. - What? That's amazing, Wands. - You replied. - I told you that you would learn soon! I would have liked to have seen it. - We can hunt together. - She says, and you try not to show your nervousness at the thought of being alone with Wanda, but you don't disguise it very well, which makes Wanda confused, and she looks almost disappointed when she quickly adds - Pietro can come with us too. You blink a few times, believing her to be clarifying that she had no intention of spending time alone with you, and swallowing dryly, you nod in agreement. - Yes, yes. Sure, we should call him too. - You say taking a few steps back, hands in your pockets as you stare uncomfortably at the floor. Wanda bites her lower lip lightly, finding you extremely difficult to decipher. You spend a moment in silence, before she speaks again - We can go tomorrow afternoon if you have no business in town. You think about it for a moment, trying to remember if you had made any appointments, if any robbery opportunities had been signaled to you, but you can't think of anything. - No, it's fine. We can hunt tomorrow. - You say, trying not to be too embarrassed by the contented smile Wanda flashes at you. She was probably going to say it was marked, but Pietro interrupted the moment by extending a bowl of stew in front of her face. Wanda blinked a few times in confusion, but thanked her brother as soon as she grabbed the item. Pietro turned to you next, a relaxed posture as he took a sip of the beer he was holding. - What were you two talking about? - he asked, his tone curious. - It's rude to snoop, you know. - You teased, drawing a short laugh from Wanda, and Pietro rolled his eyes stubbornly, but smiled. - We're going hunting tomorrow. I'll show Y/N that I learned how to use the bow on some deer. - explained Wanda, looking at her brother. - Will you come with us? Pietro frowned, denying with his head. - Sorry, little sister. - He speaks seriously, but his eyes have a malice in them that you didn't know how to recognize. - I'd love to join you on your date, but I have an appointment. You and Wanda blush at the insinuation, but Pietro continues with a playful aura as he takes another sip of beer. Although embarrassed, you can't help but be happy to know that you would be spending some time alone with the girl. - Oh, all right. - Wanda says in what seems to be an attempt to sound disappointed, but her eyes sparkle slightly as she speaks. You don't notice, but Pietro smiles at the expression. - You're full of secrets lately. What kind of appointment? Pietro laughs, shrugging his shoulders. He walks toward you with a playful expression, and puts his arm around your shoulders, smiling at Wanda as he leans on you. - Your girlfriend taught me how to play poker and now I am famous, my presence is requested in Rhodes. I need to bet and win some money for this place. You choke slightly on the phrase and feel your face heat up, looking down at the floor. Wanda lets out a nervous laugh, and pushes her brother lightly, making him let go of you. - You mean lose money, don't you? - she teases. - Even Thor plays better than you, and he usually just flips the table. You laugh, risking a glance at Wanda, who has a reddened face and quickly exchanges a smile with you. Pietro rolls his eyes and walks past you, waving goodbye. Deciding that you should eat something, you nod to Wanda that you are going to the fire. She smiles and follows you silently

You didn't hunt very often. Although you were good at it, it was not your function in the camp. You were a gunslinger, and your jobs usually involved carriage robberies and trespassing, even the occasional robbery. You were always part of the team for the big scams. And then Wanda invited you to go deer hunting and you became an anxious mess. Stumbling out of your tent, you hurried to take a quick swim in the creek near the campground. It was important not to smell too strongly when you went out hunting, as the animals could more easily notice you. Coming out of the water with wet hair, you put on your clothes, leaving the suspenders hanging from your waist and a few buttons open on your shirt. You were feeling heated. You waited for Wanda at the campfire. She also bathed before meeting you, and she seemed slightly anxious when she found you. You smiled as you poured some coffee, and Wanda looked a little airy when she accepted the cup. You didn't understand why, but the sight of your relaxed appearance, your loose hair and your exposed collarbone was absolutely irresistible to her, making Wanda feel heated in places that were not appropriate. You joked that soon she would become the best hunter in the camp, and you were happy to make her smile. As you rode out of the camp, you smiled as you felt Wanda lightly tap her foot against yours, as you used to play with as children. Riding in silence for a few minutes, you enjoyed the gentle breeze until you came to a hunting spot. You descended from Knight slowly, stretching your body when you reached the ground. Wanda watched your shirt lift and reveal some skin, then she looked away quickly, her face red. You cast a curious look, thinking she was feeling heat. Grabbing your rifle stored on the horse, you watched Wanda take from Lily's saddle - her red sorrel - a longbow and some arrows. You walked in silence, heading for the shallow part of the creek beside you, where you could easily find deer. It was comfortable to be in Wanda's presence, even in silence. Neither of you had to say anything to know exactly what to do next, your body following her along the way as if you had done this many times before. One look and you knew when to wait, or when to be quiet. It didn't take long before you spotted the deer. There weren't many, and Wanda bent down in front of you to take aim. You watched her with admiration. She raised her bow, and you noticed the slight tremor in her hands and frowned. You came forward, also bent down, and stood beside her. - There's no need to be nervous, Wands. - You whispered softly. - It's just me. The trembling in their hands seemed to diminish, but it was still there. You moved closer, raising your hands to join Wanda's, helping her to keep a steady aim. - Take a deep breath. - You said against her ear, waiting for her to obey. - And then shoot. With her speech, Wanda let go. The arrow cut through the air with speed, hitting the animal straight in the head. A perfect shot. You smiled, and when you looked at Wanda, she was already looking at you. You were about to congratulate her on the shot, but Wanda hugged you by the neck, surprising you. You felt your face heat up and due to the shock, you didn't respond to the hug, your body seeming asleep for an instant. Wanda let you go quickly, her face flushed with apology. You were about to tell her it was okay, and maybe hug her back, then you heard an animalistic noise that attracted your full attention, a low growl that you knew all too well. Glad you had brought your rifle, you looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Wanda blinked curiously, but you didn't look at her again. Standing up, you held the rifle with both hands, your gaze roaming the surroundings. A moment later, the bushes a few feet away moved, and you watched the creature sneak through the undergrowth, only to run toward you the next second, preparing to jump. The sound of gunfire echoed for a few seconds after the shot. You let out the breath you were holding and watched the panther lying on the ground, just a few inches away from your feet. Wanda looked at you in shock, and you offered your hand to help her up. - Sorry for the scare. - You grumbled, walking towards the panther intent on retrieving the skin, which should be worth a few dozen dollars. - We always have to be careful not to become the prey during the hunt. - How did you hear it? - Wanda asked curiously. - Practice I guess. - You said, kneeling down beside the panther. - Every sound around us is important. - You explained - Pay attention now, for example. Besides my voice, what do you hear? Wanda seemed to think for a moment. - I can only hear water, I think. Maybe birds. - She confesses, you finish cutting the skin off the animal in front of you. - Oh, sorry. - You say quickly. - I forgot that I just drove all the animals away with the noise of the rifle. You laugh to yourself, and Wanda smiles at you tenderly. - Let's go after that deer. I'll teach you to hear the sounds another day. - You tell her as you stand up. Walking over to the dead deer, you observe Wanda kneeling beside the animal, drawing her own knife. - Bucky taught you how to skin? - you ask, watching the firm but still amateurish cut Wanda was giving the animal. - Yes, he told me to skin rabbits before he taught me to cut the deer during yesterday's hunt. - said the red-haired girl focused on the activity. You tried not to blush as you watched a drop of sweat trickle down your neck. - I learned to skin animals from him too. - You commented as you waited for Wanda to finish the task. - I was a little smaller, I think. - I guess it took long enough for us to learn how to hunt, didn't it? - Wanda joked, drawing a smile from you. It was true, hunting had been the last activity Steve and Bucky taught you. For some reason, teaching them to shoot was a higher priority than getting food from the wild. A moment later, Wanda finished, raising the deer leather in the air, showing off her work proudly. You laughed at her expression, signaling for her to step away from the animal. You handed her your rifle, and bent down, grabbing the carcass with both hands and throwing it over your shoulders to carry it to the horse. It was quite heavy, but you concentrated your breathing as Bucky had taught you, and managed to carry the animal to Wanda's sorrel. After placing the carcass on the back of the animal, you grunted when you saw the state of your shirt, completely covered in blood. - What's the matter? - Wanda asked curiously when she heard your sigh. - Pepper made me promise not to come covered in blood to the camp anymore. - You say, rolling up your sleeves. - She told me she would put me to sleep with the horses if I showed up like this again. Of course, she will probably just change my watch shifts, but it will still be a pain to hear the lecture. - You could have told me to carry the deer. - Wanda retorted, looking at you with a mixture of seriousness and guilt. You just smiled. - Don't be silly, I just need to clean up before I go back. - You said simply, and Wanda frowned in confusion. And then she choked in surprise, watching you pull your shirt over your head. You went around her body and towards the creek. It took Wanda a few seconds to snap out of her shock, then she turned her head toward the creek, her face flushed. You rubbed the fabric with your hands, watching the blood drip into the water. You put your shirt aside only to wet your own body, wiping any traces of blood from your skin. Completely oblivious to the shy mess Wanda had become as she watched you wash yourself. Finished cleaning yourself, you wrung out your shirt, getting as much water buildup out as possible. You put your clothes back on, feeling the damp fabric against your skin. Wanda stood in the same place you had left her, and you frowned when you saw her look quickly away from you, her face red. You suddenly felt very embarrassed, thinking that you must have crossed some boundary with her. Coughing awkwardly, you walked toward your own horse. You rode in silence back to the camp, you mentally going over the whole conversation trying to find what you had done wrong that made Wanda so quiet. You were surprised when you heard her singing softly. Smiling without looking at her, you slowed down the speed of Knight's gallop, trying to enjoy the moment to the fullest. Wanda continued to sing the whole way, and you tried to ignore the feeling of butterflies in your stomach

[johobi]

Falling, Falling, Gone

Word count: 5.8k

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Warnings: None really, it’s my first ‘SFW’ fic, though there is some extremely bad language in here. And there might be an erection because I can’t help myself.

A/N: This is the fourth and final ‘drabble’ for the drabble game I ran ages ago. Prompt: “The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you.”

Music inspo: Don’t Be So Serious, Baby Don’t Stop, Waste It On Me

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477485

Taehyung. Captain of the soccer team. Master of your heart. You'll never tell him for fear of rejection.

So why the fuck are you about to do it in front of dozens of his peers?

Banana and peanut butter become pulp in your mouth as you glare out the kitchen window. It's so grey out there. Greyer than it has any right to be. As if your dour mood has polluted the very atmosphere. Rain lashes the exterior in leaden pellets, each one compounding your headache like a rap on the head. Don't be so serious, your bluetooth speaker croons as you chew and chew, unblinking. The bridge of your glasses slip further down your nose but you don’t correct them. Don't be so serious.

Oh, but it's all so serious. 

Your final portfolio lacks in ways your mentor is incapable of articulating, and you only have so much time to fix it. Your college life is coming to a close. There are frighteningly few opportunities out there and they’re sure to spurn a sham like you. What do you do now? Where do you go from here—

"God, you listen to such depressing music," a husky voice sounds. It’s thick with sleep and horribly attractive. You hear his feet next; big and bare as they slap the tile floor and disrupt the ambience. 

Yes, dismal is an ambience. 

Before you glimpse the interloper himself, his fingers pilfer your next mouthful of toast. His other hand has your phone and is skipping through your carefully curated playlist of moody tunes. With all the scant energy you can muster, you glower at him. 

“Taehyung.” 

Soccer captain. Campus celebrity. Doofus.

Unlikely friend and unlikelier crush. But life is strange, and he is both these things. Indeed, he proclaims himself your best friend to all who will listen. As for the matter of your tender feelings, however, he is oblivious. And will remain so.

Taehyung is long-legged and limber-bodied, but round of face and feature. A kitten in a tiger’s pelt. Will mew for affection and roar when angry. Has quite literally nudged your hand for pets and raged at referees in the same afternoon. There is usually no in-between. 

Your scowl goes unseen. He sidles past like the oblivious buffoon he is and continues to tamper with Spotify.  Smears his peanut-buttered thumb around your phone display. Ugh. You brush back your hood and fix him again with extra scorn.

"Actually, douchebag, it’s good music for thinking. And I have a headache. I hardly wanna listen to something like—no, don't you dare put fucking Party Rock on right now. Tae!"

It’s too late. The lanky idiot is already gesticulating to the beginning beats. Your phone is an unreachable hostage in his flapping hands. You’re about to lunge for it but he preempts the attack by smothering you with your own hood. “Tae.” Your whining sounds all the more pitiful muffled. “Everyfing hurfs. ‘m hungover. Pleathe.” 

Taehyung relents after further, strangled pleas. Unwraps you with a grin that grows like the sunrise. For a moment, you’re dazzled. “Sorry. No more torture,” he chuckles all low, hair in his eyes. His locks are long and always untamed. An aureate crown befitting of his celebrity status. 

One swipe and he’s muted the racket and returned your phone. You turn the sticky thing over in your hands, rueing the day you met the overgrown imp. “How did you get it this dirty…?”

You go ignored and Taehyung gets closer. He scrutinises your hunched and hoodied appearance with a thoughtful hum. “Headache?” A rounded nose and two brown eyes come into focus. "Hungover? How? I didn't see you go out last night."

Averse to such study, you shy away. "Well, I did." You did not. You stayed home and guzzled $4 Prosecco while lamenting your trash portfolio. But you aren’t about to regale him with that pitiful tale. The sheerness of shame prevents you. Taehyung would be so sweet about it, too! So buoying, with his sunny smiles and fervent encouragement: "Why were you crying over that?!" He'd ask. "Your work is amazing. Seriously amazing. I love everything you do!" He'd gush. "People will be stumbling over themselves to hire you!" He'd continue, naively. And that hurts the most, because he just doesn't get it. Taehyung is a sponsored, collegiate athlete that's graduating into a guaranteed draft. He is—and always has been—praised widely as up-and-coming. The kid has had scouts scrapping for him mid-way through high school!

You, however, are small fry, swimming in a shoal of other unknowns, leaping for the hook of internship. Your dreams of animating for Disney died long back. They dwelled with Walt now.

But you don’t resent Taehyung for any of it. Ever. He’s a paragon. Born for the limelight. Has sweat and bled oceans for it. And for some reason he insists that you, too, are deserving of that same renown. Why? He’s ridiculous. Far too kind. And—Christ, he has a big dick.

"Taehyung, can you please not shove your tiny fucking penis in my face while I'm trying to eat? I'm nauseous enough as it is."

The soccer captain rests a foot on the seat next to you, giving you ungainly insight into his crotch. Taehyung, as he often, inexplicably is, is clad only in his boxer-briefs. This would be alarming were it not so goddamn commonplace. He is allergic to clothes.

According to him, he’s a naturist. 

According to you, he’s an attention whore.

Taehyung points to his elevated foot, but it's a little difficult to ignore the bulge he's brandishing. "Do you understand the concept of inappropriate proximity and your current state of undress?" You rattle on, words slurred half by OJ, half by fluster. He simply points again, and with more insistence. Relenting, you follow the line of his finger to his pretty, if gigantic, foot. Then notice the ink around his ankle, black and fresh. "Oh, wow, you got a tattoo? Cool!"

"Yep! I didn't ever really think about getting one 'til I saw yours. They were so cool I became kinda obsessed with getting one. So I finally did it last night."

‘Til he saw yours? Your stomach flutters. It's not the nausea. You smother it with more orange juice. "Well, that's awesome, Tae. You'll probably want more eventually. I would've gone with you if I'd known you were gonna go alone."

Finally, he lowers his leg. It’s a small mercy. But then, for no discernible, earthly reason, Taehyung begins flexing his many defined muscles. His calves in particular catch your attention. They’re so goddamned thick. They ripple. Fucking soccer players. "Hm? Oh, I wasn't alone. I went with some guys from the team." He ogles his reflection in the microwave door.

How can you avert your eyes when his pecs dance so compellingly? It all becomes a bit too much. "Okay, what are you doing? Seriously, what? I know you're into yourself, but this is ridiculous.” He stops. Snorts. Thank God. “If you were with the guys, why did you come back here last night? I thought you’d go back to your dorm."

Finally Taehyung sits, but he’s spread-legged and that’s perhaps worse than what he was doing just now. He’s 6ft of pure, hewn sex and just so fucking casual about it. He reclines. "Some of them took girls home last night so I needed somewhere to go and you're always an open door." Finger guns follow a cheesy wink.

You scoff, but he's right. You’d do anything for the big-hearted clown. Open door? You'd be the doormat under his soccer cleats, licking them free of dirt— "You're lucky Areum isn’t here right now. Don't think she’d take kindly to having some almost-naked oaf clambering into her bed."

"You say that, but she’s tried to hit this several times.” Taehyung is smug, brows high on his forehead. Yours lower harshly. “Tell her I slept in her bed last night. She’ll cream herself thinking about it later, I guarantee you."

“You’re gross. And can you stop—why do you keep flexing? There’s just me here.” You peer about for emphasis. Taehyung is again admiring his form in some burnished surface. “No-one is looking. Or cares.” Contrarily, you’re doing both those things. But he needn’t be privy to that. 

"This is serious. I need to work on my angles.” He contorts himself into something of a pretzel to peek at his back muscles. “We're holding a hook-up auction at our dorm to raise money for a graduation blow-out. And I'm on sale. Do you think I need to work on my back?"

You ease into a squint. "When you said serious, I thought serious words were about to follow."

"I am being serious!" Again Taehyung flexes, biceps bulging by his ears like an overfed turkey’s thighs. "How much do you think I'm worth?"

The world.

"I dunno. I'd take you for free, I guess, if you were the last one left."

Taehyung is unperturbed by your acerbic wit. It ricochets off him like rubber bullets would a muscle-bound ox. He is your greatest adversary. The bastard lacquers his lips until they’re plump and glossy and boasting a smirk. 

He’s always doing this. 

Always moistening himself. 

"Oh yeah? Well, I think you'll be disappointed." A boxy smile emerges. "I got girls and guys already approaching me about it. Some of the guys literally just wanna buy me for mentoring. I mean, that’s more effort than kissing, but—" He shrugs. The thought goes unfinished.

"That makes sense. You are a God among these mere mortals, Taetae." It's not sarcasm this time. Taehyung senses it. The grin he returns is life-affirming. You're so close to reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. Telling him you're proud. Telling him you most likely, maybe, love him. But you notice you've dragged your sleeve through peanut butter—”Ah, shit,”—and you can tell him how you feel some other day.

Some other day.

"Some of them just wanna make out too, of course, and, like, I'm happy to comply. It's all for charity." His altruism knows no limits.

"Charity, huh?" You snort. Taehyung's mouth grows more square at your incredulity. "Who else is up for bidding, then?"

"Mostly guys from the team and dorm. There are some mutuals who just wanna get in on the action, too. Uh, you know Kim Namjoon?" He measures your reaction. When you give none: "Jeon Jungkook?"

Disinterest mellows your features. "Oh, right. Cool."

"So you don't like Jeon Jungkook?" Taehyung's eyes are eager, his body poised. Anticipating.

"What? No. What gave you that idea? I've talked to him, like, twice." Your face crumples as you towel your soiled sleeve. The peanut butter smears into a tragic, shit-brown stain. "Damn, that's never coming out."

"He's gonna be so disappointed. He might even cry." Taehyung heaves a hammy sigh and clutches at his breast. There’s nothing the captain enjoys more than clowning his subordinates.  "Kook likes you so much. He's really into your whole androgynous fuckboi thing you got going on. He literally said, 'She's like a mystery, man. I'm not sure if she's a girl or a guy and—like, I'm not like that, but that's hot.'"

If your eyes could roll past the bounds of their sockets, they would. "Wow, what a poet. He sounds like a douchebag and I'm even less interested now. Fuckboi? Is that really the vibe I give off?" You don't fuck full stop. Nor were you aware you could dress like you do. 

"I dunno. You just seem kinda like a gremlin to me. Or like that weird guy from Death Note," Taehyung is quick to reassure you. Cool. You’re fucking overjoyed that he perceives you that way. Not as a goddess, or his beautiful, sexy soulmate, or the princess that wanders the spires of his captive heart. No. A gremlin. Or L.

"Well, you got me there, son."

"What about Kim Namjoon?" Taehyung presses, urgent again. He picks at your bread crusts with one hand, head cradled delicately in the other. The boy could be a world-class model, too. His loose, dark curls hang like a Van Gogh nightscape, framing the planes of his unmarred face. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be looked at.

A self-conscious shuffle. "What about him? I don't know who that is." You flick away his foraging fingers but he draws you into an impromptu game of thumb-war in retaliation. It's the only thing to extract a smile from you today.

Taehyung looks sceptical. "He's the physio student with our team! You literally talked to him all day during this season's semi-final." His lengthy digits best yours easily. But though the match is won, he doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead he encroaches further. Thumbs your wrist. Encompasses your knuckles in a soft, warm palm. He’s clasping you like an enamoured suitor might their bashful sweetheart, and it’s very strange. What is he doing? His mind looks to be elsewhere, now.

"Uh...—oh. Oh." Yours ambles back to you. "Yeah, he was really nice, but you know my rule. No—"

"—dating in final year. Yeah, I know. I'll tell him that if he asks about you again." Taehyung has returned, too. His hand is gone. Your gooseflesh ebbs with it.

With a cough, you sober. "I think the auction's a bit stupid, really, Tae. You sure you wanna do it?"

"Stupid? Why?" He shimmies in close, smug on his face and intolerably naked the rest of the way down. His skin is hot and golden and just far too close. "You're only saying that because you're jealous, right?" He tickles your chin to keep you honest and your eyes on him. You seize and squeeze the offending hand because he might be right and now you’re embarrassed. "The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you," he goes on to say, brazen as the smirk defiling his cherubic cheeks.

"Some rather large conclusion-jumping going on there," you smile, sweet as sugared cyanide. Your vice-grip tightens until he’s pouting in repentance. "I meant it's stupid to put yourself in a potentially uncomfortable situation if you don't want to kiss that person." 

"I'm just joking!" he whimpers like the overlarge puppy he is and you free him of his snare. Because you would die for this big, soppy boy and his big, soppy eyes. “You’re so grouchy today.”

‘The joke won’t land if it collides with the truth, Taehyung,’ you muse. You expect him to know this despite never having apprised him of your situation. You’re jealous and cowardly and completely unreasonable. You want him for yourself but you never want him to know that. 

If he wants your candour he should be a telepath. Simple.

Irritated by your own nonsense, you lash out at the unsuspecting boy. "You know what? I was joking, too. I remember Namjoon, he was hot. And smart. I think I'll cheat on my dating ban this once and bid on him. He has super nice lips, so." 

Taehyung simply smiles. "Oh, okay. Cool! Glad you’re gonna come along." 

Your threat proves ineffective because he doesn’t like you like that. Wouldn’t give a shit if Namjoon rawed you on stage while you stared him down. You stall on that thought because it’s kinda hot. “It’ll be great. Can’t wait to get my tongue down his throat.”

“Hell yeah! I knew you liked him.”

Yep, Taehyung is oblivious to your pining. As he should be. Because outwardly, your pining consists of nothing more than the odd, lingering look here and there. The balled-up sketches of him he will never see. A secret smile if you’re feeling particularly sentimental. Other than that, you're steely. Poker-faced. Rarely blind-sided by his allure, especially now that you've acclimated to his penchant for exhibitionism. 

 "Thank you in advance for your patronage." Rising from his seat, Taehyung comes to a stand behind you and leans. Encircles your shoulders with his terribly athletic arms and puts his lips to your ear. You're like a feral cat in the arms of a senseless child. You're bristling. "If he turns out to be a jerk and tries something he shouldn't, I'll protect you." For a moment, you're touched enough to unclench a little. "With these guns." And then you choke between his straining biceps and vie to repay him in kind.

----

The common room of Taehyung's dorm has been crudely transformed. Some questionable construction has taken place in order to build the catwalk centrepiece. Sofas and tables line the walls, thrust from the limelight. You've occupied the drinks table for the last 45 minutes, from the second you entered this place. You harbour an intense dislike for the chaotic energy of Taehyung's dorm. Machismo rages noisily between these walls and you much prefer less testosterone-drenched environments. Nevertheless, despite it all you're here on an endeavour this evening. One your idiot, rampant mouth has obligated you to. To buy time with a guy that's perfectly nice and all, but isn’t Taehyung.

Kim Namjoon makes eyes at you from the head of the runway, awaiting his musical cue. The beer you just slurped down bubbles up. You have to look away. Unfortunately, when you do, Taehyung is immediately there, his face in yours, his thumb and fingers pulling at your cheeks. "Hey you, don't get too drunk, okay? I don't trust a single man here. Especially not nice-as-pie Namjoon." 

Nice-as-pie Namjoon has chosen some Bruno Mars track by the sounds of it. The auction-goers' excitement ramps up considerably.

Unable to move your captured face, your eyes sweep the room. "Not even your own teammates?" you scoff cynically, swatting at his hands until he’s baited into a game of slapsies. "Now who sounds jealous?" 

Taehyung stops for a moment, thoughtful. "You know, you're right. I'm extremely jealous. I want Namjoon all to myself. He gives the best massages. And a happy ending when I ask nicely." And then he's back to rough-housing you, slapping your upper arms to alternating beats. "You look cute tonight. Your outfit, I mean," he offers up out of nowhere, so quiet you almost lose it to the bass. "He's lucky."

But you look exactly the same as you did earlier that day. Exactly the same as that afternoon in the cafeteria when he ribbed you for raiding Billie Eilish's Good Will donations. "Um, thanks. I guess." You're genuine, but don’t sound it. You can't look at him for fear of revealing the dopey grin that has hijacked your face.

"You're welcome, buddy." A large palm flattens your hair. His fingers get all in there, ruffling it until it probably looks more akin a bird's nest. Is Taehyung trying to sabotage you? Also, buddy? "Look, Namjoon's walking." 

You turn and see that he is. Strutting, moreover, albeit awkwardly. It's obvious that the lanky boy is unaccustomed to the same attention the team he services is. Nevertheless, there are whoops and hollers aplenty for the handsome blonde dork, and you, too, catch yourself smiling. How can you not, when he pokes at his dimples so? The others seem captivated, too, though less by the  finger-hearts and more by his form-fitting tracksuit. 

“I’d wrap my car around a tree if he was the tree,” one auction-goer confides to her friend. “And then I’d wrap my legs around—”

“Yeah, we get it Lisa.”

Lisa quiets. 

Namjoon’s endless legs sidle to a stop at the catwalk's end, directly opposite you. His bespectacled eyes meet your bespectacled eyes. For one, long second, the interest is palpable.  But then he breaks, and casts his gaze down to his FILAs. 

"Okay, he's, like, in love with you, I think," Taehyung whisper-yells, hands aflurry in applause. "Are you gonna bid?"

Shouts puncture the cheering either side of the room.

"$10!"

"$20!"

Neither of them are you.

The evening’s auctioneer - Taehyung's partner-in-slime Park Jimin - echoes each cry that rings out, giggling into a tinny karaoke mic. "$20 for our team physio?! Is that all you got ladies and gents? Do I have to remind you this guy can grope away pain with his magic hands?"

Namjoon spins toward Jimin's makeshift podium of an upturned bookcase and menaces him with his eyes. Well, it would be menacing were the man not as threatening as a ribbon-wrapped basket of newborn sloths.

The striker backpedals. "Okay, the massage might not be included, but don't let that deter you! He kisses like a pro!"

Screams of how do you know that, Jimin?! erupt and the throng grows ever more wild. Namjoon is redder than the cup you're strangling.

"Are you gonna bid?! You're gonna miss your chance!" For some reason Taehyung is still here, harassment game still strong. He should be preparing to walk next, but sees fit to pester you instead. And because of that, he's caught you in your lie, bare-faced and blushing.

No, you are not going to bid on Kim Namjoon.

"Uh, oh no, I forgot my purse," you grumble around the rim of your next drink, gulping it down like the bottom is your way out of this God-awful situation.

Then what are you doing here?

"It's right there." Taehyung pokes the cross-body bag hanging traitorously by your side.

"Oh, is it?" You reach for another cup even while burdened with one. Anything to sidetrack this conversation.

Taehyung intervenes with a firm hand. Swaddles your knuckles ‘til the shaking stops. You’re shaking? Beer slops over the sides, unnoticed. “___?”

Stupid, warm hand. And why are his fingers so fucking delicate for a footballer? He should model jewellery. Wedding rings.

Yours.

His ringless fingers close around your wrist when you persist in avoiding his gaze. The ruse is almost up. Fuck. There’s nothing left to do but to look at him. 

You do, ever so timidly. “What?”

"What are you doing?" Puzzlement becomes him well. Why is he so goddamn handsome? "If you aren't gonna bid on Namjoon, why did you come?"

Silence, but for the pump of background Bruno Mars.

‘You. I came for you. You were the plan all along. Not him,’ your mind screams.

You, however, just stare.

"Going—going—gone! Sold for $70! Come claim your kiss!" Jimin can hardly stop himself from squealing. For a guy that beds girls on the daily, his sincere excitement over simple lip-locking is amusing.

Taehyung's teammates hail him from the drapery behind the catwalk but he won't yet go. No, he insists on searing holes into the side of your face while you watch Namjoon get sloppy on-stage with some girl you don't know. They're really getting into it. Damn, he forgot about you quick. In  their fervour they edge towards the bounds of the catwalk, too absorbed in one another to notice. Thankfully, voyeuristic bystanders are on-hand to catch them before they fall.

"Kim Taehyung! How many times do I have to call you?! Get over here before I kick your fucking ass," Jungkook roars across the hubbub, halfway through the room. He  enacts the violent gesture for emphasis and knees some unsuspecting girl in the ass. Immediately the macho facade drops and he's all doe-eyed and buck-toothed, prostrating himself before the girl who actually seems grateful to have been assaulted by one Jeon Jungkook. Between his hushed apologies, Jungkook shoots Taehyung a look something murderous. And then he sees you and throws a shy wave, the kind a little kid might when cajoled by his parents.

"Ew." The word comes up involuntarily, like bile.

A deep cackle emanates from beside you. "Okay, guess I'm up." Taehyung squares his shoulders. His mouth, too. He's a very angular boy. "Better get my kit on. Cheer for me!" With a pat to your shoulder, he makes for Jungkook. Leaves you with an insidious dread. His soccer kit is your weakness. 

No, he is your weakness.

"Next up - and I'm sure most of you here tonight are anticipating this guy - our very own Team Captain and soon-to-be Major League Soccer player, Kim Taehyung!" Banshee-shrieking reverberates at Jimin's announcement. "Stick around, he'll be out in a few minutes!"

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. You turn from the catwalk and fully embrace the drinks table, supporting yourself with two hands and God's grace.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

No way.

This wasn’t an actual plan. Just a fantasy.

You're not gonna tell him like this.

You're not gonna tell him ever.

All you have to do is just say you turned out to support him. You rarely get to go out with him anyway, what with his ever-growing entourage. Taehyung would appreciate that, and he'd never have to know that you came here for cornier purposes.

You're not a big gesture kind of girl.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

Distantly, you wished Areum were here. She'd have slapped some sense into you, maybe even literally.

No. Wait.

The devious cow would've talked you into doing it. For sure. She has a flair for the dramatic.

"Sorry, can I just—thanks." Someone with offensively bony elbows bulldozes you aside and passes a drink to her companion. An apology is on the tip of your tongue but evaporates into the ether upon seeing the twosome in question. Both were complicit in the casual bullying you endured during your high school years. They don't appear to recognise you now. Not that they even spare your pitiful person a glance.

"Who's up next?" the worst one queries, cup snug to her bosom.

"Taehyung," the lackey answers, glee upending her petulant features. "Kim Taehyung."

An elbow jabs you again as the girl struggles with the clasp on her clutch. Her overlong claws impede her. "Oh shit, already? I thought we had more time. Shit."

"Nope. It's go time. Hurry up, girl, competition's gonna be fierce." The other one watches her digital acrobatics to get into her purse.

Oh God. She has so much money. There's no doubt in your mind she'll trump everyone present.

No. Oh, no.

Not her. Not with him.

Your mind flits through premonitions of the future. They’re all  rather grim. The last one is that of a wedding. A marriage between this dreadful bitch and your most cherished of friends, Taehyung. It's garish and tacky - she's denied him input, of course - and the ceremony is filled with faces that once mocked you mercilessly. None of Taehyung's friends are there; indeed, he is no longer even part of his team. Her possessiveness and his undying loyalty have put an end to his blossoming career. He looks sad beneath a mask of happy. Eyes that once blazed with the embers of ambition are doused by despondency. He is a husk.

And their first meeting is this auction, this cute anecdotal encounter of oh, I just had to have him, and when I kissed him I knew.

Just a glimpse at this dystopian future disturbs you silly. Conviction, while tentative, burgeons in your heart.

You can't let her have him. Anyone but this noxious cunt.

And suddenly you've money in hand, too. Bills you withdrew specifically for this purpose, and yet would sooner have left them crisp and cold in your purse than followed through. But public humiliation is endlessly preferable to damning Taehyung to a kiss with this serpent. Because it won't stop there. It won't just be a kiss but an appeal for more. She’ll say it’s no strings attached, but she doesn't attach strings. She weaves webs. You recall her high school boyfriend. He was a well-performing, jovial guy that always waved hi. And she consumed him, heart-first, ‘til he was naught but a sunken-eyed zombie. He took a leave of absence that never ended.

Sexy, dangerous synth sounds from the speakers either side the catwalk. Ah, shit. Not that song. Any song but that one. NCT U’s Baby Don’t Stop. Of course Taehyung picked that. It fills the air with a fatal drum beat and in he comes through the curtains, strutting like he is the rhythm. The room, rather than become uproarious, falls eerily quiet. Everyone breathes as one entranced being, and no one moves but him. Halfway down the catwalk he body-rolls with the fluidity of wind-rippled satin, burgeoning from his chest and snapping at the hips. Prospective bidders gasp, as do you. And then his thumb is in the hem of his shirt, luring it upwards, exposing his olive expanses inch by mouthwatering inch. You see his abs near every day, but in this context, backed by that song, you find yourself as winded as everyone else. His stomach tautens for show, feeding into loose-waisted shorts that sit far too low. Even you haven’t been privy to this much. And especially not the alluring trail of hair that thickens at his waistband.

Someone shatters the stupor and screams, “$80!”

“Geez, you’re a horny bunch.” Jimin’s laughter peals. “We already have $80. Any advance on—“

“$100!” Some breathless sap cries next. “Oh my God, look at his thighs!”

And look you do. Taehyung grooves at the catwalk’s end, shirt back in place but hiking up the hems of his shorts instead.  You almost glimpse groin. He’s absolutely shameless, straining the muscles of his thighs until they’re lewdly pronounced. They’re veritable tree trunks. His calves, too, defy belief. Rock-hard and rounded and begging to be bitten. The party-goers crowding round his feet must think similarly. 

What distracts you most, however, are Taehyung’s straying fingers. They skirt his crotch in a salacious manner, stretching the material where it shouldn’t. Accentuating things they shouldn’t. You may pass out.

All the while his eyes are down, maybe closed. You want to see his face more than anything. The playful smirk on his plump, wet lips and the focus in his brows. 

“$120!!” You almost lose your head to a cash-strangling fist beside you.

It's her. Pointy-elbowed bitch.

But you aren't thrusting your student loan up just yet. You're in the middle of an almost holy, revelatory experience. Taehyung is still undulating and provoking the crowd, who are no longer hushed but whooping like chimps in heat. His shirt is off and helicoptering overhead. He allows one overcome girl at the sidelines to verify the thew of his biceps and bags himself another bid. You, however, do nothing but gawp, bills clutched to your chest and your eyes affixed to the glorious grin that breaks across his face. His eyes open onto you and then it's you you see at his wedding, standing afore him, bouquet instead of a wad of cash. You want to be the one. Now is the moment, while he's watching you envision this.

"$200,” you splutter. Volume is difficult when your voice is a quivering inconstant.

"What was that? Did we just get another bid?" Jimin wavers too, out of disbelief. "Did someone say $200?!"

The room is a clamour of confusion but Taehyung watched you mouth the very syllables. The shock is such that it softens his salacious movements to a dance more modest. His eyes are wider than you've ever seen them; mouth too. It hangs agape and downturned, as yours does. Because you're not quite sure whether you said something else altogether. Maybe you hurled a cuss word out of frustration? Did you momentarily black out and proclaim Hitler did nothing wrong? Nothing else can account for the scrutiny with which he punishes you with now.

Or.

You actually did bid, and that's why he's walking over, to the very drop-off of the catwalk, no longer any swagger to his step. "What are you doing?" he calls down, the music still strong and now strangely inappropriate. You simply watch the mole beneath his bottom lip move, dumb.

Louder, now, you call again. "$200!"

"Oh! It was a bid! ____?!" The flame-haired MC shares his puzzlement with the rest of the reacting room. All heads turn toward you.

But yours turns nowhere but Taehyung, your expression an open book of long-hidden liking. You watch, suspended by dissociation, as he lays a palm flat against his chest. "Me?"

It could all still be explained away. A joke. You drank too much. You just wanted to see the look on his face. Instead, you grant him the minutest of nods. A simple tip of the chin. "You," you whisper, whether it's heard or not.

Taehyung sees it in the shape your lips make. And then his gaze sweeps back upward, his chest heaving far too much for a man standing stationary.

"What's going on?" The disgruntled echo each other.

Jimin is quick to make sense of things and keep it rolling. "Okay, so, a bid of $200! Anyone else?"

A new song comes on; it's gone on too long. Something with a cantering beat that's adequately sentimental.

So if love is nothing more than just a waste of your time—

Clambering atop the platform, you counter someone's desperate bid of $220 with a measured breath. "$250." You hold Taehyung at fingerpoint. "You."

Waste it on me.

For a pants-shitting second, nothing happens. Your outstretched arm gains a tremor that could crumble it. Taehyung sifts your soul with his big, dewy eyes and then he's walking. Stalking toward you. Knocks the money from your hands and seizes your shying face with both of his. The last thing you see is his nose mole before his mouth joins with yours. His grip is like a vice and his lips are no gentler. They pry you open with little effort and then you're flooded with wet heat. Taehyung is insatiable in pursuit of your tongue. His hands drop to draw in your waist, your chest, every inch of your overclothed form. He's underclothed but burning hot, planes of honed skin beneath your fingertips. It's all so right. Feels so good. Taehyung moans that much into you when he chances a breath of air. Applause starts up as the music swells. It's so cliche but you've never had a cliche of your own before and your gloom-ridden ass needs this.

"Going—"

"I didn't know. I wish I had. This would've happened sooner," Taehyung gasps between desperate, too-short smooches. It proves too difficult to resist the pull of your mouth and he captures it again, sloppier. Slower.

"Going—"

"It doesn't matter." You pull the oxygen in, impatient. "Doesn't matter." Your fingers are a tangle at the nape of his neck, tugging on his lustrous locks. "Make up for it."

"Gone! Sold for $250!"

The two of you won't be parted for a moment. Not even when dismounting the platform. There's ruckus around you but it's so distant when his lips are on you. You sink into him like you would a scalding bath. "You don't have to pay that," Taehyung tells your cheek, smearing his saliva-slick mouth back to yours. His greed for you manifests against your stomach, and you ache in return. "This is a freebie."

Your passionate clinch takes you to the sidelines, away from prying eyes. Most of them, anyway. "What about this?" Your hands are suddenly in unseemly places.

"Th-That's also free. Everything's free. Oh, God."

[meat--grindr]

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

·       It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

·       Even better, you aren’t alone.

·       Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

·       The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

·       Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

·       The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

·       The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

·       Okay. Sure.

·       It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

·       In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

·       “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

·       Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

·       “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

·       “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

·       “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

·       And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

·       The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

·       You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

·       In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

·       So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

·       He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

·       You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

·       His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

·       He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

·       “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

·       And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

·       He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

·       “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

·       Limp or lifeless?

·       The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

·       You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

·       You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

·       When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

·       He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

·       “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

·       Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

·       “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

·       He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

·       You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

·       You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

·       “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

·       And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

·       “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

·       The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

·       You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

·       Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

·       Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

·       You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

·       Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

·       For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

·       The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

·       You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

·       When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

·       “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

·       You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

·       His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

·       The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

·       “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

·       You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

·       Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

·       You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

·       “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

·       Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

·       There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

·       “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

·       There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

·       “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

·       “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

·       “Oh, yes.”

·       “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

·       Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

·       “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

·       Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

·       “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

·       The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

·       Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

·       Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

·       Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

·       “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

·       “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

·       You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

·       Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

·       Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

·       Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

·       “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

·       Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

·       “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

·       Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

·       You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

·       You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

·       “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

·       “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

·       You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

·       “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

·       Clever boy.

·       You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

·       He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

·       You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

·       He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

·       His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

·       You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

·       With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

·       His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

·       You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

·       “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

·       “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

·       You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

·       “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

·       “They are aware, yes.”

·       The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

·       Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

·       You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

·       Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

·       “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

·       You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

·       “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

·       The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

·       You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

·       “Oh yeah? How?”

·       “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

·       He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

·       ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

·       You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

·       Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

·       You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

·       He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

·       But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

·       This is going to be fun.

·       You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside.  Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

·       Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

·       “What was that, Count?”

·       “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

·       The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

·       Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

·       “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

·       With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

·       The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

·       “Their…blood?”

·       You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

·       “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

·       Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

·       The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

·       Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

·       The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

·       Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

·       Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

·       You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

·       “What’s going on, Count?”

·       “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

·       “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

·       Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

·       The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

·       Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

·       His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

·       Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

·       You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

·       “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

·       “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

·       Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

·       He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

·       With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

·       The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

·       His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.  

·       He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

·       The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

·       Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

·       He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

[abluescarfonwaston]

Shapeshifter Au - 14

“So. You’re a shapeshifter huh?” Eskel asked taking a drink from his water skin. Leaning performativity casual against the stone. The mangled side of his face hidden from view.

“Yep.” He tugged the wool cap over his ears to cover against the biting cold of the courtyard. Ciri’s power sung out in frustration as she repeated the training drills over and over again. As she had been for days.

Hopefully they’d call a break soon or he would have to before she bubbled over.

His skin prickled with discomfort. Eskel hummed so quietly he’d only noticed it when Lambert had taken Ciri out hunting and they’d run into each other in the library. The tiny thrum of his magic.

“Bloody well glad for it too. I’ve no idea how you all stand winters up here as people.” He tucked his glove under the sleeve of his jacket before returning them to their spot under his armpits. “Half tempted to spend the winter as a polar bear so I don’t freeze to death.”

“You could. Lambert would be very jealous.”

“Ah but I’ve seen your very impressive bear skin rug and I’d hate to give you any ideas.”

“I wouldn’t-“

“I know.” He bumped their shoulders together. “I’m messing with you.”

A few beats pasted before Eskel burst out with a forced ease, “Lambert caught a buck last year and Geralt wouldn’t let us eat it because it looked too much like you apparently.” Eskel’s nerves made him want to fidget. But it was really far too cold to move his hands from their warm spot.

“You did eat it though right? Because otherwise that’s a huge waste.” He smiled crookedly, watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Course. He didn’t talk to us for a week.”

“And you noticed?” Eskel smirked back at him. Easily in spite of his discomfort. He smiled so easily. Eskel's amusement tickling his skin.

“It took a few days.”

Ciri’s frustration grew several decibels and he pushed off the wall. “You are far too attractive for any of our good.” He told him before he leapt from the staircase they’d rested against, soaring the space between them.

He cawed out his approach as she swung at the training dummy and-

Suddenly he was flying in the other direction.

He shifted before he smashed into the ground and rolled with the force of her shock wave.

“Ow.” He protested when he finally came to a stop in a snowbank.

After one too many moments of silence he looked up. To all the wolves gapping at Ciri and her frozen in place. Training sword held in place where the dummy had once been, now it's straw was scattered across the yard.

“I’m fine thank you for asking.” He called out. Unsticking them all as they looked to him. “Just got thrown across the courtyard. Totally fine. No need to worry about the poor bard.”

“Jaskier?” She turned, far too much concern in her eyes.

“No I am actually fine.” He assured standing and brushing snow off. Tugging the cap down to insure it stayed in place. He frowned. “Better than fine actually.” His skin was warm and his ache that had settled into his bones disappeared without a trace. The bruises he felt should have been forming didn’t. “No harm done. But I do think it’s time for a break yes?”

They nodded. “Early lunch.” Eskel agreed. As they stalked down into the hall.

They set the table as the witchers finished the meal prep and he curled up on the arm of Ciri’s chair and began finger brushing her hair so he could braid it.

“You’re not scared?” She asked as he worked free a knot.

“Of what? Cause I’m scared of a lot of things- spiders. Frogs. Wasps. Cages. A string breaking while I preform at competition-“

“Me.”

His heart broke for her and he continued his work without pause. “No. Don’t see the point in that.”

“You’re afraid of frogs but you don’t see the point in being scared of someone who threw you across the courtyard?”

“Someone has never tried to eat a frog before and nearly died from the hallucinogenic affects I see. It was not a pleasant afternoon and I feel completely justified.” He ran his fingers threw her hair once more to check before starting his braid. “You accidentally threw me across the courtyard, which Geralt has also done and most of them weren’t accidents, and I feel better than I have in years so no. I’m definitely not.”

She was quiet as he worked so he hummed a song to fill the space.

“You’re really not hurt?”

“Really not hurt.” He promised. “Haven’t felt this alive since- oh.”

“Oh?”

“Since your mother tossed the entire banquet hall away to protect your father.”

She spun her head to him and he barely managed to hold onto the braid. “You were there?”

“Front row to the whole debacle. Would you like to hear about it?”

She nodded as they heard the other’s voices down the hall. They both glanced to the door. Unable to not listen.

“Wasn’t just some sign shit Geralt- that was fucking magic. Real chaos. We don’t know shit about real magic! You can’t expect us to-“

“I know you think human hearing is terrible but it’s not that terrible boys!” He called out to them finishing the braid. “How about I tell you that story after dinner? Hm?”

She nodded. He kissed her crown and he watched her sit up. Regally. Preparing for the conversation ahead.

“Ah to suffer another meal with the witcher’s terrible table manners.” He sighed as they dropped the food on the table. “The things we must bare.”

She shot him a small smile.

“How come you didn’t tell us she had magic!” Lambert snapped at- at him?

He blinked at him. “What?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be able to tell shit like that- why didn’t you tell us!”

“Huh?” He glanced at the others at the table. Irritation or concern or confusion on their faces as they studied him. Including Geralt’s. Which was the real shocker. He looked between Geralt and Ciri; who appeared just as flummoxed by the situation as he was, as he gapped.

When it became clear that no one else was going to answer his very obvious question he forced the words out in a voice that was, perhaps, slightly higher than intended. “I thought you knew.” He told Geralt with a wave of his arms.

“How would I know?”

The incredulity in Geralt’s voice was just insulting frankly. He waved between them. Noises floundering out of him. “I- what- its- what.” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “What other blatantly obvious things am I supposed to tell you now? The sky is blue. The keep is made of stone. Ciri has magic. I thought you knew!”

Geralt sighed into his hands. Lambert speared a hunk of lunch.

“Can you tell how strong she is?” Vesemir asked pragmatically as he grabbed his own food. “If we can train her-“

“Oh you definitely can’t.” They glared at him. “What? The only one here with anything even approaching magic is Eskel and no offense but you’re nowhere near her level.”

Eskel sat up a little straighter in his seat as he devoured his lunch.

“Who is?” Geralt asked. “Near her level.”

He leaned back in his chair and thought about it. He didn’t grab any food. He wasn’t hungry and probably wouldn’t be until the magic wore off.

He’d eaten as a griffin though. His mouth tasted like blood- but he hadn’t needed to had he? He’d just wanted to. Wanted to eat and sleep and kill.

Show me what you are.

“Jaskier?” He jolted and looked over at Ciri.

“Ah. Well. You know Yennefer?” Geralt shot him a dirty look. “Just checking, you’ve had issues with amnesia before! Anyway.” He continued with a wave of his hand. “If Yennefer is lightning then Ciri is the sun.”

They all stopped. Actually that bread didn’t look half bad. He ripped a chunk off and chewed on it.

“So.” He mouthed around the bread. “She’s going to need an actual teacher.”

“Could you do it?” She asked.

“No.” He laughed around the bread crumbs. “I am magic. That doesn’t mean I can do magic.”

“Marigold?” Lambert suggested. Triss- he supplied after a moment.

“Sure.” He agreed. “After Yennefer turns us down.”

The room dropped several degrees as he chewed.

“Why would we ask Yennefer first?” Eskel growled.

Geralt sighed. “Because if we don’t she’ll never let the slight go.”

“Is” Ciri hesitated, taking in the faces around the room. “She that bad?”

He wobbled his head. “Well.” He drew out the word. Thinking of all the times she’d treated him like nothing- like less than nothing. Like something that had once had great value but was now irrevocably broken.

And then he thought of the other mage. So much weaker and yet able to dominate him completely.

How Yennefer had never done that. Had never wanted that. Even though it would have been so easy.

And then he thought of Ciri and how much she needed Yennefer. How her chaos swelled and terrified her. How Yennefer was lighting in a bottle and might be the only one who could teach her to control the sun.

And then. Then he followed the djinn’s magic in Geralt’s chest to the lightning in her veins. To the longing in her chest.

She wanted something real.

“No.” He said at last. “We all just took Geralt in the breakup.” He grinned easily.

There were several snorts and Geralt glared fiercely at him.

“You.” Ciri glanced between him and Geralt. Trying to judge the situation. “Dated her?”

“That’s a word for it.” Lambert grinned nastily into his ale. “I’d call it-“

Geralt smacked him.

“Why’d they break up- I hear you asking.”

“She didn’t!” Geralt growled.

“But she would given the opportunity.” He smirked as Lambert shoved him in retaliation. Distracting him. “And the answer is Geralt makes terrible life choices.”

She softly laughed and he counted it amongst his greatest victories.

“What can you shift into?” Vesemir asked, pointedly not looking up from his book, where they all gathered around the fire before bed. A storm howled outside. He suspected if not for the warmth of Ciri’s magic he’d be frozen from the draft alone. The impressive amount of furs Lambert was wrapped in strengthened his conclusion. He adjusted the cap over his ears anyway. “Geralt’s only mentioned beasts before but when you meet back up he said you were a griffin.”

Geralt tensed against his back and Ciri glanced back at him from where she was propped against his legs. He turned the page, even though he hadn’t finished reading it, to show how nonplussed he was by the question.

Over the years he’d only ever explained what he could do, what it meant, his limitations perhaps a handful of times. There were so few people in the world he’d trust with this.

His life he trusted to a great many friends. But this. This was his freedom.

“Suppose I’ve never felt like a griffin before.” He didn’t intend to feel like one ever again. “Or had the magic needed to follow through on such an impulse.”

“So if you had the magic,” Vesemir glanced at Ciri, “And felt like it you could be anything?”

“Well I think you’re underestimating the importance of feeling like it but I suppose that’s the general stroke of it.”

“Have you been a bed? A chair? That’d be real helpful I bet. Hide in a broom closet and just. Be a broom til the mob passes.”

“Have you ever really felt like an inanimate object Lambert?” He shrugged. “Shifting into a mouse usually accomplishes the same goal anyway.”

“If you shifted into the monsters in the bestiary Ciri could safely apply the skills she learns on how to identify and best the different creatures.” Vesemir stated.

Ah. Now he knew why Vesemir had brought this up when Geralt had clearly told them not to, based on the way they’d all danced around their questions since he’d arrived. Well. Except Lambert, but he'd only arrived a few days passed.

“The day I turn into a necrophage is the day I die. Seen more than enough of their innards over the years to know that’s never going to be in the cards thank you very much.”

“Alright no necrophages. But anything you could shift into we could add a far more detailed description of to the bestiary. Updated drawings. Behavioral notes-“ Eskel seemed remarkably enthused about the idea.

He thought about how empty the library was. Figured there was probably a reason for that.

“He’s not a party trick.” Geralt snapped, very valiantly.

“No, no it’s fine.” They all looked so excited by the prospect. Ciri’s eyes were gleaming. He itched under the cap. Hats were really not his look. But it was better than his hair. “Requests? I make no promises about being able to do it but I can certainly try.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt warned.

“I’ve got energy to burn after this morning.” He reassured waving his hand in Geralt’s face behind him. “Which you should know given the bonfire you made when you used igni to light the fireplace.”

“That was cause of you?”

“Pretty sure.” He nodded to Eskel. “Requests? Or shall I go back to my book?”

“A unicorn?” Ciri asked.

Simple enough in theory but, “They’re extinct.” A sad truth Geralt had confirmed years ago. “I’d rather not be the last of my kind.”

Are you the last unclaimed familiar? There are so few of you in this world. The mage had said. Had he ever met any? Where their thousands of people like him who hid in small mage-less towns or wild unkempt forests. Who didn’t shift and stayed safe in a single form their whole lives?

Maybe there were countless people like him and he’d just never recognized them- how would he recognize them? Maybe there were loads of them and he just didn’t know where to look.

Or maybe he was one of the last. One of the last whose mind wasn’t held under chaotic waters to drown until he forgot everything he was.

Maybe he was one of the last.

Then where had they gone? There were days long past where every sorcerer, mage and druid had a familiar. Someone like him.

He’d never met any who did. Not that he'd met many.

“You could do the griffin again. Since we know you can shift into that.” Eskel suggested.

Geralt’s arm squeezed at his bicep. Like he suspected what a bad idea that was.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to see the form that hadn’t recognized him even a little.

“You could always try a dragon.” Geralt teased before leaning in and whispering right into his ear. “You don’t have to. We can just leave.”

The sparkle in Ciri’s eye grew.

“The only issue there- since I now know they’re real- is that I’ve never seen a living one. That egg does not count!”

“Borch wasn’t dead?”

“What?” He snapped around blazing fury. “Borch was a dragon?”

“You. Missed that part?”

“I am now Extra mad you didn’t wake me up. I could have seen a living dragon? You ass!”

“Not my fault you slept in!”

“Do you want to play the blame game about that day- because I definitely think missing seeing a living dragon is one of the lesser issues I could choose to be angry about.” He collapsed into Geralt’s lap and glared up at him. “Hm? Hmmmm?”

Geralt looked away but nodded.

“Glad we agree. Alrighty let’s see what I can do.” He climbed off the back of the couch. He was irritated and wanted to impress his cub. His mate’s family. That would help. Probably.

He shifted up into a bear. Because it was easier to feel big when one was big.

Lambert whistled.

What had he grabbed onto to become a griffin anyway?

He’d been caged. He was cold. He was alone and unwanted but not powerless.

He wasn’t powerless now. He could protect-

His mouth was full of blood.

The form snapped under him. Dropping him down until his heart raced and his incisors grated against each other and his ears were tight against his back and-

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s hand reached down to hold him and he shifted up to meet it. Tail wagging slowly even as his ears stayed folded back. “That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough.

They liked his songs well enough but that was all he had. He wasn’t pretty or handsome with his terrible hair shoved into an ugly winter toque and Geralt's ill fitting clothing and he wasn’t strong or helpful or a good cook. He couldn’t teach Ciri magic. Couldn’t hunt them more food even as he ate theirs.

No wonder your mate’s dead.

No wonder your mate didn’t want you.

Maybe she’ll make a better travel companion then.

They’d asked one thing of him and he couldn’t even do it.

It was easy to be a form he loved.

He didn’t love the griffin.

He didn’t love what it had done. Even if it had saved him.

He was scooped into strong arms and there was a dismissal of “Bedtime,” and he tried to swallow the sounds escaping his throat. Tried to stop the way his paws shifted to claws shifted to wings.

He couldn’t even do this. Couldn’t even be something useful.

Sure he could be a horse and carry them when Roach got tired. Could scout as a raven or pull buckthorn from a river without risk of drowning. But all the wolves and all the cats and Witchers knew he wasn’t useful. He didn’t want to be.

And when he wanted to be he couldn’t.

“Jaskier.” Geralt repeated under the blankets in their bed. “Talk to me.”

There was a request there- what shape do you want me to be- I’ll stay that way forever if it means you’ll keep me. Please.

“Thank you. Can you tell me what’s wrong? You haven’t done,” He grit his teeth as he pulled him in closer to his chest. “That in a long time.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not.” Geralt squeezed the back of his neck. Tension leached from him. Geralt nuzzled at the toque pushing it up with his nose.

He grabbed it. Pulling it down firmly. “Don’t.”

“Jaskier.” He plead.

He curled tighter in on himself and pulled the hat over his eyes. “Just couldn’t find a form that fit. Hope you got me out of there before it got too repulsive- although maybe Ciri will appreciate knowing she’s not the only one who can’t control her magic right? Gotta find the little victories.”

“Jaskier what’s this really about?”

“Nothing.”

Geralt grumbled his frustration.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t about anything.

It was about how maybe he was the last of his people- his family- and it was about how his form wasn’t what he needed it to be and it was about the things he’d done that he couldn’t remember and didn’t want to and the blood in his mouth and it wasn’t about any of that.

He was scared and frustrated and alone and not good enough and-

“Is Jaskier okay?” Ciri called from the crack in the door.

He shifted out of the bed to her despite Geralt’s protests.

“I’m alright.” He leaned against the door frame. “I’m sorry for scaring you- I know its very upsetting looking when I shift like that.” He didn't know but the way Geralt paled after an attack like that was proof enough.

“Was that because I asked you to shift? Or because of this morning?”

“No.” He crooned. “No. I-“ He paused. Took her hands in his. “It was like this morning. You got frustrated and your magic responded. My shifting responds to my emotions too so when I got overwhelmed that happened. But it doesn’t hurt.” The emotions that caused it hurt. But the shifting didn’t at least. “Promise I’m okay.”

She watched him sternly.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes and rolled back on his heels. Sweeping a hand in front of his face dramatically. “I’m very worried Yennefer responds quickly to our message because she always looks immaculate and I am really not a hat person.”

“Really?” Her lips curved upward just a twitch.

“Ciri dear I am wearing Geralt’s clothing! I haven’t worn a color in months. Months!” He slid down the door frame and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I’m dying. Melitele forbid Yennefer see me like this. My reputation will be ruined. Ruined!”

Ciri huffed out a laugh. “Oh no. How terrible.”

“It is! I could hear the sarcasm in your tone but I am ignoring it for the sake of our friendship!” Geralt picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. “The audacity! The horror!” He continued to lament as they bid good night.

Geralt dumped him in the bed. “Gonna tell me what it was actually about now?”

“I am genuinely concerned about meeting Yennefer looking like this.” Geralt scowled down at him. “Would you feel confident and prepared if you had to face a monster without your armor?”

“Yennefer isn’t a monster.”

“You’re missing the point. I like how I look. I know it’s just hair and I know it’s just clothing but I don’t look like me. I don’t feel like me. I’m wandering the woods without armor and even when I’m not being attacked it’s still scary because I know how easy it would be to bleed me out.”

Geralt considered that and slowly sat down next to him. “Okay. I don’t know how to fix that.”

“Time will fix it. I’ll visit a proper barber and my tailor in the spring and all will be well again.” He knew that. He did. It just didn't make it easier.

He nodded. Tilted his head and looked at his face. Then dragged his gaze lower to the way his body did and didn’t fill out Geralt’s clothing. “I like how you look.”

“Sure you do.”

Geralt pushed him back in the bed. Leaning over him. “I do.” A hand came up to his head and pushed under the hat. He tensed but Geralt made no move to pull it off. “You’re not a hat person. I don’t mind that your hair’s not perfect cause it’s still soft and smells like you.”

His other hand and down the fabric of his shirt. “I like you in my clothing because it makes you smell like me. Like you’re mine. Even if it’s not what you’d normally wear.”

He hummed. “You want to show me just how much you like it?”

“I do.” He laced his fingers behind Geralt’s neck and tried to pull him down for a kiss. He didn’t move. “Was that really all that was?”

He closed his eyes. “No. But I don’t really want to get into all of it tonight.”

“Okay.” He said. But didn’t move closer.

He sighed. “What do you think it was? What’s worrying you?”

“You’re still angry about the mountain.”

“Hm. I did apparently miss a chance to see a living dragon so.”

“Mhm.”

He grabbed Geralt and rolled him to his side. “Geralt you’re a terrible liar. And if you hadn’t meant what you’d said, at least a little I’d never have believed you.”

“I was trying to break the bond. I thought I forced you into this life Jaskier.”

“Just like you forced Yennefer?”

He flinched.

“If you’d asked I’d have told you. That I was the one that bound you. That I hadn’t meant to do it and didn’t know what I was doing when I did but that I didn’t regret the time I spent with you. But you did. You regretted our time together.”

His gold eyes squeezed closed. He took several steadying breaths. His thumb stroking a strand of hair that had escaped the hat. “Not everything’s about you Jaskier.”

He frowned but resisted the urge to squawk about how it definitely seemed like it was about him.

“I was hurting from Yennefer and scared I had trapped you and terrified for the child of surprise I’d cursed just like you two. And I’m still terrified Jaskier. I don’t know how to be a father.”

“I’m not sure anyone does. I mean how many kids has Vesemir raised? And I’d be real surprised if he thought he knew how to do it proper.”

“Lambert’s good at keeping him humble.”

“That he is. It’s going to be okay. You’re not doing this alone.” He took Geralt’s face in his hands and traced the grain of his stubble. “Besides. I bet Yennefer’s going to roll up and out-parent both of us so hard that I can safely retire to my true calling of fun uncle.”

“Lambert’s teaching her how to make bombs. I think he’s got that position claimed.”

“Ah well I’ll figure out something.”

“Sure you will.” He smirked.

He propped himself up over Geralt, shoving him onto his back. “Alright I really need to kiss that damn look off your face. We good?”

Geralt smiled and pulled him down into a kiss. “We’re good.”

He walked the wall while the others trained in the courtyard. They couldn’t really expect him to work by himself.

They’d asked him if he wanted to join. Or less asked and more told him to when they'd arrived.

He thought he’d sent a fairly clear message when he flipped them the bird become becoming an actual bird and flying away. Spent the afternoon gathering dirt on all of them. Their horses were just so eager to share.

He’d spent a lot of time and energy not learning how to fight and he wasn’t going to change now just because he was living with witchers.

In a big crumbling keep.

It kind of looked like a fortress. A castle. Like something out of a storybook.

They did already have a princess.

How hard would it be to have a dragon?

He fluttered over a broken section of wall.

His keep shouldn’t have broken sections of wall. How was he supposed to keep his hoard safe?

Cause dragons had hoards. And were fiercely protective of them. He assumed.

What would he hoard? Instruments maybe. Admirers. Books.

Laughter roared in the courtyard. He looked down at them. At his family.

His.

Care for. Love. Protect.

He leapt between the stone’s crenellations.

What else made dragons dragons?

Old. Wise. Powerful.

Well there had to young stupid dragons. He could fill that niche. At least he was powerful. He had the sun warming his bones.

Prideful.

They were beautiful.

He wasn’t right now.

But he could be. He could be whatever he wanted.

The edge of the crenellation crumbled under his feet and he began tumbling down the steep walls to the cliffs below.

“What else can he turn into? Can he turn into a shrieker? A unicorn? A dragon?”

He spread his wings and twisted into the sky.

Freedom. It felt like freedom.

He loved to shift.

He loved this form.

He circled his home. His nest. His hoard, gathered in the courtyard as he landed.

“Fucking hell.”

He settled on the steps into the courtyard and tucked his chin over the edge to watch them back.

“That one’s new.” Geralt told them unhelpfully.

Rude. He huffed at Geralt. All hot air. The snow that had collected on his armor and hair melted.

“You’re a dragon!” Ciri marveled as she slowly reached out to touch him. Her small hand roving over the scales of his face. He rumbled his approval.

“Show off.” He smacked Geralt with the tip of his tail without looking away from Ciri.

“You’re so fucking warm!” Lambert was plastered over his flank. “I’m stealing your bard for the rest of the winter.”

“No you’re not.”

“It’s too damn cold in the keep. He’s mine now. Jaskier you’re mine now. I claim dibs.”

He’s got dibs Geralt. Guess I’m his now.

“That is not how this works.”

“It definitely is.” He’s right. It definitely is.

Geralt turned and started to walk away. He hauled him back by the scruff of his shirt.

Eskel leaned against him. “Not that I’ve seen a lot of dragons but-“

Creative liberties.

“Not going to be terribly educational then.” Vesemir sighed pretending not to be leaning into his warmth as much as he was.

I’m very educational. I’ve taught her what a red dragon might look like.

“Ciri this isn’t what red dragons look like.”

“It’s what a red dragon looks like.” He nuzzled her in approval.

It’s what your red dragon looks like. He pointed out.

“I suppose it is.” Lambert and Eskel made retching noises at Geralt. "What our red dragon looks like."

Ours. His chest broke out in a mighty purr. His hoard.

His family.

[bubmyg]

just pls write some squishy soft jk bedtime cuddles :((

genre/warnings: youtuber!guk, established relationship, fluff. so much fluff lmao, it’s wholly inspired by that one youtube live u know the one, bun on a bun makes an appearance

word count: 1,499 

“Are you coming to bed anytime soon...?” The last syllable trailed off into a noise of inquiry, one that curled in the back of your throat as you paused halfway into Jeongguk’s office. 

You couldn’t see much, not in the swath of neon light curling from strip lights taped in neat rows above foam pads meant maximize sound quality. Not when the only other source of light was that of his monitor set up, all blaring to their highest setting, all opened to windows that were white or grey in manner. Perhaps hazy glints of rainbow curled in the tired squint of your eyes that you’d previously been digging your knuckles into, but that didn’t hinder you from seeing the jeans still pasted to your boyfriend’s far too long legs. 

He’d turned just enough to address you properly when you were beating him to the silence. 

“Why the fuck are you wearing jeans?”

Jeongguk’s expression crossed from confusion to amusement, glancing down at his legs. One wavy strand of hair not contained in the hair elastic he’d stolen from your dish in the bathroom stuck into his eyelashes as he blinked up at you. “I’ve had them on all day?”

“Yeah, but...” Your eyebrows pinched in confusion this time. Reinforcement. “It’s one in the morning? I thought you changed earlier?”

In your defense, he hadn’t emerged from his editing cave upon returning from Jimin’s after a full afternoon of filming. To pretend you hadn’t noticed them before would be a lie, however. Infuriating. 

“No,” Jeongguk laughed. Pointedly, he patted his thighs. “Do you want me to change?”

“I want you to come to bed,” You grit, glaring at him. The heat on your skin suddenly wasn’t because of the overwhelming amount of LED contained in the miniscule space. Nonetheless, you poked out a hand in offering too, wriggling fingers and all. 

He had other ideas, locking his fingers through the spaces in yours to tug you closer, continuing to tug your attached limb past his shoulder until you got the hint to climb in his lap. 

Which you did begrudgingly. Of course. 

You didn’t hesitate to use your teeth on the spot your lips had previously been resting on his neck when the clacking sound of his keyboard and mouse came at the flex of his arm rested on your hip. “Come to bed,” You punctuated with a hard, chaste kiss on the underside of his jaw. The one currently craning to see over your head you’d pointedly moved. 

Jeongguk nodded, chin bumping into the bridge of your nose to which he giggled at your noise of indignation. But he didn’t stop clicking. In fact, he seemed to settle further into the chair. 

You huffed, pushing yourself up to a more upright sitting position. He paid no mind, not even a sideways glance, as you stared at the flick of his sparkling irises around the screen. The tiny conglomeration of curls at the back of his head wiggled with the tiny giggle he let out the longer you stared, narrowing your focus to that very thing. As much as you liked his bun, you liked your pillow more. Preferably if your boyfriend was that pillow.

Even in your haste and your effort to sabotage Jeongguk’s work efforts, you were careful in unraveling the elastic from his hair, aiding the neatly curled strands with the straight of your fingers until they flopped completely over his eyes like a curtain. 

His chin dimpled and you could picture the tiny celestial beings in the brown of his eyes even if you couldn’t see them. 

“Well, looks like your computer shut down. Time for bed I think!”

He tossed his head, hand previously tapping an incomprehensible beat against your thigh leaving to tuck the strands firmly out of the way by the bend of his tiniest finger. “Just a few more minutes,” He vowed, sticking out that same digit to you, which you intercepted without hearing him add, “Pinky promise.”

Even in your anticipation for sleep, you flexed the elastic band where it still rested on your thumb and index finger. “Want me to fix it for you?”

He hummed, a noncommittal yes that had you happily leaning forward to scratch your nails through his scalp, reveling in the small noises of contentment that left his lips at the affection. Your self indulgence ended at the prospect of the faster he edits the faster you can go to bed, so you garnered a bun about the same size as before in your palm, gently squishing the curls as you gently looped the elastic. 

When you settled back to eye level, you found Jeongguk staring intently at you, the stars wholly authentic and not a result of the ever rotating colors of the strand of LED drooping a bit just beyond his monitor the farthest to the right. He smiled at you, toothless, but endowed in the tiny crinkles that formed on either side of his eyelids and you couldn’t help but kiss one side of the gathered skin, following the trail across his scrunched eyelid to kiss the tip of his nose. 

Hovering a breath away from his top lip, you murmured, “Hurry up.”

Jeongguk never broke a promise and especially not a pinky promise, LED and artificial white shutting down around you all the same after about ten more minutes of the click of his mouse weaving your eyelashes together. He toddled after you into the bedroom by the connection of your hands, barely remembering to panic over whether he’d saved the draft ten times before killing the power strip when you wandered into the bathroom, leaving him alone to contemplate just how good the bed sounded in that moment. 

He was sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed when you returned, jacket and shirt shed, jeans still on, thumbs fiddling with his phone that just contoured the shape of his nose scrunching in some sort of technologically induced inconvenience. He hummed when your weight joined him on the bed, not flinching as you moved to sit behind him, arms settling loosely to his waist as your lips rested similarly to the dark curls of ink on his upper arm. 

“Bathroom’s all yours,” You mumbled against his skin, finding at a glance that the phone inconvenience in question was an iMessage game from Taehyung. One he’d, evidently, sent seven times in Jeongguk’s endless hours of work. 

“Don’t wanna move now,” Visibly, he relaxed back into your embrace, continuing to twirl his fingers over the screen in an attempt to answer the fourth of seven game requests. 

“At least brush your teeth,” You teased, unlocking your fingers from where they’d woven at his navel to instead dig your fingertips into his sides. “And take these jeans off.”

He turned just enough for you to see the rise and then wiggle of his eyebrows. “...I thought you didn’t want me to, baby?”

He abandoned his phone after a brief onset of giggles and wrestling which he, inevitably, grew tired of entertaining your strength, and taunted you with unbrushed kisses all over your cheeks and the tickle of loose bangs across your eyebrows. Nightly antics drawing to an end, ones of which always included your stretch across the bed to put his phone on the charger. 

After a total of twenty, grueling, minutes, Jeongguk had settled onto the same pillow as you rather than becoming your pillow. Yet. Technicalities. Ones you almost corrected for yourself until you noted the tiny knot of curls peaking gently out from the top of the pillow. 

You didn’t lift your cheek from the pillow, coaxing him closer to once again thread the elastic from his hair. The newly freed strands fell on their own this time, framing his cheekbones and waning pupils and petaled lips all the same. You couldn’t help but drop a kiss to the place between his eyebrows, gently stroking one side of his fringe away to tuck it behind his ear. 

“Sorry. I forgot.”

You nodded, dropping a kiss lower to the tip of Jeongguk’s nose this time. You forgot things too, like to grab your favorite flannel blanket out of the hall closet when your body finally collapsed in a mid afternoon nap, like to add extra sugar to your favorite brand of cereal mostly marketed towards children, like to pack an extra water bottle for your particularly long day at university. 

Jeongguk remembered those things though. Just like you remembered encourage him to change out of jeans and take his hair out before he slept. 

“I love you,” He added. It wasn’t an afterthought. You could feel the sentiment squeezing you with every ounce of his unrestrained affections. 

Finally did Jeongguk’s thrumming heart become the soundtrack of your pillow, arms hooking around his neck as his accommodated the half drape of your stature over his. You nodded against him, pressing your lips to the freckle on his neck. 

“And I love you.”

[heartsandmuses]

tiktok famous

for @stonyweek​ 2020 // prompt: “social media”

steve rogers/tony stark. rated g. 1.8k. universe: mcu.

Two months after the rest of the team gets TikTok, Steve finally caves and makes an account of his own.

He doesn’t tell anyone though, because while his grasp on technology is better than what most would assume, part of the fun is letting people think he’s completely helpless. It’s made for some pretty amusing afternoons, between Clint trying to teach him for an hour straight exactly how to empty the recycle bin on his laptop and Bruce attempting to talk him through uploading a photo onto his Google Drive, and Steve figures that the team’s exasperation at his supposed tech incompetency might make for a few good videos.

And it does — his popularity soars seemingly overnight, and it’s only a matter of days before people start to catch on to the fact that Captain America’s making TikToks now and barely a week before he’s amassed hundreds of thousands of followers.

Unfortunately, that means the team’s caught on too.

It’s a bit of a disappointment that he can’t continue to be—as Clint would say—a troll, now that they know he’s not as much of an old man as previously thought, but there’s still plenty else he can do on the app. In the week after his account gets verified, Steve isn’t sure how many videos he gets dragged into, but between all the dance covers Natasha teaches him, all the easy food hacks Bruce does, and all the workouts Thor records, he’s certain that he’s made an appearance in well over a hundred drafts for the other Avengers’ profiles.

Not that he minds all that much. It gives him a chance to explore the full scope of TikTok in a way he probably wouldn’t on his own.

—   —   —

It’s Peter who introduces Steve to the concept of TikTok “challenges,” which, really, consist of anything ranging from simple choreography to lighthearted pranks, and Steve takes it upon himself to scroll through the kid’s profile for some fresh ideas.

It’s a slow weekend anyway, no missions planned or battles to fight, and the renovations in the gym thanks to Hulk’s latest tantrum means that all team training sessions are cancelled until next week. Outside, rain patters against the windows of the common room; the TV’s on low, playing a rerun of some competitive cooking show that Tony, sprawled out on the other side of the couch, fell asleep in front of, having lost interest about halfway through. Steve smiles as he lets his gaze trace over Tony’s profile—his messy hair, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes fan over his cheeks—and when his eyes finally turn back towards his phone...

Steve blinks.

Because the next video he lands on is tagged #KissYourBestFriendChallenge. And if he happened to miss the tiny print at the bottom of the screen, a text bubble pops up in the first few seconds with exactly the same words.

The video starts off innocently enough, with Peter and Ned laughing and joking around in what Steve assumes is Peter’s bedroom, both of them sitting on the floor with a half-finished Lego Death Star between them. Steve has the volume turned on low, but he can still hear Ned’s breathy Vader impression, as he holds up one of the figurines and walks it along the carpet. Peter laughs, and when his gaze shifts from the Lego figurine back up to Ned’s face, bright and beaming, his grin softens at the edges, expression turning into something much more... wistful and wanting and affectionate.

Something smitten.

Ned’s gaze meets Peter’s once again, and he trails off in the middle of his sentence when he sees him leaning in, closer and closer until their lips finally meet. It’s a tender kiss, a hesitant one, but Ned pulls away after a moment, partly in surprise and partly to search Peter’s face, a look of— of astonishment, of realization, coming over his own. And just like that, he leans back in and kisses him silly, smiling against Peter’s mouth.

Steve’s heart clenches, his eyes drifting back down to the bottom of the screen, and right next to the extensive list of hashtags, the caption reads: he feels the same way, followed by a row of heart emojis.

He’s known for a while that Peter’s been going out with Ned, but Steve had no idea that this is how they got together, and as he thinks about that look of mutual longing that they’d shared, he can’t help but glance back over at Tony, still blissfully asleep and snoring soundly.

—   —   —

Steve can’t get the idea out of his head.

It might have something to do with the fact that he’s spent the past few days going through the hashtag, watching as people have their dreams come true or—equally as often—dashed. But Steve’s a strategist, he needs to consider all possible outcomes before he can start to even plan, and while there’s a very large, very scared part of him that wants to call the whole thing off before it can even really begin, he knows, deep in his gut, that no better opportunity would ever present itself to tell Tony how he feels.

Steve’s brave, but he’s not the kind of brave that can go up to his best friend directly and confess his love to him. He’s learned that lesson all too well from silently pining around Bucky for the better part of a decade, and Steve knows he won’t be able to go through the same thing again. Even if Tony does reject him—which is a possibility he’s certainly preparing himself for—at least he’ll know for sure that he doesn’t have a chance, instead of being stuck in the familiar limbo of wondering and wanting and hoping.

And if that does happen, if Tony turns him down, Steve’s reassured by the fact that he can play it off as a joke, say it was all just for the challenge. That’s been his biggest concern in the past, whenever he would consider taking the leap and asking Tony out, the risk of something shattering between them. Their friendship, their closeness, what they have right now — none of it is worth throwing away just because Steve can’t tamp down his desire.

He’s thrown himself into some hastily thought-out plans in the past, but this one feels pretty foolproof.

—   —   —

Steve isn’t sure how it’s possible, really, but there’s just something about the sight of Tony laughing—crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, lips curling into a grin—that makes him about ten times more handsome than he usually is. It’s just as heart-stopping as it is distracting, and it takes a good five minutes for Steve to even remember why he’d come down to the lab in the first place.

Officially, the excuse he gave Tony is that he needs some input on which TikTok to post next; unofficially, Steve’s just trying to calm his racing heart as he watches his best friend go through the entirety of his drafts folder, trying to muster up every ounce of courage he has, for one little moment. One little kiss.

“I think this one’s a real winner,” Tony says, turning the phone back towards Steve, and on the screen is a time-lapse of him sketching the Tower. He has a few others like that up on his profile already, quick little drawings of the common room or of the team, and Steve realizes with some embarrassment that if Tony went into his camera roll he would find more than a few real-time recordings of Steve sketching full pages of those warm, brown eyes and those long, fanning eyelashes. “The pranks and storytimes are fun and all, but I like the videos of your art the best.”

There’s such a startling sincerity in his words that it makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. He feels warm and nervous all at once, stomach churning and palms sweating, and he gets so lost in the adoring look in Tony’s eyes that he doesn’t notice for a long moment how close they really are. And it doesn’t stop, either. They just keep getting closer and closer and—

Steve’s leaning in, he realizes. He’s leaning in and he can see Tony’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, can see Tony’s gaze dropping to Steve’s mouth, can see a flicker of want in his eyes, pure and desperate, and that’s all Steve needs to know before he kisses him.

For days all he could imagine were the countless ways that Tony might let him down gently, pulling back with a laugh and a friendly squeeze to his shoulder, shaking his head and telling him that they’re better off as friends. But Tony doesn’t do any of that. He kisses back almost instantly, hands coming up to cup Steve’s cheeks, and Steve absolutely melts into the touch. It’s sweet and gentle and perfect, and now that he doesn’t have to worry about playing it off as a prank anymore, he pours everything he’s feeling into it — everything he’s been feeling, for all these years. All of his longing, his fondness, his desire.

All of his love.

The kiss seems to last somewhere between a second and an eternity, and when he finally pulls back to look into Tony’s eyes, he can see it all, every thought and feeling written out so clearly in his expression, a picture-perfect mirror of his own. Steve smiles, as a rush of relief fills his chest, and he can’t help but lean in again, just as his heart flutters and his stomach swoops and he thinks, with absolute certainty, he feels the same way.

—   —   —

JARVIS catches the entire exchange on video for him, along with the elated and impromptu make-out session that had ensued immediately afterwards, and while Steve plays back the footage of that initial kiss at least a hundred times, smiling stupidly at his phone, he doesn’t upload it.

It just feels too... intimate, too personal, for the rest of the world to see, at least right now. Steve just wants to keep the moment—and Tony—to himself for a little longer, and so, what he posts instead is the time-lapse of him drawing the large, looming Tower and the cityscape surrounding it.

—   —   —

Days later, he posts another sped-up sketch. This time, it’s one of Tony, with that big, gorgeous grin, that familiar twinkle in his eyes; it’s the exact expression that came over his face after Steve had kissed him, and it feels good, committing it not only to memory, but to paper as well.

But his followers aren’t completely clueless, he knows that, and it’s over the next few weeks—during which Steve gets a little more confident in uploading his drawings of Tony—that they begin to suspect something might be going on between the two of them.

Steve, of course, never outright confirms nor denies their claims, though he does, three months into their relationship, film that “walk into the room naked and record your boyfriend’s reaction” challenge, and that pretty much says it all.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Excuse: Donny Donowitz x Reader (Postwar AU)

requested by the homie @struggling-bee :' )

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

_____________ ***January, 1946*** Donny was walking through his neighborhood, just like he had every afternoon since he got back from the war. He never did that before... He was tired, but he could never sleep. He was angry, but there were no nazis he could (legally) scalp.   He couldn't seem to settle back down. Things in his mind didn't quite quiet down. Sometimes, it seemed like the war was still on. Donny was the man that killed Hitler, after all. It was hard to go back to being just Donny, Sy Donowitz' boy. He couldn't even seem to find someone to talk to. All the guys he used to go to school with, or play baseball with were either busy buying houses, busy with a baby or two, or busy with a brand new business. Some of those guys had bum knees now. Some of them just never came back... And the girls they all used to hang around with had 'just married' signs on their cars, or busy fighting to keep running the jobs they had the keys to during the war. They weren't the same kids sneaking into bars, playing ball, and dancing to brass bands. They were soldiers.

He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, looking down at the pavement. His shoes over the concrete were a stark contrast to worn down boots over snowy forest floors and enemy bones. He shut his eyes, wondering where the boys were now? Of course, he knew Aldo was in Tennessee....but where? Was he sitting up in his cabin? Was he visiting his sister? Telling his nieces and nephews stories they wouldn't believe till they read their history books? And Hugo? He'd moved to a quiet, small, almost impossible to find town in Connecticut. Was he finding the heart to talk to the girl at a corner store? Smitty?  Smitty lived in New York. He'd promised Donny he'd go back to school. He made it into NYU, was he in class right now? Was he visiting his grandparents? And Hirschberg? Was he out with his girl? Was he finally looking for a ring? And Omar? Wicki? What were they all up to? Were they all having a hard time going back to the way things used to be? Donny glanced at his watch. 5:47 PM. A year earlier this time, they'd be camped out somewhere between France and Germany, listening to Aldo telling stories. Hugo would be sharpening a knife.  Omar and Donny would be fighting about baseball. He sighed, walking around the corner, finding his street. He heard a dog barking. An old, half-blind, but excited pitbull trotted up to the fence. "Hey Bugsy! Hey girl!" Donny smiled, as he crouched by the fence and reached through, petting Bugsy. His neighbors had that dog since he was in high school. Bugsy belonged to the kid next door, Andrew. He went to school with Donny. He played ball with Donny. He went to war with Donny. He was a marine. He never came back. But, ever since Bugsy was a puppy, she'd always seen Donny and Andrew walk down the street together, after school, after practive, after games. Ever since Donny came back from the war, and walked down the street, back to his home, with his uniform on, Bugsy whined and cried excitedly, thinking Andrew was following. And every time Bugsy saw Donny, she'd bark and whine, happily thinking Andrew wouldn't be long. Donny sighed, as he patted her head, "Sorry Bugs. He ain't comin' home today either." He started to get up, and she began to whine. He sighed with a soft smile, "I know, Bugs... I miss him too." She sat, putting her paw up against the fence. Donny chuckled a little, "I'll be back tomorrow. Promise," as he walked over to his home, just next door. He shuffled through the rest of the day blankly, as he did most days. Soldiers... He sighed, Most of them seemed to be perfectly happy, somehow settling back in seamlessly...At least, it seemed that way to Donny. He was happy to be back in his dad's barbershop again, but...he'd often look out the window with a quiet sigh, missing some things he'd left behind. Like the basterds. Life seemed to move ever so slowly now...And there was no one he could share it with. Night bled into morning, and he was working again. He was sweeping up his dad's shop, just before opening. He smelled coffee, and remembered the day after the war ended. The basterds woke up in a tavern, somewhere in Paris they hadn't been before. Covered in streamers, with headaches, and a flight home, they all drank some coffee to ease the aftermath of the last night's celebreation The bells at the shop's door rang, and he turned around, snapping out of that distant memory of a small pub in a forgotten corner of Paris. It was afternoon now... "Mikey!" Donny grinned, seeing his kid brother standing there. When Donny left, he was just a sweet kid, somewhere in the middle of that awkward middle-school age. He was halfway through high school now, following in Donny's footsteps as a star on the baseball team, and almost as tall as him, too. Time felt so slow now that he was home, but it seemed to have gone by in the blink of an eye when he  was gone. "Donny!" He seemed as though he had the secrets to the universe in his hands...but Donny, and everyone in their lives, frankly, was getting used to that. He was beginning to take a psychology course...and...he thought he had half the damn neighborhood figured out. He went on a million-word-per-second kind of rant, but Donny picked out a few things. Something about war, veterans, sleep, and emotions. "I'm fine, kid." Donny shook his head, grinning. "You worry too much." He stopped for  a second, and looked at him. "You're like ma, y'know." "Very funny, look!" He shuffled through a folder, and dug out a diagram, and all the symptoms that matched what he saw in Donny. At the very top, underlined, highlighted, and pointed out in arrows were  three words: Thousand-Yard Stare. "Mikey! Your mother's been looking all over for you!" Sy Donowitz, their father, emerged, half saving Donny from his brother's persistence, while saving himself from his wife's wrath. "Alright pop..." Mikey sighed, though he glanced at Donny. Donny was red in the face, frustrated. To him, it was like Mikey airing out his dirty laundry, so to speak. "He means well, Donny." His father patted him on the back. "Yeah, I know." Donny sighed, now feeling guilty for feeling angry, and angry for feeling anything and everything. And then nothing. He sighed, as he sat on his bed after work, muttering "Fuck a duck." Something crumpled beneath him, and he stood up. It was Mikey's diagram, along with a school report. Mikey's first draft for a psychology paper, and he chose to write about veterans. Donny read half of it, and had to put it down. He knew he needed some help, but he wasn't sure where to begin. He walked downstairs, and went out for a walk, as always. Only this time, he went farther than usual. Halfway across town. In fact, he made it downtown. He couldn't get his mind off of the essay. He knew Mikey meant well. Donny wasn't sleeping much, he couldn't get his mind off war. He just couldn't go back to being Donny. His mind suddenly snapped back to Boston, to 1946, to the present. He saw you, on the ground, right in front of him, trying to pick up some papers. He'd literally run into you. "Fuck a duck," He leaned down, helping you pick some of them up. His hand brushed against yours, and you looked at him for the first time. "Say..." Your heart skipped a beat, and you smiled a little, "You're Donny Donowitz." "That's me." He smiled, though he sounded a  little exasperated. You stammered, a little star struck. After all, it's not every day you meet a war her like that....Well, it's 1946, you do... But it's not every day you meet one of the basterds. He'd picked up on that, and chuckled a little, used to it. "Nice to meet ya..." "Y/n." It took you a moment to remember your own name. "Y/n," he repeated with a kind smile, slowly handing over the papers he picked up. He spotted pictures of dogs on different sheets, and realized they were some sort of records. "What's that?" He seemed genuinely curious. You sighed, shuffling the papers back in order, "Records of the dogs' vaccines, just updated them. Gotta bring them back to the-" You laughed a little at yourself, realizing he had no idea what you were talking about. You took a breath, starting over, "I train  therapy dogs." "Really?" His face lit up a little, and you didn't quite catch on to why just yet. You nodded with a grin. Even thinking of your work made you feel happy. "It's been real busy for a year or so. Lots of veterans have been looking into it." He smiled, "I might, too." "Everyone's gone home for the day...maybe...you'd like a private tour?" You winked, and he asked, "You won't get in trouble for it, will ya?" You laughed, "Ah, fuck the rules." He smirked, knowing you'd get along just together just fine. He followed you to your work,  you brought him out to see the dogs. You left for a minute to go file away the papers, and came back to find Donny sitting on the ground, playing with all the dogs. One dog in particular seemed to instantly be attached to him. "Hey boy!" Donny laughed as he petted a border collie. You crouched by, smiling "His name's Charlie." "He's fucken adorable." Donny kept playing with the dogs, though that one in particular melted his heart. "Isn't he?" You chuckled. You'd realize that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Donny came by every day, just after closing time to spend time with Charlie. (There was a little more to it than that, but  you didn't catch on yet) You didn't mind staying a little late. You liked Donny's company. And...it made your heart sing to see him so happy around the dogs. A few months passed. You realized there was an empty spot, and your heart dropped. Charlie had been adopted. "Oh no..." You sighed, knowing someone needed and deserved a dog like that. It was going to happen eventually, after all. You'd told Donny there was a big demand for therapy and service dogs lately. So...why did it hurt so much? You were always a little down when a dog was adopted, but never this much. You sat by your desk, and slumped a little as the day went on. You got frustrated with yourself, denying the reason you were so upset. With Charlie gone, maybe Donny would stop coming by. You shook your head, denying that was what upset you. But...you weren't much of a liar. "Maybe just a little..." You sighed, watching the hours go by, knowing at the end of the day you'd have to break the news to Donny.

It was closing time, your coworkers left one by one, and you sighed, "Fuck..." You realized in that painfully long wait that you were hopelessly in love with that basterd. There was a familiar knock on the window. You turned around slowly, and your heart broke, seeing how excited Donny seemed. Even more so than usual... All the more heart breaking You opened the door, about to break it to him... Rip the bandaid off, really. But before you could say anything, you realized Donny was holding on to a leash. "It was YOU?!" "I adopted Charlie!" He laughed, though he seemed happy, there was one more thing he wanted. "Are you...busy?" He smirked a little, already knowing the answer. Now that you didn't have to sneak Donny into work, your schedule was wide open... He knew that. He'd have to find new excuses to come see you. But, for now,  as you walked with him through town, and his arm wrapped around you gently, but protectively, you both knew it was the beginning of something more.

[percyinpanties]

this has been in my drafts since 2018, apparently. I edited this and added to it, and god it feels good to get some words done. have an innocent lil highschool au.

pairing: jercy rating: teen+ (light swearing) 

---------

When something small and sharp hits his cheek, Jason startles out of his thoughts and blinks slowly. His gaze is unfocused, as is his mind - he was so lost in his own head that he doesn’t even quite recall what it was that had his mind this occopied.

Jason blinks again, deliberately slow, trying to clear his vision. For the first few seconds, he isn't sure where he is and what he's doing, let alone what hit his cheek in the first place. Maybe he has imagined it?

His thoughts are still sluggish and Jason has to rub his eyes before the room around him finally comes into focus.

The library. 

Right. Finals.

Jason came here right after his last class, meant to grab some books and hide away in one of the study corners to  go over his notes and force the material into his brain. Apparently the lack of sleep last night, well last week if Jason is fully honest with himself, is catching up to him. 

 Even now, shaken out of his daze by whatever has hit him, Jason's mind is slow to process what is happening. 

How long has he been sitting here? Was he asleep? Did he even read anything before his mind went to a place far far away from where it should be this afternoon? 

Jason looks around. 

On the table, between his own unreadable notes and two open books, sits a small paper airplane. Jason doesn't have to look up to know who the culprit is - the airplane is made of vibrant blue paper and there is only one person at this school who’d even carry something like this in his everyday pack.

“Did I wake you?” The whisper, dramatic and teasing in tone, comes as if on cue from Jason's right. 

Jason aims for a glare when he looks up, but instead ends up meeting Percy's gaze with a weak smile. Unfair paper plane attack or not, Jason evidently had needed the wake-up call. It is probably for the best if Percy's here to distract him, if only for a few minutes.

“What are you doin’ here?” Jason mumbles as Percy pulls out the chair next to him and  turns it around to sit, arms crossed over the backrest. It's only then that Jason realises how empty the library is now. Jason could swear that just five minutes ago, it was brimming with other students and staff, so busy that he hardly found a space to occupy with his own study notes. 

“You didn't answer my texts.” Percy says casually and Jason thinks he imagines there's some concern in Percy’s tone too. “And then Thalia said you hadn't even come home yet. So I thought to myself: Where does one find a nerd two weeks before finals?” 

Jason huffs and playfully punches Percy's arm. There's no heat behind it and judging by the little laugh that escapes Percy, he knows it too.

“How late is it, exactly?” Jason asks, quieter now. 

If it’s late enough that both Percy and Thalia have been worrying, Jason must’ve wasted his entire afternoon sitting around staring at the wall, losing time he can’t afford to lose this close to exams. Sure, his marks have been good this year so far, but that has been because he’s continuously worked for it. His parents, especially his father, have certain expectations and he’s not about to disappoint them. 

Jason takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes and pushes his glasses up to punch the bridge of his nose. He can feel anxiety creeps up in Jason’s chest, like tar filling his lungs. Two weeks is nothing, especially not considering how many topics he still wants to cover again. He knew the content when they were tested on it before, sure, but most of that is months back now and frankly, Jason doesn’t trust his long-time memory all that well.

It’s getting hard to breathe, Jason knows he’s spiraling, but that doesn’t give him any more control over his thoughts.

A hand gently covers Jason's lying on the table and squeezes, stopping the thoughts, if only for a moment. It feels like Jason's heart stutters for a few beats, before resuming its rhythm faster than before. Part of Jason wonders what this means, if it’s only meant to be a calming gesture, but the larger part of him is too scared to question it. None of his other friends are this comfortable being close...

Jason opens his eyes and finds Percy looking at him quizzically. When Percy speaks, his voice betrays nothing. 

“Half past six.” 

Jason groans and drops his head to the table. Of course, he wasted the entire day. He’ll have to stay up again tonight if he wants to make up for it, which means he’ll be tired tomorrow and…

“Which is exactly why I'm here. You need a break, my dude.” Percy sounds half joking, but this time Jason realises it's only to hide the concern. “You need to get out of here. Let's get some food, my treat?” 

When Jason raises his head and looks at him, Percy is watching closely, brow furrowed. 

Food sounds tempting. Jason isn’t sure when he last ate, anyway, not having had time for breakfast in the morning. If it’s already six-thirty, he was supposed to be home for dinner half an hour ago, so all that’s awaiting him there are cold leftovers. Plus, while his mother will hardly have noticed, Jason knows his father won’t be pleased about him missing family dinner, and he doesn’t think he can handle that lecture right now. 

Jason doesn't know how to answer, mainly because Percy's right: This isn’t getting him anywhere right now and he clearly hasn’t done himself any favours by not taking even a single break and studying late most nights. Even so, spending time with Percy now means losing time Jason needs to study and he already knows he’s going to beat himself up for it next week.

“It’s one evening, Jason.” Percy says gently. “I promise you’ll be fine. You’re a smart cookie.”

Jason manages a little smile and turns his hand over under Percy’s palm so his own is pressed to Percy’s. The other boy doesn’t hesitate, he shifts his hand to lace their fingers together and this - this certainly isn’t something that friends do, generally. 

“You gotta take care of yourself, too.” Percy says now, looking at their joined hands rather than meeting Jason’s gaze. His cheeks look a little pink, but Jason is sure he must be imagining that. “And if you can’t, I’m still here to help with that, yeah?”

Jason’s chest feels tight, although this is entirely different than the heavy anxiety that took him over before. It’s not like someone’s tied a too tight ribbon around his ribcage, but rather feels like his heart has grown too big for its case.

It's very quiet for a moment, then Jason sighs. Jason doesn’t really want to face his parents yet, and what is one night, really?

“Fine.” He says, defeated. Percy squeezes his hand. “I’m starving anyway.”

 Percy smiles so brightly that it makes something inside Jason ache, and yet he finds himself smiling back.

Fifteen minutes later, they're walking down the halls of the school toward the car park. Percy is carrying the books Jason has checked out of the library, and even though Jason insisted earlier that he was fine carrying them by himself, he's glad now for the weight lifted from him. At first, every step away from the library had filled Jason with guilt, thoughts of how much time he’s wasting that he won’t get back when he realises in a week how much he’s still got left to study, but with Percy here, with his persistent chatter and teasing, it’s easier to push them aside for now.

He called Thalia, told her he’d be back later, that he needed a little break. He hadn’t even gotten to asked her about it when she promised to cover for him, so their father wouldn’t make a big fuzz about the whole thing. 

“I can practically hear you thinking.” Percy says and nudges his shoulder against Jason's lightly. Neither of them have spoken in a while, and Jason knows it’s mostly because he is overthinking again. “Let it go, just for tonight, yeah? You deserve a break.” 

Jason knows that, objectively, Percy is right. 

He knows that he’s been overworking himself, that he hasn’t been getting enough sleep and not allowing himself enough breaks. He knows that, at this rate, all his studying will be for naught anyway. That does nothing to lighten the anxiety that comes over him every time someone so much as mentions their exams though. Most of the pressure originates in his own perfectionism, Jason knows all that, but even so he can't bring himself to care even a little less. Failing is not an option for him.

When Jason doesn't answer, Percy keeps talking. 

He is speaking quieter and slower than he usually does, which Jason and his tired brain are grateful for. It’s about nothing important, not really, and maybe that is intentional too. Little by little, Jason finds himself relaxing again. Percy’s voice is soothing, there’s no edge to it, no hidden jab or teasing. Jason wonders if Percy knows how much he appreciates this right now.

The walk to the car park isn’t far. Percy has parked his crappy old car close to the entrance and Jason jogs a few steps ahead when he spots it to open the trunk for Percy to dump the books in.

“Perfect. Now, Chinese?”  Percy asks and Jason frowns.  He still has a hand on the back door of the car, halfway pulled down to close it again. It takes him entirely too long to realise Percy is asking about food. 

“Or…” Percy adds with a drawl, grin growing on his face. “We could get milkshakes.” 

Jason perks up at that. Percy knows him far too well and Jason knows exactly which fast food joint Percy is thinking of. He must know it’s Jason’s favourite too, or he wouldn’t look so smug at Jason’s reaction.

“I want a milkshake.” Jason mumbles before he can stop himself. He looks at Percy with his best attempt at puppy eyes, and given his current state he probably looks more convincing than on an average day.

Percy grins at him.  “Milkshakes it is then.”

Percy’s car starts with a sputter. 

As they drive, Jason isn't quite asleep, but he is not really awake either.

Percy doesn't seem to mind.

They don’t speak this time, Percy turns the radio to some random station on a low volume and starts humming along under his breath whenever he recognises a song. It makes Jason’s lips twitch with a smile, and when he turns his head to the side he can see Percy drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and dancing in his seat as well.

Percy catches Jason looking, looks back and winks at Jason before his eyes are back on the road. The action is so quick, Jason isn’t sure if he hasn’t imagined it. Jason feels his cheeks warm, but his gaze lingers a little longer, taking in Percy's profile with his messy hair, plush lips and long lashes. He’s pretty, Jason thinks, then bites his lip and turns his gaze away. The lack of sleep is getting to him, clearly, and he shakes his head lightly as if that would help push the thoughts away from the dangerous path they’ve threatened to go down on just now.

 They get their food from the drive-through, and Percy takes him to the lake just outside of town. The sun’s going down, setting over the water and tinting everything orange and red. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d think this was a place Percy would take his dates to. 

It’s blissfully quiet, and luckily just warm enough that they can sit down on the grass outside while they share their food. Jason practically lets himself fall to the ground and Percy isn’t far behind. 

There’s no one around but them, the air is pleasantly crips and this far out and away from school and his family, Jason feels some of the stress fade away. Maybe he can allow himself this, just tonight, to let go for a little while.

“Thank you.” Jason says quietly, picking at their food before turning his head to look at Percy. They’re sitting close, almost touching, and for a second Jason contemplates reaching out his hand to take Percy’s in his own like the other boy had done in the library earlier. Jason knows though that it would be different now, where no one could see, where it’s just them, and when Jason has no real reason to reach out.

Percy knocks their knees together playfully, smiles from behind his milkshake. Jason can’t quite pull his gaze away.

“Anytime.” Percy says, and Jason knows he means it too.

Jason bites his lip, tears his eyes away and casts them out to the lake instead. He’s not quite sure what is going on with him, with them, but this isn’t the first time he’s noticed that more often than not, he feels entirely different around Percy than he does around their other friends. It’s not in a bad way, that he knows, because this, the here and now with Percy at his side, it feels peaceful, and it feels right. 

“You’re thinking too much.” Percy says, and this time, he leans into Jason’s side. It’s unprompted and unexpected, but works as intended, it stops Jason from thinking, at least for the moment. 

Percy’s cheek rests against his shoulders, their arms and thighs pressed together. Jason feels the warmth of Percy’s skin, the soft fabric of his sweater,... 

“I know.” Jason replies, because it’s true, and there is no point in lying to Percy. “I… don’t think I can stop, though?”

It’s phrased like a question, rather than a statement, and it makes Percy laugh quietly before tilting his head back to look at Jason.

“Oughta help you with that, don’t I?” He says, and he grins, and Jason’s heart does a funny little squeeze in his chest. His gaze falls to Percy’s lips, for only a split second, and before he can work out where his thoughts are taking him this time, Percy seems to be moving closer.

Ping!

Ping. Ping.

Jason blinks and Percy stills. For a split-second, neither moves, then Percy shifts back and Jason turns to the side to check his phone. His cheeks are burning, but even so, he has no idea what just happened, or what was about to happen. It feels… important, somehow, like this was a turning point, or a chance that won’t come back, and Jason isn’t sure why or how, but he’s sure he’s ruined it regardless. 

[deadenginescribbywibs]

Reunion - Prologue

After the battle there was an impromptu information session held in a damp and chilly bunker half a mile up from the ruined compound. Night was already closing in, as were reporters and the few family and friends tied to the heroes who weren’t present at the battle. May Parker, Happy Hogan, Cassie Lang, Clint Barton's wife and kids. 

“We need to be prepared,” Captain America said, still beaten and bruised but no longer sporting dirt in his teeth, “just in case anything else happens- In case anyone comes from another time.” 

And so the remaining heroes sat in October weather in the concrete room, some falling asleep- from the cold or their injuries, who could say. He talked about what he could. The battle of Wakanda five years prior, chopping off Thanos’ head, Natasha, Tony. When he couldn’t choke back the tears, Sam took over, and when Sam couldn’t continue, it was Rhodey. Towards the end it was Rocket who carried the meeting, and in the back, Peter Parker kept his eyes firmly on the ground. Nearest to the door and too cold from the draft of impending winter wind, he listened to the drone of strained, sometimes tearful voices. When it was over, wrapped in a damp blanket, Peter wondered if this is what it meant to be an Avenger. 

---

Peter always imagined the Avengers having a lot of energy, at least that was his impression from Germany. What he saw now wasn’t a group of unlikely heroes rising to meet challenges head on. They were just ghosts, like him, and he felt he could fade away at any moment. 

His phone rang, probably Ned or May. He had nothing to say, so he didn’t pick up. 

--

The boy sat in the hall all alone. At least it was warm, a far cry better from the two freezing nights sleeping on cots outside the upstate Avengers facility. Peter rolled his shoulders in their joints and stretched his neck. His head was still pounding, the last reminder of the physical toll of Thanos. Even safe inside, Peter’s mind was still on the battlefield, on Titan, and Tony’s face when he started to dust away, the desperate grip trying to keep him alive.

Peter started at the sturdy hand landing on his shoulder. 

“Hey.” Steve Rogers stood at his side, blue eyes fixed on the sign on the far wall. MORGUE. “Thanks.” 

Peter shrugged his shoulders and averted his eyes. “For what?” He croaked.

“For staying with him. Tony never liked to be alone…” Tears stung at Peter’s already red rimmed eyes but he held them in, body tense. After a moment's hesitation Steve sat down in the other dingy little mint green chair and crossed his arms. The silence stretched on until it was comfortable. 

Eventually Peter fell asleep, head resting on Captain America’s shoulder.

--

Steve was just trying to stay awake. 

“What’s up, punk?” Bucky strolled up the hall in his green sweats and grey long sleeve shirt, metal hand tucked into a pocket. 

Steve gestured at the teen asleep on the floor a few feet away. “Babysitting.” 

Bucky’s eyes trailed over the small figure huddled under the wool blanket pressed up against the wall, a hospital gown balled up under his head. “Jesus, we can’t get the kid a bed?”

Steve shook his head. “He wouldn’t leave if he could.” He nodded to the ‘Morgue’ sign. 

“Starks?”

“Sort of.” 

--

By the third day they were able to disperse somewhat. It took time to get communication and transportation back online through SHIELD, and to get the unhoused heroes into some kind of temporary lodging while waiting for spaceships and quinjets to be repaired. A side effect of many of the heroes being stranded on Earth and more specifically in New York, however, was that they ended up at the lakehouse of one recently widowed Pepper Potts. For having just watched her husband die and the near destruction of the universe, she was managing as well as could be expected. 

Peter was sharing a spare room with Thor and Rocket and Peter Quill, and although he hadn’t been alone in a week- or a week and five years, depending how you looked at it, the sounds of breathing in the dark room were a comfort compared to the clinical silence of the medical wing hall. 

At 4:40am his stomach rumbled. Peter groaned. “No.” He turned over under his covers, but the hunger wouldn’t let up. After days without food running on a super metabolism, his will finally broke at 5:13am and Peter slunk out of the bedroom tiptoeing over beings big and small alike. 

The kitchen was dimly lit. Outside, a small lake glimmered under a moon hanging low like ripe fruit, illuminating the trinkets and cups and pictures in the modest but modern kitchen, not the place he pictured Tony retiring into but nice nonetheless. It was homey. 

He didn’t have an appetite per se, or at least the nausea was still battling against his will to eat, but Peter eventually settled on a box of crackers in a cupboard. He plunged a hand into the crinkling plastic liner and stuffed a handful of saltines into his mouth greedily, and suddenly parched, Peter reached for a cup for water. Next to the haphazardly placed drinking glasses were a row of pictures, the first, Howard Stark he recognized from history books, and the next he wasn’t sure, but the last in the line made Peter’s heart skip a beat. Tony and Peter posed for a photo for his Stark Internship, peace signs poised and smiling giddily. He’d thought it was the best day of his life. He must have been standing staring at the picture for a long time, because by the time Peter broke out of his melancholy, the stars had faded out of sight in the early morning sky. 

There was a faint shuffling to his side. Peter turned to see Pepper Potts in her bathrobe, not a trace of makeup on her face, a tissue in her hand. She’d been crying all right. 

“Oh.” She said faintly seeing Peter standing at the counter, the photo lying in front of him. “I didn’t see you Peter. Sorry, I just woke up feeling-’ Pepper gestured at the room in general as if to say ‘I just watched my husband die horrifically and now our retirement home is filled with sad heroes and I don’t know what to do.” But Peter didn’t say anything. He presented her with the box of crackers. “Still not talking much, hey?” She sniffled and ran a hand through Peter’s hair before reaching into the box of crackers. “Me too.”

Pepper bustled around the room preparing coffee. When she placed a mug next to him she noticed the picture and picked it up silently. She traced her fingers over the frame. “You know, he did it for you, Pete. He loved you.” Peter could have sprinted away at lightning speed, a rush of guilt balling up in his chest and stomach telling him to escape, but he forced himself to stand very still. Pepper kissed the top of his head and turned back to her coffee, smiling still. “He can rest now.” 

--

So there was some crying in the shower. One might call it hysterical, but Peter thought he did okay considering. If he’d gotten in before taking off his pyjamas, well. No one was around to see.

--

“Move over.” A voice grumbled over him. Peter was back in bed again that morning of the third day, and judging by the light slanting through the windows, it was probably still early. Thor stood over him looking quite gruff. “I can’t sleep on the floor anymore.” He said it politely enough, so Peter scooted over until he was laying practically at the edge of the double bed. Thor collapsed onto the other side and it hardly took a moment for him to fall fast asleep. 

Not wanting to consider why they had given him the bed in the first place- “He slept on the floor outside the morgue. If Tony could have seen-” Peter rolled over to check his phone. 39 Text Messages, 9 Voicemails. Peter groaned, he scrolled through the latest messages from May. 

May (6:43am)

Call me when you can. 

May (6:48am)

And text me that you’re okay. 

May (6:49am)

I larb you.

The familiar guilt returned and with it, the nausea. Peter thought he might throw up if he had to talk on the phone. He wanted to see May more than anything, more than seeing Tony again, more than eating a hot poptart right out of the toaster, but he couldn’t. It would break her heart, and with the sad eyes he was already getting from the Avengers collectively, Peter couldn’t do that to anyone else. He hastily replied. Larb u 2.

When Thor rolled over a moment later Peter found himself trapped under a huge outstretched arm. Being too tired to lift it- Thor must weigh 800 pounds, it was so heavy- he resigned himself to being crushed. With just bird calls and Thor’s faint snoring and Rocket and Quills quiet breathing to be heard in the room, Peter fell back asleep. 

--

That afternoon the Avengers seemed to be doing better. Rocket banged around in his spaceship now housed in the backyard with Nebula’s help. Quill was checking out Bucky’s motorcycle, though the assassin still seemed very uncomfortable at the lake house in general. Steve Rogers came and went on his bike. Peter thought he was taking comfort in doing damage control, if only to spare Pepper from doing it. She was taking a nap on the couch. 

The house was mostly quiet and so Peter was taking a moment of refuge to sit on the back porch with a cup of tea and his wool blanket. He didn’t know where it had come from, honestly, and it was outright filthy and dingy from getting dragged around the battlefield and the SHIELD compound for days. He was just drifting into space when the screen door swung open and a young brown haired teen stepped out. Peter recognized him as Harley Bennet, though they’d only met a couple times before the Snap and a couple times over video since the battle. 

“Peter.” He said, and Peter stood up shakily in his blanket. Harley extended a hand but then shook himself. “What am I doing-” and he pulled the younger boy in for a hug. When they pulled back Peter gave him a weak smile. “How’s it going here?” 

The young Avenger just shrugged his shoulders. A moment later a bounding blur of dark brown hair and blue pyjamas burst through the door. “Harley!” 

“Morguna! In the flesh!” He called, sweeping her into a spinning hug. “What’s up, lil sis?”

“I’m sad.” She said suddenly pouting. Peter grimaced. To his surprise Harley knelt down by her side. “Me too. But you know what Tony said about being sad?”

“What?” She asked innocently.

“It’s nothing blowing stuff up can’t fix.” He whispered. 

And so that’s how Peter, Morgan and Harley found themselves in the barn that afternoon, a frightening weapon tucked under Harley’s arms. The former two were still in their pyjamas, and all three wore safety goggles although Morgan’s were on askew. Peter reached over to adjust them and gave her a pat on the head, she smiled at him. 

“Nobody tell Pepper about this.” Harley said with wide eyes. 

“Don’t chicken out.” Morgan whined and received a rakish grin in return. 

“I won’t. I’m not. Listen. Tony talked about-” He made a funny gesture, “alien invasions sometimes when I was a kid, and it got me thinking, what would I do if they came? So I made this gun.”

Peter eyed the glowing gun suspiciously. The thought that this was a Very Bad Idea was starting to sprout in his mind. “I mean, it’s a potato gun, okay? It’s not like Tony was going to give me real ammo.”

“Com’n!” Morgan cried, and Harley grinned again. 

“Alright okay.” Harley shouldered the gun over the very poor barricade they made from a tipped over wheelbarrow and a barrel, pointing it at a bale of hay for Gerald’s lunch. “Check it out!” He said, and yanked on a lever which started a worrying, high pitched buzz. It cranked a couple times and sputtered. “Oh, come on.” Harley said, giving it a bat with his palm. Suddenly the gun fired up, and Peter just reached out to grab it just in time to point it at the target when it erupted, launching several potatoes at criminal velocities. “Ah!” They cried. The potatoes hurled through the bales, strands of hay cascaded everywhere, the potatoes made a hulking splutter sound on the other side as they crashed through the wood plank walls, splintered wood shot out the other side and someone cried “Oh my fucking god. Are you serious?!”

It was Rocket. Harley, Peter and Morguna looked at each other, at the erupted hay bale, at the light streaming through the hole in the wall, and at the potato gun. “Oh my god!” Peter whispered loudly. 

“Whoever that was, you are about to be dead.” Rocket said from outside. Peter grabbed the gun, hurled it under the nearest vehicle, grabbed Morgan and Harley and launched all three of them into the hay loft. 

Rockets shadow appeared before he did and he looked menacingly at the overturned wheelbarrow and scattered hay as he came around the corner. “Seriously? Whoever that was, come out now so I can shoot you in the face.” 

Morgan giggled, Harley and Peter covered her mouth, perfectly still in the scratchy hay. “Shh!” There was a strand poking Morgan right in the face, and she wrinkled her nose again as it itched. Nebula came around the corner looking just as unimpressed. She glanced over the scene and then at Rocket. “Children’s games.” She said.

“I got hit in the ass with a fucking potato.” The racoon complained. 

“Get over it.” She said walking away. Rocket glared into the dingh of the room. Morgan’s nose crinkled again and she shivered, and just as Rocket turned away, she let out a sneeze. He pinned the three of them with a look, probably marking a small oddly shaped mound of hay in the loft. The three children stayed very still and quiet for a second. Morgan looked at both Peter and Harley with huge brown orbs. After a moment Rocket rolled his eyes and looked off in the distance, probably at Nebula. “Well I can’t go and shoot Tony Stark’s kids in the face, can I? Where’s Quill?”

As soon as he rounded the corner, Morgan started giggling and squirming to get out of the hay causing it to slide out from under their feet until they all tumbled down onto the ground, Harley and Morgan giggling and tittering the whole time. They looked at Peter and started laughing anew. He looked down, his shirt was full of hay like an overstuffed scarecrow. 

“How far along are you?” Harley snickered. Peter huffed a laugh too. 

--

Tony’s ashes arrived that night. Pepper kept it quiet. She tucked the red silk bag into an old arc reactor Peter had never seen and placed it carefully into her dresser drawer. Peter watched from her bed. It was one of the only quiet spaces in the house around dinner. A bit of sensory overload and fatigue made him silent and sullen that afternoon and as soon as she caught wind she’d corralled Peter into bed with a cup of tea. They kept silent company, and when she was done, she sat in the occasional chair in the corner brushing out her hair while they watched TV. Eventually she started in on her cuticles, then disappeared to retrieve laundry from the dryer. 

“May is coming up for the funeral.” She told Peter handing him a freshly laundered hoodie. He pulled it on, it said MIT. Peter felt like he should tear it off immediately. “She’ll be here in the morning. Your apartment is still occupied,” she frowned, “I think you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

“Thanks.” Was all he said, but he accepted a bundle of socks passed to him.

“Are you sleeping okay? I heard Thor is sharing the bed with you.”

“Yeah.” Peter huffed a little. “It’s not so bad. He’s dead asleep most of the time.”

Pepper smiled knowingly and cocked her brows. “At least it’s not Bruce.”

--

Bruce was still in the hospital and for that Peter was grateful. The sight of Bruce’s burnt arm was enough to send the teen into a panic attack. 

Overall, Peter wasn’t so hard done by. After all, there were heroes strewn literally all over the property. Drax, Mantis and Groot slept in closets and hallways, Carol Danvers and Nebula camped in the backyard. Bucky Barnes and Captain America were at an abandoned motel not far up the road, and Sam and Rhodey took over the dining room at night. Harley slept on the couch, and Morgan in her own room was undisturbed. Rocket slept in a bed of clothes in a dresser drawer in Peter’s room, and Quill slept on a burnt mattress on the floor that had been pulled out of the Milano. Valkyrie had returned temporarily to Asgard with the help of Thor wielding Stormbreaker, but Thor stayed behind for, well… Peter had to imagine it was emotional comfort. He was the only other Avenger as pathetic as Peter, the boy thought, watching the huge hulking form curled up on the couch, cups of yoghurt strewn about the coffee table. Thor had been catapulting between emotions since the battle, but mostly he was just tired. 

“Can I ask you something?” Peter said about an hour after sitting in the otherwise quiet living room. Thor shrugged, now in one of his morose moods. “How old are you?” 

“Fifteen hundred, give or take. The years aren’t as important when you are as old as Asgardians are.” 

Peter sat in thought for a while. The house was starting to show signs of life, laughter could be heard outside and in the halls sometimes, he even thought Pepper sounded alright talking to Happy on the phone that day. “Do you do birthdays?”

Thor shrugged. “Sometimes. Every fifty years or so. We had one at my inauguration, although looking back, maybe it wasn’t the right moment to celebrate, as it set my brother on a path of destruction that eventually led to Thanos killing him.” He supined. His nose was stuffed up. 

“Oh.” The boy sat a moment longer sensing the sadness wash over the man, but even if he wanted to join Thor’s wallowing, Peter was starting to feel the pricklings of relief swell up under the surface tension of his grief. “We should have a birthday. Tonight. To celebrate.”

“...To celebrate?”

“To celebrate.” It didn’t sound all that convincing to Peter either, but anything was better than this. 

--

They had a birthday. It was cramped. Like, really cramped. The seventeen people in the vicinity of the house were stuffed into the little kitchen, Morgan sat on Thor’s lap. The god of thunder was dressed in a little pink frilly apron. Harley was sticking a ridiculous number of sparklers on the cake in the other room with the help of Rocket and Drax. Bucky and Nebula stood stolidly in the back hall, Carol Danvers stood in the back door. Pepper sat next to Thor, and Quill and Mantis were eating icing off of a spoon. Sam stood in a narrow broom cupboard holding his beer to his chest. Steve Rogers stood behind Thor, a beacon of comfort and resolution in the sea of calamity. Groot sat on another stool playing his video game, and Rhodey sat by Peter on the other side, very much on board with a drink in his hand. “This is great.” He said. “Nice one Parker.”

“Thanks.” Peter croaked. He felt more awake than he had in days. Morgan braided Thor’s beard while they waited, and when the cake came out, they sang Happy Birthday haphazardly while Harley carried the cake. The sparklers burst into a ball of flames as soon as the cake was set on the table. Thor scrunched up his face, “Fiend!” and shot the cake with lightning, strawberry icing exploded in every direction. Pepper laughed first, then Rocket and Drax laughed, Mantis and Quill laughed and Harley, Morgan and Thor laughed, and soon everyone was laughing, and Peter was laughing too. 

--

“That was a good call.” Sam said idling up to him that evening. Peter found solace on the back porch. The lake was beautiful to look at in the night. “Morale was running a little low.”

Peter’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “Thor’s morale was low. I dunno about everyone else.”

“Everyone else too. You just get better at hiding it when you get older.” He tucked his chin. “I know we just celebrated his like thousandth birthday-”

“Fifteen hundred and something-” Peter corrected.

“-But Thor’s not that much older than you are. Maybe a bit. He’s younger than Steve.” Sam said definitively. 

“Well everyone’s younger than Steve.” 

“Good point.”

--

This time when Peter went to the snack cupboard in the middle of the night, Nebula and Carol were in the kitchen sitting in relative silence, and Rhodey was reading in the other room.

“Hey.” He waved. Nebula and Carol nodded. 

“Is Thor snoring again? I can go punch him.” Carol joked. Peter smiled bashfully.

“It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

“It’s Quill that’s worse.” Nebula supplied. That was probably the first time she’d ever spoken to him, and he nodded guiltily. 

“He’s been mumbling in his sleep.”

“About what?”

“Kevin Bacon. He, uh…”

“He was in the movie footloose.” Carol said. Nebula rolled her eyes. 

“Of course.” 

“Well, I guess if Peter’s up that means it’s bed time.” Carol stood up groggily. “Nice sitting in silence with you.” She chirped to her companion. Nebula nodded. Carol ruffled his hair on the way out.

What remained of the birthday cake sat on the counter so Peter grabbed a fork and took a huge mound. Nebula was looking past him, and when he turned around to follow her line of sight, he saw the picture again, the one of him and Tony. 

“You were Stark’s ward.” She stated. Peter didn’t immediately reply, eyes shifting sideways out the far window. “He was the first person to ever be kind to me without expecting anything in return.” She caressed the exposed panel of electronics running from her forehead to her crown. “After the battle on Titan he fixed my head using metal from his own armor. And... he taught me how to play paper football.” 

“That’s just how he was.” He mumbled around a mouthful of cake. In the other room, Rhodey was smiling into his book, eavesdropping. He had a new prosthetic exo-support pulled from a backup supply in Tony’s garage. 

Still looking at the photo, she continued. “Thanos was my father, and people will shudder at the memory of him for eternity. But he's not the one people will ask about.” 

Ears hot, Peter swallowed around the lump ever present in his throat, but there were no tears now. If anything, he was relieved. He shoved another forkful of cake into his mouth and stood up, striding away from the table. From the other room Rhodey piped up. “Oh my god. Was that the most words you’ve ever said?” Nebula raised her middle finger. “It gets worse. Who taught you that?” 

She smirked. “You can blame Barton.” Rhodey rolled his eyes. 

“Of course. That guy is a douchebag.” It sounded bad, but Rhodey said it warmly and smiled as he returned to his book. Peter swung back around with the platter of cake and set it down in front of Nebula. 

“You’re pretty cool.” Then he asked hopefully. “Can I fix your headpiece too?”

--

They used Tony’s battle armor, the one he’d been wearing when he died. It was piled up in the garage, or at least what could be salvaged. Burnt, cracked, bent and shredded, the sight of it served a visceral reminder of the battle. Until now, no one dared go near it. 

It took time for Peter to build up the nerve to touch it, and before he could, Nebula pried a piece off the left arm. She might as well have pried his heart from his chest, but Peter quelled his nerve and set to work, pilfering tools from Tony’s lab like Pepper said he could. By the time the other Avengers rolled around, Nebula had a new head plate,  striking gold cut from the last Iron Man ever made. Over the brow it was inscribed, “MK2.”

--

May arrived bright and early that morning and the first thing she did was hug Peter, then pulled back, then hugged him again. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my-”

“May. It’s alright. I’m fine, see?” Peter said, holding out his arms. 

May Parker was not one to be fooled, however, and scooped the boy into her arms again. “My baby boy. All grown up and saving the universe.” She swept a tear from her eye and then turned to Pepper, sweeping her up as well. Pepper might have needed it, she sighed deeply. 

“Are you holding up okay?”

“As well as expected.” Pepper sniffled pulling away. “It’ll be nice to have another normal person around the house. There are too many manful tears happening here.” 

May was introduced to Harley and Morgan, then to the rest of the Avengers. The lot of them and others returning from afar were changing into funeral clothes. Soon the funeral would be over, and that would be it. The Avengers would dissemble, and Peter would be on his own. 

--

During the funeral he held back his tears. It was hardly his first time burying a loved one. He stayed quiet and still, and when it was over, he sat on the dock with Morgan while the adults reminisced about Tony, and about Natasha. “I miss daddy.” Came her little voice from his side. 

Peter nodded mutely, swallowing his sadness. The wind over the lake blew their hair back, and Peter rubbed little circles on her back as she sniffled. “Don’t you miss him?” She asked. He nodded again around the lump in his throat. When he couldn’t hold back his tears he wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his suit. “Your dad was my hero.” Morgan rested her head against him. 

“He was your dad too.” 

He couldn’t respond to that, he didn’t know how to explain the complexities of their brief relationship to his mentor’s actual blood relative, so he just stayed silent. Maybe in a few years, Morgan would understand that she was Tony’s only child, not him. But then Peter thought back to Pepper Potts in the kitchen at 5am making them a pot of coffee in the dark, and Peter wasn’t so sure. 

“He did it for you, Pete. He loved you.” 

--

Shuri took Peter for ice-cream at the diner nearby. They walked in their funeral clothes despite the rain and sleet that started that afternoon, and the ice-cream compounded the cold, but it was fun. “And so I asked them-” She recounted, “why couldn't they unlock my phone. They said it’s company policy. So I took it apart right then and there and manually unbricked it. And guess what?” She laughed, she had ice-cream on her lip and Peter was suddenly struck by how attractive she was.

“What?” He gushed back. 

“They banned me from the store.” 

Peter laughed while she lamented about getting tossed from a Tek-i-Mobile. By the time they arrived back at the house, covered in freezing mud and rosy cheeked from the wind, he was feeling almost normal. 

--

That night- the last they would spend all together, there was a Mario Kart tournament. Even Pepper clad in pin striped pyjamas joined in the cajoling, Morgan sat in her lap. Shuri, Peter and Harley had the obvious edge, but Rocket was a close competitor. Bets went around. Money changed hands. Then Quill and Thor got into an argument and it ended in a milk gauntlet challenge, at which point Pepper banished them from the house and they threw up milk in the backyard. 

“I’m sorry about this.” Peter told Pepper seriously. Somehow, this was his fault. She heaved a little sigh and smiled. 

“Believe me, if you’d spent much time with them before, you’d know to expect this.” She paused for a moment and her nose wrinkled as she smiled, just like Morgan. “Tony would have loved this.” And she snapped a picture on her phone. 

At that moment, Peter knew he would give anything to have Tony back. What he didn't know was that soon, he would.

[musedblues]

Born To Love You [Part: 7]

summary: When Gwilym ropes you into a lie, the truth becomes painfully obvious. When Joe makes things harder, there’s no telling if he even has a clue

a/n: I can't really believe I've finally finished this. If only you all knew how long this story sat in my drafts before I even considered sharing it. I'm eternally gratful to those of you who’ve stuck around and shared your thoughts and shown me and this fic such sweet love. I can only hope I've done some kind off justice in bringing this wild ride to a close. As always, and especially now,  I really can't wait to hear what you lot think. So here you have it.... The End! 💖

w/c: 4k

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Even after all this time, not a moment passed that didn't dazzle you. No little gesture slipped by unnoticed, or underappreciated.

From across the room, you adored the way his eyes glowed as he laughed. How they shined and crinkled in a pattern you'd memorized long before you were brave enough to stare. How they always sparkled just so when he spun into a fit of giggles, a sound you couldn't help but turn toward.

Joe tossed his head back, letting out a hearty chuckle as James and Andy filled him in on the details of their recently disastrous road trip. For their anniversary, they planned to cruise around the countryside for a week. But a flat tire, and a run in with a couple wild animals sent them running back to London before the week was up.

You couldn't have gotten luckier, when you found the perfect house in the safest part of the city with the best schools; just a half an hour drive from where James and Andy had moved a couple years before- after living with you for longer than you could recall in a flash.

They helped you move boxes from your old flat, and stood with you in the empty place, taking a  silent beat to say goodbye to all the life you each lived there. You'd fondly remember the parties, and even the tears. The day you found out about Olive. The room you brought her home to. The place you loved. But it was never the same after your dear flatmates found a home of their own.

On their generous drives to help you unload boxes in an all new place, that's when your pair of best pals really got to know Joe. They (like everyone else) laughed at most of his jokes, and beamed when he laughed at theirs in turn. When they weren't helping you unload boxes, they were off cackling with Joe, too awestruck by shared conversation to help you move your sofa into a reasonable spot.

And when you and your man with fossil colored eyes were settled, James and Andy still managed to stop by for plenty of surprise breakfast visits. And every time they stopped over, they each took turns insisting that their location was the sole purpose you'd been so keen to move to this part of the city. And while they might have been half right, you'd never let on that it was one of the many reasons.

London just made sense. It was closer to Gwil's new place. He'd been traveling to and from the city for work so often that he'd felt like his usual train car was more of his home than the one down the road from your old flat. So he found a cozy space just outside of London and loads more work within the first few days of settling in. When he wasn't busy on set, or away for an audition, he was just a few streets away- ready and willing to come and take Olive on days he hadn't planned to, at her beck and call.

Some days you missed when all Olive knew how to say were a handful of words. But you knew you'd soon miss all of the girls never ending questions, too. "Why can't cats talk?" "Where do all the badgers sleep at night?" "Why do I have to wear socks with my shoes?" She had a knack for asking the silliest questions when you least expected it. She'd come out of no place while you were busy making dinner. While she should have been practicing tying her shoes. In the dead of the night, at the edge of your bed. She'd stop everything just to ask a question or two, and some days you reckoned she fancied getting you to giggle more than hearing an actual answer. You always chuckled before you could muster the brain power to give any semblances of an educated response. And when you were too busy, getting ready for work, or hurrying about the market before it closed, Olive would ask Joe.

You loved the way Olive made him laugh then, too. Just like you. But before ever giving a reasonable answer, he'd always ask her the same questions back. "Well, what do you think is at the bottom of the ocean?"

And as she decidedly rambled about imaginary creatures and cities, Joe would listen. He'd even remember the names of some of those made up monsters long after Olive had moved through several more memorable questions. You couldn't believe how patient he was. It was astounding to you, the way Joe dropped everything to bend at Olive's will, as she wrapped her fist around his wrist and yanked him across a bookstore toward the children's section.

You'd find them after getting what you strolled in for, and join in for story time, before checking your watch and ruining all the fun. Joe was usually more disappointed for those moments to end than the kid who was hooked on his every fictional word.

You loved Joe's heart. How you could tell when it was in the right place. When he offered help and advice and suggestions to anyone who trusted him enough to pour their heart out to his open ear. How he at least pretended to be excited when your friends begged the two of you to join in a night out at the end of a particularly busy week. Neither of you were keen on letting them down, because you'd come to value those rare nights out with the people you loved. You'd made a sacred, personal decreed to never let your friends forget how vastly you'd cared for them. So you were right behind Joe each time another offer came to sit among your pals and listen to their lame jokes and drunken singing.

But it was no secret that nights in were your favorite. You might have marveled even more so, over Joe's heart, then. You relished how it hammered under your palm, as his pulse raced from your touch. You loved the sound of its steady beat under your ear, as you rested against his chest till morning. He'd run a lazy set of fingers through your hair while the quiet of the new day threatened to lull you to sleep again. Then he'd say something so ridiculously hilarious that you'd laugh your drowse away.

You never took for granted Joe's countless attempts to get you to smile, despite yourself. In the middle of movies, at the end of long hard days- and during times you wondered how much stress you could endure before your head exploded and your dramatic expiration ruined the upcoming holidays.

When you and Gwilym argued over Olive's imminent school year and how many summer holiday trips were one too many, Joe waited for the bickering to end. Then he'd say something that made stupidly perfect sense. He'd make you and Gwil  apologize to each other, and you did with all the grace of two grumpy toddlers. Then you'd all go to some posh brunch place and try and enjoy the last of the perfect summer weather that crept into the first few weeks of London's picturesque autumn.

Olive would stop eating to ask one of her latest queries to the sweet elder waitress who dropped off another round of drinks. You'd all take turns giving the kid answers, and steal bits of the chips she'd left over. When your meal was finished, Joe and Gwil went off to see a game together, and you were left with your darling girl for a whole glorious day.

Times with just the two of you weren't very rare. When you could, you made sure to take afternoons off work and save the laundry for later to spend a day with Olive. Of course, some were just as difficult as ever. But between odd growing pains and missed nap times, were icecream dates and trips to the aquarium. The latter, a place she always begged to spend hours strolling through. So when you could, you'd be quick to take her.

And when Gwilym took Olive along to visit his mother's family in Wales, you'd gotten used to the tiny wave of melancholy that came when your girl wasn't attached to your hip. But unlike all the other times before, you weren't nearly as lonely.

When it was just you and Joe, and a handful of days to waste however you pleased, you had to stop yourself from wondering how you'd gotten so lucky. You knew if you thought too long, you'd start to feel bad about how everything came to be. But you learned to let go of the regret attached to the mess you'd made during your first month long visit to London. You realized that it was silly to wish for a redo. Because everything worked out anyway, didn't it?

Joe was always quick to remind you how lucky he felt, too. Sometimes he'd say so, when he worried about the future and stopped rambling long enough to let you promise everything was going to be okay. Or first thing in the morning, when you got to wake up with the sun instead of a blaring alarm. But most of the time, he showed it. He'd leave silly little notes for you to find while you brushed your teeth. He'd bring your knuckles to his lips while waiting in the queue at the market. He'd take photos of you walking through the park and pointing to a pair of birds flying close overhead. He'd upload them in the middle of the night- when he said he was staying up to finish writing a script, or memorizing lines of another.

You'd get the notification and smile to yourself while you pretended to be asleep in the other room. When it was just you and Joe, it felt too good to be true. But that feeling didn't go away when your time alone was over.

Ben asked you to fetch him from the airport after he'd spent months away filming in another country. You and Joe fought over who got to hug him first, but when the blonde materialized from baggage claim, his arms were too stuffed with packages to dream of embracing either of you. He'd collected far too many presents during his time away- all of them for Olive. You scolded him, reminding Ben of the article you read about how kids with fewer toys grew to become more creative and resourceful. Ben argued that since you weren't going to spoil her that he was just going to have to. He'd leave the dozen gifts in the back of your car, and drag you and Joe out to a pub until you could hardly keep your eyes open.

Life felt too good to be true on nights like then, too.

And the feeling remained when Lucy and Rami got back from acting their hearts out in America. They stole Olive away as you and Joe ambled behind them on trips through high end shopping centres. When that day turned to night, your remarkable friends settled onto your sofa to tell all the stories they'd been saving up. Then they crashed there, when the night turned to morning and the sun threatened to rise before you'd stopped giggling long enough to sleep.

Those times were cherished. When your friends came around. When you went out of your way to go and see them, because it had been too long. You knew you were lucky to have mantiatiend a handful of connections with some of the most adoring and admirable friends that must have ever existed.

And on some especially rare, but guaranteed occasions, everyone got together.

The thought of joining forces was usually a never ending sentiment exchanged through the group chat that kept you all in touch. But it was Lucy's eventual doing, of course. She went about renting that darling little cottage in the countryside- the one she'd found last minute for Joe's birthday.

She got there before everyone, before Rami, even. The paint was a little more chipped, and the trees seemed even more mighty, guarding the home nestled miles away from the nearest town.

"You're just in time!" Lucy squealed as you lugged a bag into the house that hadn't changed a bit since your stay a few years back. You snorted a laugh as you stepped closer to the den full of mismatched furniture.

"For what?" You wondered. No one else had shown up yet, the night was very young.

"To keep me company, duh." Lucy shrugged as she moved to wave out of the open front door.

"Does bigfoot live out here?" Olive asked, as she skipped inside, her beloved worn down stuffed penguin tight in her clutch.

"He might." You chuckled. Because hell, you'd come to believe anything was possible at this point. And you didn't realize Olive even knew about the mythical creature, but you had a hunch about who'd been the one to tell her.

"I can't believe this place is still standing. It's charming as ever." Joe marveled, shutting the door behind him. Lucy beamed, turning to glance around.

"Yes! Remember last time?" Lucy asked, like she really wanted to know. Like it wasn't something the lot of you thought back to often. And right when you considered responding, she spoke up again. "Well forget it because this time is going to be the best ever."

The bubbly blonde recruited Joe to help her finish unloading all the treats she'd brought along to store away for the entire weekend you planned to stay. Olive trotted ahead of you toward one of the dozen tiny rooms you remembered struggling to sleep in last time, finding no reason to bite back your smile now.

It was too cold to think of going out back to enjoy the chest full of sporting goods, or the tattered net that somehow still remained. Olive was already complaining about the chill, so you abandoned your bags and tossed her a sweater, deciding to start a fire in the stone place while you awaited everyone else.

Ben was the next to arrive, bringing his usual ton of liquor and a brand new set of books and crayons to keep Olive entertained. You flashed a middle finger his way when the kid wasn't looking, and called dibs on his most expensive bottle of booze he brought to decorate the counter tops much like the time before.

By then the kitchen had been stocked, and Lucy was on a new mission to make some Pinterest worthy snacks. You scolded Ben for encouraging Olive to dance around the countertops and banished them to find some new trouble to cause. Lucy kicked you and Joe out soon after, following close behind with her plate of savory treats.

Rami dashed in from the cold around then, chucking his bags away and rushing to join the rest of you in record time. The fire you'd maintained was starting to die, and the home was too perfectly warmed to dream of starting up another, for a while. So as the evening shifted, you and Ben offered to clean up and carry everyone's rubbish away, while Joe offered to pour everyone a drink. While you went about your duties, Olive was busy yanking on the strings of Rami's hooding, begging him to join in some imaginary game the two of them made up long ago.

"I'm really glad she's joined us this time around." Ben grinned, catching a glimpse of Olive, her curls peeking around the corner, her laughter floating from one room to another. You agreed with the sentiment as you tossed your collection of rubbish in the bin. And as he followed suit, Ben rambled about his high hopes to have a couple of children of his own one day. It was something you'd always suspected Ben was keen on, but a subject he'd only just ventured into discussing lately.

"You ever think about having anymore?" He wondered in passing.

"Sometimes." You smiled to Ben, offering an innocent shrug, before catching Joe's eye from across the kitchen. He balanced a trio of glasses of wine on his way out, shaking his head of coppery hair. He shot you a look you knew well, an eager grin below a set of fiery eyes. "Sometimes" was an understatment. But Ben didn't need to know everything.

By the time Gwil showed up, Olive was on cloud nine. She ran to attach herself to his ankle, so you took his bags while he bent to scoop her up. Then, you reckoned, that this might have been the first time everyone was together that Olive might be able to recall for years to come.

She bounced from one person to another, showing off nicely colored pictures in the books Ben had brought along. He shot you a wink from across the room before she fell asleep with a dozen sunset toned crayons in one fist. You gathered her from the floor and carried the girl to the room you'd chosen hours earlier.

And before you'd even finished tucking the kid away in bed, another set of feet creaked into the room behind you.

"Here's this. And some things she forgot last time." Gwilym extended Olives favorite stuffed penguin in one hand as he rested a bag decorated in cartoon drawn bats on the chair in the corner. Your tradition of trading the girls things might never end. You'd be rattled if it did, actually.

"Oh, thank God. I mean, I know I asked you not to forget that, but I'd forgotten." You chuckled in a whisper, tucking Olive's ratty old penguin beneath the covers at her side.

Gwilym chuckled too, saying something about how he'd nearly left her bag behind on his rush to get here before nightfall. And then a silence fell, as you both waited a beat to make sure Olive was out cold. It was second nature, something the pair of you became accustomed to after the first year, when leaving Olive alone for a minute was usually followed with unhappy, ear piercing cries. And as you thought back to then, you seemed to think back to everything all at once.

"Lucy said that last time we stayed here won't be worth remembering, because this time will surely be the best." You said with a lithe grin. "And I think she may be right, but last time wasn't so bad."

"It wasn't?" Gwilym turned to you with a quizzically raised brow, a hint of a smile on his lips. You knew he was asking if you were sure. If you remembered correctly. How he'd said things he didn't mean, last time you were here. How you hardly slept that night. How it haunted you for days afterward. How he knew that.

"It wasn't." You kept your smile, sure. It could have been much worse. You could have been alone through all of that shit. But you weren't. You had Gwilym. And you hoped he knew what you meant, now. How grateful you were for him, and the kindness he'd show you, how it still remained. You couldn't go on worrying that his company might fizzle away in the years to come. Because it couldn't. You wouldn't let that possibility come to pass. So you bumped your shoulder against his arm and nudged Gwilym to leave the room.

"Let's go have some fun." You whispered. Gwilym let his smile linger as he studdied you for a beat. Then he nodded, and led the way back to everyone else.

The coloring books had moved to rest on the mantel, and bottles of alcohol had moved to the coffee table for easier access. And then you all took turns cleaning up for the evening and flipping through stations on the telly till some classic film flashed across the muted screen. And it was lots better than last time, with familiar drinks mixed in fancy new ways, and favorite laughs decorating the old unchanged home.

By the time Ben had drunken himself into a fit of random laughter, and Gwilym was nodding off between Rami and Lucy, Joe was saying something about American traditions. He demanded everyone's attention, and insisted the lot of you confess at least one thing you were thankful for. And after Lucy shouted the name of the drink in her hand and Gwilym sat up to clink his cup to hers, you all started giving actual answers. Each revolving around family, and friends, and health and happiness. But before anyone could get too choked up, Ben stood to shift gears with his favorite game of drunk history that never really went the way he wanted it too.

But it wasn't till the next morning that you realized it must have been that silly American holiday. And when you rolled over to find Joe was already awake, you announced how poorly you felt for not realizing when he made everyone say thanks. You hadn't even said good morning before you started yammering promises about how you'd remember to have a proper celebration next year.

But instead of saying good morning, or acknowledging your apologises, Joe broke into a laugh. The kind of laugh that reaches his eyes, the way you love so much. Then he told you he loved you, and you said it back; and then you sprung into another lucky day among friends.

You spent the weekend watching Gwilym teach Olive how to bake and assisting her in passing around treats she helped pour spoonfulls of ingredients in to create. Rami was most often roped into her imaginary games, and he played along with ease. You and Joe were invited to join in one morning, but neither of you could grasp the ever changing rules to Olives satisfaction, and you were swiftly kicked out of the loop while she and Rami played on.

Lucy made sure Olive was perfectly content snuggled up with Ben to watch cartoons, before she pulled you into her room with a bottle of wine for each of you to sip from. You spent a whole afternoon there with her, taking turns spilling your guts over all things you could only discuss with your dearest darling Lucy.

And when the getaway was over, everyone left in separate hurries much like before. But unlike then, you weren't so worried about where everyone might end up. You weren't worried about where you were going, either. You'd all managed to keep coming back together so far, and with an established faith that your group would keep finding excuses to do so, you didn't despair.

You remembered everything, on your drive back to London. The time you'd closed your eyes on this ride, years before. How you and Gwilym survived the nonsense you'd swept yourselves up in. Lucy's unconditional friendship. Rami's strong hugs. Ben's strong feelings.

You thought of what Joe said to you, when you met. How he said he saw a future with you, before he even knew your name. And the thought tore you away from remembering everything to look ahead. To look over, and settle your gaze on Joe. His pretty profile, and the shine of his moonstone eyes. You couldn't quite picture the places you'd end up, but you realize that you couldn't dream of a day without Joe at your side. He was always meant to be there.

While you drove, he entertained every one of Olive's questions that echoed from the back seat. You turned a grateful smile his way every now and again and savored the way he smiled back, in the way you loved so much. In a way that you didn't have to wonder how he felt, or what might come next. Unlike before, Joe made up a million of your memories. And unlike before, you knew he always would.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

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