#i’m projecting because i didn’t get floor time and instead had to deep clean and mop the kitchen today :(

[flowercrowngods]

It’s dark when Eddie comes home, but he knows Steve‘s home, working on all those damn essays and papers and whatever the horrors of academia might have in their repertoire for him today. Lights out might either be a really good sign or a really bad one. Eddies hoping for the latter as he pulls off his shoes and shucks his jacket.

He doesn’t call out to Steve, doesn’t want to wake him if he’s asleep or startle him if he’s overwhelmed, potentially making it worse. Eddie hates making it worse.

Stepping into the living room, he finds his love lying on the floor. Still, could be incredibly good or incredibly bad.

“Stevie,” he says gently, almost a whisper, and smiles when he gets a reaction rather immediately. It’s too dark to really see his eyes, but—

They catch the light just so when Steve moves his head to look at Eddie, and he can see unshed tears in them. His heart aches and he’s on the floor beside him in a heartbeat.

“Oh, love, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Steve says, smiling through the hoarseness of his voice. “Didn’t wanna turn on the lights.” He sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his face.

Eddie just shakes his head and lifts a hand to comb through Steve’s hair, ruffled and wild and absolutely adorable. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it. Lights are overrated anyway.” He leans down to kiss Steve’s forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips. “Did the essays win?”

“No,” Steve says with a sigh, m reaching for Eddie’s hand to keep him close. “I won. But at what cost.”

Eddie snorts at that, a laugh bubbling out of his chest as he quickly lies down to join Steve, their fingers still laced in a gentle but secure grip.

“At the cost of me not having to wipe the floor tomorrow, so that’s actually great,” he jokes, revelling in Steve’s chuckle.

“You never wipe the floor, Eddie.”

“Hush, love. We’re having Floor Time.”

Steve sighs and makes it sound like cuddling close to Eddie and resting his beautiful head on the Black Sabbath print is the greatest hardship life could possibly throw at. God, Eddie loves him so fucking much.

“I love you so fucking much.”

“Hush, love,” Steve retaliates with a smile and a kiss to Eddie’s jaw. “We’re having Floor Time.”

So fucking much.

[razena8]

For the drabble challenge 89 with Rex

I struggled for a good while on whether or not I wanted this to be funny or painful. Ultimately, the angst won out. Enjoy~!

Rex couldn’t breathe.

Re felt numb, feet frozen to the floor. His horror was mirrored by the younger face in front of him, eyes wide and glassy, brows crinkling the dark ink on his face, paling face shadowed by the grey cap on his head.

“I-I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to- I never meant, I didn’t want to-”

“Dogma?”

Dogma’s mouth snapped shut. His shoulders curled in as his pupils started darting around the great and lavish halls of the Senate Building. His hands twitched towards the scattered documents and the mug broken on the floor, a puddle of caf forming from where it dripped from Rex’s armour, while his knees were bent and feet pointed away, begging for escape.

Dogma’s breath shook as he dragged in a breath. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get- I’ll call a cleaning droid right away, and I’ll accept whatever punishment you think is necessary-”

“Dogma,” Rex whispered again. Dogma fell silent once more and he ducked his head, eyes blinking rapidly. “Dogma, you’re… you’re alive, how are you…”

He reached forward, fingers hesitating as if he were staring at a mirage. Dogma shied away, and Rex yanked his hand back as if he were burnt. But still he didn’t leave, so Rex didn’t either, drinking up the view of his lost soldier as if the stars would burn out.

“Dogma,” he couldn’t stop uttering that name. “Dogma how… how are you… are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Dogma’s eyes are fixed, glassy eyes staring over his shoulder. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine, sir”.

Dogma did not look fine. Dogma’s skin was far paler than it should be, causing his tattoo to jut out obviously. Dogma was shifting his weight on one side. Dogma’s greys were hanging oddly on his frame, sagging just the slightest bit in awkward places.

Anger started to simmer under his skin, warring with concern and he fought to keep both feelings off his face. He resisted the urge to curl his hands inward, instead keeping them down and open, palms tilted outward like a plea. 

“Dogma, what happened?”

Finally, Dogma’s eyes slid and locked onto Rex’s gaze. For a long moment, Rex could only see golden irises glazed over with tears and brows pinched as though in agony. It made Rex want to take that final step forward between them and gather him in his arms, to smooth that expression of pain away from his face and hide him forever. But he held position, not knowing what Dogma would do if he gave in to that desire.

He probably would have, had footsteps not been heard hurrying down the marble floors. Dogma snatched his eyes away from Rex’s and snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“Trooper,” Fox’s deep pitch replied from behind Rex. “Why are you not at your post?”

“Sir, there was,” Dogma’s eyes darted to Rex and back again. “-a situation, sir! I’m taking care of it, sir!”

“It’s not your job to worry about whether or not the floor is clean enough to eat from” Fox droned. “Leave that to the cleaner droids. Get going, you have a job to do.”

“Wait-” the word tore out of his throat, because he’d been too stunned to speak when they’d first crashed, when Rex had exited the door and found himself in collision with the younger clone. He didn’t have the right words, but he now had so many questions, so many things he had wanted to say but had missed the chance. But neither man acknowledged the plea and Dogma barreled over his gasp of desperation.

“Sir,” he nodded towards Fox, and snapped out a perfect salute, perfect as always and so very Dogma, and without so much as a glance at Rex about faced and took off down the hall.

Rex willed him to come back, to turn around at least one last time, but Dogma’s head remained facing forwards, ever the perfect soldier. Rex wanted to call out, to get him to wait, to come back, but the words were glued to his throat. Soon, far too soon, Dogma rounded the corner and was gone.

“The new arrivals are a bit jumpier than usual,” Fox hummed, and Rex reluctantly tore his eyes away from where Dogma had disappeared to fix his gaze on the older clone. “Shinies are always so eager to please, but we aren’t getting a fresh batch this time. Part of Amidala’s newest bill for ‘disadvantaged soldier’s who deserve a second chance’.” A huff sounded from the comm. Might have been amusement. Might have been scorn. “Seems she finally got the memo.”

Rex tried to keep his breath steady through the betrayal itching beneath his skin. “And when did you plan on telling me about this?” 

“I didn’t,” Fox replied, curt and frank. Rex couldn’t read anything in that visor, couldn’t see a twitch of discomfort, or a shrug of apology. He was completely blank. Like a droid.

“...why? He’s mine!”

“Not anymore,” Fox drawled. “He keeps his life, and in return all he had to do was switch his blue for red. He’s mine now.”

Rex choked. He remembered panic settling into his veins as the tribunal hemmed and hawed over Dogma’s fate. He remembered turning to Cody, despite all the blood he’d drained from his men, and begging his older brother for help. Remembered Cody’s calm voice, void of blame, telling him “I’ll take care of it”.

Remembers hearing the verdict and the cold reminder that Cody was no god, that not even he could turn the wheels of judgement.

Remembers running away from the wails that echoed from the barracks.

“But why didn’t you ever tell me,” Rex whispered. “His squad mourned him. Tup has been struggling. They’re batchmates Fox! I don’t care where he is, as long as he’s alive! But you could have told me-”

“No.” Fox finally turned his head to meet Rex’s eyes, voice turning hard. “I know your battalion, Rex. Very well. You lot are not the type to let something like this go. You’d get vocal about it. Incredibly vocal. No doubt you’d grab the wrong attention. Don’t tell me you honestly believe that the brass knows the kid is here?”

“You’re underestimating my boys,” Rex tried to match Fox’s tone, but he was feeling numb. “They know how to keep things quiet if they have to. They would never do anything to hurt Dogma-”

“If that were true Dogma wouldn’t be here.”

That stung. That burnt in Rex’s chest something awful. The failure of not keeping his own men unified, of allowing in fighting and for one man to take the fall of his inability to squeeze a force damned trigger scraped at his skin and dug into his heart.

Fox’s head twitched minutely and his voice softened. “He’s alive, Rex. That’s what matters. I’ll keep him safe to the best of my ability.”

“Will you?” Rex didn’t mean for the words to form quite so sharply.

“Of course,” Fox murmured. “Like I said. He’s mine now.”

With that Fox bent, and started picking at the flimsi on the floor. Rex felt chastened at the sight, and hesitated for only a moment before bending over to help. They were probably classified and highly important documents, and Dogma had just left them there, at the order of his Commanding officer.

Just so that he could get away.

From him.

Rex was starting to get tired of the way his eyes burned.

They had just finished gathering the wayward documents and gotten to their feet when the door slid open and Skywalker stepped out. Fox straightened imperceptibly, flimsi firmly tucked against his side as he saluted. Rex already knew not to.

Skywalker beamed at him. “Heya Rex, the Chancellor, cut our meeting short. He had some meeting with the banking clan or something-”

Skywalker paused. “Woah, what happened to you? Wait- Did someone throw that at you?!” His eyes squinted dangerously, suspicious eyes darting to Fox who stiffened..

“Uh, no sir, there was just an accident,” Rex hastened to say, drawing the General’s focus away. “I will clean up at the barracks, sir.”

Skywalker stared for a moment before he relaxed, gaze brightening as he turned to walk down the hall. “Okay, then. We should get going! Although, I hope you don’t mind, but I was hoping we’d stop by Senator Amidala’s office for a bit, I was hoping to catch up with her too.”

“Yes, sir,” he murmured. He turned back for a goodbye but Fox was already disappearing around the corner, just like Dogma.

[hqshine]

Hey! It’s me again, I hope you’re well! May I request Kenma, Tsukki and Sakusa w/ a s/o who scratches their hand when anxious or having a panic attack. Sometimes when they scratch too hard it starts to bleed. I’m kinda self projecting- but let’s ignore that. 😅 I love you, please stay safe. And if this request stresses you out too much, please don’t do it. Your mental health is what’s important! 😚

— anxious s/o going through a panic attack —

characters: Kenma, Tsukishima, Atsumu

genre: comfort

type: headcanon

warnings: mentions of anxiety and stress, slight self-harming

note: hi guys, i’m back with this fic after about 130 days lmao. i’ve been going through tons and tons of stress and work because of national exams and i came back to this request and i really wanted to write it for the sake of you guys and myself. @haik-hero hi sweetie, thanks for requesting and waiting! i go through similar things so you’re not alone 🤎 there are more requests in my inbox but i won’t be able to complete most of them, i’m deeply sorry for disappointing you guys and especially to the people who requested. Please stay safe everyone ^^

_______________________________________________

this was bad

you could feel how hard your hands were shaking, hear the sounds of your erratic beating and the horrible ache in your chest

stop stop stop stop

you chanted in your mind, desperately seeking some type of method to make it all go away

it was the piles of stress that you accumulated over the past few months, non-stop bickering with your family members, after school activities, homework, friends

you just wanted to stop, go away and never come back

You rubbed your arms up and down, unconsciously using your nails to scratch yourself

the pain, it was nothing but enjoyable

something that would temporarily distract you from all the negative clouds forming in your mind

You hid, curled into a small ball in the corner of your room, eyes filled with tears and hands covering your mouth as you hid your sobs

You were wearing Kenma’s hoodie, his scent enveloping you, giving you a slight sense of comfort and warmth

but it still felt so cold, so lonely, and everything seemed to stand against you

you were scared, afraid, heart filled with panic and you couldn’t see anything else

With blurry vision, you glanced down at the red marks beginning to form on your arm

someone please just—

Warm arms brought you out of your daze

breathing in the familiar scent of him, immediately helped to calm you down

You were too embarrassed to face him, weak you would describe yourself to be

you hid in his chest, letting the tears out as he rubs his hands soothingly up and down your back

“shhh..i’m here, don’t worry, i got you just let it out” kenma mumbled into your hair as he holds you

You must have forgotten the wii date that kenma had scheduled with you

seeing as you didn’t open up the door for kenma when he knocked several times, kenma immediately felt that something was amiss

realising the front door was unlocked, he slipped through, excusing himself while calling out for you

when he found you, curled into a ball, hiding as of you wanted the ground to just swallow you whole, his heart broke

and he immediately felt the urge to wrap his arms around you and protect you from whatever that was causing you to feel anxious

after an hour passed by, you sniffled, lifting your face from his warm chest and gently rubbed your eyes with your arm

you felt the sting as tears came into contact with your scratched up skin

Kenma placed a hand on your cheek, the other intertwining your hand with his

you nuzzled into his warmth, finally looking up at his eyes

you were nervous, he probably thinks you’re a burden now doesn’t he?

but as you stared into his eyes, eyes filled with worry, concern and love. You melt right into them

it brought more tears to your eyes and he gently pushed your face into the crook of his neck while you sat on his lap

“you’re not alone y/n, i’m here” he whispers, kissing the side of your face

he notices the scratches on your arm, but he doesn’t murmur a word, instead he brings your arm to his lips and softly kiss the red marks

when it starts to bleed, he’ll take care of it to the best of his abilities

just tries his hardest to take care of you

“i love you” it comes out sincerely, and he hugs you and eventually brings you to the bed to cuddle for the rest of the day

leaving his game console forgotten on the floor

you didn’t realise your shaky fingers were already pressing the numbers that you knew all too well

and you didn’t really know what to say when he picked up, voice deep and raspy like he had just woken up. Which was probably true. “babe? hello?”

well you expected it given that the time was two in the morning

you didn’t know how it escalated

you were surrounded with piles of homework, projects, essays

it was suffocating and too much

just too much

the stress was eating you alive and you couldn’t even hear yourself think

your breathing became more erratic as you struggled to catch your breath

it frustrated you even more when you couldn’t just couldn’t get a breath of air

your whole body was trembling, and you didn’t know what to do

on instinct, you found yourself dialing the person you had closest to your heart

“t-tsumu? i’m s-so sorry—i just..i d-don’t what to do—please” you managed to choke out as more tears welled up in your eyes

your heart was racing painfully and you could only listen to atsumu as he rushes for his hoodie and shoes, “y/n sweetheart, don’t worry, i’m coming, i won’t hang up and i’ll be there in five okay?” he rushes out

the only response you could give him was the sounds of strangled cries

you stay on call, listening to his pants and curses, his voice giving you some sort of comfort

you waited outside, squatting down on the pavement and looking out for your boyfriend

your nails start to scratch your arms nervously and you focus on the stinging feeling of pain

“y/n” atsumu rushes to you, his phone slipping out of his grip as he wraps his arms around you

the way you looked so scared and vulnerable, eyes red from crying and chest heaving up and down with abnormal speed made his heart twinge with sadness

he wanted to make it all go away, wanted to see your beautiful smile

he wraps his arms around your waist, gently rocking you from side to side as he listen to you cry

when your breathing still hasn’t recovered properly, he takes both of your hands

“baby, i need you to breathe with me okay?”

you nodded shakily and follow his breathing, taking deep and slow breaths, eventually calming down

atsumu presses his lips to the crown of your forehead, just rocking you till you eventually stopped crying

you raise your head to look up at him, his eyes were filled with worry and adoration

atsumu kisses your forehead, nose, cheeks, eyelids and eventually your lips making you smile

“my favourite thing in this damn world” he mumbles smiling with you

he then bends down and grab your thighs, carrying you like a child as you hid in the crook of his neck

“time to get my baby some sleep, if you wanna talk about it, we’ll do it tomorrow” he says bringing you to your room

when he notices your red marks, he’ll tsk lightly at you but clean you up and then press more kisses to your arm

“Y/n i want you to follow my breathing okay? we can do it” tsukishima says in a surprisingly affectionate tone

your eyes were clouded with tears and your hands were nervously scratching your arms when tsukishima found you in your room

the two of you were supposed to study together but with all the stress from upcoming examinations, you felt yourself spiral into a world of nervousness and anxiety

your hands were shaking but tsukishima knew what to do, as he takes both hands into his and focus on you stabilising your breathing

when he notices that your breathing is now back to normal but your hands were still shaking, he gently slides you into his lap, cuddling you like a baby

“y/n? could you do me a favour and name me some things or colours you see in the room?” he says as he wraps his arms around you

this was how he eventually got you to calm down from all the negative feelings you were facing

you eyes were growing more heavy as you felt a wave of tiredness overtake you

hours spent on studying instead of getting a good night’s rest eventually caught up to you as you felt yourself dozing off in tsukishima’s arms

he shakes his head, “silly girl, don’t make me worry so much” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of your head

he lets you rest in his lap, as he gets his stuff out form his back and begin to revise with you in his arms

when you awoke, you’d realise he had left some study notes for you

[pastelwitchling]

Kyle talks to Michael about Alex.

Kyle had had a strange pain in his chest since he’d accepted the surgeon’s offer, but as he stepped into the Wild Pony and saw Alex at their usual table, looking everywhere at once and tapping his fingers on his beer bottle, clearly uncomfortable with being alone, it was like a window suddenly opened to his heart.

A smile tugged at his lips. Alex saw him and smiled himself, raising a hand in greeting.

As Kyle slid into the booth, he said, “I have a raging headache in four corners of my mind, and only one of them is from my hospital shifts.”

Alex huffed a chuckle. “I get the feeling.”

“Right,” he nodded. “I keep forgetting that you’re in the club, too.”

“The club?”

“The We’re-Pretty-Much-On-Call-All-The-Time-Because-Someone-Always-Needs-Something Club.”

“Ah,” Alex leaned back in his seat, and handed Kyle the second bottle he’d ordered. “That club. It’s not so bad, being useful.”

He raised a brow. “That bad? I thought you liked your new job.”

“‘Liked’ may be a strong a word,” he confessed. “It’s definitely interesting.”

“And your boss?”

He sighed. “I’m still trying to crack him. What about you? Have you heard back from that hospital in California?”

Kyle looked down, and huffed a chuckle. “I think you’re the only one that’s asked me that. Come to think of it, I think you’re the only friend I have that doesn’t just call me for rescue.”

Alex’s smile dimmed. “So you have heard from them.”

He nodded. “And I accepted their offer.”

Alex said nothing, and Kyle looked up, expecting disappointment. But Alex wasn’t looking at him. He was staring off into the crowd of cowboys drinking by the pool table, his lips pursed, his brows furrowed.

“Do you hate me?”

“I’m sad,” he confessed, the corner of his lips tugged up in a soft smile. “I’ll miss you.”

Kyle felt a lump in his throat. For two days, he’d been deliberating his choices, wondering if it was the right thing to do. Everyone here, after all, needed him for one thing or another. He was worried he’d be letting people down. But Alex . . .

“Are you disappointed?”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he hesitated, “I’m the resident alien doctor. What’re are they going to do if I’m not here?”

Alex raised a brow like it was obvious. “Manage.”

“Come on, Alex,” his shoulders fell. “You can’t fool me into thinking that you don’t care what happens to Michael.”

“All I’ve ever cared about is Michael,” he said simply, without doubt or pause. “But they’re not alone. I’m here, Liz is here. And you’ve done enough.”

“But you’ve always advocated for – for friendship, and being there for the people you love!”

“And you have been,” Alex chuckled. “And you will be. You’re moving to another state, not another planet. If it gets really bad, and I really can’t think of anything else, I’ve got your number.”

Kyle clenched his jaw. “But –”

“Kyle,” he leaned in, smiling. His eyes were glassy. “Take it from someone who built a career out of the military, and moved on. It’s time to tap out.”

Kyle didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have another argument, not with Alex’s eyes and words so sincere. Alex shrugged. “It’ll just be Roswell’s loss.”

He stared, searching for any sign of mockery or sugarcoating. But this was Alex. He didn’t lie, not for anyone.

He opened his mouth to speak, found the words lodged in his throat, then tried again. He really hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed Alex’s permission.

“Coming from you, Manes,” he confessed, “that means everything.”

 On his way home that night, and after a hug from Alex and a promise that he would come over the next day to help him start packing, Kyle realized there was one more thing he couldn’t leave without doing. One last duty that he owed his best friend.

So instead of going straight home, he turned a road and into the junkyard. Michael Guerin sat in front of the bonfire with a beer in hand, that stupid hat on his head, and raised a disinterested brow at Kyle as he stepped out.

“Well,” he said, “this is a surprise. The good doctor needs something from little old me?”

“Actually,” Kyle said, “yeah, I do.” Michael just stared, and he shrugged. “More of an order, actually.”

Michael started to smirk and leaned forward on his knees. “You’re gonna give me orders.”

“Just one,” Kyle said, hands in his pockets. He supposed he should’ve been more hesitant, more afraid. Michael, after all, was a dangerous loose wire even when he was sober, and he’d been on edge for whatever reason for the past few days.

But then Kyle remembered the dark circles around Alex’s eyes, the slight twitch of his fingers, the way he seemed to be struggling with the weight of Deep Sky and everything that came with it on his shoulders. And Michael. Always Michael.

“I need you to look after Alex.”

Michael’s smirk faltered. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me, Guerin,” he sighed, not in the mood to play back-and-forth. Not anymore. “Look after Alex. He’s not okay.”

That got Michael’s attention, and his eye twitched. “What’s wrong with him?”

Kyle tilted his head. “Oh I don’t know, why don’t you ask him? Or is it only that Alex is allowed to help you, and never the other way around?”

He stood. “Watch it, Valenti.”

“I have been,” he said. “For the past couple of years, I have been careful around you, Guerin, because part of me knew that whatever you broke in Alex, I can just fix. But I’m leaving town, and honestly? I’m scared for him. He’d never ask for help, but there has to be someone who cares enough about him to offer it anyway.”

Michael clenched his jaw and swallowed. “And you think that’s me?”

“I need it to be,” Kyle admitted, “because Alex doesn’t want anyone else.” Michael’s face fell. “He’s never wanted anyone else. So it’s either you, or I find some way to take him with me.”

Michael’s eyes flared, but Kyle held up a hand to silence him. “I’m not, Guerin, but I would. I can’t leave him here alone knowing he’s just going to keep being used.”

“I don’t use Alex,” he growled.

“No?” Kyle scoffed. “Did you know that he left the Air Force just last week?”

Michael looked like he’d been shot.

“With full honors?” he went on. “Did you know that he’s been recruited by the same secret organization that shot Max and drugged Jenna? Or that he’s already been given a mission? Do you have any idea how exhausted he is?”

When Michael didn’t answer, apparently too consumed with taking in all of this information, Kyle shook his head.

“You wouldn’t, would you? Because it’s all about you, all the time.” He shrugged. “Alex doesn’t mind, so why should you?” He shook his head, already starting to walk back to his car. “He deserves better than that.”

Leaving Michael standing in the desert, Kyle got into his car and drove away, finally feeling like he’d wiped the slate clean with his best friend.

*

Michael didn’t know why he was here. He walked the length of Alex’s porch, waiting for Alex, not having a clue as to where he could be. He realized there’d been a lot of that since that year away dismantling Project Shepherd. He had less and less to do with Alex, and it gave him a headache beyond anything else had.

How could he not know where Alex was? How could he not have asked? How did Kyle know?

Because Kyle pays attention to Alex, a voice in his head scorned. You don’t.

Michael clenched his jaw, still a little tipsy from his self-loathing beers, and ran his fists through his curls. Alex’s porch started to upend itself, the hardwood floors battling against the nails keeping them down, and Michael gasped, settling everything back in its place.

Just then, Michael caught a pair of headlights and squinted only for a second before Alex parked and turned off the car.

His heart started to rattle and his breaths came out quicker at the sight of Alex in his flannel and jeans. He missed him. He had no idea how badly he had until he’d come back, until he got to talk to him that first night a few days ago – drunk then, too – but he missed him. He missed him every second he was away, and somehow missed him more when he was here.

Alex had a brow raised, but Michael was studying his face. He saw it clearly now. The dark shadows under his eyes, his hollow cheeks, his hair sticking up in perfect, messy strands like he’d been running his hands through them all day, his stubble. How could he have not noticed?

“Uh oh,” Alex sighed at the look on his face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Michael swallowed. Right, he thought. Because Alex only thought he showed up when he needed something.

He pushed past the ever-present lump in his throat and asked, “Why would something be wrong, Private?” He purposely used the nickname. “Can’t I just come say hi?”

Alex glanced down at the word Private, and back up again. He smiled and moved past Michael to open his door. “Not in my experience. Seriously” – he stood by the door, and nudged Michael inside – “what’s wrong?”

Michael didn’t budge, still smirking though it felt hollow. “Why didn’t you tell me about the Air Force?”

Alex looked startled that Michael knew. Did he really just never expect Michael to care about what was going on with him at all?

He shrugged. “It – uh – it was recent. Who told you? Max?”

Michael stared, then started to chuckle incredulously. “Did everyone but me know?”

Alex was not humoring him. “I told Greg and Kyle. They’ve both been spending time with Maria, and she’s been spending time with Max, I figured one of them must’ve mentioned it to her, and she must’ve mentioned it to him – look, would you please just come inside?”

Michael’s laughter faded and he pressed his lips together. He was still smiling, but his eyes burned. Alex seemed to realize he wouldn’t move on his own, and he gently took Michael’s jacket sleeve, tugging him in.

Once they were both in the living room, Alex set to work on a pot of tea. As he handed Michael a mug, Michael saw the light glimmering off a silver ring on his finger. His brows furrowed.

“That’s new.”

“Oh,” Alex glanced at it. “Yeah. So –”

“Wasn’t that the same ring Long had?”

“Yep.”

Alex was clearly avoiding his eyes. Michael was relentless, a burning in his chest forcing the words out.

“He gave it to you?”

“No,” Alex said. “This one’s mine.”

“Is this about that secret organization you joined?” Michael demanded. “Or was that recent, too?”

Alex smiled as he straightened, understanding dawning. “So Kyle told you. No wonder you’re wound so tight.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s one thing when my own brother knows a secret about me before you do,” Alex said, taking a seat at the end of the couch. “But Kyle knowing it first?” He scoffed and shook his head.

Michael leaned forward, glaring. “So I’m jealous,” he spat. “So what? Why does Kyle get to know more about you than I do?”

“He’s my best friend,” Alex said simply. “We just talk about ourselves around each other.”

“But you don’t talk about yourself to me.”

“Not usually,” Alex agreed.

“Why?” he demanded. “I’m more important?”

“Yes,” he said simply, and Michael clenched his jaw.

“That’s really what you think of me?”

“I think the world of you, Michael,” he said, and Michael faltered. “You’re everything to me.” He smiled. “You think I don’t tell you about what I’m doing because I don’t think you care? I don’t tell you because you’re all I care about. I was going to tell you about the Air Force, I swear, just . . . not yet.” He looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbing the backs of his fingers. “Some of this stuff hurts to talk about, and I just don’t . . . I don’t want to think about it yet.”

Michael’s brows furrowed. “You’re . . . sad about leaving the military?”

He scoffed halfheartedly, slumping against the couch. “My whole life was the military. I had a family. Now I . . . don’t. I just need a minute to adapt.”

Michael tried to consider that, to be sympathetic, but he couldn’t be. For one obvious reason.

“But I’m your family.”

Alex huffed a laugh, and sniffled. He nodded. “I know.” He exhaled shakily, glancing at Michael, then stretched his arms high above his head. Michael was so distracted with his shirt riding up and revealing smooth, delicious skin that he didn’t notice Alex was lying down until his head was on his lap.

Michael froze, not knowing what to do.

“Hold still,” Alex murmured, his eyes already closed. “I haven’t slept in days and I’m exhausted.”

Slowly, Michael set a hand down on Alex’s waist, the other in his hair. His own heart hammered when Alex’s body melted under his touch and he seemed, for the first time since he’d seen him back, relaxed.

He leaned back on the couch, unable and unwilling to look away from Alex. “Then sleep, Private,” he whispered. “I’ll keep you safe.”

[jadequeen88]

A Waitress’ Worst Nightmare

A/N: Written for the BNHA Degeneracy 9-5 collab! THIS IS 18+ MINORS DNI

Warnings: TW.sexual harassment, TW.oral(recieving), TW.degredation TW.nipple play, TW.Mommy kink

Pairing: busboy!Keigo, linecook!Dabi, f!waitress!Reader

You’re a college student just trying to get by. The biggest worry you should have right now is if you had enough time to finish that psych paper or when you were going to meet up with your calculus study group. Instead, you’ve got a much larger problem facing you...A problem that has permeated through every aspect of your life. Your coworkers were Grade-A-Assholes who decided making your life miserable was on the top of their to do lists.

You thought waitressing at the 24/7 diner downtown would be a breeze. Money was tight and since you were 21 and almost done with your undergrad, you wanted a little more financial independence. Little did you know when the owner hired you that you’d have to work alongside the two biggest shitheads in the city.

First there’s Keigo. To the untrained eye, he could almost seem charming. But you found out pretty quickly what a dick he was. He was working as a “busboy”, but in reality he didn’t do anything but flirt with every woman within his field of vision. Keigo would leave the tables a mess until there wasn’t a clean one left in your station and you’d be forced to do his job for him.

“What, babe? Stop getting your panties in a twist. I’m real busy these days. You know I’m practically running this place now.”

Oh yeah. How could you forget? He took every opportunity to remind you of that fact. Keigo’s dad happened to be buddies with the owner, garnering a sense of trust with the old man. He slowly weaseled his way into running day-to-day operations while the elderly owner stayed home most days.

Although the diner needed another busboy to pick up his slack, Keigo refused to tell the boss to hire another. You overheard a phone conversation between Keigo and your boss just last night:

“Nah, boss. We’ve got it covered here. No need to hire another busboy. The waitresses are just finding reasons to nag. Women, am I right?”

You were fuming.

***

As bad as Keigo was, his friend Dabi was exponentially worse. The line cook was, without a doubt, a drug dealer. The only motive he could possibly have for working there is having a place to do business with his “customers”(and of course, to help Keigo make your life a living hell). It clearly wasn’t because he needed the money since you’d seen his “friends” slip him generous wads of cash when they stopped by the restaurant. If cleaning up Keigo’s messes sucked, trying to put in customer’s orders with Dabi was pure torture. 

“Eggs over easy instead of scrambled? I dunno, Princess. Sounds like it’ll be a pain in my ass. Whatcha gonna give me if I do it?”

Then he’d lick his lips with his long pierced tongue, leering at you over the counter. Gag... You wondered if that ever actually worked in his favor. 

One semi-decent thing you can say about Keigo is that he’d never actually laid a finger on you. The same can’t be said for Dabi. You learned after your first day to wear shorts under the skirt of your uniform. You were behind the counter slicing lemons when he took his spatula and lifted the hem of your skirt. Before you realized what he was doing, he was calling out to his partner in crime.

“Fuuuuuck, Kei! Look at the ass on the new girl!”

You wondered what was going on until you felt a breeze and realized it was your ass that was on display. You’d slapped the spatula away and straightened your skirt, but not before they both got an eyeful of your black, lace panties. You cried for ten minutes in the bathroom after your shift that day.

***

The day you’d been dreading was finally upon you. No, it wasn’t a big test or project due... You had to ask off work for your cousin’s wedding. That meant dealing with Keigo (who was now in charge of making the schedule each week).

You squared your shoulders and went over what you would say over, and over in your head so you wouldn’t stumble over your words when you had to face him. 

“I need to have Saturday off for my cousin’s wedding. I can work the Sunday morning shift instead.”

This was repeated on a loop in your brain as you walked down the darkened corridor towards the office. You let out a long sigh and gently rapped your knuckles against the wooden frame. The sound of shuffling and muffled voices seeped through the thin faux wood and a moment later, the door swung inward. The thick cloud of smoke and strong, skunky smell almost knocked you flat on your ass. Instead of seeing Keigo alone working on the schedule, you saw that he and Dabi were hotboxing in the small office.

Knowing they were back here getting high while you closed the diner by yourself was the last straw. You slam the door behind you and stomp forward to lean over the desk Keigo was propped up behind.

“Listen you shit heads!” you slammed you fists on the desk knocking over a jar of pens. “I am so fucking sick of slaving away in this shit hole while you two get high and fuck off back here. You’re going to let me have Saturday off or I swear to Christ, I’m calling the boss and spilling my guts! About the weed, the drug deals, the snarky remarks, the groping, EVERYTHING! I’ve had enough!”

There was a moment of silence then the two of them burst into a fit of laughter. In a blind fit of rage, you leap across the desk and grab Keigo by the throat. When you made contact and squeezed as hard as your small hand would allow, a whimper escaped his throat and his eyes rolled back.

Now it was your turn to laugh.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you gripped your fingers tightly again to see if you could pull any more sounds from him. He didn’t disappoint. This time it was a whimper followed by him nervously mumbling.

“Heh, Kid... Seriously, knock it off. This shit isn’t funny.”

Your eyes traveled down the front of his body and when they landed on the crotch of his baggy khakis, your suspicions were confirmed. This loser who acted like a certified pussy-slayer popped a boner just from you choking him.

You leaned in close to his face, using this as your chance to get revenge for all the hell he had put you through. “Aww little Keigo... Not used to being roughed up?” you cooed. “Dumb little baby Keigo...I bet if I kept this up, you’d come in your pants like a dirty slut, wouldn’t you?”

You felt movement over your shoulder and heard a deep chuckle. “Dude you’re so pathe-”

Dabi gasped as you grabbed him by the crotch with your free hand and squeezed. He was already hard. You met his eyes and see panic etched across his features. A sadistic grin spread across your mouth as you tightened your grip. His head fell back and let out a whimper almost as needy as Keigo’s. 

“You’re both going to do exactly what I say or I swear, I will tell every girl you ever try to speak to what a couple of pathetic virgins you two are...”

***

“Ungh! Plea-please... Harder! I... I need more!”

*SMACK*

Your hand lands hard across the blonde’s face, drawing a pathetic whimper from his throat. He thrust his weeping cock along your shin whimpering, craving more pressure to relieve his suffering.

“You don’t get to tell me what you need, Keigo. Shut your fucking mouth and be grateful you get this much.”

You throw your head back against the office chair and hum as Dabi eats your cunt like it’s his last meal.

“Mmm... See Keigo? See what a good boy Dabi is being? He knows his stupid mouth is only meant for one thing... Making Mommy’s pussy feel good.”

The praise causes the dark haired man between your thighs to moan into your clit sending a pulse of pleasure through your lower body. The ball of his piercing circles your clit and you feel the familiar ache of an impending orgasm begin to tighten in your belly.

Keigo starts shoving Dabi away from you with a growl. “This is bullshit! I haven’t even had a chance yet!”

Dabi elbows him, ”Fuck off Kei! I almost had her finished off!”

Furious from being jerked back from the edge of your orgasm, you grab a fist full of blonde hair in one hand and black in the other. You pull their flushed faces up to look you in the eye.

“If you want to come at all, you will shut...the fuck...up... and get me off. Now”

Dabi wasted no time in diving back into your dripping slit, panting heavily while he ran his pierced tongue in and out of your swollen entrance. Keigo attacked your neck, whimpering as he planted sloppy kisses down your collarbone until his tongue was licking long stripes up you clothed nipple.

“I think you can do a little better than that, baby,’ you cooed into Keigo’s messy blonde tresses, sweetly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He took that as his cue to remove the clothing between your hardening bud and his hot, wet tongue.

Keigo latched onto your nipple, nursing it with vigor while he gently grazed his fingertips over the other. You heard him mumble something into the soft swell of your breast.

“Speak up,” you pull him away from your nipple with a pop, “I didn’t catch that...”

“I-I said... I...”

Your attention was drawn to the man between your legs as he began to suck down hard on your clit. The hand you had wrapped in Keigo’s hair tightened causing him to cry out.

“Mommy! Please! Wanna be your good boy! Wanna make Mommy come...” He sobs as he starts frantically licking and sucking your neglected nipple. This pushes you over the edge and your long awaited orgasm rushes over you. 

After you come down from your high, you push them off and begin getting dressed while the two men you left on the floor look up at you with wide eyes.

Dabi, still panting from eating you so vigorously, chokes out a little half sob.

“But.. where are you goin? We did what you asked!”

“Yeah babe! what the fuck!”

You eyed both men and let the tension hang in the air before turning and walking to the door.

“Give me the whole weekend off. Then we’ll arrange something Monday,” you look over your shoulder, “As long as you don’t piss me off before then..”

You walk out of the office with the biggest grin you’ve had in a long time and feeling a lot more relaxed. Maybe this job was going to turn out better than you expected. 

[pandora15]

Whumptober 2021 Day 10 Prompt: Hospital

Anakin got the call about halfway through his morning engineering lab. 

He was supposed to be working on his capstone project proposal for the class — the very capstone that would dictate his future in the engineering program, that would point him to graduation.

Needless to say, this project was important.

But when his cell phone buzzed and the oh-so-familiar number flashed across his screen, he knew he had to drop everything.

He rushed out of the lab, apologizing to the TA for the personal emergency, and sprinted out to his car, which was definitely legally parked just outside of the building, where it should be.

The drive to the hospital was a blur.  Anakin was pretty sure he pissed off a few drivers on the way there, but he didn’t care.  None of that really mattered now, because it happened again and he didn’t know how bad it was.

All he knew was that he needed to be there, just in case this was the time that it all went wrong.

By the time he got to the visitor lot and parked, Anakin’s mind was rushing through all the worst-case scenarios.  He sprinted towards the oh-so-familiar entrance, pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket to send a quick text to Ahsoka to tell her that he’d probably be late picking her up from school.

She’d be annoyed about him cancelling on her again, but she’d understand, once she realized that it happened again.

As soon as he arrived in the main lobby, the receptionist directed him up to the neurology wing, instead of the ER.  He didn’t really know how to react to that, but there was little time to waste.

He took the elevator up, followed to signs to neurology, and eventually found himself outside the room, where he found Bant waiting for him.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” she said in greeting, running a hand across her bangs to keep them swept neatly to the side of her head.

“Yeah, of course,” Anakin said, nodding slowly.  “I just — it happened again?”

Slowly, Bant nodded.

Anakin sighed and allowed his shoulders to slump.  If Obi-Wan was…well, the first time he had a seizure, they all thought it was a one-time thing, caused by him being overworked or something.

But then it happened again.  And again.

And again.

“Do you know anything about…”

“No,” Bant replied.  “They’re going over his scans now, but I haven’t heard anything from the attending neurosurgeon yet.”

“Right,” Anakin said.  “Okay.”  He wrapped his arms around himself, resisting the urge to shiver.  “Is he awake now?”

She nodded again and gestured towards the door.  “He’s a bit out of it, though.  Be gentle.”

“Right,” Anakin repeated.  He walked to the door, stopped, and turned around to look at Bant.

“Thanks.”

With a deep breath, Anakin turned back around and opened the door.

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

Obi-Wan was looking up at him from the hospital bed as Anakin walked into the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” he asked quietly.  There was a deep furrow between his eyebrows — the kind that told Anakin that he was probably having a headache.

“I was,” Anakin replied.  He walked over to the chair next to the bed and plopped down onto it.  “Bant called and told me what happened.”

Obi-Wan hummed, his gaze dropping away from Anakin to the floor next to his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.  “This is your senior year; you’re supposed to be working on your capstone, not dealing —”

“Obi-Wan.”  Anakin cut him off.  “That’s not important.  Your health is important.  You’re important — to me and Ahsoka and Boga and Bant, and I just — we just want you to be okay.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes closed, and he leaned his head back against the headboard.  “They’re not able to find out what’s going on,” he said, quieter than before. “Bant looked at the scans herself.  They’re all clean.”

“Well, maybe they’ll find something now.”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan replied, but he sounded unconvinced.  “But in case things get worse, Anakin, you need to be prepared.  I don’t know what will happen, but —”

“What’s going to happen is that you’ll be fine,” Anakin said.  “The doctors in there are experts.  They’re looking at your scans now, and they are determined to figure out what’s going on, and they will.  And Ahsoka and I will figure things out from there.  We’re gonna be okay, Obi-Wan, and that includes you.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and sighed, sinking back slightly into his pillows.

“I need to sleep,” he murmured, pressing his fingers to his temples.  “Can you get Boga here, please?  There wasn’t any room for her in the ambulance, from what Bant told me.”

“Consider it done, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, leaning forward to place a gentle hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  “She’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

Obi-Wan smiled thinly.  “Thank you, Anakin.  I’m glad you’re here.”

He drifted off not long after that.  Anakin allowed himself a few moments to gather his thoughts, to put himself together and face whatever came next.

(Pandora’s Whumptober 2021 Masterlist)

[helnjk]

Stitching Together - G.W.

George Weasley x fem!reader 

Requested: yes !! by my lovely bean marissa @lumos-barnes

please accept my humble request for a george x reader where the reader owns a shop in diagon alley and one day they walk into WWW and george knocks over a whole display, he is a complete SIMP & cannot compose himself. complete buffoonery when the reader is near. they become friends & do all these nice things for each other and the reader is oblivious like "george, i'm so lucky to be your friend" (even though the reader is secretly simping) and he's like "um what, i'm literally in love with you"

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: mentions of meals and drinks (coffee), but other than that it’s just pure fluff & Dumb Idiots In Love

A/N: somehow i always end up writing george knitting? idk how it happened, but it happened. i hope you like it marissa 🥺💕

–

You took a step back to admire your handiwork. 

After what seemed like neverending hours, the layout of your shop was finally perfect. From where you stood, you had a view of the streets of Diagon Alley, several passersby coming and goings from your sight. The display of charmed knit work by the window was already moving, demonstrating simple stitches that formed into a scarf. 

It had always been your dream to open up your own shop in the most prominent wizarding area of Britain, with your passion for knitting and crafting, but the timing had always been off. Now, about a year or so since the war had ended, your grandmother surprised you with the capital to make your dreams come true. 

The gesture was extra special because she was the one who first taught you how to knit. Many summers were spent in her cottage, sitting side by side and working on personal projects together. 

Outside, your sign read ‘Stitching Together: Grand Opening’. There were a few flyers posted right on the door and on the window advertising the different classes and crafting groups you were offering, as well as the different products that could be found in your store. 

It was as if your heart could burst at the sight of your fully furnished shop and you could wait no longer. With a flick of your wand, the sign on the door flipped to say open and that was that. 

–

“Hey Freddie, have you seen that new shop that’s opened down the street?” George yelled from the bottom of the stairs once the last customer of the day made their leave. 

“Haven’t gone in, but it’s gotten a lot of customers from what I can tell!” the disembodied voice of his twin replied from somewhere above. 

As he began the process of cleaning up and reshelving, products floating in midair or zooming towards their proper shelves, he called out once more, “What type of store is it d’you reckon?” 

“Arts and crafts? Something like that.” 

George’s eyes drifted towards the shop window, where he could just barely see the outline of the new store. Dusk had begun to set in London, so the sky was filled with brilliant hues of purple and orange. His curiosity getting the better of him, he decided that he would go welcome the new shop owner to Diagon Alley. 

With a shout to let his twin know where he was off to, George strode out of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and into the brisk weather. Luckily for him, Stitching Together was still open. He could see you bustling around inside, fixing displays and swishing your wand to tidy everything up.

It had only been around a month since your shop had opened, but the local wizard folk of London seemed to be very keen on buying the different things you sold. Many came around to purchase the instructional books and the different kinds of wool and yarn, and some of your regulars had even taken an interest in the classes you held weekly. It was a great way for you to get to know the community and to establish friendships. 

You had always taken note of the joke shop a few shops down from you, but with the hustle and bustle of just opening, you hadn’t had a chance to visit or introduce yourself to the owners. It was just your luck that one half of them pushed open the door to your shop, the little bell at the top of it ringing to indicate his presence. 

“Oh, hello!” you smiled, turning to face the redheaded man, “Welcome to Stitching Together, what could I help you with?” 

Unbeknownst to George, your heart began to beat rapidly in your chest. How could a man be so positively handsome you didn’t know, but at the sight of him standing by the door, all you could think about was how gorgeous he was. And he hadn’t even uttered a single word yet! 

The charming smile he sent your way did not help the heat you could feel creeping up your neck. “Just popping by to say hello and welcome to Diagon Alley! My twin and I run Wheezes just down the street,” he said. 

Your smile grew as he stuck his hand out for you to shake, “Oh I was just thinking about how I’ve been wanting to pay your shop a visit! I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“George Weasley at your service,” his hand was firm and warm as he shook yours, eyes sparkling with something you couldn’t quite name. “Nice to meet you!” 

“So tell me about your shop!” 

Somehow, after that evening, George Weasley snuck his way into becoming a part of your daily routine.

Every morning he would show up with two cups of coffee in hand right before your shop was set to open. After realizing that you depended on caffeine to function throughout your day, he made it a point to bring you one everyday. As you sipped on your coffees, the two of you would spend a few minutes chatting about your plans for the day before going to work. 

Whenever you would offer to pay for your own cup or even try to insinuate that you could get your own coffee in the morning, just so that he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble, he would stop you in your tracks.

“But George–”

“Nope!” he would say in a voice louder than yours. “I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart. I really feel for your customers who have to deal with a Y/N that hasn’t had her coffee fix. Could you imagine the grumpiness? Not on my watch!” 

You would roll your eyes, but secretly it warmed your heart how sweet this boy could be. He was slowly inching his way into your life and becoming a great friend. 

–

“So,” said Fred one day as George had gotten back from delivering your daily coffee, “The bird from the knitting shop, huh?” 

His twin only rolled his eyes in response, used to the teasing that came with being brothers (and twins) with Fred Weasley. Instead of engaging, George went instead to do the routine last check over their store before they officially opened their doors. Still, Fred couldn’t resist the temptation to continue provoking him. 

“Oi! C’mon, you bring her coffee everyday even if you don’t like the stuff. If I don’t remind you that you have a store to run, you would spend the whole day staring out the window just to catch a glimpse of the girl! Tell me you’re not whipped for her,” he teased, following George through the shop.

From their position at the till and on the second floor, both Verity and Lee tried to hide their smirks. This was too good a story to not eavesdrop on. 

“Come off it, Fred.” George rolled his eyes. “I’m just being a good friend, that’s all!” 

“Yeah but you wouldn’t mind being more than friends.” 

The cheeky wink Fred sent George was not appreciated, as the prior soon found out, having to duck away from a stinging hex. Still, Fred’s laugh rang through the semi-empty store as he ran away from his brother. 

Later in the day, as the lunch crowd tapered off, the four of them were left to mull around a bit. Lee and Verity were off taking stock in the back room, Fred was doing some accounting (because his twin couldn’t be trusted with any sort of math), and George was reshelving some Skiving Snackboxes. 

The bell above the door to the shop rang, but he couldn’t quite tell who came in from his position towards the back of the shop. 

“Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” he yelled, rushing to get all the boxes in order before he could help the new customer, “I’ll be with you in just a second!” 

Just as he admired his handiwork, eyes scanning the display to make sure nothing was out of place, a familiar voice called from behind him, “It’s alright, take your time. I’m not looking for anything in particular.” 

George almost jumped out of his skin as he heard your voice. He was so surprised that as he turned to meet you, his elbow caught on the edge of one of the Snackboxes and the whole thing toppled over. 

You watched as the tower of boxes crumbled around him, and your hand automatically covered your mouth as you tried to contain your laughter. It didn’t work, though, and soon the whole store could hear your guffaws. 

Thankfully, George was a wizard, and what would’ve taken a muggle quite some time to fix, only took a quick flick of his wand. 

“Oops,” you smiled at him bashfully as he finished, “Didn’t mean to startle you, Weasley.”

“Erm, it-it’s alright,” he blushed, “I just didn’t expect you to come ‘round today.” 

In truth, the reason why George was so flustered at your appearance at his shop was because he had just spent most of the afternoon thinking about you. He often did that, getting lost in his thoughts about the many little things that made you, well, you. The deep breath you took before that first sip of coffee in the morning, revelling in the aroma. How your face lit up when you spoke about the different people you met in your classes. Your hands and how skillfully they worked whatever project you were creating at the moment. 

He wouldn’t admit it to Fred, but what his twin had said earlier in the day was accurate. He was absolutely smitten over you. 

“Well you’ve been a regular over at mine for the last couple of weeks, I’m just returning the favor and visiting my favorite redhead at his place of work!” 

“I-I,” he stuttered, his brain refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was your favorite anything. 

Fred, who had heard the commotion and had gone down to check if everything was okay, nearly face palmed as he watched George fumble through his words. The man was whipped for you, no doubt about it, and as a good twin, he decided to save his brother from further humiliation. 

“I think what my lovely twin here is trying to say, is that you just haven’t met enough redheads to make your decision about your favorite one,” he said, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation. “Fred Weasley, at your service!” 

Your smile immediately brightened at the sight of George’s twin holding out his hand for you to shake, “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N, George’s told me loads about you!” 

“Has he?” Fred raised his eyebrow, turning to look at George who was still a little dumbstruck at the sight of you in his shop. “Well, that just means it’s my turn to spend some time with such a lovely lady. C’mon, I’ll give you a tour of the shop!”

“Oh I’d love that.” 

With a small glance and wave at George, you took the arm that Fred was holding out for you, and so began his (largely amusing) tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. 

“What in Merlin’s name was that!” yelled Fred the moment you left the shop. 

George groaned into his hands, embarrassment creeping back into him. He had acted a fool, unable to even mutter a single sentence to you the whole time you were around. 

“Mate, I have never seen you so flustered around a girl,” his twin muttered, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Just tell her you’ve got feelings for her! Ask her on a date, do something! From what I could tell, you’re not the only one who’s caught feelings.” 

“It’s not like that between us,” he said, “I doubt she even notices how much I fancy her.” 

–

Somehow, George wound up taking Fred’s advice. Though, in typical-George fashion, he never explicitly mentioned to you anything about the way he felt. 

Instead, he would stay around your shop longer in the mornings, taking slower than usual sips of his coffee (which he still couldn’t say he preferred over a good cup of tea). Other days, he would come around closing time and help put everything back in order and if he was lucky, the two of you would go out to dinner. Of course, he would also never let you pay a sickle for your meal, no matter how much you insisted. 

Weekends were usually spent together as well. 

Saturdays were for brunch and muggle films on the telly. It was one of the rare occasions he would drink a beverage in front of you that wasn’t that (god forsaken) coffee. 

Sundays were more for crafting together. He would floo into your flat after having lunch with his family and the two of you would continue working on his little project. 

“My mum loves to knit,” he mentioned one day, while he observed your quick hands skillfully moving the thread through your needles. “She knits us all sweaters for Christmas. It’s become a tradition of sorts.” 

“That’s lovely,” you smiled up at him.

“Yeah, anyone who’s practically family gets one too. Like Harry and Hermione,” he mused.

“I could teach you how to knit her something, if you wanted,” you offered. “It’d be something pretty simple though, especially if you’ve never knitted anything before.”

The smile he sent you was so dazzling, you had to take a moment. You were practically melting under his tender gaze and you swallowed thickly, trying to gain your composure. 

 “That’d be bloody brilliant, Y/N!” 

You only hoped he didn’t notice how your face got hot and how your hands couldn’t move the needles to do what you wanted, too flustered to be precise with your movements.

Since then, the two of you spent most of Sunday afternoons making sure George had the correct strings of yarn on the correct needle. You would keep a close eye on him and his progress, but most of the time he was alright on his own. Sometimes, he would purposely sit closer to you on your couch and you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him. 

In between knits, your eyes would drift towards his focused face and you would smile. George had a habit of poking the tip of his tongue out when he was knitting. Something about the gesture helped him concentrate, and you found it absolutely adorable.

The more time you spent together, though, the more confused George got. It was getting to a point where in his head, it was impossible to miss what he was trying to say with his actions. You had to have caught on by now. And, since you hadn’t acknowledged what was going on between the two of you, he had assumed that this was your polite way of rejecting him.  

On a chilly morning, he clutched the warm cups of coffee in his hands as he pushed the door to Stitching Together open with his back. 

“Morning, Y/N!” he greeted.

You grinned in his direction as he made his way towards you. The moment he placed the warm drink in your hands and you took your first sip, a small moan of gratefulness escaped your lips.

“Merlin, I don’t deserve you,” you mumbled to your cup. 

“Sorry?” George asked, brows furrowed slightly. 

“Oh nothing!” you quickly said, “I’m just really glad you’re my friend, Georgie.” 

Friend. 

The word seemed to make his heart sink down to his stomach and ignite something in him at the same time. It was time that he told you how he felt, no matter what would happen afterwards. He couldn’t keep going on pretending he wasn’t head over heels in love with you. 

“Erm, about that Y/N,” he began, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his work uniform, “I’ve got to tell you something.” 

It was now or never. 

You smiled up at him encouragingly, almost oblivious to the bundle of nerves that were most definitely visible in his expression. 

“I-I don’t want to be just friends, Y/N,” he said, lips pursed in anticipation.

“What do you want then?” you still didn’t understand what he was trying to say. 

In a burst of confidence, George took your hands in his and gripped them tightly, “I want to be with you. I fancy you loads, I think I might even be in love with you, Y/N. Honestly, I might’ve been in love with you from the moment I first walked into your shop.” 

Your lack of an immediate response left him to back track, “But I understand completely if you don’t feel the same way, I just wanted to get it out there.” 

For a moment, the two of you were silent. George eyed you nervously, wondering what was going on through your head, bracing himself for the rejection that he thought was on the tip of your tongue. 

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, “Y/N? Do you want me to go?” 

Instead of answering, you flung your arms around his neck. He was so startled at your sudden gesture that he almost didn’t notice your lips on his. Almost. 

As suddenly as you had kissed him, all of his apprehensions melted away. Almost automatically, his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to him. Your lips melted together seamlessly. It was as if this was where the two of you were meant to be, and you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. 

Sooner than you had liked, George pulled away from you slightly. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but dip his head down to peck your lips again. Once, twice, three times. This left you a giggly mess, your nose scrunching up in a way that was practically begging him to kiss it as well. 

“Does that mean you fancy me too?” he murmured against your lips. 

“Absolutely, head over heels,” you smiled in return. 

The pair of you spent a brief moment with your foreheads pressed together, giddy smiles on your faces. That was until a knock on the door of your shop sounded. Immediately, you sprung apart, a blush coating tip of George’s ears and cheeks. 

A few people stood outside, eyeing you amusedly. 

“Oh shit,” you said, hurrying to flip the sign on the door to say ‘open’ and to unlock the door with a flick of your wand. “I completely forgot I had a class today.” 

As the small group of people began to file inside, they sent knowing glances your way to which you only groaned softly and looked up at George.

“I’ll see you tonight?” you asked hopefully. 

With a kiss to your cheek and a mischievous grin he said, “You can count on it, love.” 

–

General taglist: @expectoevans @george-fabian-weasley @gxthsanrio @slytherinscribbles @harpyloon @nuttytani @mesmerisedangel @amourtentiaa @sarcasticallywitty15 @lumos-barnes

Weasley twins taglist: @whizboingies @pineapplesandpinas @papapapadumb @Mrs-g-weasley @a-castle-of--glass @hey-there-angels @leovaldez37 @pinkypurplemagic @werewolfslut @surprizeshawtyy

crossed out means i couldn’t tag you for some reason, sorry!

[deliontower]

That fic on Colin Bridgerton was everything!!! Please do an Benedict x reader where he paints you in secret but the reader finds out and Benedict confesses his love <333

work of art | b.b

   MAIN MASTERLIST | REQUEST OPEN

title: work of art  pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader summary: you and Benedict bond over art and fall in love, though it takes you time to realise   warning: swearing, angst, fluff and not much else word count: 2.5 k A/N: thank you so much for the request! i really enjoyed writing this and hope you like it!

Even though you had your own flat next to Benedict’s you preferred sitting in his while you worked. You would sit on the pile of cushions on the floor with you note pad across your lap to draw but, in the end, you’d give and watch Benedict while he worked.

His work was better than yours anyway. And when he’d paint or drew, he got this look on this face, a look that made you fall more in love with art, more in love with him.

“you have your own work, I believe” he grinned.

You smiled at him looking away, “I rather watch you. You know I struggle to draw without a live model” you groaned closing you pad.

He smiled at you nodding before returning to his work.

You really did love him, the kind of love that made your gut hurt. The love you felt was inconvenient at most times, you’d be drawing a live model and when it came to the eyes you would draw his eyes. Then you’d stare at the drawing, at those eyes.  After the sixth time you gave up on portraits and stuck with landscapes or ones where the face couldn’t be seen.

Before you met Benedict, art was just something that made you stand out among your four older brothers and two older sisters. You did enjoy to paint and draw and going to all the galleries and the art shows but they never really sparked joy until the day Benedict came into your life.

You remember it clearly. You were stood studying the painting ‘Venus with a Mirror’, the roman goddess of love and beauty. It was a masterpiece something you could never dream of doing yourself.

“quite the painter, wasn’t he?�� someone said behind you.

“he was” you agreed.

Then you turned around and saw Benedict and all the art in the room was forgotten.

“Benedict Bridgerton” he bowed his head.

You smiled feeling dizzy, “y/n  y/l/n”.

“it’s a pleasure to meet you m y/ln. Always a pleasure to meet a titan fan” he move to stand next to you.

“I don’t think they’re too hard to find” you laughed looking at the painting too.

He laughed along and you swear it sounded like music.

You carried on meeting him once a week, at first it was just art shows and museums but then it turn into showing each other your art then just having dinner together. And now you had neighbouring flats.

“oh hell” you jumped up collecting your things, “my brother will be here soon to take me home for dinner. I need to get back to my flat before he comes”.

“and why can’t he just pick you up here?” Benedict asked looking away from his work. Paint was covering his hands and had splattered on his shirt.

“oh yes” you clapped your hands together. “Brother, I know papa pays for my flat to do my art but I don’t actually use it, instead I sit in my friends flat and watch him do art instead. What? you think something is going on? You think we’re having an illicit affair?! Where did you get that idea?” you exclaimed acting the conversation out.

You swore Benedict blushed but you couldn’t be sure. “well that doesn’t happen” he coughed.

“thank you for clarifying our relationship for me, Benedict” you chuckled. You opened the door then paused when he called your name.  

He cleaned his hands with a cloth close by, “will I see you at the Astin’s party tonight?”.

You sighed. “unfortunately. Mother is convinced this is the year I marry” you rolled your eyes.

That struck his heart, you marrying someone was painful enough knowing it could be soon was worst.

“you better not leave me hanging” you smiled bring his attention back to you.

“I wouldn’t dream of it”.

“I’m taking that as a promised Benedict Bridgerton”.

You smiled at him one last time before leaving.

Benedict watched the door shut behind you. He was truly fucked. How he manged to actually get work done while you sat there was a mystery, he could hear your soft breaths feel your e/c eyes on him.

As long as you were a part of his life then he would be happy, content. Of course he knew a day would come where you’d fall in love with someone else and marry them. And it might just break his heart. He thought of what you said, how your mother thought this was the year for you. knowing he would lose you was pain enough being there to see it would feel like death.

Once Benedict was sure you weren’t coming back, he pulled out his secret project he had hidden behind some old paintings, it was proving to be impossible to finish because you were always by his side. He would spend the night at the flat but that would equal questions from his mother.

But here he was alone.

This was his heart drew bare. You. the day he met you actually, he still remembered it clearly. The sun light had pooled in through the sky light and made you look like an angel. He had spent many sleepless nights reliving the moment in his mind. The moment you met his eyes and smiled. Remembering the memory again and again felt like his own personal drug.

He knew you didn’t and would never love him back so he agreed to love you in silence. He poured all his love into this, every brush stroke was a piece of his love, his soul.

 You sat in front of the mirror the mirror looking at yourself. Your hair was done. You had your best outfit on. everything was perfect but something, something was missing. What if you did meet the person you would marry. two of your brothers and one sister were married already, why wouldn’t it be your turn. But it wasn’t the life you wanted.

A married life being the perfect partner doing whatever is asked of you. you wanted a life full of colour and art with Benedict by your side. Benedict. A smile took over your face, you loved him so much. He was so close to your reach but so far away at the same time.

You met your own eyes. “I love you Benedict. I always have and I will for the rest of my life” you whispered to yourself. The thought of losing him had become too much, you battled with yourself the whole way home and the whole times as you dressed. If you were going to lose him let it be because you told him the truth. Not when he fell for another.

Maybe just maybe the feels the same.

You had only been at the party for an hour and you had already met three suitors your mother had picked out all who were closer to her age than yours, but like  she said you couldn’t afford to be picky. You smiled and nodded as whatever their name was spoke, over their shoulder you spotted Benedict stood in the shadows with a bottle of wine in his hands. He pointed to the room behind him.

“I’m sorry” you cut them off mid-sentence, “if you would excuse me” you smiled walking away.

When you walked into the room you found Benedict sat on the floor in the dark. “come sit here don’t want to risk being caught” he waved you over.

You sat next to him reaching out of the bottle. “hope you got the good stuff. I need it”.

“not found your perfect match yet?” he laughed.

You nearly chocked on the drink. “god no. they were all old” you laughed. You took another swig and sighed. “she wants me to be the perfect child but I can’t be” you lent your head against the wall.

“we could run away to France” he said so seriously it shocked you.

You looked at him feeling breathless. You opened your mouth to speak, this could be the moment to tell him. tell him and run away to France and never look back. Your nerves ran out last minute. “I feel like dancing will you dance with me?”.

You jumped to your feet mentally kicking yourself for saying something so dumb. Benedict felt the last bit of hope he had die when you changed the subject so fast. He joined you standing in the middle of the room. If this is the only way he could be close to you he would take it.

You stood in front of each other, looking into his eyes.

Silently you both got into the right place. You could faintly hear the music playing from the main room. He put his hand against your back, you supressed a shiver. No one said anything while you danced.

Your eyes met his and it that moment you were breathless.

You were so close now. After a shaky breath you noticed you had stopped moving and were looking at each other now. His eyes fell down to your lips for a second before they met your eyes again.

You took a wobbly step back and exhaled. “my mama will be looking for me”.

“y/n” he stepped forward.

“she’ll go mad too, I left whatever their name was standing there” you laughed moving even more away from him. You left the room as fast as you could.

He was to shocked to follow after you. Just a few moments ago he was so close to you, touching you. He wanted to kiss, god how he wanted to kiss you and he thought maybe you wanted to kiss him as well but you walked away.

He wanted to paint. Every time he was hit with reality, he pained you, imagining you did love him back. It was a dream but he was all tied up in it. He was tied up in you.

He took a deep breath, he left the room, he left the whole building, not looking at anyone as he did. He wanted nothing more than to see you again but you would probably be with someone else, maybe evening falling in love.

It hurt to leave Benedict alone. But you were reading to much into things. He didn’t want to kiss you, why would he. You had just made him uncomfortable. You were battling with yourself when you saw Benedict walked through the main room to the doors.

The rest of the room seemed to disappear. You could only see him walking away from where you left him. Had you made him that uncomfortable he had to leave, he didn’t even say goodbye. You wanted to run after him and admit everything, give him your hand, heart, give him anything he asked. He just had to ask you.

“stay here” you mother hissed down your neck.

“I need to go” you muttered eyes locked with the door Benedict had walked through.

“No. you need to stay here and get a match” she snapped spinning you around so you were facing her. “Do you think you can just keep doing what you’re doing? Spend your day and night doing your ridiculous painting like that will get you anywhere”.

You were speechless. You knew no one took your art seriously but it hadn’t been said to your face. you had spent years with your back to a door keeping the truth out. “I don’t care” you started walking away.

“y/n” you didn’t listen as your mother called your name.

You didn’t care that people were looking from her to you.  

You only cared about Benedict.

Benedict knew he was in for it when the got home and his mother saw his dress shirt was covered in paint, but right now he felt calm. You were in front of him, well the painting version of you was. He was almost done and soon this version of you would be gone too.

Apart of him hoped that his feelings would go too. It would make things easier if they did but who would he be if he didn’t love you. He had loved you for so long it was buried into his bones.

You knew Benedict like you knew yourself, you were so like sometimes it felt like your souls were one but they had be halved to make two people.

He would be in this flat painting you hoped he was waiting for you. you had enough of being scared and keeping everything locked up, you would tell him how you felt and face whatever followed. Once you reached the building you ran up the stairs as fast as you could, hating past you and Benedict for getting rooms on the top floor.

You nearly tripped up multiple times catching yourself last minute every time. You were gasping for breath once you reached the top. When you could breathe again you ran down the hall, all the rooms you passed were filled with laugher and music. How you wished you were apart it.

You stopped in front of his door. You put your hand against the wood and listened. You could hear him muttering under his breath, a brush quietly working away. You smiled at the picture in your head, maybe you’d paint it one day of all the things you could pictured this one was the clearest.

“Benedict I shouldn’t-“ you started as soon as you entered the room but stopped when you saw him.

You were right, he was painting you just didn’t think he would be painting, you.

Benedict dropped the paint brush to the floor. He looked from you to you, mouth open wide. “I can explain”.

You still stood in the doorway holding the  door open. Mouth wide open. He came closer guiding you into the room so he could shut the door. “I don’t understand” you murmured. You looked to his worried face. “why are you painting me?”.

He helped you sit in your usual spot.

He took a deep breath reaching for your hand, you let him take it. relief washed through him. “its simple” he said looking into your eyes.

“is it” you breathed.

“I love you”

You mouth fell open again as you goggled at him. “you love me?”.

“I do and I understand if-“ he looked away from you so he wouldn’t have to face your rejection. But he was interrupted when you wrapped your arms around his neck. You both fell to the floor in a heap.

You kissed him hard on the lips, putting all your hopes into one kiss. You pulled back and looked down at him. “I love you too” you smiled feeling so much joy.

He didn’t say anything only kiss you again. his hands travelled up your back to your neck. You stayed there kissing him until it felt like your lungs were burning. You gasped, “you wouldn’t believe how long I wanted to do that” he laughed.

You traced his cheek bone, “probably as long I have”.

He smiled and it felt like the sun was risen. “will you ever stopped wanting too?”

“never” you whisper before you kissed him again and again and again, and you would until time stopped.

[thedistantdusk]

Thanks to @jenoramaca @gryffindorhealer and @secretkeeper13 for the quick beta work!

A gift for my beloved @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey.

CW: Language and domestic fluff

______

Trying

From the second he walks through the door, Harry can sense that something’s changed. It takes him thirty minutes to suss out why.

In retrospect, the smells coming from the kitchen probably tipped him off. Or maybe it was Ginny’s distracted hum, followed by the tinkling of plates and cutlery. Perhaps it was the fact that she prepared a full dinner, long before he even got home.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t worry about it too much as he greets her with a kiss, his hands cupping her chin. When he sits across from her at the table, there’s something furtive and curious lurking behind her eyes, but their meal is so peppered with normalcy that he doesn’t bring it up. They banter and laugh about Luna and Robards and wonder what they’ll bring to the Burrow on Sunday.

But when they’ve reached the stage of chasing stray noodles around their plates, Ginny finally clears her throat… and just like that, the nearly imperceptible shift he’d sensed earlier turns into something very perceptible, indeed. “Can I erm. Talk to you about something?”

He pauses, mid-bite, and takes her in. Her lip’s worried between her teeth, her hands fidgeting. Even her hair, normally strewn about her shoulders or parted to the side with a sort of effortless grace, is tied back and resting low at the base of her neck.

Ginny’s not normally this… serious. And he’d be lying to say it didn’t frighten him.

So he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Who died?”

There’s a half-second pause in which his chest clenches, his stomach churns. Could it be Molly? Or Arthur? George hasn’t been great either, not that—

But Ginny just reels back, confused… and it’s not until then that Harry realizes he’s really, really misread something.

“I… w-what?” she stammers, brow furrowing. She peers at him for a pained moment before her face relaxes into a look of understanding. “Oh. Oh! For fuck’s sake,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. “I guess I’m thicker than usual, should’ve known you’d read it that way.”

Harry snorts. “Erm… darling, as many things as I legitimately don’t understand, I’m fairly sure this one isn’t on me.”

Ginny ignores this. “Did you seriously think that something dreadful happened and I’d just spring that on you in the middle of your bolognese?” Her lips twitch into a smirk. “Here’s some pasta. By the way, a fire burned a puppy orphanage to the ground. Could you pass the salt?”

He gives her a plain stare. Nice try. Years ago, he might’ve taken the bait and chased her down that rabbit hole. They might’ve had an hour-long, spirited debate on the existence of puppy-specific orphanages. But after three years of marriage, he knows better.

And she knows he knows.

Ginny finally draws a resigned breath. “No,” she says slowly. “No one died, ok? Or is even… I don’t know, sick or infirmed or threatened.” She waves her hand and continues babbling. “Last I checked, even Muriel’s still going strong, somehow. I’m jealous of that, you know— being old enough to just say whatever the fuck you’d like and have no one question it because—”

“—Ginny,” he cuts across on an exasperated sigh. “As chuffed as I am to chat about Muriel all night, I’d really like to know what’s bothering you. Please?”

There’s another pause as she bites her lip. Then, in one swift motion, she attempts to rise to her feet and push her chair in on her way over to him.

But somewhere along the way, something gets crossed— and Harry watches in bewildered horror as her foot catches on the leg of the chair. Then, right in front of his eyes, she lets out a startled gasp, her arms flailing, before she lands with a thump.

He’s out of his seat and on the floor beside her before he even realizes she’s cried out in pain and surprise. “Are you ok?” he demands, pushing her jeans up around her ankle… her tricky ankle, the one she hurt rather badly at the playoffs last month. Hm. It's a bit red.

Honestly, she hasn’t been this clumsy since she was 10 years old and near a butter dish. This does nothing to alleviate his fears that there’s something Very Wrong.”

“It’s not even my ankle that hurts,” Ginny grits, pushing up on her palms. “Wait— Harry, what are you—”

“Need to ask Gwenog,” he says urgently, running to the other side of the table for his wand. “She said that if anything happens to your ankle to tell her straight away, remember? Better safe than—”

She scoffs. “Seriously, Harry, I’m fine! I didn’t even land on my—”

He arches an eyebrow. “Have you suddenly forgotten the Puddlemere match? When your ankle broke clean through the skin?” Even now, the memory makes him shudder. “You heard Gwenog— without magic, you might not have walked again.”

“But there was magic,” she says, almost pleading. “And seriously, I’m fine!”

Harry finds he has limited patience for her heroics, though, while she’s sprawled out on the floor and nursing a bruise on her arse. “Gwenog’s instructions were quite clear,” he says firmly. “Having a pro athlete as a wife is a group task. It’s taxing on your body. I’ve got to make sure there’s enough of you left to enjoy our lives.”

Ginny clears her throat. “Erm… but what if you… haven’t actually got a pro athlete as a wife. Technically speaking.”

Harry swallows. He’s sure he’s heard her wrong. “What?”

With a wince, she adjusts herself against the wall. “I’m sorry… this isn’t how I’d planned to tell you. I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

Normally, Harry might press a bit harder. Normally he’d demand answers— and now. But as he peers at her on the floor, there’s something soft and uncertain behind her eyes… something timid. So he decides to do something he knows he’s good at— something she doesn’t let many other people do: take care of her.

With a sigh, he scoops her from the floor and brings her to the sofa. Then he props her against the pillows, putting her legs across his lap.

And he waits.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, peering at her downcast face, before she finally says it in a rush.

“Iwanttohaveababy.”

It comes on a whisper. A breathed admission. He knows, just from her expression, that she’s never said it aloud.

But he must have misunderstood. There’s no way he’s not projecting, inserting the reality he wants instead. “Could you… could you repeat that?” he manages, his voice gruff and shaken.

Ginny just sits up straighter; her cheeks as red as her hair. “I want to have a baby,” she repeats, the confidence building with every word.

Oh. Looks like he was right after all.

Harry blinks at the carpet, his head spinning, mortified with the tears that have sprung, unbidden, to the corners of his eyes.

A baby. Their baby. A smile plays at his lips as he stares at her ankle in distracted bliss. He’s been ready for ages… longer than anyone he knows. It’s hard to remember a time when he didn’t want a family with her. When he didn’t want to watch her grow and change. To become more beautiful with every passing day until…

He swallows back another round of tears; he’d never forgive himself if he forced this… if he swayed her, in any way, despite what he wants so badly it squeezes his insides.

“But what about quidditch?” His voice cracks; he clears his throat to cover it. “Honestly Ginny, I’ll wait, as long as you’d like. We’re young. Think of what you’d deal with, loads of assumptions and press and comments.”

She turns to him with an arched brow. “And since when have I ever cared about comments? Since when have you cared about comments?”

He spreads his palms in resignation; it was a particularly weak argument. “I know. I just… don’t want to make your life more difficult.”

“Well...” She draws a deep breath and peers down at her nails. “I’ve erm. Actually quit the Harpies, all by myself.” Her cheeks begin to redden again. “I’ve already sent the owl and everything. Resigned. No intent to return next season.”

Oh.

That’s what she meant, then, about not being married to a professional athlete. Harry blinks a few more times as she plows through an explanation that could honestly be something from a dream.

“I’ve… I’ve just been thinking about it. A lot,” she adds, focus returning to her cuticles. “The Harpies are out for the rest of the season— that fucking Puddlemere match and that bullshit ref.” She glares at the pillow to her right. “Nothing like blind favoritism. Fucking prick should’ve been fired!”

All Harry can manage is a feeble chuckle, his hand moving to caress her knee. This time, he can’t bring himself to stop her spiral.

“Maybe it’s not just that match, though,” she admits, rubbing her ankle. “It’s also just… so much bloody work. I’ve been at it three whole seasons, you know? I’m a bit tired of missing birthdays. And family events. And only dreaming of bludgers and snitches. And attending the mandatory press interviews to avoid getting fined, and then giving polite answers to personal questions when I really just want to hex them, and—”

Harry laughs. “I think Sandra Richardson might disagree about the polite answers bit, darling.”

Ginny gives a dignified sniff and continues as if she hasn’t heard him. “Annnyway,” she says, toying with a piece of lint. “I… feel like I’m ready to move on. So.” Her face splits into a grin as she gestures to the corridor. “On with it.”

He clears his throat. “As much as I’d love to take you up on that, I’m confused about how this relates to quitting your job. You could’ve kept playing. Or—”

“—Why is it so hard to believe this is something I want?”

There’s a beat. He doesn’t have a good answer.

“What if I wanted to quit before I got pregnant?” she continues, her tone growing more demanding. “What if I was done with playing, regardless — and genuinely wanted to have children? Your children.”

She lets out an incredulous laugh, tossing her hands in the air. “I have to say, Harry, this feels an awful lot like you’re doubting what I actually want to fit a narrative of what you think I want.” Her eyes narrow again. “Is that really respecting my wishes?”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. He’d never thought about it like that before… how it might be insulting, really, to question what she’s ready for. He laces their fingers together, feeling properly chastened. “I’m sorry. I never meant to… suggest you don’t know what you want. Or something.”

He hears the timid smile in her voice as she squeezes his hand back. “Do you still want a baby, then?” she asks. “Or are you just in it for the practice?”

A smile creeps across his face, his eyes still focused on her hands. “I… think you know the answer to that one.”

“Well, I’m not sure I do,” Ginny says flatly. “Because I just told someone who wants two million babies that I’m ready to carry his first child. Forgive me if I expected a bit more excited fanfare than acting like I drowned your kitten.”

“What’s with you and baby animals today?” he murmurs, inching her pant leg a bit higher.

“Wonder why I’ve got babies on the brain,” she quips, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe because I want one.”

Harry releases a resigned sigh. She’s clearly done playing. “Honestly…” He bites his lip. “If you’re sure that’s what you want, I’m obviously on board. Obviously.” His eyes flit to hers. “I just… I don’t want to be responsible for something you end up regretting.”

It’s the truth of the matter, really; the thing that tugs at him the hardest. The fear he’d ever burden her… the worry he’d ever make her less than happy.

Ginny gives him a small smile, her hand coming to cup his jaw. “I’m going to take that as a weird, sad Harry thing instead of an attempt to remove my womanly agency.” She narrows her eyes. “But that’s your final warning.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet in a split-second, gathering her into his arms with the stupidest grin he’s ever worn. Trying. Is that what they call this? Are they actually properly trying now?

“Get used to this,” she says as he strides into the bedroom. “Because once you knock me up— on purpose, mind— I’m going to request a lot more transportation.”

“I think I can live with that,” Harry murmurs against her lips, draping her across the bed.

And to avoid a well-deserved slap, he doesn’t say the final bit: As long as you can live with me.

[inotanzen]

May I request an InoTanZen drabble of the three talking about their fears? Or having to brave a closet full of spiders and then calming each other down afterwards? (I love your writing by the way! I'm excited to read your drabbles!)

thank you for the request and i'm so happy you love my writing ahh !! i chose the first one, i hope you like what i came up with and the direction i went in!

— ♡ —

modern au • sfw, hurt-comfort • 1k words

— ♡ —

The thick veil of night that settles over Tanjirou's small, one bedroom apartment is borderline suffocating when he's by himself.

Shadows behind his dresser look too deep, the ones on his ceiling make the room feel too small, and he can’t bring himself to go into the kitchen once the sun goes down. It's not necessarily the look of darkness itself that bothers him so much as the feeling it gives him...

It had gotten worse since he moved out a few months ago after graduating high school. He used to avoid it by sneaking into Nezuko's room when he knew she was already asleep and camping out on her trundle bed until he drifted off to the sound of her breathing, or on the floor next to Takeo and Shigeru's bunk bed because they kept a nightlight for most of their childhood, but he lives on his own now- and his favorite way to avoid it is by having nights like tonight.

“Inosuke, can you hand me the chi- that's my foot, you asshole!" Zenitsu shouts and Tanjirou has to stifle a laugh to shush him.

“Guys, please, you’ll wake the neighbors-"

“Your foot shouldn't have been in my way then!" Inosuke interrupts matter-of-factly as he settles into his spot on the couch to Tanjirou's left, nearly sitting on Zenitsu's feet in the process before throwing over the bag of chips. Zenitsu catches them from where he’s leaning into Tanjirou's right side, his legs draped over the brunette's lap and into Inosuke's space that they all know he only pretends to care about by projecting a false bravado, his true feelings showing in the one arm he drapes behind Tanjirou’s shoulders and the other hand he places on Zenitsu’s shin once he’s comfortable.

They were setting up to have a movie marathon, one favorite from each of them, with a blanket pulled over Tanjirou’s laptop and the top of their heads. It was Tanjirou’s favorite way to spend time with them both, and he didn’t need to say it either; they knew.

Tonight felt different though, they could tell their boyfriend needed them more than usual. It had been like this for a few weeks now, pretty much ever since he’d moved into his new place Tanjirou had wanted either or both of them over whenever they weren’t working. It was because of this that both men made sure to put Tanjirou in the middle and pick lighthearted movies they knew would make him laugh, with Inosuke choosing “Thor” and Zenitsu choosing “You’ve Got Mail”.

Tanjirou’s pick obviously gets to go first though as “Howl’s Moving Castle” starts up on the screen and Tanjirou feels them settle around him into a pile of warm, comforting limbs.

They’d shared their fears with each other a long time ago, exchanged in hushed tones punctuated with comforting touches and warm embraces, so Inosuke and Zenitsu knew why Tanjirou had always been a fan of sleepovers, but it had taken them a while to find out.

Before they started dating in second year, all the way back to when they’d met in middle school, Tanjirou would beg to have a sleepover at any of their houses for the weekend. He never cared whose and would always make sure they were diligent with homework and cleaning up after themselves so none of their parents would ever have a reason to say no.

It wasn’t until they started dating though that either of them thought to ask him why.

Tanjirou had tried to hold it together but eventually broke down into silent tears as he explained he’d had a fear of being alone ever since he was a kid and his father died suddenly from illness- especially since he began having recurring nightmares afterwards of his entire family disappearing, falling ill, or worse, being killed.

The bright, shining boy they knew so well had never looked so small. Inosuke had grabbed his hand in a surprisingly gentle touch and pulled Tanjirou to straddle his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around the thinner boy’s waist while Zenitsu pressed against Tanjirou’s back from behind, arms coming around his shoulders, as both of them buried their faces in his hair... and he had let them.

He knew by then that, out of everyone in the world, they understood him, because they had the same fear.

Inosuke had his mom, Zenitsu had his grandfather, but at least now they had each other too, and have stayed that way ever since.

The movie is going for about thirty minutes when Tanjirou pauses it out of nowhere, his hand staying on the keyboard for a moment as he stares ahead. Zenitsu looks at him, puzzled. Inosuke had been only half paying attention, instead getting momentarily distracted with a loose thread on the elastic of Zenitsu’s sweatpants, but he still shouts indignantly regardless.

“Hey! What’s the bright idea? Didn’t you wa-”

“Move in with me.”

Inosuke goes quiet with the interruption and Tanjirou quickly squeaks out a “Please!” as he glances between them in a panic, not able to tell what they’re thinking yet.

“What kind of stupid question-!” Inosuke starts, looking at Tanjirou like he’d grown a second head.

“You really couldn’t have asked us that before you signed a six month lease for a place that could barely fit you and me, let alone him as well!” Zenitsu monotones, and Tanjirou has to mentally jump back and forth between the feeling of his tone and the meaning of his words but it just makes him laugh in relief even as Zenitsu starts playfully shaking him back and forth while shouting curses in his ear.

It only makes him laugh more when Inosuke yells at Zenitsu indignantly that he’s being shaken too before tackling him to the floor, nearly breaking Tanjirou’s laptop in the process. 

Tanjirou had realized sitting there, both of them wrapped around him, that he might never let them leave and now watching them wrestle playfully on the floor as Zenitsu cackles in pseudo-protest from the raspberries Inosuke blows into his neck, he knows that for sure.

[starlightrows]

8 — The Healer

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

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Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: NSFW, Blood and injury, medical, unintentional self inflicted harm, mention of disordered eating (Not graphic, but warnings still apply), oral sex (f receiving)

Summary: You get the chance to start working on a long awaited project, and get in over your head.

A few days later your breakfast with Talece and Mira is interrupted by the head of one of the construction and renovation crews to let you know that the sunless garden space is complete.

You’re so excited you can hardly finish your meal. You find yourself wanting to sprint down the halls to see the room. It takes so much self restraint to compose yourself and walk beside the rather stoic and unbothered construction lead down to the room.

Before the renovation it must have been either a ballroom or a massive storage space. Either way it was not well maintained. It was full of piles and piles of junk that climbed all the way to the ceiling, the floors and the walls were damaged, and it was unusable.

It had been your idea to gut the room and turn it into something usable and unique. You loved having a garden on your homeworld, and since nothing grows on Tatooine due to the excessive heat from the suns and the lack of fertile soil, this seemed like the perfect use for the room.

Boba didn’t have much of an opinion on it either way when you initially pitched him the idea. In all honesty, he was just happy to see how happy it made you. He was quite impressed by your ingenuity creating this room. Artificial sun and moon lighting in real time with the seasons, water reclaimer and distributor so that whatever plant you choose can be watered without wasting it, and holo panels covering the walls to make the entire space look like an enclosed greenhouse.

And when you finally get to look at it, it’s perfect. Rows of raised garden beds, the lighting and holo panels look so real you’re almost sure they misunderstood your directions and just built out a patio instead.

“If there’s anything we missed or not up to your standard let us know, my lady” the foreman tells you

“No no, this is absolutely perfect” you can’t contain the smile on your face “Thank you! Thank you so much, it’s wonderful”

The foreman has to hold back a laugh, you’re practically vibrating, you're so elated. In all his years of doing large scale projects like this, he’s never had a client seem so appreciative.

“I’ll leave you to it my lady” The foreman politely exits the room, leaving you to wander around and admire their handiwork.

As you walk you begin taking notes on your data pad, for what plants and flowers you want to put in which planter boxes. It’ll be a tall order to get all the seeds and plant bulbs delivered here, but once they’re planted and growing, this will be a sight to behold!

You land up spending the entire day in the garden, labeling planter boxes with bits of flimsy tacked on the sides. Talece brought down a tray of food and insisted you eat something, but she also took the time to let you gush about the vegetables you planned to grow and how beautiful the room will be when things begin to bloom.

When you’re too exhausted to stand up straight any longer you make the long trek through the palace back to your room. Only to lay down on the bed with your data pad to begin placing the orders for soil, seeds, bulbs, labels, and plant pots. When you finally power off the data pad, you’re so happy. You can’t wait for Boba to be home so you can show him how amazing it all is.

You hear from Boba a couple days later, he is finally returning to Tatooine, and is “very excited” to see your new projects. He can’t help but smile picturing you squealing with delight as you show him all of your little plants and paintings.

On the same day, your soil and seeds finally arrive at the palace. You almost feel bad for having guards and some of the stronger looking servants help you drag bags of soil down to the garden. You feel less bad because you’ve got your sleeves rolled up to do the heavy lifting too.

Once everything is down there though, you release them to go back to their everyday duties. You get into a rhythm. Slice the seam off a soil bag. Dump into a planter box. Distribute evenly, and rake to till it. Move on to the next planter box.

Hours and hours and hours of this pass. You couldn’t be happier. It reminds you of summers back on your home planet, planting the seeds that would eventually become your fall crops. That would later become your fall meals. Soups and stews thickened with vegetables, roasted root and tubers to go with roasted meat, and gourds to be cooked down into mush to be put into pastries. It’s too hot to have such a need for hearty hot foods like that here on Tatooine. But you still crave them from time to time. It’s one of the only things you miss about your previous home.

As you’re slicing open a bag of soil, thinking about soup, you put in just a little too much force and swipe the blade farther than you expected. At first you don’t really feel it. But then you see the colorful bloom of fresh blood staining your sleeve. You’re stunned for a moment looking at it.

Your hands are covered with dirt. Mind over matter you resist the urge to clamp your dirty hand down over the bloody wound. Instead you calmly stand up and go back to your room. Staring straight ahead, not really able to look at it at the moment.

You get back to your room and know without looking that it is still bleeding but not that bad. I’ve had worse. I’ve had worse. I’ve had worse. You recite to yourself. You start the facet in the fresher and clean your hands, some of the blood has dribbled down your arm into your hand. You scrub it away quickly so you can peel off the shirt.

You take a deep breath and look in the mirror. It’s bloody. But not bad. You figure if you can clean it well and wrap it tightly it’ll be fine. You decide you’re done for today and it might be best if you just clean it in the shower. Perhaps not your best decision, but people make poor choices when they’re in shock.

Eventually you are clean, dry, dressed, and have the wound wrapped in a clean bandage. The shock has finally worn off, leaving you feeling exhausted and in quite a bit of pain. You know you’ve probably pushed yourself a bit too far today, and not just because you got hurt. You didn’t remember to take breaks, drink water, or eat meals at all today. A nasty habit you’re still trying to break.

Tomorrow will be better, you promise yourself. You do the responsible thing and lay down for the rest of the evening, falling asleep to an older episode of one of the shows Boba likes to watch.

In the morning, your whole body is sore and the wound hurts pretty badly. You risk taking a peek at it, the bandage is mostly soaked through but not enough to stain the bedding or your clothes… your clothes from yesterday.

You groan in frustration, blood stains are difficult to remove if you let them set. Sitting up you feel a little dizzy, chalk it up to lack of food and water plus everything that happened yesterday. Today is going to be better, you remind yourself. You start by getting out of bed and drinking a glass of water from the fresher. There you already feel a little better.

Next you search around for your dirty clothes from yesterday. Just as you thought, stained. You decide to run some water in the bathtub and let it soak with soap while you take care of the wound. It’s certainly not a pretty sight, but you muscle your way through it and get it clean once more and wrapped as best you can. It’s not perfect but it will have to do.

Just as you finish up you hear a knock at the bedroom door followed by the door opening on its own. You flinch at the sound. Usually if someone in the palace needs your help they will knock but wait for you to bid them entry or open the door yourself. This can only mean one thing.

“Cyare?” It’s Boba! You turn quickly and dash out of the fresher, leaving the medical supplies on the counter.

“Boba!” You exclaim running into his waiting arms. He snatches you up in a bracing hug and laughs at your enthusiasm.

“I tried to com you last night to tell you I would be home in the morning but you didn’t answer. I figured you were asleep” He explains releasing you from the hug and pressing a kiss to you cheek.

“Oh yeah, I was really tired yesterday. I fell asleep with the holo on” you tell him with a bit of an embarrassed heat creeping up into your cheeks.

“You needed rest, can’t be blamed for that my dear” he assures you, tilting your face up to him to give you a proper kiss on the lips. The kiss deepens, both of you finding that you can’t seem to pull away.

“Stars I missed you” you say quietly when you finally have to break for fresh air

“I missed you too cyare. Let me clean up a bit and we can have some breakfast together” he lets you go completely now. You smile and nod happily. He kisses you one more time, and moves past you to go into the fresher while you go find clothes to wear for the day.

Suddenly Boba is calling your name from the fresher. Your heart fills with dread at the thought of what he’s just seen in there.

“What the hell happened in here? Are you alright?” He begins scanning you up and down with his eyes, zeroing in on the bandage on your arm.

“It’s okay! I’m okay” you assure him, trying to push past and clear away the medical supplies from the counter

He places his hands on his shoulders and spins you around to face him, carefully saying your name again with a warning air about him. His hands stay on your shoulders and he looks you in the eye when he asks again. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing really, I cut myself opening a bag of soil yesterday” you explain

He sighs and shakes his head “And what did the healer say?”

“I… I didn’t see a healer” you admit sheepishly

“What? Why not?” He’s appalled and a little frustrated

“I didn’t think it was necessary, I’ve had worse before” you realize his shock and frustration is not unfounded, any rational person probably would have spoken to a healer about this.

“Had worse? And you handled it yourself? Cyare, that is a serious injury” He says, as if repeating it would get you to understand the severity of the situation.

“Boba… I wasn’t welcome to visit the healer on my homeworld. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask for help” Suddenly you feel guilty and a little defensive “I don’t… I don’t know how to do that when I’m in trouble. I didn’t even think about it”

Then he understands. Of course you wouldn’t think to ask for help when you hurt yourself. Because you’ve been conditioned to think you would not get it if you asked. He has to remind himself that he too used to struggle with asking for assistance, and it’s something that he needs to be understanding about in this relationship.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry cyare, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you” he apologizes “I was just worried when I saw the bloody clothing and used medical supplies. I know you did your best with what you had at the moment. But now you’re not in danger, and we have the resources to have a healer that will actually help you. May I call someone to come look at it?”

You nod in acceptance and let him guide you back out into the main living space in your quarters. He sits you down in a chair, and asks that you just sit and relax for a couple minutes while he steps outside to give instructions to a guard or staff member.

He instructs a guard to go into Mos Eisley and bring back a healer, and a second guard to instruct the kitchen staff to bring a pitcher of hot water as well as breakfast. A few moments later there’s a gentle knock at the door. Boba calls for them to enter, and Mira comes forward bringing the pitcher of water and a tray laden with tea, toast, and eggs cooked the way you like them. She has a look of horror on her face as she sees Boba tending to your injured arm, and you cringe thinking back to your conversation with her the other day.

But Boba doesn’t seem to notice at all, “Thank you Mira, we might need more water if the healer asks for it later”

She gives a shaky curtsy and small voiced “Of course, my lord. My lady” before quickly leaving the room.

“So” Boba gives you a look “Cut yourself opening a bag of soil aye? Does that mean your fancy garden is finished?”

“Yes” you smile a little shyly, knowing that if he gets you talking about it you won’t shut up for the next half an hour at least

“Go on then, tell me everything” he encourages you, because more than anything, he missed hearing you gush about things you care about while he was traveling.

As you eat your breakfast you tell him about your new painting studio and the garden and all the plants you’ve ordered. Which things have arrived, which things you’re still waiting for. You tell him the truth about yesterday, that you had been at it for hours and your hand just slipped when you hurt yourself.

“Accidents happen cyare” he reminds you “I just want you to be more careful”

Just then there is another knock at the door, Boba calls for them to enter. The guard he sent into town has returned with the healer, and you’re surprised to see that you recognize him.

“It’s you, hello again” you greet him.

The man looks a little stunned. When you had asked him to make a remedy for chemical burn scars, you had said it was for your partner, not the kriffing king!

“Y-yes… nice to see you again… um… What seems to be the problem?” he asks, struggling to get his bearings.

Boba takes the liberty of explaining your injury to the healer, and invites him to come take his place so he can examine the wound and assess if it needs further treatment. While the healer works Boba excuses himself to remove his armor and get cleaned up in a different room of the palace. But he leaves two guards to watch over you. When Boba’s gone the healer looks up at you.

“You didn’t tell me your partner was the kriffing king” he hisses as he unwraps the bandage

“That was intentional” you explain “I can’t just go broadcasting to the entire city what my business is”

“Yeah but you might have mentioned it” he grumbles “would have charged you more”

He takes a look at your wound and takes on a look of concentration and disappointment

“What?” you ask with a touch of worry in your voice

“This needs stitches and bacta. You should have come to me or another healer immediately” he chastises you

“Hey, I did my best okay. And if you’re going to get mouthy can I at least know your name so I know who to curse in my mind when you stitch me up?” You bite back

“Darius” he replies “And you can curse me all you like, but you’ll thank me later when this heals without an ugly scar”

“Fine” you relent and let him get to work recleaning and stitching up the wound.

By the time Boba returns Darius has the wound rewrapped and is writing out instructions to keep it clean on a spare bit of flimsi. Darius gets markedly more tense when Boba is in the room, clearly he’s more intimidated by Boba than he is by you. He hands you the piece of flimsi and reminds you to be more careful next time before hastily departing the room with guards escorting him. Boba sends the breakfast tray out as well, finally giving you both some privacy.

“Now then, I believe I promised you a reward last we spoke” he leans forward to kiss the sensitive spot just behind your ear.

You hum in contentment as he continues kissing down your neck.

“Have you been a good girl while I’ve been gone?” he purrs

“Yes” you say with a little gasp and he sucks a particularly pleasant spot

“Go lay down for me” he pulls away from your neck and nods his head towards the bed. You get up quickly and toss the pillows up to the head of the bed and lay back.

He crawls up the bed slowly, pushing your legs apart at the knees dipping down to start a trail of kisses leading up and over your thigh. He breezes right past your needy pussy and instead continues kissing over your hips, and across to your tummy.

“You were so good for me on the com” he murmurs, dragging his nose across your skin, down from your belly button to top of your mound. He’s looking up at your pretty face, wanting to see every expression cross it.

Without blinking an eye, pushes his tongue between your lips and licks a broad stripe up, already tasting your arousal. He continues, slowly stroking you with his tongue up and down, up and down, up and down.

You can’t help it, you start squirming. It feels amazing, but his slow pace is driving you wild. Normally Boba might be a little mean and make you stay still, but it’s been too long and he’s loving watching you writhe in pleasure.

He maintains his long strokes but begins increasing his speed. Finally working an audible moan out of your chest. He switches tactic and pauses mid stroke, and begins fluttering his tongue just barely inside your dripping hole.

“Fuck!” You whimper trying to force yourself not to buck your hips into his mouth.

He knows you’re getting close and he knows just what to get you to the finish line, he makes one more broad stroke with his tongue and stops at the top of his path and latches onto your clit. Suckling and circling the swollen bud with his talented tongue.

Your whole body tensed with such force that you’re sure you might have pulled a muscle and moan in ecstasy as you cum on his face. Boba doesn’t stop, he continues to lap up your release all the way through your orgasm. When you’re finally laying back boneless with your eyes closed, breathing heavily he pulls away kissing back up your belly with feather light pressure until he’s hovering over you, kissing your neck and waiting for you to feel ready to open your eyes again.

Eventually you do open your eyes again, and place your hand on the back of his head to guide him away from your neck. He follows your direction and comes back down to kiss your lips.

“That was one hell of a reward” you say with a breathy laugh

“What can I say? I’m a man of my word” he shrugs laying down beside you

“You certainly are” you smile “I’m really glad you’re back”

“You really did miss me” he chuckles

“Of course I did! I love getting to talk to you about the garden and my painting and my projects. And I really missed getting to relax with you at night. And I love watching your weird holo dramas and hearing about your clients and having dinner with you. I just love… you” you find yourself admitting

He reached out, cradling your face in his hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb “I love you too cyare. I missed you dearly while I was gone. Thought about you every morning when I woke up and every night before I went to sleep”

Your heart soars hearing him say that. It’s easy to fall in love. Day in and day out, it just happens. It’s hard to admit you’re in love. You have to find the words to explain to someone why they are the most important person in your life and they give you unending joy even when you’re not right next to them. But with Boba it’s easy. It’s easy to be in love and it’s easy to say it.

“I love you”

Tag List: @cannedsoupsucks​ @otterly-fey​ @paige6768​  @littledragonlady​ @star-hoes​ @aeryntheofficial​ @xx-small-town-witch-xx​ @lokigirlszendaya​ @ladysongmaster​ @2clones-1kamino​ @cagrame​ @ashbyrhymer​ @adancedivasmom​ @4rosydreams​ @heybub​ @thefact0rygirl​ @elinedjarin

[iamdeku]

Needy: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Me? Making a fic title that isn’t based off a song somehow? Seems unlikely. 

Warnings: school stress. makin’ out. not proofread.

For @sems-diarie

You hated your classmate Bakugou Katsuki with a passion. He was arrogant, brash, and extremely loud. He was rude to you and he was rude to everybody else and he was completely convinced he was the greatest thing to ever exist. There was really only one thing you hated more than Bakugou.

Being teamed up with him for your class’s newest group project.

You had pleaded and begged with Aizawa to let you pair up with literally anyone else, but he was unyielding. All of his pairings were final, and you and Bakugou were no exception. You were just going to have to learn how to work with him, your grades be damned, apparently.

“Alright, listen up,” you said, taking your seat next to Bakugou the day after your group pairings had been announced. “You are not going to mess up my grades. If anyone is going to mess up my grades it’s going to be me. I don’t think you’re an idiot. I know you’re an idiot. So just sit down, shut up, and follow my lead.”

You were perhaps slightly harsher than necessary, even for a guy like Bakugou. In your defense though, you’d had a truly garbage day. Your coffee machine had broken, leaving you with no caffeine this morning. It was an expensive coffee machine too, and you weren’t sure when you would be able to buy a new one. You had spent half of your morning looking for the manual to the coffee machine in the hopes that Momo could just create another one for you, and by the time you realized what time it was you had no opportunity to do anything but toss your clothes on before heading to class. On your way to class, it had rained, soaking you through because you had forgotten your umbrella and provoking Mineta to make a comment on the clinginess of your wet uniform. You had gotten a worse grade than you were expecting on your last test, you had tripped and spilled all of your lunch across the floor, and now here you were, having to sit next to your assigned group partner, hair still damp and mood still very, very bad.

“Hey, I don’t know who you think you are extra, but I’m no idiot. If you think we’re not beating everybody else in this class, then you’re wrong. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but Bakugou Katsuki never loses.”

You had known the great Bakugou Katsuki for the last 3 years of yours and his UA career, and now, in your final year, you were pretty confident that you still knew him. You knew him as a guy who had definitely lost before in the past. There was no particular shame in that, but you couldn’t afford to lose this time, especially not on Katsuki’s account.

“You better be right about that, pretty boy, because this grade is important to me. If we get a bad grade on this assignment it’s going to throw off my entire average, which I really can’t afford right now. Speaking of which, we really don’t have the time for all this dilly-dallying. Let’s get to work, king explosion murder,” you mocked.

To your surprise, the ever confident Bakugou turned bright red at the old nickname.

“Whatever. Let’s just get to work. We’re going to have to trade contact information so we can figure out a time to meet up. Plus I don’t trust you not to screw this up without my advice.”

You rolled your eyes. The nerve of this boy. The sheer gall.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” You reached into your soggy backpack and pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, scribbling down your phone number.

“We should just be able to meet up in one of the dorm’s common areas. The trick will be finding a time when everyone else isn’t working there.”

You sighed, knowing your classmates wouldn’t make the scheduling of this easy. Even ignoring the fact that you might have to deal with their noise and obnoxious planning, Bakugou’s sleep schedule was another barrier to your project design. He went to bed early enough to severely limit your time for working on the group project. You honestly didn’t know when he found the time for homework. If you didn’t do yours immediately it probably wouldn’t get done until the very last minute.

“We can just study in our rooms. It will be quieter there.” Bakugou shrugged.

You froze at his casual words. Study in your rooms? As in study in his room? Nobody had ever been invited into Bakugou’s room. Not his best friend Kirishima. Not his childhood rival Midoriya. Not even that girl from the gen-ed course he’d dated when you were second years. Nobody.

“Uh…are you sure?”

“Yeah. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re making a weird face, idiot.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. I was just thinking. Yeah, we can just study in our rooms. Just text me before randomly showing up, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Aizawa was starting up class, causing you both to shut up. You felt a part of you get very excited that you might be about to see Bakugou’s room. There was something sort of forbidden to the feeling, fluttering around in your chest like a stupid flock of butterflies or something. You were sure it was just the appeal of his room, the secrecy of it all. You loved knowing other people’s secrets. That must have been what it was.

As it turned out though, your hopes and dreams were all in vain. Bakugou texted you to ask about studying, not in his room, but your room. You complied of course. As much as you wanted to see the inside of his mysterious room, you respected his privacy. After all, rooms were sacred. Your room was a deeply personal expression of yourself, and you weren’t about to pry into his space. It wouldn’t get you a better grade anyway, seeing as your project wasn’t on the inside of Bakugou’s room.

You had cleaned up your room earlier in preparation for this moment, anticipating that sooner or later Bakugou would want to study in your room even if you had briefly entertained hopes that he would want to study in his. Your normally messy desk was cleared off, your bed was made and your dirty laundry was all in the basket where it belonged. If you hadn’t cleaned the room yourself you would probably think that you didn’t live here.

Bakugou walked into the room with all the posturing of royalty, shoulders thrown back confidently as he eyed your room. He sniffed, passing whatever final judgement he would, and proceeded to sit down at your desk.

“Nice room, nerd. Cleaner than I thought it would be.”

You grew uncomfortably warm at the truth of his accusation, feeling specifically called out. Could he possibly have heard you vacuuming earlier? It didn’t matter. You didn’t care about his opinion.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just get to work, shall we?”

You pulled out your notebook, taking a seat on the floor and gesturing for him to join you.

“Why are you sitting on the floor, idiot?”

“I don’t have two chairs for both of us to work at the desk, so therefore the floor is our next best option.”

“No it isn’t.” Bakugou rolled his eyes. “You have a bed, don’t you? We can just sit on your bed and that way you don’t have to break you tailbone on the floor. Unless you like sitting on the hard floor.”

You gritted your teeth, glaring up at the challenge.

You pushed off from your hand, standing so you could loom over where he sat at your desk. “Fine. Bed it is then.”

You took a seat on your bed as he stood up from your desk chair he had invited himself to sit in. You waited for him to take his spot next to you on the bed, but he hesitated. For a guy who had suggested this idea, he didn’t seem to like it very much. Your surprise wore off though when you realized that he was being…awkward. Bakugou Katsuki was being awkward.

Was it you? Had you done something to make him uncomfortable? Or had he just been shy this whole time?

You could have laughed at him, but instead you took pity. You remembered your first year, when you had been painfully awkward. Maybe Bakugou had always been like that and you had just never had occasion to notice until now.

“Go ahead,” you said, patting the bed next to you. “Take a seat. I don’t bite, and even if I did you would like it.”

You laughed a little bit at your own joke, even if Bakugou didn’t seem to think it was very funny. You did succeed in getting him to sit on the bed though, so some small victories were won. He was stiff and sat much farther away from you than necessary, but he sat nonetheless.

After hours of working together, you managed to have a rough outline for the project. It was sort of a tricky project, based around gathering knowledge and making a presentation on the hero you thought to be the best. Bakugou had insisted with surprising vehemence on making it on All Might, and you agreed with him. After all, he was the symbol of peace and had been the #1 hero for decades. Even though this was a move you would have predicted more from Midoriya, you figured if you were going to do this project you might as well do it right.

Bakugou got up to head to bed, but you stopped him before he could leave. “Hey…I didn’t know you were so into All Might.”

Bakugou blushed, nervously scratching the back of his head.

“I mean, we all love All Might, don’t we?”

“I mean, I know I do.” You laughed a little to set him at ease before revealing a little bit of yourself. “When I was a kid All Might was always my favorite hero because of his smile. I always thought that if someone were ever to come save me, I would want them to smile at me like that.”

Bakugou was silent for a moment, thinking about your words.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I was always so impressed by his strength, and the way people loved him. I always wanted to be loved like that. I wanted to make people believe that I could help them. That they could trust me.”

There was a deep sense of vulnerability to his words that made you want to know more and made you want to understand this boy you had clearly underestimated.

“Is that why you became a hero?”

He huffed, retreating back into himself.  “I became a hero to prove I was better than everybody.”

In a way, it was a yes.

“Have a goodnight, Bakugou.”

He stopped in your doorway, looking back at you with a hint of that vulnerability from earlier.

“Goodnight.”

You had been working nonstop for the past 4 days. You had your schedule set up to an unreasonable level of strictness. You would work for an hour, watch a 10 minute motivational video, then work for an hour again. The only real breaks you took were to eat and sleep, and it was starting to wear on you. You just had so much work to do, and you needed to be free this weekend for the sleepover Mina was having, but you were exhausted.

You had finally reached a breaking point tonight, and you found yourself sitting in your bed crying. You weren’t pretty crying either. It was an ugly, exhausted cry, yanked out of you by the hours of work and stress. You had fallen onto your side, curled up in bed as the sounds choked out of you, ugly things breaking you open and cracking your chest and your voice.

Because of all the stress you had been under, you had completely forgotten about your group project. You had met up with Bakugou the first couple of days, but yesterday you had begged off and reschedule for…today. Right now.

You didn’t even hear Bakugou’s polite knock on your door, the same three knock rap he had given the last few days before coming in to work on your project with you for an hour. If he thought you were ignoring him or just not there, it didn’t stop him from coming in. You didn’t notice, completely oblivious to his presence until he spoke.

“Are you hurt?”

He rushed over to your side, rolling over your body to inspect you. His hands were surprisingly gentle as they skimmed over your body, checking for injuries, gently pressing into the divots of old scars. He found no hurt on you though, and pulled back, frowning.

“What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

You sniffled loudly, shamefully wiping your arm across your face.

“I’m fine,” you reassured him, repeating it for your own benefit. “I’m fine, I’m totally fine. Everything is fine.”

“You sound like stupid Deku. Every time he’s ever told me he was fine he was lying.”

You choked out a giggle against your will. “Yeah, he does that doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does. But unlike Deku you’re not stupid. You want to explain this little episode to me?”

“I’m just…stressed.” You sighed, explaining your situation to him.

He sat back, stunned. “Well no wonder you finally broke. Nobody can work like that. You have to have fun, you idiot!”

For such a nice sentiment, he said it awfully aggressively. He almost made you burst into tears again, but he seemed to realize his mistake, quickly softening his voice again as he floundered for something to say.

“I…you…I’ve never seen you cry before,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I do it. This may come as a surprise but I’m human too, y’know.”

His hands still rested on your thighs, and you looked up at him hesitantly, breath catching in your throat. You had, of course, noticed that he was pretty before. Sharp cheek bones, harsh blond hair, bright red eyes that dug into your soul. Somehow though, he had gotten prettier over the past couple of days as you had gotten to know him, gotten to understand him better.

Before, you had thought he was arrogant. From your conversations though, you knew better. He just cared about people too much. Cared about their opinions too much, feared rejection. You offered up a little piece of yourself in exchange for everything he had admitted to you.

“Remember what I told you about All Might being my favorite hero? I thought to be a good hero you had to always be smiling. You could never show weakness. Not anger or sadness or anything else. That’s why you’ve never seen me cry before. Why I’m always so happy go lucky. Because I have to be.”

There was a pause while Bakugou processed that information.

“That’s…stupid,” he decided. “You shouldn’t hold back on your emotions like that. You deserve to feel things. You can’t dedicate your life to other people like that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m starting to figure that out.” You stared down at your bedspread.

You were shocked when you felt a warm, calloused hand brush your cheek. Bakugou hesitantly, tenderly wiped the last of your tears away, and you felt something in your heart flutter. You had known Bakugou Katsuki a long time, but you had never known him like this. Looking up into his eyes did nothing to dispel your butterflies when you saw how soft his gaze was. Something in you ached to be looked at like that, to be held in someone’s hands as carefully as he was holding you now.

“Can I…can I kiss you?”

You weren’t sure where the question had come from, and yet you were, because some time along the way of getting to know him you had realized something. Everything you had thought there was to hate about Bakugou was really something to love. Over the course of this project, you had done something extraordinarily stupid. You had developed feelings for a boy who would never like you back. Which was why his next words stole your breath entirely.

“Please,” Bakugou said, his words a sticky sweet, fervent plea.

You blinked, daring to look at him again only to find him wide open to you. He was leaning forward, a look in his eyes you could scarcely describe, a feverish desire overcoming him. His hand on your face twitched ever so slightly in anticipation as you leaned forward.

When your lips met his, you were surprised by the easiness of it. You fell forward into him, arms draped around his broad shoulders as he pulled you in, large hand wrapping around your waist, firm and capable. He tasted like burnt sugar, impossibly so, and it made your head spin, made you dizzy with the sensation. It made you hungry for him.

When he licked your lower lip, you let him swallow you down, hands blazing a fiery trail across your waist to your back, making the trip over and over and burning into you with their warmth. You tugged on his hair lightly, eliciting a moan from him that shot straight through your chest. You gasped into his open mouth, your clumsy kiss flipping when he slipped his tongue into your mouth. Everything became easier when you let him take over, let him pull you into his lap up against the hardness of his body and tilt your head to the side just so, pliable and soft in his arms. Kissing him became easy and natural, shivers running through your body as you surrendered yourself to the experience.

When he finally pulled away, you found yourself licking a mixture of your spit and his off your mouth, not even minding how profoundly gross that was. Normally you would have shuddered, but you were far too busy staring at him, mesmerized and breathless.

“You, uh…that was…that was really nice. And I think you’re pretty.” Bakugou coughed. “Do you want to go out sometime? Because obviously you need somebody to distract you from your homework, stupid. Look what you did. Made a mess of yourself.”

You ducked your head into his shoulder at his words, hiding your face and your embarrassment. “Yeah, sure. That sounds nice.”

He hummed, the sound resonating in his chest and traveling straight to your ear. “Can I…kiss you again then?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

[carelessannie]

the five times steve gives bad dating advice, and the one time it actually works

Or, the Starker Shifter and College AU no one asked for

Link to AO3 Main pairings: Tony x Peter, (background) Steve x Bucky Word count: 5.6k Major Warnings: smut (not shifted), everyone’s a complete idiot, discussion of canine and feline mating behavior, excessive cursing Aaaaannnnnddddd I’ll tag @the-mad-starker because I said I would and I really hope you enjoy it bb

---

The door slams, startling Steve out of his afternoon nap. Peter must be home. He’s pretty sure Sam said he was gonna be out until the evening, and the stomping, slamming of cabinets, and various clanging dishware are usual signs of Peter’s afternoon fury.

Steve shakes out his coat, rolling his eyes as he stretches in the sun— his roommate is a damn idiot.

He doesn’t even bother shifting as Peter storms in the room, throwing his backpack to the ground and perching on the nearby armchair. He’s learned by now that when Peter wants to talk, Steve doesn’t need to speak. In fact, his friend probably prefers it that way.

So instead, he lets Peter brew, slamming his fingers onto the keys on his laptop, and viciously eating apple slices and… nutella. Oh. One of those days.

They only bring the nutella out on bad days.

Steve throws him a bone— metaphorically— and opens an eye, making an inquisitive noise deep in his throat.

Peter looks up, his delicate features squished together in an angry pout.

“First of all, your boyfriend’s an idiot.”

Offended, Steve bares his teeth and squints his eyes, sending Peter a menacing snarl that the smaller man waves off. His boyfriend is an idiot, but Peter has no business noticing that.

“I’m right and you know it,” Peter sniffs, turning his nose and inspecting his nails, “and his roommate is the absolute worst. And I’m not talking about Clint.”

There it is. Steve chuffs, feigning indifference. If he waits long enough, Peter will tell him more. So he lounges back, keeping one eye open, and letting the sun warm his fur. As he watches, he sees the moment Peter gives up his act. He jumps off the chair, making his way into Steve’s sunbeam, and slowly curls up next to the larger wolf.

“I’ve never met another cat so absolutely infuriating, Steve,” Peter whispers, petting through Steve’s golden fur, distractedly, “I can’t stand it. Always purring at me and calling me fucking kitten— no sir! I’m not a kitten, and it doesn’t matter how… how…”

He trails off, gripping tight onto Steve’s coat. When Steve turns to look, he realizes Peter’s tiny fangs have lengthened, poking through his rosy lips, as he runs his tongue over them absentmindedly. If he looks close enough, he can even see where Peter’s small, shifted ears are pushing through his curls.

Peter mumbles something that even Steve’s enhanced hearing can’t pick up. He nuzzles under Peter’s arm, urging him to repeat it.

“It doesn’t matter...” Peter murmurs, “... how beautiful he is, right?”

Steve’s ears perk up.

“Don’t act so surprised. Bucky told me you guys talk about it all the time. I just… I didn’t see it, okay? Not until today. Not until Tony fucking brought me coffee. I had no idea he was so sweet, Steve. I guess I always thought he was a dumb male cat shifter, like the stereotypes paint us out to be. But… he’s not. He’s so kind and funny and sexy, and oh my god, I bet his shifted cat is absolutely gorgeous.”

Steve rolls over to let Peter pet his tummy as he continues, “So naturally, I cornered Bucky to get him to spill. To tell me more about Tony, and how to date him, and… and… how you guys got together. But he said to come talk to you—” Peter crawls closer and tries to look him in the eye, “pleeeeeease, Steve? Help me?”

With a sigh, Steve sits up, shaking out his fur and letting his wolf recede, until he’s stretching out long arms and wiggling his fingers. His gym shorts are nearby, so he slips back into them, doing a customary once over to check for a full shift. Then he settles against the couch, opening his arms in an invitation for Peter to curl up on him.

Peter scoots closer, marginally, and Steve chuckles, “Want some dating advice, Pete?”

“Mhm, yes please,” Peter hums, closing the distance and leaning into Steve’s leg.

“Okay, I’ll tell you some things that worked for me, when I was courting Bucky.”

One.

Later that evening, Tony and Steve are set up in the dining room, comparing notes for their Econ class, and steadily working through their midterm project. Bucky and Peter should be back in a moment with pizza, and hopefully the four of them, plus Sam, will spend the night watching movies. It’s Friday, after all.

Steve hears the front door open and close, quiet conversation drifting down the hallway, but is surprised when just Bucky walks into the kitchen, setting down pizza and making his way over to where the two of them are seated.

Bucky leans down, planting a sweet kiss on his lips, before claiming a seat.

He opens his mouth to ask, but Tony beats him to it, not even looking up, “Where’d Pete get off to? You didn’t lose him, did you?”

Bucky just huffs, “No, you moron. He had to grab something from his room.”

Tony just shrugs, turning back to his notes. Steve spares Bucky a glance, curious about what Peter could be up to, and Bucky gives him a wink. Great.

It’s quiet as the three of them shift pages, typing gently on their laptops, and only exchanging conversation when there’s an issue with the material. Steve gets up once to grab a glass of water, and tries to look down the hallway— no sign of his roommate whatsoever.

With the smell of pizza filling the apartment, they decide not to wait any longer to eat. Steve hollers down the hall for Peter to come get some dinner, but still, his roommate is nowhere to be seen.

As he sits back down at the table, Steve can hear light footsteps coming towards them. He turns his attention back to their homework, and watches as Tony and Bucky pass out glasses, uncorking a bottle of wine.

“How fuckin’ fancy are we?” Steve wonders, giving Bucky a smirk as Tony starts to pour.

“Okay, there’s nothing wrong with a nice bottle of—” “YEEEEOOOOOWWWWWLLLL—”

Tony drops the bottle, flipping backwards out of his seat at the ungodly screech. Steve hops over into Bucky’s lap, picking his feet off the floor as his boyfriend flounders around, cursing and gasping for air.

“Holy shit, what the hell—”

“ReeeRRROOOOWWWWLLL—”

The noise continues, splitting through the air, and Steve watches Tony shift down, fangs lengthening, ears and whiskers emerging, as he drops to four legs. From where they sit on the dining room chair, neither of them can see what happens as the noise suddenly stops, a long, hissing growl taking its place.

Steve peeks under the table, and sees both cat shifters arched up, fur fluffed out in a clear challenge, teeth bared and hissing. Dammit. Peter’s cat— a yellow tabby— is slowly backing up as Tony’s cat— dark and tortoiseshell— follows him, spitting and growling, until Peter finally turns his back, relaxing his coat, and slowly retreats.

“Holy shit,” Bucky breaths, starting to laugh, “what the fuck was that.”

Steve just shakes his head in disbelief, watching Peter sprint down the hall to his room as Tony licks his paws, tail still fluffed in irritation, and eyes pinning them with a deadly glare.

The table is a mess— wine spilled across their notes, Tony’s laptop, and pizza overturned, smeared across the soaked pages. Once Tony starts shifting back, Steve slides off of Bucky’s lap and takes stock of the damage. What the fuck indeed.

He looks over at Bucky, “Can you… take care of this,” he gestures to the table, “I’m gonna go talk to Peter.”

Bucky nods, still shocked, and Steve turns to follow Peter back to his room. He stops outside, knocking gently— careful not to intrude into the shifter’s territory.

“Peter, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There’s a rumble, and then the lock clicks, letting the door swing open. Peter struts back towards his window seat, fully shifted back and wearing just a pair of black briefs, and curls up by the window.

“Uh, Pete? What happened?”

Peter sniffles, looking out the window, “You told me that you and Bucky like to show affection by making noises at each other in your wolf form. So why didn’t it work?”

“Oh my god.”

“He attacked me, Steve!” Peter whines, burying his face in his hands.

It takes everything in Steve’s power not to laugh. Poor kitten. He slowly approaches, sitting nearby and in Peter’s view, extending a hand for Peter to take if he wants.

“So… maybe that wasn’t the best advice. I swear, it’s one of the easiest ways we bond, as wolves. But not that screeching noise, Peter— more of a growl, or other small noises.”

Peter pouts, looking into his hands.

“Here,” Steve stands up, holding out his hand, “let’s go get some pizza and help clean up. You can apologize, come up with some dumb excuse, and we can find some other way to hit on Tony, okay?”

“Fine.” Peter joins him, pulling on a sweatshirt and some shorts, “Let’s hope I didn’t spill all the damn wine. We’re gonna need it.”

Two.

A few days later, all of their friends are lounging across Steve’s furniture, taking a lazy afternoon after midterms to drink some Coor’s and watch Japanese game shows. Steve’s not even sure who’s interested in this, but doesn’t really care, as he lets himself drift off to the sound of Bucky’s deep breathing, his mate settled close on his chest.

It’s rare that everyone is in the same place, especially without homework or projects taking up their time, and Steve feels a deep sense of peace as his pack is settled, warm and safe, around him.

“Stop it, Stevie, you’re givin’ me thoughts,” Bucky mumbles, pinching him in the side.

Steve just hums, smiling down at his mate, and looks over to where Peter’s laying across the floor, partially shifted, and tail flicking slightly. On the other side of the room, Tony watches with his arms crosses, eyes following the striped tail.

“Let's go for a walk.” Steve announces, lifting Bucky off and getting a grumpy noise in protest. He makes a show of stretching, and gives Peter a wink. His eyes go wide in understanding.

“Fine,” Peter pushes off the carpet, shaking himself to shift back fully, “but only if I can get ice cream.”

Bucky ends up agreeing, and muscles Tony into joining them as well. Sam and Natasha decide to stay, enjoying the silence, but demand delivery from their friends. Clint stands up as they’re leaving, and follows them out the door.

It’s a quick walk down to get ice cream, just a block away, and Steve tries to make a show of brushing up against Bucky, reminding Peter of their last conversation.

Peter saddles up next to Tony, walking side-by-side only a few steps in front of them. He glances up, batting his eyelashes, and bumps his hips into Tony’s.

Tony whips around, on instinct, and pushes Peter in the chest, sending him careening off the sidewalk and landing in a heap, right in the middle of the road. All of them freeze, looking between Tony and Peter in disbelief, as the younger boy’s eyes brim with tears.

“Oh my… Peter, oh my god,” Tony shakes himself, and sprints into the road, thankfully clear of traffic, and pulls Peter to his feet, leading him back to the sidewalk. “I don’t… I don’t even know what happened, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Peter pulls away, giving Steve a dirty look, “can we just go get ice cream, please?”

Tony nods, sticking close to Peter as they walk away, and Steve can hear him promise, “I’ll buy yours, really, I’m so sorry.”

When they’re out of earshot, Clint ambling along after them with a shrug, Bucky turns to him and smirks, “What was that, Stevie?”

“I… I told him about the rubbing thing we do. You know… when we walk together?”

Bucky laughs all the way to the ice cream parlor.

Three.

It’s a week or so later when they have Tony and Bucky over for another movie night. Peter was mortified, and furious, about his latest attempt, but Steve can tell he’s determined to make a move tonight.

And Steve thinks this one will work, too. He’s not sure, at this point, if he should still be giving Peter advice, but he’s seen cat shifter mates do this, so he’s pretty sure it’s gonna work.

Bucky just smacks him in the head, annoyed that Steve wants to meddle.

The four of them are watching the Hobbit trilogy, per Tony’s request, and have piled blankets and pillows on the floor to lounge on. Steve takes the leads and shifts down, kicking off his clothes, shaking out his fur, and stretching out in his wolf form on the floor. He feels Bucky join him, the familiar warmth of his mate comforting against his side. They both look expectantly at their friends, hoping they take the hint.

Peter squints at them, irritated, but shifts down anyway, pushing out of his clothes and settling against Steve’s side, purring when the giant wolf starts to groom him, licking long strokes down his back.

Steve can see the adoration on Tony’s face. He’s completely captivated by the sweet kitten, and he shifts, stretching out and pacing closer to the three of them. Steve can’t help but wag his tail, bumping up against Bucky and wiggling closer to get a lick on Tony’s face.

Tony yelps, bouncing away, and pretends to clean himself. Peter just watches on, intently, as Tony takes his time to walk back over, carefully avoiding the wolves. His eyes are wide and unblinking. Tony curls up nearby, and Peter takes his chance, slinking closer, and reaching out to lick Tony’s cheek.

Tony shifts, moving out of Peter’s reach. Peter crawls closer and tries again, but Tony pulls away. One more try, and Tony stands, jumping up onto the couch and out of reach.

Peter just mewls, soft and sad, before tucking himself back underneath Steve’s front leg. Bucky growls, low in his chest, and Steve can tell it’s aimed at Tony. Dumb cat.

They stay shifted for the better part of an hour, grooming and cuddling together, until Tony finally comes back down from his perch. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see him approach, slowly, and try to get near Peter. Bucky growls again, not even opening his eyes, and the tortoiseshell cat scrambles away.

So much for that.

Four.

Spring break— fucking finally.

Classes have been hard this semester, and all of them are feeling it. Steve’s thankful that Tony’s parents have a place in the woods for them to escape to, because he’s itching to shift, let loose, and run away with his mate. Hopefully for the whole week.

Somehow, Steve got stuck driving their car, packing Bucky in the passenger seat, Sam and Peter in the middle two, and Clint, Nat and Tony in the backseat. He’s not sure how they make it there alive, with Bucky’s Cool Vibes playlist, Sam and Tony’s backseat commentary, and the thick mix of pheromones swirling through the air.

“What is that, Buck?” he murmurs in a low tone, squeezing his boyfriend’s hand over the center console.

“Hm?” Bucky looks over, blinking lazily.

“The… tension. The smell. What is it?”

“Oh, uh—” Bucky takes a moment, scenting the air and grimacing, “— yeah, that’s rut.”

Steve almost slams on the breaks.

“Rut? Like cat rut?”

Bucky just nods, making a point to roll down his window, “Yeah, Stevie. It’s springtime. We’ve got two, male cat shifters in the car. The rest of us ain’t gonna feel nothin’, but they’re definitely feelin’ it.”

He turns around and glances behind him, smiling at the sight of both cat shifters arguing and flirting behind them. Sam looks horrified.

Steve just rolls his eyes, “I’m tired of their bullshit. Hope they spend some time together this week, ya know?”

“Hope they spend more than time,” Bucky laughs, giving Steve’s hand a squeeze in return.

In the rearview, Steve can see Tony, fully turned around in his seat, gesturing wildly as Peter shakes his head, the two of them clearly caught in a deep discussion. When he looks closer, he sees the way Peter flutters his lashes, how Tony rubs up against the seat and the wall of the van.

Idiots.

Steve focuses back on the road, sighing and trying to enjoy how warm Bucky is next to him, how settled he is with his mate nearby.

Less than an hour later, and with every window rolled down, Steve parks the van outside of the cabin. If anyone would call it that. Three stories tall, the cabin looms over the driveway. Dark, aged wood is contrasted with sleek and modern architecture, blending back into the treeline and standing out of it at the same time. Gorgeous. Breathtaking.

As they carry their bags into the cabin, Steve catches sight of the lake in the backyard. Apparently Bucky and Clint see it as well, because all three of them are dropping their stuff, stripping out of their clothes, and racing to the water.

Steve shifts mid-stride, barking in joy as his pack follows him into the lake. Around the cabin, down the hill, off the dock— he’s first. First! And Bucky follows after him, their splashes large and in sync.

Clint ambles, albeit slower in his shifted golden retriever, and flops gracelessly in after them. The water is heavenly, and the three of them swim and play, bounding through the water and jumping off the pier.

That is, until their friends join them.

It seems as though Tony let the others into the house, put away their bags, packed a cooler, and found a few beach chairs and towels. The four of them set up a row of chairs and open an umbrella above them, settling down in skimpy swimwear to enjoy the afternoon sun.

Clint barks up at them, no doubt encouraging Nat and Sam to shift down and join them in the water.

“You guys are idiots,” Sam yells back, popping the tab on his drink, “the beer’s up here!”

Steve treads water, huffing a bit in amusement as he watches his pack— which is how he catches Tony moving closer to Peter. Tony passes him a beer, which Peter takes with a smirk and quick comment that makes Tony laugh.

Gag.

And he almost misses it— he goes to turn away, and sees Tony dart across, pressing a swift kiss to Peter’s blushing cheek. Peter gasps, meeting Tony’s eyes in shock, before grabbing his shoulders, leaning closer, and—

“Ow!”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, Tony—”

“You bit me!”

Steve swims over to the ladder, shifting down as he goes, and grabs a towel as he climbs up to investigate. Both men are standing now, blushing and holding their faces— Peter in shame, and Tony in mock horror. So dramatic.

“— how could you think that was what I wanted?”

“I didn’t! I just… I asked Steve, and he said—”

“Woah woah woah,” Steve cuts in, hands up in surrender, “I never said to bite him.”

Peter covers his face again with a groan, flopping down in his seat and throwing a towel over his face.

Tony looks down at him, bewildered, and back up at Steve, shrugging. “What did I do?” he mouths, lips turning down into a sad, sad pout.

Steve doesn’t even know what to say.

“Let’s go start the grill,” Sam suggests— thank god for Sam, and grabs Steve and Tony’s shoulders to lead them away.

A few minutes later, working over the grill together, Tony peers up at Steve, giving him a pointed look. Steve just sighs, again.

“Canines do this thing— instead of kisses on the cheek, when we’re shifted, we like to nibble on each other’s faces. It’s the same thing,” he pauses, taking in the disbelief written across Tony’s expression, “... for canines.”

“So he was… trying to kiss me back?”

Sam huffs, clapping Tony on the shoulder, “More than that, Tones.”

Tony sits down, hard, in light of this revelation.

Five.

Bucky corners him, later in the evening, and it’s not for a sexy reason.

“You’ve gotta stop meddling in their shit, Stevie,” he hisses, pinning Steve to the wall.

Steve looks down to where their bodies are pressed together and groans, “Buck, this is a serious conversation, but you gotta let me up, pal.” Bucky’s eyes go wide and he grimaces, letting Steve up.

The two of them take a deep breath before Steve continues, “I’ve got a plan.”

“No.”

“It’s a good one.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We should force them to sleep together.”

“...”

“I mean. Not like… Buck, not like that. I mean, like, den together, like how we did when we were bonding for the first time.”

Bucky crosses his arms, giving Steve a less than impressed look.

“So you think that would work? How would you even pull that off?”

“I told you, I have a plan.��

---

Steve and Bucky corner Tony, later, and tell him their plan. Steve explains how he’s spent almost a month trying to help Peter court Tony, and Tony, for the most part, looks absolutely baffled.

“Yeah, I didn’t get that.”

Bucky covers his laugh with a hand, turning away so Steve can’t see him. Idiot.

They try to convince Tony to go along with their plan— sneaking into Peter’s room, fully shifted, and curling up next to him.

“It’s not gonna work, Steve. Felines are territorial—”

“— so are canines—”

“— and he’s not gonna want me in his space uninvited!”

“— but it’s not his space! It’s yours, it’s literally your territory,” Steve insists, “and it’ll show him that you want more, Tony.”

Tony just sighs, looking off into the fireplace, roaring with life. Warm and inviting. Steve aches to get out of here, but he’s committed to getting his friends together first.

“Fine,” Tony concedes, rising to his feet and starting to shift. He points at Steve as he shrinks down, “but I’m blaming you when thisss goesss to shhit.”

Fully shifted, Tony stalks across the living room, disappearing up the stairs to the guest bedrooms. Steve pulls Bucky close, both of them nuzzling close and enjoying their shared scent, shared warmth. They hear a door shut. Silence. Bucky turns to dot a light kiss on Steve’s jaw, and Steve returns it with a teasing growl.

“When this is over,” he rumbles, “we’re shifting for days, baby.”

Bucky sighs and wiggles closer, “Can’t wait, Stevie. Been itchin’ for it. Needin’—”

BANG, CRASH!

MrrrOWWWWWWWW

“Not again,” Bucky groans, hiding his face in Steve’s chest.

Tony, still fully shifted, tears through the living room, tail fluffed out and fur raised along his back. He darts under their couch, breathing hard and hiding, as Peter stomps down the stairs. He’s half shifted— fangs and ears and paws and tail all displaying aggression and annoyance.

“I really like you Tony,” he hisses, crossing his arms and standing so that Tony can see him from under the couch, “but that was a real dick move. Sometimes I feel like you hate me, and want me to hate you. Don’t try to talk to me, Tony. I don’t wanna see you until the morning.”

Peter stalks away, leaving Tony under the couch. Bucky tugs on Steve’s sleeve, “We really shouldn’t be here when Tony shifts back.”

Steve spares a glance under the couch, watching Tony clean his paws and glare back at them, and nods. The two of them beat a quick retreat, heading for the kitchen to pack some snacks for their time in the forest. Tony said the deer in this area are free to hunt, but sometimes they like fruits and pastries for breakfast. It’s a whole thing.

Before they run off into the woods, Steve stops, looking back to where Tony, still shifted, is sulking under the furniture.

“You should do it.”

Both Tony and Bucky look at him in shock, the latter already protesting.

“No, no— you don’t have to take my advice, Tony. I know I’ve screwed a bunch up already. I’m just saying, you should talk to him tonight, show him that you care. Follow your instincts— because they’re obviously different than ours. We know…” he glances over at Bucky, who nods, “we know you love him, Tony. Go fight for him.”

Tony just turns around, showing his back.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, “Let’s go, Stevie.”

One.

Tony watches them retreat out the backdoor, letting it close with a soft click! He slinks out from under the couch and sits by the fire, thinking about what Steve said.

Follow your instincts.

He thinks about the kiss earlier. How pretty Peter’s blush had been, how much he wanted to rub up against Peter’s cheek and mark him, claim him. He wishes they got to run together, fight and wrestle away their pent up energy. He knows both of them are rutting, he just thought… he really thought…

It doesn’t matter now. He closes his eyes, lets his ears twitch in thought, as he focuses on his instincts. He lets the rage and the desire and the animal need wash over him, and all he can think, all he can feel, is chase.

Chase. Catch.

Chase. Catch.

He doesn’t even register getting up, prowling up the stairs, moving down the hallway.

Chase. Catch.

Chase. Catch.

The door to Peter’s room is open.

Chase. Catch.

He creeps inside, taking a peek over to the bed.

Mate.

Peter turns his head, making eye contact.

Run.

Tony leaps into the air, sprinting out the door— Peter hot on his tail. He flies down the stairs and slides around the corner, slamming into the trash can. Dammit. Why is that always there? As he growls at the metal can, Peter catches up to him, tackling him to the ground with a loud shriek.

They wrestle, growling and biting, until Peter breaks free with a hiss, bouncing on the pads of his feet to assert dominance. Oh no. Not in Tony’s house. Tony spits, rising up on his toes, until Peter freezes— both of them growling, low and angry.

Peter takes off. Spinning on his feet, the yellow tabby slams, hard, into the wall— fuck, he’s so strong— and bounces off lightning fast, out the door and into the front yard. Tony runs after him, dodging bushes and trees to follow Peter’s agile trail, secretly admiring his speed and the cleverness of his path. Beautiful.

He follows Peter all the way up a tree, forcing him out on a limb. Tony arches his back, sending a signal of dominance across to Peter, but Peter refuses to back down. He meets Tony’s gaze, raises his haunches, and spits back. Holy shit.

Tony leaps, tackling Peter off the branch, and sends both of them tumbling into the grass. In a flurry of nails and teeth and yowling, they fight for dominance, pinning and repinning until they come to a stop, teeth mutually clenched in the other’s scruff, and completely tangled together.

They’re breathing hard. Tony can feel it on his neck, and realizes both of their penises have unsheathed, rubbing together and catching on the barbs. It’s a crazy sensation— ramping up both of their rut pheromones.

As they lay there together— intertwined in the dark of the spring night— Tony feels himself start to shift back. He closes his eyes, gripping tight to Peter’s neck, his bare skin, as he flexes his fingers. He feels Peter shifting in his arms, and they hold on tight, neither willing to give up their prize.

“Mine,” Tony growls, unlatching his jaw as he feels Peter do the same.

His friend, his new mate, smiles— his gorgeous, bruised lips pulling back to reveal delicate and deadly fangs, “Mine,” he agrees, leaning forward hesitantly.

Tony closes the gap, rubbing their cheeks together and earning a satisfied purr from deep in Peter’s chest. He rolls them until he’s on top, and takes a few moments to kiss and lick around Peter’s chest, his tummy, his neck.

He grins mischievously before biting down on a pale pink nipple, earning him a gutted moan in response. Peter’s definitely hard against Tony’s thigh, but he’s been waiting way too long for this to rush it. Damn if he isn’t gonna take his time tonight.

“Mine,” he growls again, fiercer, and drags his nails up Peter’s hips, down his back. He drowns in the small gasps and moans he’s able to coax from his mate, marveling in the way his pale skin glows in the moonlight.

Peter paws at his back, spreads his legs wide, and grinds up against Tony’s erection, desperate for his touch. Every Mine is echoed between them, sung like a mating call for all to hear in the thick, springtime haze. They dance together, flipping time and time again for dominance— although, this time gentle. Caring and full of playful adoration.

When Tony finally takes them in hand, Peter throws his head back, yowling into the open air— “Tony! Tony, fuck fuck, touch me, goddammit, please touch me,” and Tony bends to his wishes, stroking their cocks together, long and firm.

He loves how Peter feels next to him, a tiny bit smaller, but the perfect size to compliment Tony’s own length. Tony spits down into his hand, slicking the way, and thrusts forward, urging Peter to follow his lead as they fuck into his grip.

“C’mon Pete, c’mon love— fuck me, baby, please.”

“Yeah, oh Tony, please. Need more, Tony,” Peter begs turning his wickedly innocent doe eyes on Tony in desperation.

Tony grips tighter, thrusts harder, and returns Peter’s molten gaze. What can he… oh.

He throws himself forward, bracing with one hand above Peter’s head, and seals their lips together. Peter gasps, stuttering his hips, and Tony can feel the warmth spilling over his palm, coating both of their cocks. He strokes Peter through it, kissing him deeply, thoroughly, until his mate starts to whine in discomfort.

Tony pulls away, feeling his orgasm pooling deep in his belly, and crawls up closer on Peter’s chest. His eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen and hair matted and messy— and Tony’s never seen anything more gorgeous.

“Please,” he pants, speeding up the stroke on his cock, “Pete, please let me, let me come on you, please. Mine. Mine, Peter. Let me mark you, please.”

“Yes, yes—“ Peter moans, reaching up to cup Tony’s balls, “mine, give it to me, Tony— it’s mine.”

At his words, Tony lets out a breath, crumpling forward as his release drains him, throwing him over the edge and right into Peter’s waiting arms. He watches as hot stripes of cum paint Peter’s chest, drip down his chin, and even land in his mouth. It’s too much to see his mate, covered in him, licking it off his fingers— so he falls to the ground, exhausted and spent.

A moment later he’s grabbing for Peter, humming in pleasure as his mate saddles close, burying his face in Tony’s neck.

And then Peter giggles. A soft, barely there laugh that tickles the side of Tony’s throat.

“What?” Tony rasps, looking down at Peter in amusement.

Peter keeps laughing, sitting up fully to bury his face in his hands and get out full, gasping belly laughs. He holds onto Tony as he wipes away tears, and Tony just chuckles, happy to see his mate so joyful.

When Peter settles down, he sighs, giving Tony a lopsided smile, “I can’t believe what just happened,” Tony shakes his head, returning the smile, as Peter continues, “I’ve been taking dating advice from a fucking wolf for a month— when all we had to do was,” he gestures wildly, “whatever this was,”

Tony laughs, he gets it now, “Well, it was kinda inconvenient that every suggestion they had was actually a severe act of aggression between male felines.”

“Oh my god,” Peter giggles again, “what the hell were you even trying to do tonight? When I found you in my bed?”

Tony blushes, looking away, and mumbles, “Steve and Bucky thought if we slept next to each other—“

“— but that’s a breach of territory for unmated felines!”

“— that’s what I said! Somehow they convinced me otherwise, and… well…”

Tony trails off, letting his words fade to a comfortable silence. Peter snuggles closer, letting Tony wrap and arm around him. It’s chilly outside, but until they go and lay by the fire, both of them are content to find warmth in each other.

“I’m glad you came to find me,” Peter whispers, dotting a kiss onto Tony’s collarbone.

“I’m glad I did, too,” Tony nuzzles into his curls, inhaling the new scent of mate and home that he’s come to associate with Peter, “and you know what? In the end, that idiot’s dating advice ended up bringing me to you.”

“We don’t have to tell him that do we?”

Tony shakes his head, “No. No we don’t.”

Bonus:

Clint and Sam and Nat stare at each other in horror, refusing to acknowledge what they just heard going on inside and outside of the house.

“Do you think the coast is clear?”

“Can’t be certain. It’s way too quiet out there.”

“They’re both in rut, it could be days.”

“Maybe we should go find Steve and Bucky, they’d know what to do.”

“If I know them at all, and I think I do, those two are gonna be knotted up for the next few days. I don’t wanna witness that.”

The three of them are silent, listening for any movement or sign that their newly mated friends are alive.

“I vote we shift down and doggy pile.”

“Yes, okay.”

“Fine.”

“And in the morning, we can talk about feline mating patterns.”

“... and boundaries.”

[chudleycanonficfest]

Heart-Shaped Wreckage

Day 16, Story #2 is by @adenei

Title: Heart-Shaped Wreckage

Author: adenei

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger

Prompt: Songfic

Rating: T

TW: implied violence and near-death experience (but nothing explicit)

A/N: This is the part two follow-up to Rewrite the Stars.

************

Hermione’s hand trembles as she reaches over to her nightstand and turns on the light. She can’t sleep, which is a common occurrence as of late. Where she once relished in the quiet of her flat, now the serenity is too much to bear. She is running out of changes to make that will erase the worst, most painful decision of her life. The ultra-soft linens she purchased for her bed are anything but comforting and luxurious. They feel scratchy and cold, and the fresh and clean look of the white comforter with its floral patterns gives off more of a sterile vibe than the new slate she’d been hoping for. Instead, it serves as another stark reminder that all the vibrancy and color had evaporated from her life when she pushed Ron away.

It’s been 62 days since the disaster of the Auror gala, and 50 since Hermione’s received any form of contact from him. Ron has honored her wishes to break things off no matter how much it pained them both to do so. Part of her still wishes he’d floo into her fireplace or knock on her door, begging her to give them another chance. But she knows deep down none of that will ever happen. He is a man of respect, and he will always abide by her requests, even if she no longer wants to keep them herself.

It’s better this way. She reminds herself of the constant scrutiny they’d face if they stayed together, and the hurt and discomfort even at the mere thought indicate that her feelings haven’t changed. There is no way she could put him through that sort of subjection just so she can be selfish and happy. Their lives are too different, and they live in a world where the acceptance of all kinds of love doesn't exist.

So, in the grueling months since they ended things for a second time, Hermione has worked to make changes, some drastic, some minute, in an effort to force herself to move on. She is too proud to let anyone in her life know the pain that she feels with every conscious breath that she takes. Hermione has thrown herself into her work, staying at school late to mark papers, redecorate the classroom, or develop new lesson plans to benefit the students and create more hands-on experiences.

And once she realized that her preparation was complete through the end of next term, Hermione turned to her flat. Weekends have been spent on home projects. Painting the walls, updating the decor, and cleaning every square inch of her flat, all to help her forget.

But the problem is, her heart doesn’t want to forget. Every book she sits down to read reminds her of time spent with Ron. Her renewed efforts in the kitchen never fail to bring a smile or a chuckle to her lips as her mind traitorously wonders what Ron would think if he were here to observe the barely edible mess she’s created. Yet, Hermione is not naive enough to believe that it will change anything. She knows it won’t.

As she sits up in the enormous queen-sized bed, she reaches for the parchment that lays in tri-folds on the nightstand. The paper is worn, with visible wrinkles preventing it from lying flat and tear stains causing the corners to curl as she unfolds the delicate sheet. Hermione’s not sure why she’s opening the letter to read. She knows it won’t bring her the comfort she craves or the answers she desires.

The messy scrawl gives way to Ron’s only correspondence with her since the last time they spoke, and she latches onto it as if it’s the only life preserver on a capsizing vessel. It’s the only thing she has left. The only reminder of the life she could have had.

I’m not scared to tell the truth. 

I went to hell and back and I went with you

Remind me what we were before,

When you said you are mine, and I am yours

Hermione,

There’s a lot I want to say and I’m not sure if I can fit it all in this letter, but I’m going to try. I never meant for any of this to happen, but I did mean everything I said that night. I’m not afraid to tell you how I feel. What we have, er, had, I guess, is special. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life, and I don’t think I ever will. And it’s not just about the case and finding comfort in each other. 

When we broke things off after graduation, I felt like a part of me was missing. The Auror academy kept me busy, and sure, my life moved on, but I wasn’t really happy. Not as happy as I was when we were together. And then fate brought us back together and we decided to make another go of it, that’s when I realized that you were what was missing. You make my life so much brighter, so meaningful, and I’m sorry if I sound like a sap, but I need you to know how I feel.

I would give up everything for you. Social status means nothing to me. If the Aurors sack me because of my personal relations, then so be it. I’ll work with George, or find something else. If my family can’t be supportive, then it will be their loss. I’m not willing to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it, and I refuse to give in to the Ministry’s stance on bloody purity. 

I know this is all probably ‘too little, too late’ or whatever that Muggle saying is that you like to use, and I promise you I’m going to respect your wishes. But I had to tell you. I had to let you know because...well...there’s this mission that’s come up. It’s going to be bloody dangerous and Robards asked for volunteers because he knows how risky it’s going to be. Anyone who goes isn’t guaranteed to come back and, well, I won’t go into the details, but I volunteered to go.

I know, I know, I can hear you in the back of my head telling me that it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and not to throw my life away because we’re not together, but Hermione, it’s been twelve days and I can’t go on day to day like this. I can’t. Working is the only thing that eases the pain and gets my mind off of everything. I’ll be as safe as I can be, I promise.

I hope you find the happiness you deserve. You’re brilliant, always remember that. Just know that I love you, and it’s because I love you that I’m going to try to let go.

Ron

Tears threaten in Hermione’s eyes once again. It’s no different than every other time she reads the letter. Nothing has changed; Ron��s gone, still on his mission six weeks later and no end in sight. Hermione is sure this is the reason she’s not sleeping. With every passing day and no news of Ron’s whereabouts, she turns to the only object that can provide her with any source of comfort: the letter.

After three weeks of constant worrying and bags under her eyes so prevalent that even her eight-year-old students noticed, Hermione caved and wrote to Harry. Even though they can’t be together, she knows deep down that she can still care about his well-being. 

Harry’s response had been timely and brief. He didn’t have details of the mission but reassured Hermione that no news is good news. Hermione thanked him and asked for updates if it wasn’t too much trouble. The two had been friendly in school, growing closer as her relationship with Ron blossomed as well. She didn’t expect his alliance to stray from his best friend but still appreciated his willingness to be cordial with her after everything she’d put Ron through.

“Please come home to me,” she whispers into the darkness.

Her heart aches more as her eyes hover over the parchment once more, searching for the three words that she knows she’ll never read too many times: I love you.

For some reason, this three a.m. readthrough hits differently. She carefully folds the parchment, places it back on the nightstand and turns off the light. There are still a few more hours left to find sleep.

Hermione tosses and turns as she attempts to focus on sleep and quieting her thoughts. At some point, a flash illuminates the night sky, and that’s when the pieces begin forming more vividly in her mind. The clap of thunder follows seconds later, and with it, a realization is born. As the rain begins its slow cadence of pitter-patters on the window, the brevity of Hermione’s decision hits her with the force of the storm strengthening outside.

I don’t know much, but I know myself

And I don’t want to love anybody else

So let’s break the spell and lift the curse

Remember when we fell for each other head first

There is only one question that forms in her mind. One question that surpasses any of the other thoughts she’s managed to cope with over the last two months. 

What have I done?

None of her previous attempts to move past this matter anymore, even though it’s too late, and there’s nothing she can do. 

Three days later, Hermione is finishing up her night-time routine when there’s a knock on her door. She looks at the antique clock on the wall that reads 10:45. Her heart plummets to her stomach. No one calls this late at night with good news. She stands frozen in place, amazed that the glass of water in her hand hasn’t spilled to the floor as a result of her shock.

Another knock, and Hermione manages to lift her feet from the floor. She reaches over and sets the glass on the counter before pulling her dressing gown tight around her waist. The carpet feels thick and heavy, as if her feet are wading through mud and sludge as she makes the torturous trek to the door. Five steps feel like five thousand. She’s sure all of this has happened in a matter of seconds, but it feels like minutes. Maybe the caller will be gone by the time her eye reaches the peephole.

Her hope is instantly quashed when she peers through the tiny circle to see an older gentleman that she doesn’t quite recognize at first. He’s wearing an overcoat and tan bowler hat, and is looking down at a torn piece of parchment. A pair of cerulean blue eyes drift back up to the number on her flat’s door, and that’s when the familiarity hits Hermione like a muggle slamming into the brick wall that separates platforms nine and ten at King’s Cross Station.

She can feel the blood drain from her face as dizziness overcomes her. Falling forward, she clasps onto the doorknob to steady herself. The noise catches the gentleman’s attention.

“Er, Ms. Granger. Are you home? It’s very important that I speak to you. Please, I mean no harm if you’ll open up.”

Hermione struggles to find her voice to respond. Her hands are shaking so violently that she can barely latch on to the deadbolt that has been fastened for the evening.

“Oh, er, please forgive me. We haven’t formally met, but it’s Mr. Weasley out here. Ron’s father.”

Hearing Ron’s name gives Hermione the strength that she needs to click the deadbolt to the left as she manages to turn the door handle with her other hand. Pulling the door open, she slowly looks up at the elder Weasley.

“Is—is everything okay?” Her voice is raw and weak, and she’s sure the shock is the only thing preventing the tears from pooling in her eyes.

“Er, no, it’s not. May I come in?” His eyes dart around, as if he doesn’t want to discuss the matter out in the open.

Hermione opens the door wider to let him in and manages to shut it when he’s through the entryway. Her free hand fiddles with her wand that’s still inside her pocket—just in case—though she fears no imminent threat from Ron’s father.

"Ms. Granger, I’m sorry for calling so late. I wouldn’t be here at all, actually, if it wasn’t for Harry mentioning—ah, well, that’s no matter...” 

Mr. Weasley is rambling, and Hermione has trouble processing his words. Her breath catches at the mention of Harry’s name, which draws Mr. Weasley’s attention to her, helping him get to the point of his late-night visit.

“Ron’s been gravely injured. He’s at St. Mungo’s now. They brought him in an hour or so ago. Molly and I met Harry and Ginny there as soon as we heard. He’s stable for now, but the Healers are unsure if it will hold.” 

Hermione grasps the back of the couch to keep from collapsing to the ground. A sob bursts from her throat as the tears that threatened moments ago now spill freely down her cheeks.

“Wh-what happened?” 

The words are spoken with great effort.

“We don’t have many details. The Aurors are still trying to clean up loose ends on the mission, but it sounds like the operation was successful thanks to Ron’s efforts. One of the target’s accomplices hit Ron with an unknown spell before he was caught.”

Even through Hermione’s own devastation, she can hear the tremor in Ron’s father’s voice. He’s scared, though he’s hiding it well as he continues to explain what he knows. There’s a sheen in his eyes as the moisture appears, emotions raw as he finishes bringing Hermione up to speed.

“Everyone was apprehended, and Ron appears to be the only one who got hurt. We should know more in the coming hours.”

Hermione can only offer a blank stare as she processes the information. His letter said it would be a dangerous mission. He didn’t sound as if he was hopeful that he’d come back alive. Or maybe he was hoping—no, don’t think like that. It was her fault that he’d gone in the first place. By some miracle, he was still hanging on, and the haziness of Hermione’s previous decisions about their relationship begins to give way. The fact that his father is there in her flat informing her has to mean something.

“Why are you here?”

It comes out harsher than Hermione intends, but after their less than amicable meeting at the gala, Hermione can’t be bothered with pleasantries. Even if his wife’s behavior was ruder than his own.

The older man pulls out a handkerchief and wipes beads of sweat off his brow as he sighs deeply. 

“Ms. Granger—”

“Hermione.”

“Right, yes, Hermione. I am aware that we did not get off on the right foot. I’m sorry I never introduced myself on the night of the gala. We weren’t expecting Ron to have a date. I’ll admit that Molly and I were ignorant in the way we treated you that night, and for that, I am sorry. Nothing can take back our words, nor can it change the way others view you based on your blood status, but please know how wrong we were. 

“Ron was devastated after you broke things off after the gala, and I suppose that was largely due to our behavior. It’s clear to us how much he loves you, and we don’t want to stand in the way of that. So, when Harry mentioned you had asked for news and wanted to come tell you, I insisted that I should be the one to see you. Please don’t let our ignorance stand in the way of your happiness.”

Hermione stands there, listening to Arthur’s apology. While she appreciates the olive branch, part of her can’t help but feel that it’s too little, too late, and a new wave of tears flood her eyes as she sees those exact words in Ron’s letter. She offers a curt nod to let him know she appreciates the gesture, even as her voice can’t find the words.

“I won’t keep you. I should be getting back, but Ron is in room 408. You are on the approved list as a family member if you decide you want to see him, and Molly’s agreed to let you stay with him if you’d like.” 

Arthur gives a weak nod as he dabs his forehead once more before making his way to the door. It takes Hermione a moment to realize what’s happening, and as soon as everything processes, she’s pushing herself off the back of the sofa and calling out to Arthur.

Look at this heart shaped wreckage

What have we done?

We’ve got scars from battles nobody won

We can start over, better

Both of us know if we just let the broken pieces

Let the broken pieces go

“I’m coming! Please, er, if you don’t mind waiting. I just need to get changed—”

“Of course.”

Arthur offers a paternal smile as Hermione rushes into her bedroom and throws on the first thing she can find. She almost forgets to grab her bag as she throws on her coat and locks the door behind her.

Moments later, they’re entering St. Mungo’s, and Mr. Weasley leads the way through the main hall to the lifts. It’s only as the gate shuts that nerves begin to bubble up in her stomach. She’s been running on the adrenaline of the news, and now she can’t help but wonder how the rest of Ron’s family will react when they see her. Or, what’s worse, how Ron will react if and when he wakes up.

When. It has to be when.

As if sensing her trepidation, Mr. Weasley places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The lift opens, and the first person she sees is Harry in the waiting room. Her feet gravitate toward him of their own accord, and when Harry sees her, he meets her halfway and wraps her in a tight hug.

“He’s going to be okay. He has to,” Harry whispers in her ear.

Hermione nods, forcing her brain to believe his words. When they let go, Ginny hugs Hermione next, which helps her feel more relaxed. 

Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

After one final squeeze, Ginny lets go so Hermione can follow Arthur down the hall to Ron’s room. He opens the door, and Hermione enters the sterile, white room. The most color she sees is his shock of red hair against the fluffy white pillow that’s cradling his head. Her heart begins beating faster as she spots his mum sitting vigil at his side. 

Mrs. Weasley looks up to see the two standing there. A hard, stony look immediately sets on her face in defense before it softens slightly. She stands and walks over to Hermione. She knows that she’ll have a harder time winning over the Weasley matriarch based on this interaction, but if Ron wakes up—and will take her back—she’s willing to do anything to make it work.

“Let’s give her some privacy, Molly. The healers will call us in if he wakes up,” Arthur coaxes his wife out of the room as he gives Hermione one last reassuring smile.

When the door closes behind them, Hermione walks up to the chair Molly was perched at and takes a seat. She moves the chair closer to the bed as she observes Ron in his sleeping state. A tear slips down her face as her hand reaches out to take his. It isn’t cold, but it’s also not as warm as she’s used to.

“Please wake up. You have to wake up,” she pleads, choking back a fresh wave of tears.

I can’t find you in the dark

Will we get back to who we are?

And I can’t fix this on my own

Our love is still the best thing I’ve ever known

She’s not sure how long she sits there, watching his chest slowly rise and fall as he breathes. No matter how hard she tries, Hermione can’t look away, for fear that his breathing might stop if she does. She’s so focused on his chest, that she doesn’t see his eyes flutter open. 

“Er-my-nee.” 

His voice is breathy, with more rasp than she’s used to, but she’d have given all the gold in her Gringotts vault to hear her name on his lips again if she had to. He lifts the hand that she’s holding, and Hermione leans in closer to press her face into it.

“You came,” he whispers.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she lifts off the seat and leans over him, capturing his lips with hers. They’re cracked and dry, no doubt from being undercover in who knows what kind of conditions, but none of that matters. Ron’s alive, and he’s kissing her back.

Look at this heart shaped wreckage

What have we done?

We’ve got scars from battles nobody won

We can start over, better

Both of us know if we just let the broken pieces

Let the broken pieces go

“I’m so sorry.” The apology seems frail as she mutters the words against his lips.

His other hand reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear and wipe the tears from her face. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t ever do something that stupid again.”

“Only if you give me a reason not to.”

Let the broken pieces go

Just hold on to each other tonight

“I will, I promise.”

She pulls away to look into his tired, bright blue eyes that carry the hope she feels in her chest.

“Does that mean…?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know what life is going to throw at me, Ron, but I only want to take it if you’re by my side.”

“It’s about time you came to your senses.”

The hand that’s still cupping her cheek adjusts to pull her back to him as he does his best to crash his lips into hers for a searing, though still tender, kiss. His breath is hot as he groans against her mouth, solidifying their reunification. There’s an unspoken agreement to let the broken pieces of the past go. 

Tonight, they’ll start over, rewriting the stars to match their love story the way it’s meant to be.

[beyondthebarrier]

Starker Festivals Summer Bingo

Prompt: Didn't Know They Were Dating | Title: Rising to the Occasion | Ao3

Summary: The media seems to think that Tony and Peter are dating. In fact, so does Rhodey. And Aunt May. And the team...

Don't worry. Tony sets the story straight.

This is my first proper Starker fic so bear with me!

It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to be alone when he woke up, if he was being honest. Tony was rarely still in bed in the mornings, presumably quick to dismiss himself from the actions of the night before. Peter never minded, usually always able to find the man elbows deep in some project that he might be able to pick the genius’ brain about.

“FRI, can you start me some coffee?” Peter asked quietly, his voice a little raspy from sleep.

“Of course. Good morning, Peter.”

“Good morning, FRIDAY.”

Peter got to his feet, finding his sweatpants from the day before and Tony’s discarded Black Sabbath shirt before making his way directly to the kitchen for the promised cup of coffee. It took a few sips for him to realize that he heard voices coming from the living room - he’d assumed he was the only one in the penthouse. He recognized the second voice easily though so he wasn’t shy about heading that way.

“Look who’s awake,” Tony announced with a smile when Peter and his bedhead popped up in the open door frame. Rhodey looked his way and Peter waved around his coffee mug.

“Hope you’re here on your own accord and not because he dragged you for some nonsense, Colonel,” Peter greeted with a smirk towards the man in question.

“I’m not here for damage control this time, miraculously,” Rhodey replied easily, chuckling.

“In that case, I’ll leave you two to it. Tones, I’m gonna shower and head downstairs. It was good to see you, Colonel!”

As Peter made his way back towards the bedroom, Rhodey looked over at Tony and sighed at the look on the billionaire’s face.

“He looks good on you, Tony.”

--

“Here, May, I’ve got it,” Tony swooped in, grabbing the woman’s empty plate before she could fully get to her feet. Peter rolled his eyes but stood as well, his own empty plate in hand.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to him,” Peter started, exasperated. “This man would rather buy new dishes than wash them at his own house and then he sits here and readily offers when we’re over here. Please, I need to know your secret. I’m tired of coffee rings in all the mugs.”

“Oh it’s easy, Peter. He’s scared of me,” Aunt May said in a faux whisper, winking at Tony before she settled on her sofa with the rest of her glass of wine as the boys worked to clean the kitchen. Tony washed while Peter absentmindedly dried and put away dishes, chatting away quietly to the older man. When Peter turned back to face the man, Tony quickly smeared soap bubbles onto Peter’s cheek, grinning. With a laugh, Peter reached into the sink, splashing the man with the water in the sink, despite the expensive suit Tony was wearing. Tony didn’t seem bothered as he grabbed the young man around the waist and pulled him in close for a hug, getting him wet as well. Peter squeaked, making Tony lean his head back in laughter before kissing Peter’s forehead and letting him go. Only Tony noticed the look that May was giving them both and he just smiled before turning back to finish cleaning.

As they left, Aunt May wrapped both men in crushing hugs to say goodbye. As Tony helped Peter into his jacket, he looked over his head at the woman, smiling.

“It’s our turn next Sunday, May. Be at the penthouse at seven.”

--

“I thought the little spider was supposed to be here? I brought ale for him to try!” Thor announced, holding up a large jug full of… well, not even Tony was eager to try the liquid sloshing around. Peter had been excited with the prospect of an alcohol that would give him the proper effects but Thor was right - Peter was nowhere to be found.

“Maybe he’s just running late,” Tony replied with a casual shrug, even as he slid his phone out to send yet another text to the missing member of the team. It was meant to be a little game/movie night and Peter was usually the one coercing him into attending so his lack of punctuality was bothering Tony. However, it wasn’t until Natasha and Steve also pointed out Peter’s absence that Tony excused himself. They weren’t sure exactly where he was going until they saw the suit fly off from the landing deck, heading in the direction of a shitty little apartment in Queens.

When Peter didn’t answer the door, Tony let himself in with his key, calling out Peter’s name frantically. It was a studio apartment and Peter groggily sat up in bed, blinking at the man who had just rudely interrupted his sleep.

“Pete, there you are. You’re missing game night, why are you- You’re burning up, sweetheart!” Tony sat on the edge of the bed, the back of his hand pressing against Peter’s forehead.

“M’cold,” Peter mumbled, trying to wrap the blankets around himself again so he could lay down.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“Not hungry..”

“Okay, you’re definitely sick,” Tony pointed out, jumping to his feet to search the kitchen for food. Peter spent so little time here now that the cabinets were practically barren. There was certainly no cans of soup or really… anything. With a wince, Tony reached for a half-empty jar of peanut butter and a spoon, heading back to the bed.

“Tones, m’not hungry,” Peter whined as he scooped peanut butter out of the jar.

“Sweetheart, you need calories. Just a little bit and some water and I’ll let you go back to sleep. Your body will kick this in no time but it needs fuel to do it,” Tony said firmly, lifting the spoon to Peter’s lips. He opened them, accepting the spoon reluctantly and smacking his lips as he tried to get the peanut butter down. Tony got up, fixing him a cup of water. Between the two of them, they painstakingly got a full eight ounces of water and four big spoonfuls of peanut butter into the enhanced man before Peter gave up, flopping back into the pillows.

“Are you going back to game night?” he asked Tony, a rather pitiful look on his face. Tony shook his head, laying down beside him and wrapping his arms around him.

“No, I’m not going anywhere. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right here,” he assured, running his fingers through Peter’s sweaty curls and kissing his forehead.

--

Peter had decided to leave the tower for his lunch break, the idea of a sandwich from the deli down the block on his mind all morning. It was a beautiful day and he’d been looking for an empty space on a bench when he noticed the pointing in his direction from a few people by a magazine stand. He glanced down at himself, trying to see if maybe his shirt had come untucked or he had trash trailing on his shoe but he didn’t spot anything. However, he did hear the words, ‘Tony Stark’s boyfriend’ come from someone’s mouth and his stomach immediately twisted. He couldn’t stop himself from going over to the stand, dreading the idea of seeing Tony’s smiling face on a magazine cover with some- Oh. It was him. Peter laughed, picking up the glossy booklet. They’d attended a gala on Saturday evening for SI and the photo on the cover was the two of them all dressed up and smiling at each other in front of some rose bushes. ‘Tony Stark and boyfriend, Peter Parker, Rose to the Occasion.’ Peter scoffed at the title, setting it back down and reaching for his phone. He wasn’t sure Tony would find it as amusing as he did but he was just relieved that it hadn’t been someone else on that cover.

Thankfully, Tony didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He had already known about it, getting the alert from PR hours before, and even seemed a little concerned that Peter might be upset about it.

“Do you want me to put out a statement about it?” Tony asked him over the phone, as if sensing Peter’s slight discomfort.

“You won’t be rude about it or anything, right? Just clarify, sweet and simple?” Peter asked, noticing that he was still garnering a bit of attention. Thankfully, New Yorkers themselves were usually nonchalant about that kind of thing so it was only the tourists that were trying to draw attention to him.

“Of course. I’ll get it out right away,” Tony assured him.

Peter had no reason not to believe him. He thanked him, hung up, and moved further away from the news stand. He muted his phone before digging into his sandwich, taking advantage of the rest of his lunch break before heading back to work. It wasn’t until he was in the elevator going back up to R&D that he noticed his phone was blowing up. He sighed, expecting a tweet or something from Tony laying out the truth but what he found caught him off guard.

Relationship. Tony said relationship. He hadn’t claimed that they were just friends or fuck buddies or whatever. He said relationship. Peter was so hyperfocused on the words that the next thing he registered was FRIDAY’s voice.

“Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker, are you alright? Your vitals are concerning, should I alert Mr. Stark? ..Peter?”

“No! No, FRIDAY, no, don’t alert him, I’m fine!” Peter scrambled to answer, glancing up to see what floor the elevator was at currently. “Please don’t. I’m fine. I’m answering you, I’m fine!”

FRIDAY reluctantly agreed not to tattle just as the elevator stopped at his floor. Peter wasn’t feeling very fine, despite his protests, as he stepped out. He expected lots of stares and whispers, perhaps even direct comments about him ‘dating the boss.’ But there was nothing. Either nobody here had seen it yet or they just didn’t care. That certainly helped matters as he made his way to his table, intending on trying to focus on work but finding himself scrolling through the comments on the post instead. It was full of congratulatory messages from strangers but their friends didn’t seem very surprised. Rhodey, Nat, Ned, even Steve commented, all seeming as if this was barely news to them.

Peter got to his feet, heading back to the elevator to get to Tony’s lab. As the doors slid open on Tony’s R&D floor, Tony was standing there waiting to get on. The man flashed him his signature smile, stepping aside so he could get out.

“I was just coming to see you. May texted, said you seemed a bit out of it. Are you okay? I know the attention can be a lot but if I repeatedly make it clear that I want your privacy to be respected, it shouldn’t get too bad. Trust me, the fangirls will go rabid when reporters get too in-your-face about something,” Tony explained, leading Peter towards his office. Peter didn’t respond, staring straight ahead as Tony closed the door behind them. “They’ll want to protect you at all costs,” Tony continued, heading for the sofa instead of his chair. Peter remained standing, still just staring. Tony finally realized something was up and quirked an eyebrow at him, curious. “Pete?”

“Boyfriend.” Peter said blankly, staring at the man.

“Um, yes? I also have a name you can address me by.”

“Boyfriend.”

“Oookay, that works too. Peter, what’s wrong?”

The younger man started pacing the length of the office and Tony sighed, covering his face with his hands for a moment before regaining composure.

“FRIDAY, diagnose him. Fever? Has he been drugged? Is he having a psychotic break?”

“Sir, it appears that Peter is in a state of shock,” FRI replied easily. “His heart rate is elevated but nothing to be concerned about.”

“Shock over what?” Tony asked, watching as his partner continued to pace. He could practically see the gears turning in the boy’s head.

“It seems that Peter was not aware that the two of you were dating, Sir.”

Tony let out a humorless laugh while Peter came to a halt, his cheeks tinting pink as he stared at the floor. Realizing that there may be some truth in what FRI was telling him, Tony got to his feet, carefully approaching Peter.

“She’s right, isn’t she?” He asked softly, frown lines deeply engraved into his forehead. Peter refused to respond, not even looking up. Tony sighed, cupping the man’s chin and gently lifting it. “Pete? Is she right?”

Instead of answering, Peter’s face crumpled.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, hiding his face in his hands. Tony immediately pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around him securely. “I didn’t know that’s what this was.”

“That means I fucked up somewhere, Peter. Not you,” Tony soothed, rubbing the boy’s back. “If it had just been sex, I could understand, but Pete, sweetheart. I go to Sunday dinners with your Aunt. I host Sunday dinners for your Aunt. I take care of you when you’re sick, I let you wear my clothes.. Baby, we practically live together.”

“You never asked! You never used the words dating or boyfriend or-or-or relationship or anything,” Peter defended, lifting his head to look at the older man.

“Eight months ago, we laid in bed and I told you that I never wanted this to end. That I wanted forever with you,” Tony explained. “You agreed. I thought we were pretty clear from there on.”

“I thought that was pillow talk!” Peter exclaimed. “I’m so angry right now that it’s not even funny.”

Tony frowned once more, immediately letting Peter go and holding his hands up in surrender.

“Angry? You’re angry that I thought we were dating?”

“I’m angry that I’ve been holding back for eight months because I thought I wasn’t allowed to have you! I don’t kiss you first or touch you first or cuddle you whenever I want because I didn’t want to be too much for you!”

Tony’s face broke out into a grin, seeming relieved.

“Well, let’s rectify that right away.”

[eldritchqueerture]

Hello! This is a project for @summer-in-the-archives-event that I worked on with @horizonindigo! We came up with the idea together and based our individual works around the poem I wrote, included in the fic. You can find their absolutely amazing art here!!

I freaking loved working on this one and I got more and more excited as we progressed. I also surprised myself with the poem itself a bit, definitely didn’t expect it to end up quite as cool, if I may say so myself. It was incredibly fun to write.

Big shoutout to @sunflowers-and-frogs for beta reading, I love you bestie <3

I would like to thank all the mods that made this event possible! It’s my first time taking part in anything like this and it was really, really fun, so THANK YOU <3 Love you guys :3 Anyways, enough of my rambling kdfjgkjsdfg

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Kissing, Excessive Tea-Making, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Poetry, Love Confessions Warnings: self-esteem issues, typical Lonely content, discussions of free-will and determinism, graphic kiss

Summary: As Martin fights the remnants of the Lonely's influence on their ride to Daisy's safehouse in Scotland, he focuses on his feelings for Jon to keep him tethered to reality. He watches Jon be himself in the safety of the cottage, share these small intimacies of domesticity and the words come to him as a poem weaves itself into the pages of his notebook...

He feels the taste of salt in his mouth, as he looks out of the car window at the rapidly falling away landscape, covered in the darkness of the night. He feels Jon’s presence next to him, focused on driving but glancing every so often at him with concern. Martin feels like he should say something, somehow fill the silence that has befallen them, but no words ever find their way to his mouth. He stays quiet, watching the trees pass them by, trying to ignore the anxious churning in his stomach. He’s always been pretty good at filling awkward silences with chatter; at least before the Lonely. Now… he can’t help but feel bothered by Jon’s presence, even though he did all of this for him, even though this is what he’s wanted all this time; it’s like a splinter, prickling at his mind, almost causing him physical discomfort. He swallows and feels the salty taste on his tongue; he discards the thoughts and tries his best to breathe through the discomfort, instead focusing on the sensation of Jon’s warm hand on his.

Martin used to be the warm one; he’d always been generating heat and his mind goes back to the early days in the Archives when the basement was cold in the winter and both Tim and Sasha used to gravitate towards him with their respective cups of tea during breaks. Now his whole body is cold, the chill of the ocean breeze and fog having settled in his bones so deep he thinks he’ll never feel warm again. The thought isn’t sparking any emotions in him though. It’s just a thing that he’s learned to accept, just as the fact that he’ll always be alo—

“Do you want me to put on some music?” Jon asks with another one of his glances. Every time, he raises his eyebrows a bit, and tilts his head to the side; Martin expects the concern in his eyes, but he sees something else there as well. He’s been afraid to put a label to the expression for the fear he’s reading him wrong, but the bolder part of his mind tells him it’s fondness.

Jon’s hand is warm, and his thumb grazes the skin of his palm just a little, as if not sure he’s allowed to. Martin looks down at their hands and feels warmth spark in his stomach; he smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m—I’m not really good at the whole, uh… small talk thing,” Jon adds with a flush, turning his head back to the road. “I should probably be talking about something, though, to, uh… to keep you here. I suppose.” He visibly cringes at his words.

“It’s—It’s fine, Jon,” Martin chuckles, and Jon relaxes, fixing him with a quick smile of his own. “I’m just… you know.” He looks down at their hands again and has a brief feeling they belong to someone else. Not him. Never him. “I’m not quite… out of that. Yet.”

Another look of concern. Martin feels heat prickling at his cheeks and he’s a little bit glad, because at least it’s a feeling. He interlaces their fingers and looks out the front window.

They spend the ride in relative silence. Jon tries a couple more times to start small talk and fails; they stop at a gas station at one point and Martin takes out his notebook when Jon disappears inside the station to pay for gas. He flicks through it and his eyes stop at an unfinished draft; he started writing it shortly before Peter took him down to the Panopticon, but he’d only managed to get a few first lines down. Despite still feeling the cold in his bones and his mind being clouded by the remains of the fog, words come to him, and he starts scribbling. He continues to do so even when Jon comes back with tea and an assortment of snacks, blushing just a little bit when Jon shoots a curious look at the notebook. He doesn’t ask and Martin is thankful for it. He’s not the sort to show his drafts to anyone, especially to the subject he’s writing about.

It’s 1am when they arrive at the cottage; they’re both exhausted and they quickly take their bags inside and lock the door. The cottage is small and practical, just Daisy’s style; it’s also quite dusty from months of abandonment. Martin yawns as he opens one of the bags to get the essentials. They should leave unpacking and cleaning for the next day.

He hears Jon’s footsteps on the wooden floor coming back from the initial run of the house and he turns to tell him that, but the somewhat sheepish look on his face stops him in his tracks. Has he ever seen Jon look sheepish before?

“So, uh, obviously this was Daisy’s safehouse when she was, well… Avoiding people,” he says, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I hope ‘avoiding people’ doesn’t mean killing them in this context,” Martin snorts, not sure if he’s entirely joking. The humour is lost on Jon, however, as he looks at him confused for a moment before he processes Martin’s words.

“Oh, no, no, I-I don’t believe she, uh… She just slept here.” Jon shifts awkwardly. “And that means there’s uh, there’s only one bed.”

Martin’s eyes widen and his lips form a little “Oh”.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with sharing, I can just take the couch, you need some proper rest and I’m used to running on low sleep” —Jon averts his gaze as he speaks. He grabs his bag and walks over to the couch, and Martin wants to stop him talking and just say that they should share the bed, but his voice seems to have left him at this crucial moment. He just stares as Jon places the bag on the couch and looks back at him, aware of the silence. “Martin?”

Martin swallows, a familiar cold freezing his toes. He feels the damp sand underneath his bare feet and a chill runs down his spine. He blinks and tightens his grip on the bag he’s been holding. This is real, he is real, Jon is real.

“You need good rest too,” he finally manages to say, and he’s surprised by how clear and normal his voice sounds; it makes Jon relax a bit. “We should share the bed, if-if you are comfortable with that.”

A small smile appears on Jon’s lips and a warm feeling fills Martin’s stomach again; he knows the smile is for him.

“Okay,” he says softly and picks the bag up.

They manage to keep the awkwardness of it to the minimum; they’re both very tired and at one point it just doesn’t matter anymore. Jon hands Martin a separate blanket and he pushes the disappointment down into a void inside him where he keeps feelings to come back to when he’s alone. It would be foolish of him to hope for cuddling since they haven’t talked about anything yet.

He expects to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow, but he finds himself awake in the darkness after goodnights are said (Jon’s voice sounds so soft and tender Martin has forgotten all about his earlier disappointment). He’s laying on his back, eyes closed, and he feels Jon’s presence on his right. His breathing is steady, not yet slow enough to indicate sleep, but calm and relaxed. Martin peeks out through half-lidded eyes – he hasn’t gotten used to the darkness as much yet, but he can see Jon laying on his side, facing him, his eyes closed and his hair loosely framing his face. One of his hands rests close to his head on the pillow. Martin blinks, fully opening his eyes now and smiling softly. As his vision clears, Martin notices Jon frowning ever so slightly, and he wonders if the faint lines between his eyebrows smoothen when he’s asleep.

“Is watching people sleep a usual activity for you?” Jon whispers with amusement as he opens his eyes and Martin gasps with surprise and looks away, feeling heat prickle at his cheeks.

“Wha—uh, no! No, of course no—Sorry, I—” He rambles, and he thinks he might just die from embarrassment when he hears Jon laugh quietly.

“It’s fine, Martin.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Really. I-- Sorry, I thought a joke would, um… lighten the mood somewhat.”

Martin risks a look at him and wonders if the red on his cheeks is visible through the darkness. Jon looks at him with that expression again, something Martin would very much want to classify as fondness if it didn’t feel so impossible. But now that he thinks about it… Would it really be thatfar-fetched? Jon had gone into the Lonely just to get him out. Would he have done that for anyone else? Martin rolls his eyes at himself in his mind, of course he would. He did go into the Buried, and it was for Daisy, a person who has threatened him multiple times, kidnapped and almost killed him. If Jon was ready to lay down his life for her, out of all of them, it shouldn’t be surprising he would do the same for his assistant; it says nothing about his feelings on the matter.

Martin’s memories of the Lonely are hazy. He remembers the cold, the dampness, and the loneliness. He remembers his thoughts, the lonely ones, and how they felt both alien and familiar at the same time. He remembers the comfort, the feeling of fitting in, but also the pain and the fear, just before they were numbed by the cold and the fog that made him forget. And then suddenly, Jon was in front of him, looking at him with desperation on his face, tears in his eyes glowing with a green light. Was it Jon calling for him, or just the Beholding?

“What are you thinking about?” comes Jon’s voice and Martin realizes he’s been staring into the air for a while. He blinks and looks back at Jon.

“Uh…” He searches for words before he gives up on trying to come up with an excuse. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Jon blinks at him a couple times and rises to lean on his elbow, to better look at Martin.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lonely,” Martin says, not meeting his eyes. Jon is wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo of a band Martin doesn’t recognize; the shirt is loose and it uncovers one of Jon's shoulders which would probably be distracting if Martin’s mind wasn't chilled by the remnants of the fog. “Why did you come for me?”

Even without looking at him, Martin sees Jon’s forehead ripple. A while passes as Jon searches his face and the thought that he shouldn’t have asked starts creeping up to Martin’s head. Shouldn’t have brought any attention to the subject, he should just be glad, he should—

“I care about you, Martin,” Jon says in a very gentle and quiet voice, like he’s afraid anything louder would take away the meaning of his words. Martin looks up at Jon and the hint of that intense blush from before makes it back to his face. “You’re… You matter to me. You will always matter to me.”

Martin can’t stop a small smile appearing on his face and Jon mirrors it.

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, feeling a warmth settle in his chest, finally driving the cold away.

“Anytime.” Jon lays his head back down and settles back with the right hand near his face. “Sleep well, Martin.”

Martin closes his eyes contentedly and he curls up on his right side, facing Jon, as if trying to keep this warm feeling from escaping his chest too soon.

“You too, Jon.”

---

Martin wakes up alone in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of foreign covers filling his nostrils and for a second he panics. He opens his eyes and the memories come back to him; their late arrival at the safehouse and laying down to sleep next to Jon.

He sits up, looking at the space Jon had occupied. It’s vacant now, just the curled up covers he left behind, but it manages to bring a blush to Martin’s cheeks, nonetheless. It feels so… intimate to know that they slept next to each other. It makes him feel warm and cosy.

Martin gets up and goes to the bathroom before he finds Jon in the kitchen. He’s humming quietly as he finishes cleaning the table and he looks up when Martin enters.

“Good morning, Martin.” He smiles and Martin’s afraid he’s going to melt. He takes a quick look around and notices that their sparse kitchen supplies are mostly unpacked, and the kettle is already on the stove.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks; some of the shock must have made it to his voice because Jon looks amused.

“Two hours or so. I’ve always been a morning person.” He shrugs and finishes cleaning the table. “Tea?”

A smile lights up Martin’s face and he gets swept up by the familiarity of the activity, while Jon busies himself with fixing up some breakfast. As both of them work in the kitchen, Martin notices the casual brushes of their skin and touches of the shoulders. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously or if it just happens naturally, but he knows that Jon’s open demeanour is drawing him closer than before. He wonders if he’s been like this ever since he woke up from the coma, and there was just no one to appreciate it.

The morning is relaxed, the casual conversation flowing a lot smoother than the day before, and after breakfast they set out to clean the whole cottage and go down to the village to buy some actual supplies. The village is small, but the local shop provides all the essentials they need; for a moment Martin forgets about everything outside of that village and shopping for groceries with Jon, as if this is their life now, in the Scottish Highlands, living together in a cottage. They talk about cooking dinner, and the cows they passed on the way, and Martin thinks he could get used to that.

The bubble bursts when they finish up and Jon decides to call Basira. She picks up after a while and updates them on the absence of both Jonah Magnus and Daisy. Basira says she’ll send some statements up to them when the Institute stops being an active crime scene, and a shadow passes over Jon’s face. Wrapped up in a conversation about their taste in dinner dishes, it was almost too easy for Martin to forget food isn’t the only sustenance Jon needs. He finds it easier to forget things ever since the Lonely. They walk back to their cottage in silence, Martin grabbing Jon’s hand as soon as he lets go of the phone.

When they get back, Jon declares he’s going to take care of unpacking and cooking, and even though Martin knows Jon to be stupidly stubborn, he’s surprised by the strictness with which Jon insists he sit back and relax. Martin doesn’t really complain; he’s spent his entire life caring for others and, to be honest, it does feel rather good to be on the receiving end for once. He watches Jon from the couch for a while, before he takes out his notebook and looks over the poem he wrote in the car.

Wisps of mist conceal my eyes

A lone indulgence to lose one's face

And soothing a part inside that cries

With chilling sadness and numbing grace

The steadfast rhythm of waves ashore

As ocean breeze leaves a taste of salt

The words forgotten, erase what I swore

Until I hear your voice once more

I wondered many times what it might be

That we finally took to calling "us"

What would be left if we broke free

Of dread and horror's eternal grasp

The Eye looms aloft, ever-present dread

Watching all, eternal lids apart

You made your choice unaware you were led

By strings of web, against your heart

Jon starts humming under his nose in the kitchen as he cuts something on the board; the water in the kettle boils slowly and fills the air with a quiet whistle. Martin smiles while shooting a subtle glance at Jon; he seems to notice his gaze and falls quiet, but a smile lights up his face when he sees the fondness on Martin’s face. For all this talk about Jon “losing himself” in the role of the Archivist, this seems as human as you can get. Martin never favoured the approach the other archival staff took to the knowledge of the significance of Jon’s position, and he often wondered how they could look at him and see a monster. Of course he made bad decisions, but so did everyone. They’ve seen or read about so many avatars giving into the powers that fed them and yes, maybe Martin is biased, but Jon was nothing like them. They’ve all been caught in this huge web of statements that turned real; the more they struggled to break free the more tangled up they became, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he ended up in the centre of it. He knows Jon tried to make right choices every step of the way. Can you really blame a human being for failing to completely resist something that’s beyond mortality and human reality? One way or another they ended up here, together, and yes, maybe the Eye and the Lonely are still looming as very tangible threats, and Jonah Magnus is nowhere near being stopped, but at least they’re together now. Martin remembers thinking the Unknowing was the endgame, the last chapter of this horror for them, and he remembers the hopelessness of their story getting a bad ending that essentially pushed him into the Lonely; now he feels a different kind of an end approaching – he dares to be hopeful. Maybe everything works out in the end? Maybe, if they were safe and happy, it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Martin looks down at his notebook and starts writing, sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration.

What is a monster? Where is the line

That would separate us from the world

All I know is our paths align

And we together can battle the cold

You cut through the curtains of mist and See

The green glow fades when our eyes meet

My lips form a soft and quiet plea

To be loved has never felt so sweet

To be loved is a new feeling for me

I only know how to love from one side

But with you I hope we can once be free

Maybe ignore the whims of the tide

Although I know we're not nearly through

I taste and savour your voice, your breath

If only for a moment, we can start anew

And I will follow you even to death

As he stares at the last word of the finished poem, his hand with the pen hovering over it, he registers that his eyes have watered a bit. He blinks the tears away quickly as Jon sits down on the couch next to him, looking at him with a gentle worry. Martin looks up at the two mugs of tea he’d placed on the table.

“Did you make tea?” He asks with mock bewilderment, and Jon scoffs at him.

“I know how to make tea, Martin.” He nudges him with amusement, that gentle worry not quite gone from his eyes. “What are you writing about?”

Martin falls quiet, pressing the notebook to his chest in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thought you didn’t like poetry,” he huffs out a laugh that’s only a little bit self-conscious. Jon shrugs, reaching out for his mug and taking a sip.

“I don’t understand it. And yes, I have been known to dislike it at times, but… Maybe I could be swayed to give it another shot.” Jon rolls his eyes fondly and looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye, a look that says ‘for you’. Martin grins, heat pricking at his cheeks once again.

“You see, i-it’s all about emotion.” He places the notebook gently on his lap face down and reaches for his own mug. “You w-want to put all of your emotions into words in a-an artistic way, that has a rhythm and, uh, and feels alive. And you want your, uh, your readers to feel that, that emotion through your words.”

Jon listens attentively and his eyes aren’t leaving Martin’s face; at one point Martin gets distracted by it and forgets where his explanation was going. Jon’s gaze has always been intense, in different ways throughout the time they’ve known each other. At first it was judgemental, the gaze of his boss, full of unmet expectations; then it was piercing, watchful and suspicious; as time passed, it seemed to gain more and more weight of the Beholding, something Tim always complained about. After Martin had joined Peter Lukas, the rare glances he got from Jon were full of yearning that Martin didn’t understand at the time; didn’t want to understand. Now, it’s that gentle fondness, interweaved with something intangibly sad and Martin feels an urge to hug him, to bring him close to his chest and never let go; to bury his face in Jon’s hair and protect him.

They move to place their mugs at the table at the same time and snort, amusement quickly turning into a fit of laughter. Jon throws his head back a little with it and Martin wonders if he has ever seen him laugh so openly before. He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall in love with the man even more, but once again, his heart proves him wrong. He stares at him with a lovestruck expression and thinks they should really talk about it. Martin doesn’t know where to start though and Jon seems to be thinking in a similar direction because his expression shifts into gentle seriousness.

“Martin, I…” He starts and bites his lip. “I need to apologize.”

Martin straightens a little; it’s not exactly what he expects.

“I—The way I used to treat you…” Pain and guilt flash through Jon’s face as he looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was not okay. None of it was okay. And I’m—I’m really sorry for that. It doesn’t—I know it doesn’t change anything that happened, but I” —he sighs. “I really am sorry. I hope I can, somehow, uh… somehow make it up to you.”

Martin reaches for Jon’s hand, and he looks down in surprise; Martin sees his eyes start glistening.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.” He continues in a whisper and his eyes are locked on their touching hands. “I’m so sorry about the Lonely. I’m sorry that you’re trapped in all of this with me, and I would understand if you decided to leave—”

“Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon’s eyes shoot up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, that’s not an apology,” he sighs again. “I just… I’m sorry, Martin. About everything.” His other hand grips Martin’s. “I’m glad you are still here. I’m—I’m so glad, you d-don’t even know,” he laughs.

“I think I do.” Martin smiles gently. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve—I've forgiven you for a lot of it a long time ago. A-And the rest just isn’t your fault.”

Jon frowns.

“The Lonely was always there,” Martin shrugs. “Peter Lukas was just… a catalyst, I think. But now I have you.” His finger grazes the outside of Jon’s palm and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees that small smile appear on Jon’s face. “And you can’t be blamed for Elia—Jonah’s games. We’re all just… a bunch of people who didn’t know what was going on until it was too late.”

Jon’s eyes fall as he nods slightly.

“He’s still up to something,” he says quietly.

“Figures,” Martin laughs bitterly. “But we’re here now. And frankly, I don’t really want to think about him when we’re finally…” The word ‘together’ gets stuck in his throat, as if it would breach this fine line of ambiguity they’ve drawn between themselves. Jon seems to fill it in and his eyes land back on Martin.

He’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. Jon's eyes are wide and glistening with something that looks suspiciously like hope, and his fingers gently graze the outside of Martin's palm. Warmth spreads in his chest and his eyes flutter a little, not breaking the eye contact. He wants to pull Jon close to his chest, to run his fingers through his hair and feel his breath on his own skin. To really feel like he's there, next to him, with him.

Before he can follow through with any of that, something sizzles in the kitchen, loud in the silence, startling them both.

“Food!” Jon chuckles slightly before he jumps to his feet and rushes to the kitchen, while Martin snorts and follows him. Jon stirs the pan with curry and sighs with relief when he sees it's not burned. He turns down the heat anyway and checks on the rice.

“Jon, this smells amazing,” Martin says, peeking into the pan with cheese and spinach. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“Well, contrary to the popular belief I was a functional human being. For a while,” Jon snorts and leans against the counter to look back at Martin. “It's Palak Paneer, my grandma taught me when I was a child.”

“It looks fantastic,” Martin grins, and Jon rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.

Even though the moment's lost, the remains of the feeling can be felt between them as they prepare the plates and take the food to the table. They easily fall back into usual chatter and, as soon as they’re finished, Martin jumps to wash the dishes. Jon relents after extensive affirmations from Martin that he's alright and he can definitely take care of a couple dishes in the sink, and he drops onto the couch with a content sigh instead.

Martin finishes up with the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks and hangs the towel back on the rack. When there's no response, he turns to the couch. “Jon?”

Something sinks in his stomach when he sees that the object that consumes Jon’s attention is the poem he’s finished; he scratches his neck, as his cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Oh…”

He walks up to the couch, unsure, trying to gauge Jon's reaction. His face seems tense, he squeezes the notebook in his hand so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes are focused at one point on the page.

“Um... Jon?” Martin asks weakly, his heart drumming in his chest so loud he's sure both of them can hear it.

Jon jumps to his feet, startled, and looks up at him with eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Martin instinctively raises his hands in a placating gesture, as Jon registers his presence, looks down on the notebook in his hands, and quickly puts it on the table as if it stung him.

“Martin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, it was just there and—”

“Hey, Jon, it’s alright!” It’s maybe a little not alright, since the poem is nothing short of a love confession and a wish Martin had no right to assume would ever be true, so Jon reading it is less than ideal. Martin rushes to gently place a hand on Jon’s shoulder but when he recoils from the touch, Martin withdraws his hand, cursing everything about himself.

“No, I, uh…” Jon runs his hand through his hair, eyes darting between Martin, his hand, and the notebook frantically. “I shouldn’t have— uh, it’s—it’s your private business, what you write about, so—”

Martin is sure he’s tomato red on the face by this point and hopes against hope that the afternoon light filtering through the curtains obscures it just a little. Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t have the embarrassed blush that usually darkens his cheeks; instead he breathes fast, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Martin sees him hunch just a little, making himself smaller.

“Um, yeah, I, uh—” He starts fidgeting with his fingers. Did the idea of—of love frighten Jon so much? He was stupid to leave it out in the open and now Jon knows, and it’s not how he feels, so he hates him… “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?”

Martin huffs out something like a pained laugh.

“Th-That’s not exactly how- how I wanted to tell you.” He wrings out his hands and shoots Jon a pleading look. What’s done is done and the only thing he can hope for is for Jon to let him down easy and never speak of this again.

“Tell me?” Jon looks down at the notebook again and there’s the worry again, stark on his face. He breathes out, slowly, and looks at the floor. “I don’t—I don’t even want to think this is a possibility…”

Martin doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to be stabbed, if he wanted to - he’s pretty sure the acute pain of his heart shattering in his chest is close enough. His mind tries to catch up to the emotions, slow them down just a bit, because something seems off, and isn’t this a weird way to reject someone you must have known had a crush on you? But his throat tightens with the swell of pain and shame and Martin blinks away the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jon sighs and plops down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“We d-don’t have to talk about it, if—if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly. He sits down next to Jon, careful not to touch him in any way, and puts his hands between his knees.

Jon lets out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that what they—the Web would want? Just… mindlessly follow, go with the flow until something… irreversibly bad happens?”

Martin turns to Jon with a frown.

“Wh—What?”

Jon looks at him with something glistening in his eyes and Martin can see the lines of pain and misery written on his face like they belong there.

“The web,” he says faintly. “Strings of fate. I—” He lets out a breath. “Was I just being manipulated this whole time? Was I ever really—Did I ever have a choice?”

“Jon... what are you talking about?”

“You—You said I was...” He reaches for the notebook and points at a verse with his finger. “’Made your choice unaware you were led by strings of web against your heart.’ How—W-Why did you say this?”

Martin stares into Jon's green eyes with concern, yet parts of his heart start to weave themselves back together. However confused and worried Jon seems to be, none of it is directed at Martin; he looks at him with desperation, almost pleading, and he realizes they’ve been having two different conversations at the same time.

“Oh-Oh, God, Jon, I-I didn't mean—I just, it's a-a metaphor, just that, you know,” he takes a breath. “It does remind me of a web, the-the way we got caught up in Elias' plans.” He looks down, his cheeks burning as he remembers why Jon would get caught at this specific phrase. “I'm sorry for, uh, using that, it was just the first thing that came to my mind and—”

Jon exhales next to him and Martin risks a look up. The uneasiness isn't gone from his face but he relaxes just a little bit, enough to stabilize his breathing.

“I'm sorry for this… this whole thing, Martin.” He gestures at nothing in particular and it's his turn to look at the floor, as if it's all of a sudden the most interesting thing he's ever seen. He starts fidgeting with the notebook. “I'm just—What if it’s true?” His voice goes higher at the question and he closes his eyes. Martin squeezes his arm. “What if I am just... Just a puppet? An inhuman, helpless puppet in the hands of—Of some spider pulling the strings?”

A tear rolls down Jon's cheek and Martin grabs one of his hands. It’s small and still shakes a little; he tries to put all the protectiveness he feels into this small gesture. Jon doesn’t recoil this time, instead taking a moment to watch Martin’s hand clasp around his.

“Jon,” Martin starts softly. “You're still you. You're not some—Some spider puppet that can't make choices.”

“But what if—”

“You've made a choice to go into the Lonely for me.” Martin bumps their knees together lightly and Jon looks up at him. “I don't suspect any webs would need me alive to push you into it. It was You.”

Jon looks him in the eyes and Martin barely stops himself from reaching up to his face to wipe away his tears.

“Or it just makes us think that we have a choice but are ultimately helpless against fate and everything we do is determined by intricately crafted circumstances,” Jon whispers. “Maybe free will is a lie.”

Martin blinks.

“Jon...”

“Maybe I was never able to stop it. Any of it.” Jon’s voice grows more horrified and even though his eyes are directed at Martin's face, he seems to be looking somewhere past him. “Maybe nothing we try to do really matters.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice gains a bit of force, even though he feels all but sure. “What do you see?”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Look at me and tell me what you see?” The force is gone; the sentence sounds more like a feeble suggestion than a request, but Jon's eyes refocus on Martin's in a frown of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“We're here now,” Martin says quietly. “And yeah, maybe our decisions are all predetermined or whatever. I still think it matters that we try. I think our experience matters. And you're not a-a monster without free will, Jon. You care about people, and you’ve sacrificed a lot for other people. You've made your own choices and, no matter if they were good or bad, they were still yours. And I think that matters.”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then his shoulders slump with a sigh and he interlaces their fingers. Martin doesn’t miss it and he feels warmth in his chest.

“I've always been afraid of—of my will not being my own anymore,” he confesses quietly. “Of, uh... of not knowing the difference.”

“I get it,” Martin nods. “If it’s any consolation, I see a lot of Jon in you still.” Jon looks up at him with surprise and Martin gives him a half smile. “I see a very changed Jon but it's still Jon.” He strokes Jon's palm as his heart picks up the pace. “The same Jon I've first fallen in love with.”

Jon exhales softly, his face caught in a soft surprise, and Martin smiles around the dull ache in his chest.

“You don't have to say anything. I'm sure you've known for a while, but I just... I wanted to say it.”

With every second that passes in silence, however, Martin's cheeks grow hotter, and he concludes that this might have been a mistake.

“I-I'm sorry. M-Maybe I shouldn't have said that, I… I don't want things to get weird or anything, so, uh, we can, we can just forget—”

“Martin.” Jon says his name in a soft and kind of inquisitive way that makes his heart bounce around and transforms the ache in his chest into swirling butterflies again. Martin looks up and Jon’s head is tilted to the side, his face still wet with tears, but he notices something hopeful glitter in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Martin frowns, suddenly wondering if he isn't dreaming. Is Jon really saying what he thinks he is? Did he hear correctly? Maybe he misheard—

“I have for a while,” Jon's voice is still quiet and soft. “I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was too early after the Lonely and you might not feel this way anymore, but...”

Martin swallows, acutely aware of how loud his heartbeat is. He squeezes Jon’s hand and smiles slightly.

“I... I didn't know,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to cooperate.

“As soon as I woke up from the coma, I wanted to tell you,” Jon says. “I thought I was too late; that it took me too long to stop denying the feelings I had because I didn’t know how to deal with them, and I'd missed my chance.” He laughs bitterly.

“So that’s what it was about,” Martin whispers, as Jon's actions towards him throughout his time as Peter Lukas’ assistant start falling into place. Jon looks at him with a frown, so he adds, “The ‘let's gouge out our eyes and escape'.”

Jon scrunches up his nose and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. Yeah.”

Martin chuckles quietly.

“I don't think I would have lasted in the Lonely if I understood then. But then again. It didn't really matter in the end. It didn't help.”

“But it was your choice,” Jon echoes Martin's words from before and their eyes meet again.

“Yeah. It was my choice.”

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, losing track of time, before Jon smiles slightly and looks back at the notebook.

“I really am sorry for not asking your permission, though,” he says. “I got so caught up in the metaphor I didn’t even finish it.”

Martin blinks, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks again.

“D-Do you want to?”

Jon smiles softly, this new smile that Martin has only seen in the past couple of days, always directed at him.

“If you’d let me.”

Martin needs to look away, unable to handle the affection in Jon’s eyes. He mumbles an ‘okay’ with a smile that’s not entirely under his control and gets up.

“But I am making that tea whether you want it or not, waiting for someone to finish reading something is a torture.”

He hears Jon laugh as he heads back to the kitchen.

When he comes back with two steaming mugs, Jon is waiting for him with a smile and his nervousness dissipates with his next words.

“I like it,” Jon says. “Apart from the, uh, web metaphor, obviously. It's hopeful.”

“Y-You do?”

Martin swallows; the pleasant tingling in his stomach is back. He places their mugs on the table and reaches out to join their hands again. Jon intertwines their fingers immediately and caresses the outside of Martin’s palm with his thumb.

Jon looks down at the verses again and smiles softly, almost sheepishly, a familiar blush darkening his cheeks.

“I—I don't know if there would be anything for us outside of. You know. The fears and all that,” he grimaces. “At least, for me. But, uh…” He looks at Martin again with a hopeful expression that makes Martin melt a little, and he gently caresses Martin's cheek with his free hand. “I really like the thought of it.”

Martin's brain might be short-circuiting at this moment and all of his thoughts take form of fuzzy static.

“Me too,” he says, suddenly breathless. Jon's hand rests cupping his cheek and, are they a bit closer than they were a second ago? Jon's gaze slides down Martin's face to his lips and he feels he might faint right there and then. He doesn't, instead gathering up his courage to take a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks first and Martin feels his lips form a grin.

“Please,” he breathes out; the next second their lips meet, soft but urgent, desperate and sick of waiting. Martin's hand dives into Jon's soft hair, fingers scraping the delicate skin of his head and earning him a low sound from Jon's throat. They pull each other closer and find a rhythm to lose themselves in for just a moment; the sensation of Jon's tongue swirling in his mouth, of his slender fingers on his cheek and his neck, the pressure of his body against his chest; all of it making Martin dizzy with happiness.

Martin pulls away when his lungs painfully remind him breathing is still a necessity and he opens his eyes to look at Jon – His soft lips, his nose, his pockmark scars, and his eyes, green yet with no trace of Beholding in them. He takes him in whole, with all of his flaws and all of his virtues, and he feels seen in return, seen by the man he loves and who loves him. The weight of it all hits Martin like a crashing wave and he pulls Jon in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he whispers against his shoulder, and he feels Jon's arms tightening around his torso.

“I love you too, Martin.”